Chapter Text
All things considered, Námo thought that he had one of the easier jobs among the Valar. No creatures of land, sea, or air to look after; no silly Noldor knocking on his door asking for arts-and-crafts lessons; no vast realms like his brother’s gardens, the Kingdom of Arda, or all the stars in the cosmos to administer. Certainly, his Halls required some management, a little upkeep here and there, but in those days of bliss, there were very few residents in his custody. If it weren’t for the occasional fëa of an unfortunate Elf from the dark lands, careless enough to wander off a cliff-face or eat some bad mushrooms, the Halls of Mandos would have been almost entirely uninhabited.
Mostly, Námo let his Maiar take care of the day-to-day maintenance of his Halls, and he spent his time keeping an eye on the Great Jerk.
There was that business with Míriel, sure, but after the lady put her foot down and refused to go back, Námo had little to do with her. His wife, thankfully, took over her supervision. That was better. Ladies understood ladies, after all.
Then they let the Great Jerk free, and after that, Námo had very little with which to occupy himself, those endless, peaceful days. He was, to speak frankly, getting bored. So were his Maiar. He thought this was just asking for trouble; at best, they would stagnate in their torpor. Ainur ought not to be left without purpose for very long. Maybe they could start team-building sessions on Sunday nights, he thought. Go to an escape room. That could be good for company morale.
Well. Soon enough, Námo would come to miss those simpler days.
He was just starting to draw up plans for a beginner’s-level improv course when conflict in the wider world began to require his notice. First, there was the whole mess with Finwë’s sons. He knew that little family drama would come to a bad end, though, by the time all was said and done, he had to admit, he hadn’t fully foreseen just how bad.
And then, the not-so-shocking reveal: after so many years pretending he had come around, the Great Jerk discarded his apologetic act and showed that he hadn’t reformed at all, not one bit! Námo had to give him a little credit for creativity in casting: the spider was an unexpected, and inspired, choice. Though, it seemed, Ungoliant went a bit off-script there at the end. Some people simply were not team players.
And then, Finwë’s arrival to the Halls! Now there was a VIP event! Nothing before had ever been so exciting. The Maiar all sparkled with anticipation. They made sure Finwë’s fëa was set up in the finest of accommodations. He was the first King to grace the Halls, after all.
“Let him have all the rest he needs,” Námo advised his lieutenant. “After such a traumatic death, well, his recovery should not be rushed.”
In retrospect, Námo later thought, the arrival of Finwë, with all of his unorthodox views on marriage, was a sort of portent of what was to come.
But, well, Námo soon didn’t have any spare time or energy to waste on Finwë. Because before too long, those foolish Noldor, under the rule of Finwë’s lunatic son, had gone and slaughtered half the people of Alqualondë! There were fëar popping up left and right, everywhere in the Halls, suddenly taking up residence in each chamber and corridor, silver hair every which way, eyes wild and fearful, fists still clenched as though holding tridents or harpoons or spring-steel swords.
Oh. Oh, no.
Upon closer inspection, these weren’t just Teleri in his Halls.
Many of the Noldor, Námo now realized, had gotten themselves killed in the process, whether in the fighting itself, or in the stormy seas as they made off with their stolen ships. And now here they were, mixed in with the people they’d Kinslayed just moments before! Well, that wouldn’t do at all. Order! Order needed to be maintained. These weren’t the Halls of Ossë, after all.
With the help of his Maiar, Námo quickly segregated the Noldor from the Teleri, and set up the Sea-elves in the nicer, larger part of the Halls, with more open space and breathing room (metaphorically speaking; there was no need for ventilation). The Noldor got what they deserved, and they wouldn’t dare complain about it.
And then, there was the Doom to pronounce. That speech took some time to fine-tune, get the rhetoric just right, and Námo was not too humble to admit, he thought the final draft set a marvelously portentous tone for the Noldor’s Flight era. He was particularly proud of coming up with “by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason.” Surely the Noldor would think twice before doing anything stupid after hearing that!
But then, despite his clear and deeply scrutable warning, the Noldor just kept botching things anyway. Nearly every day, it seemed, new Noldorin fëar materialized in the Halls and required supervision. They poured in from all directions, from fiery conflagrations and balrog battles, from the great ice-water abyss, from starvation, sorrow, and despair.
And then, Fëanáro! Manwë himself dropped by as soon as he heard the Spirit of Fire would be taking up residence in the Halls. Námo struggled to keep a straight face appropriate for the somber occasion. The second King of the Noldor showed up hardly an Ainu’s eyeblink after he left the shores of Aman, as angry and fiery as ever. He was so shattered, it would take millennia for his spirit to coalesce and recuperate. Námo watched as two of his Maiar got out the metaphysical dustpan and broom and coaxed the fëa of Fëanáro into a sort of ball, which they then heaved into a special, private chamber in the Halls, near his father.
Námo decided to reserve this particular Hall for the Princes and Kings of the Noldor, as it seemed likely that more would be soon on their way. Also, it would be best not to inflict Fëanáro on any other Elves in the Halls, who were minding their own business trying to heal and reintegrate. Fëanáro was nowhere near ready for group activities.
By the time Tilion and Arien launched into the sky for their daily rounds, Námo’s realm was fairly bustling. No longer could he complain of boredom! His efforts were needed in every corner. He knew that, to provide a healthy environment for fëar to heal and eventually be ready to go back into the world, all processes must work smoothly. Efficiency was of the utmost importance. Bottlenecks needed to be eliminated, continuous flow must be maintained, and any small change at one step of the process, Námo soon learned, might lead to unexpected consequences downstream.
Morale, both of his Maiar and of the fëar of the Elves within the Halls, Námo knew, could become a real concern, were they not careful. For several years after the moment of death—especially these kinds of deaths—most fëar were too traumatized to do much of anything other than curl in on themselves and shiver faintly, cowering away from any other presence, Ainurin or Eldarin, that approached.
But once their spirits partly healed, well, then they began to get creative.
And that was the first time Námo realized—because up until this point there had been so few Elves in the Halls, they never even crossed each other’s paths—the fëar of dead Elves could be real perverts.
The truth was, nobody had quite known, before they started dying off, what to expect from healing Elven fëar as they languished within the Halls. All Námo had been told by the head honcho was that the Elves were bound to Arda for the duration of its existence. And sure, perhaps that was not so long a time in the scale that Eru Ilúvatar was used to working with, but to the Firstborn, who had little else to compare it to in those days, well, the years began to drag on, and on.
And once they were over the initial trauma and terror that naturally came from being eaten by a polar bear, or torched to death by one’s own father, or stuck by mistake with the pointy end of a spear wielded by a simple caterer who had bitten off way more than he could chew when he followed the Spirit of Fire into exile, well.
The fëar grew bored.
It took decades, even centuries, for some, but eventually, they reached a point when they were healed just enough in spirit to begin contemplating their Return—
And that was when they began to dream.
Was that the right word for it? Dream? Perhaps reverie, or trance, or fantasy, would describe the phenomenon just as well. When there was time, Námo thought, he would sit down with a group of Maiar and agree on some common terminology for what was happening here.
Whatever one called it, what happened was this. An Elf, once his fëa had recovered from the worst of the shock of dying, would begin to think about what he most desired.
For some, these desires were simple and wholesome: a return to the Blessed Land, the gentle embrace of a waiting wife, the feel of the wind, the taste of strawberries, waves crashing on the beach, thick socks, a crackling fire, a child’s bright laughter, the earth beneath one’s feet, the thrill of the hunt, the back of a fine horse, rolling down a grassy hill, cool water on a warm day, a perfect stone setting, rereading a well-loved book, a tiny carved wooden dove in one’s hand, the shine of gold, the sound of voices singing in four-part harmony, the pleasure of a well-turned phrase, cracking one’s back, taking off a binding undergarment, the smell of clean fresh linens, the satisfaction of falling into bed after a long hard day, fried potatoes, the runny yolk of an egg, melted cheese and tomato jam on toast, a mirror-glass lake, the miraculous hoped-for recovery of the Trees, someone else already having done the dishes, reuniting with a long-lost friend, the flicker of a candle, someone scratching the middle of one’s back right between the shoulder blades, receiving absolution for all misdeeds from the High King of Arda, lullabies, the fall of a silk sleeve, harvest festivals, thinking of a good comeback to an insult immediately instead of several hours later, spring flowers, buzzing bees, an iridescent seashell, turquoise and amber and coral and pearl, baby elephants, baby seals, baby bear cubs, yawning kittens, puppies’ little wet noses, any baby mammals, really, being just a little bit taller than everyone else, letting down one’s hair, canceled plans, weeping willows, running one’s fingers through a bin of glass beads, bubble bath, the relief of a piece of popcorn coming unstuck from between one’s teeth, starlight, licking one of those toads from the hidden places of Avathar, picking off a scab, or a really good sneeze.
Námo became quite familiar with these types of plain and playful pleasures that lay within the hearts of dead Elves, for one simple reason.
You see, in the Halls of Mandos, as it turned out, fantasies became perceptible to others. “Visible” would be the wrong word to use; one did not see with eyes, nor hear with ears, nor perceive any other stimulus with any other physical senses, seeing as the interior of the Halls was not, strictly speaking, a place that abided by the laws that governed Arda’s physical reality.
But if another being, whether an Elf, a Maia, or Námo himself, came close enough to the dreaming Elf’s fëa while they were in the throes of their imagination, it was possible, given the permeability of reality in this place, for the other being to perceive the other Elf’s fantasy as though it were in their own mind.
If the dreaming Elf was particularly attentive to detail, noting, for example, the specific color of the strawberry, red blending into pink into white, the juiciness of its flesh, the tart firmness on their tongue, then these details, too, would become ever more vivid in the mind of the being with whom they were sharing their dreams.
It was rather remarkable, really, when you thought about it. Námo was ever impressed by the clever ways that Elves managed to transcend the boundaries of what one would expect from creatures inherently limited by their Incarnate nature. To share such visions, with little more than a thought and a hope—now, that was a neat trick.
And it seemed, too, that the fëar of Elves on the receiving end of such shared visions were comforted by participating in that dream. One Elf, on his own, might not have had the idea of dreaming up the pleasure of sitting by a campfire in the night, warm flames leaping, cinders popping, the smell of smoke permeating the air. But if he came into such a vision shared by another Elf, and found it pleasing, why, the fëar of both Eldar were sweetened by the experience; the one, with the joy of receiving, the other, the honor of providing.
Some dreaming Elves became quite popular in the Halls, for all were attracted to the fëa of a being who was becoming whole again, whose inner peace was in the process of being mended, no matter how shattered it had been, upon its initial arrival. Such fëar shone with an inner light that served as a beacon to the others: here I am, it’s all right, let me tell you a story of how sweet it is to be alive with a body in this hard but precious world.
Slowly, such Elves attracted regular audiences, other fëar who liked the experiences of the particular dreams they authored, subscribing to the tone or mood or sensory pleasures they suggested. Such popular Elves could be found surrounded by admirers, eagerly twinkling their appreciation when a new dream was produced.
And if a dream wasn’t to the taste of the observing Elf? Well, that was all right. The fëa could simply drift away, either to rest in the quiet of another Hall or alcove, or to find another Elf dreaming a dream that was more to his liking. Nobody was forced to watch a dream about a polar bear if they had, for example, found their death between white jaws. Don’t like, don’t dream.
Everything could have worked out well enough, Námo reflected, much later.
As Eru Ilúvatar surely intended, the traumatized fëar began to recover from the worst of their hurts, proceeded to the healing stage in which they could observe one another’s dreams, then on to the point of producing their own; and then, once they were truly ready, they could, perhaps, one day, return to the world of the living.
But—well.
Some of these Elves’ dreams—
Of course, Incarnates had desires of the flesh. Námo was aware of this. He was the one who pronounced their Dooms, after all. He was no stranger to the salacious, the dissolute.
And he understood that a healthy adult Elda might dream about the reproductive act. Marriage was a part of life for all speaking peoples, wasn’t it? Surely, it was only natural, as well, for those who had met their perfect mate, to recall their marital bliss and desire to be reunited in body. And tragically, due to the Marring of Arda, some died before they were able to achieve bodily union in their first lives. Surely, it was to be expected that those unfortunate souls might dream of the touch of a hand, the thrill of a first kiss, the press of a firm embrace.
Námo understood all of that, in theory.
Indeed, for so many of the young Eldar, those unlucky enough to fall before they could wed, like the youngest son of Nolofinwë—the poor dear—their fantasies of intimacy were downright adorable. Arakáno, it seemed, had only the fuzziest idea about the actual mechanics of union. His erotic dreams tended to include a faceless Elf maiden whose hair color and length varied (always a fantastic body, though), who would kiss his lips, press her cushiony and ample front against his chest, take him by the hand, and lead him into a darkened chamber, at which point the dream would mostly dissolve into an indeterminate series of soft sighs and sweet sensations, finishing with a vague, politely ecstatic splat.
Among the married Eldar—oh, it was such a shame when they were severed from their spouses. Like that sweet girl Elenwë, who left her husband and child behind on the Ice. Námo had a soft spot for her; as far as he could tell, she was the first Vanya to ever grace his Halls, and though he didn’t think she technically counted as a Princess, he made sure her fëa was housed in a proper alcove befitting her unique status.
Sometimes he stopped by personally to see that her fëa was healing up all right.
He didn’t mean to interrupt her fantasy, really; it hadn’t been so long since her death, not by Ainur standards, and honestly, he hadn’t even expected her to be lucid, let alone dreaming already. And normally, when Námo came upon a fëa in the throes of carnal visions, well, he mostly backed away and gave them some privacy.
As he floated by her alcove, Námo noticed that she seemed to be having a nice time; her fëa glowed and fluttered. She looked healthy. Námo couldn’t help but get a little curious. He floated just a bit closer. Just enough to check things out.
And suddenly, he found himself inside a shared tent on the Helcaraxë, one that was rumpled and ragged, but that seemed to be just enough to keep out the elements on behalf of the two Elves inside, which was a good thing, Námo thought, because they were badly dressed—indeed not dressed at all!—for the harsh, frigid conditions on the Ice, and if this were a real memory, and not just a dream, Námo would have been very, very worried about Prince Turukáno losing his most turgid part to frostbite.
He watched for a few moments, as within the dream, the sweet Elenwë lay back on the makeshift bed of polar-bear skins, her golden hair shining in—well, there was no light source at all, was there? The entire dream came out of Elenwë’s imagination, including the rosy glow that covered everything, the implausible warmth within the tent, and the wild abandon with which Prince Turukáno was burying his entire face into his lady wife’s pussy and eating it as though it was the day of harvest and that was where all the Fruits were Gathered.
Elenwë, fully immersed in the dream, didn’t seem to notice that she had company. Námo thought that was probably for the best, as she likely would not have wanted anyone else to see the way her thighs quaked, the way her high, round breasts bounced, the way she clutched her husband’s hair in her hands, and certainly not the way that her entire body seized and arched in a curve that nearly launched Turukáno into the air before he propelled himself forward, face glistening with pride, grabbed onto her hips, and sheathed himself inside with one sharp, powerful thrust that had both of them crying out the name of Eru, voices carrying even above the dream-memory wind whistling outside the tent, on the Grinding Ice.
After a while, Námo excused himself silently and thought about what he had just perceived.
He was, of course, pleased to see that Elenwë was healing. She had been through so much. And very little of it her fault, of course (though she did, by marrying a Noldo, put herself into a situation that was bound to go awry somewhere down the road). She deserved to reintegrate her fëa and eventually return to a new hröa, alive and well.
On the other hand, Námo wasn’t entirely comfortable with the non-procreative nature of the act he’d witnessed. Indeed, for a moment, he had feared that the fantasy might have ended right there, with an act that couldn’t possibly have led to the conception of a child, no matter the skill and force with which Turukáno had shoved his tongue inside her.
But thankfully, after the completion of the questionable carnal configuration, Elenwë had the good sense to dream about the natural progression of such activities, in which man and wife became one in the way that the One had, in all His great wisdom, intended.
It turned out, as their fëar healed and recovered and more and more of the Eldar entered the dreaming phase of their stay in the Halls, a scandalously large number of them did not, in fact, restrict their erotic fantasies to the canonically authorized acts that permitted biological reproduction.
And that was something Námo had trouble understanding.
He did not relate to the experience of being bound to a body, it was true; unlike some of his fellow Ainur, Námo was never much interested, himself, in experimenting with the faculties of the flesh. Bodies were sticky. They were limited. And they were entirely unnecessary for Námo’s work on Arda. The Doomsman needed nothing more than a dark cloak and an air of menacing authority.
So, he observed. He monitored. He took reports from Maiar when there were too many different erotic dreams going on willy-nilly in too many directions for him to supervise all at once.
That was when the perversions of the Noldor (and even, he was forced to admit, the Teleri of Alqualondë and the many Elves of Middle-earth) became too evident to ignore.
Oh, they were interested in non-reproductive sex acts, all right. The lady Elenwë was far from unique in this regard. They thought about putting their hands and mouths all over each other, stimulating the male organ to completion without a care in the world for the seed’s destination. They thought about the female’s satisfaction, even though it wasn’t, to Námo’s understanding, in any way necessary for the ultimate purpose. They thought about inserting their male members into places that certainly wouldn’t lead to conception and were altogether unsanitary besides. In fact, they seemed to have no limitation on the body parts that they would consider erotic: not just penises and vaginas, or even breasts and buttholes. But bellies! Ear-tips! The spaces between their toes! Body hair and head hair, lips, tongues, armpits, knees, navels, necks, backsides and front sides. Bodies arranged in every imaginable position, standing up, lying down, on the bed, under the bed, half-hanging-off the bed, seated on thrones, bending over forges, pressed against castle walls, pinning one another to the cold ground, swimming under waterfalls, flying through the air, lounging beneath the Trees, swinging from the rafters, fastened into the pillory, and precariously Perching in perilous places.
They dreamed about embellishments to the act of reproduction that had nothing whatsoever to do with its Eru-given purpose: adorning themselves in fine costumes of sheer silk, supple leather, delicate lace; jewels and fine metals of all colors and shapes, on every imaginable appendage, including, with the help of piercings, places that Námo was quite sure gold and silver were never, ever meant to go; elaborate props and scenery, like mirrors on the ceiling, impossibly supple and soft bedding, room dividers with conveniently located holes, swings and hammocks, hot springs and cold pools, cages and doghouses, life-sized dolls, pillows, ramps; teasing and stimulating one another with various objects of both natural and Elven origin, swords, knives, ink-quills, paint, flutes, vines and feathers, ropes and chains, switches and whips, belts and blindfolds, masks, candle wax, oils and perfumes, metal balls, pliable rings, paddles, saddles, ice, wine, fruit, suggestively shaped vegetables, sleeves whose purpose was not for arms, and carved or cast implements whose purpose was unfortunately extremely obvious from their shape (though often their colors strained credulity).
It didn’t stop there. The perverse permutations of particular people these Elves came up with! Not just a man with a woman, as Eru intended. But men with men, and ladies with ladies, not a care at all for the impossibility of such pairings to ever lead to proper union. Or groups of people—two men sandwiching one woman, or two women and one man, or three of the same variety, all together, or people who didn’t seem to quite fit either category so neatly, or four Elves at once! Five! Crowds of six or more! Námo supposed that some of these combinations could, technically, be considered procreative—but how would one know who fathered whom, if they let seed from different sources mix freely like promiscuous bees making honey from different flowers? Some of the Elves dreamed about fornicating with Aulë’s creations, with trees, with animals, even with Orcs (actually, could that be procreative? Námo reminded himself to check with Manwë on that one). They dreamed up creatures that Námo had never even seen in the world, and had sex with them all, deep-sea creatures with prehensile tentacles, bulls with the heads of Elves and Elves with the heads of bulls, people the size of a finger, fingers the size of full-grown people, Elves with green skin, Elves made out of metal, fox-people, bat-people, bird-people, horse-people, crab-people with claws and antennae, vixen-people with antlers, creatures that looked concerningly like smaller versions of Ungoliant, spirits that seemed more shadow than flesh, walking corpses, wolves with bad attitudes, and great, leathery, fire-breathing worms.
A few even dreamed about pleasuring themselves all alone, a preposterous idea if Námo had ever heard one.
Námo became increasingly concerned about these fantasies. What was their function? How could this help the fëar heal?
And, more importantly, what kind of effect were the pervert Elves who thought about such things having on others?
Námo had already observed the way that a dream-idea could catch on—beginning with just one Elf, who might himself have a very small, niche audience for his original vision of debauchery, but then those who viewed the dream might come up with an imitation of the same idea in their own fantasies, or variations thereof, and by such means, mimetically replicate itself rapidly across the Halls. Such a trend might be harmless if the dream were about, say, perfectly innocent pillow fights.
But Námo couldn’t allow the more dangerous, inappropriate, unhealthy, offensive, derogatory, harmful, problematic, and disrespectful dreams to spread. Not on his watch. Not if he had anything to say about it.
It was when Námo visited the Hall he had reserved for the Noldor royal family that he realized he had to do something, and soon.
By now, every fëa in the Halls sentient enough to care about such things had discovered where the kings were housed. Fëanáro had been controversial yet popular in life, and even moreso in death. Elves from all kindreds hovered around his chamber, waiting to see if he would do anything interesting. Even Manwë asked about his recovery on occasion. There was never anything to report; Fëanáro’s fëa remained largely fragmented, and in the rare moments he was reconstituted, he mostly just puffed around his chamber in little fires of scorn and rage that possessed no real dream-content.
For a long, long time, Finwë, too, was in no shape to dream.
But Finwë recovered.
And Námo discovered this by wandering into Finwë’s dream one day, drawn by the crowd of no small number of gentle, unsuspecting Elven fëar in audience, observing with great interest. For you see, in dreams, at least, Finwë had managed to reconcile the great schism between the Noldorin factions, the supporters of the son of Míriel, and those of the children of Indis. Finwë seemed to have come to the conclusion that one needn’t choose just one wife, when he could have both—at least, in his imagination.
In Finwë’s dream, the king sat upon a plush orange divan as though it were a throne, naked, resplendent, hair unbound, crown atop his regal head.
Before him, the facade of Tirion’s palace, which featured a majestic stone fountain, one that, in the physical world, spouted great streams of clear, cool water from a high statue into a wide, shallow basin where children could frolic.
In Finwë’s dream—
Well, the fountain was mostly empty, for one thing.
Empty, but for the two wives of Finwë, Míriel and Indis, both dressed in long, flimsy white nightgowns slit up to the thighs and cut in deep v’s in the front, which seemed to facilitate their provocative, undulating dance.
As Námo watched, the wives of Finwë danced more and more closely, until their bodies were pressed together, moving so fluidly, it was as though one single thought governed their coordination—which of course, it did, as this was Finwë’s dream, and the wives merely manifestations of his deepest desires.
And those desires were also evident in one other respect: Míriel was, in dream-form, quite vibrant and flush with the spark of life, indeed, the spark of new life—her belly, rounded; breasts, plush and pendulous; nipples, dark and large in the way of expecting mothers.
She was beautiful, Námo thought. And in the dream, Indis plainly thought so as well. Dispensing with the dance, Indis bore Míriel down to the mosaic-tiled floor of the fountain and straddled her. Indis, too, was herself gravid, nearly bursting, her full belly colliding with Míriel’s as she writhed on top of her. Both women moaned and wriggled, flesh rippling, nightgowns rucking up around waists and falling down shoulders as Finwë, observing from his position on the orange divan, applauded, four rapid, staccato claps.
As the women’s movements became more frantic, drawing near what appeared to be a mutually gratifying conclusion, Indis suddenly stopped. She clenched Míriel tightly between her thighs, pinned down her upper arms with her hands, and leaned over, as she took one of her own breasts out of her gown, and positioned it, heavy with milk, nipple engorged and protuberant, right over Míriel’s face.
Míriel cried out in delight and hunger. She opened her mouth. And she proceeded to suckle, drinking deeply of Indis’s flowing milk. So abundant, in fact, was Indis’s supply, it soon filled Míriel faster than she could swallow it down, spilling over her lips, onto her cheeks, down to the mosaic fountain floor beneath her. Míriel choked and spluttered and snorted, and yet continued gulping for more. From Indis’s other breast, still more milk flowed, spraying down her body, drenching them both. Their white nightgowns, already straining and askew, turned altogether transparent, revealing every line of their bodies. And then Míriel’s breasts, too, began to leak their own milk, first a slow drip, then more, and more, until she was gushing just as much as Indis, proven in her own fecundity, not deficient at all, just as capable as Indis of sustaining new life.
The flow did not stop, it only accelerated as Míriel and Indis embraced and gripped and glided against one another, pausing only to reposition for a better viewing angle for Finwë. The milk rose to ankle-height and soaked Míriel’s hair; it swirled and spread out around her like rays of a silver sun. Milk filled the basin and still Míriel and Indis kissed and stroked each other, breathless and gasping. Milk streamed from the statue’s spout and sprayed like a sprinkler all around, striking Finwë at his vantage point, and still they only had eyes and hands for each other.
Suddenly Finwë was no longer on the divan, but was himself now in the fountain, lounging on a floating chair, a goblet in his hand. He dipped the goblet into the overflowing milk, filled it, then drank. He looked as happy and relaxed as Námo had ever seen him.
Námo, on the other hand, was growing increasingly concerned. He watched as the two ladies floated to the center of the fountain. Míriel bore Indis against the base of the statue and dropped to her knees, lifting up Indis’s sopping skirts. She spread Indis’s legs and stared, speechless at what she found there, but not for too long, for she began to stroke between Indis’s legs. Her fingers were first gentle and sweet, then not so gentle. Before long, it seemed Míriel’s entire hand, twisting and thrusting, had disappeared into Indis’s birth canal.
That can’t be good for the baby, Námo thought.
Then he remembered, there was no baby! This was all out of Finwë’s imagination! This was, apparently, Finwë’s deepest desire, manifested in plain sight, for Námo and any Elf who wandered by. Indeed, as Námo checked around, he realized that the audience had only grown since he had first joined in, a crowd of curious fëar gathering around their onetime King.
Finwë seemed unaware of his audience, mesmerized as he was by the vision he had dreamed up before him. Míriel’s hand and forearm were moving in a frenzy now, pumping into Indis’s body, fiercely, passionately. As Míriel worked Indis with one arm, she held her own belly with the other, stroking and circling the taut, stretched flesh around her bulging navel. Míriel’s look of bliss was lovely to behold. Indis thrashed her head and flung her legs about, suspended on only Míriel’s hand, her back pressed against the statue. Her breasts flowed steadily with milk.
And then, in a moment of shocking, ecstatic bliss, Indis’s body seized up, she wailed an unearthly wail, her head rolled back, and great gushing gallons of milk began to flood forth from her nipples. Míriel was fixed in place, unable to escape the torrential downpour of milk upon her, gasping, immersed, her hand lodged deeply inside Indis, whose body did not seem to wish to let her go. Indis howled on and on, insensate with pleasure and bursting forth the sustenance of life. Her supply seemed as limitless as her climax. Soon, there was so much milk, the fountain’s basin surged and roiled, great tidal waves moving across the surface. Finwë toppled off of his floating chair, falling beneath the rolling, swirling liquid. For a moment, time stopped, as Námo and the fëar around him held their breaths, waiting to see what had happened to him.
Soon enough, Finwë’s head popped up, and he swallowed visibly, hair and eyebrows dripping. He reached out, found the pull-switch of a lamp that hadn’t been there before, and with a single movement, brought the entire scene into a sudden and satisfied darkness.
Námo blinked, or he would have, had he eyelids.
The fëar around him seemed shell-shocked, shivering.
Should he do something?
Yes. He had to. It was his realm. These spirits were all under his charge. He was responsible. If they witnessed a scene from a dream so depraved, so decadent, so far beyond the righteous path that the One had laid out for them—well, who knows what might happen next? Who else might envision such flawed and flagrant fantasies of—of—of whatever that was!
Námo had to take control.
“Oh, Eru, we’re really in for it now,” said he.
Chapter Text
Námo brainstormed a list of possible solutions with his Maiar leadership team, performed a cost-benefit analysis of each option, and settled on the one that seemed the most likely to achieve the desired outcomes with the fewest resource expenditures.
The solution he decided to implement was this:
Any Elf fëa who had a proven history of creating or distributing harmful content, engaging in problematic behavior, or contributing to unsafe spaces would be blocked from the rest of the Halls. Placed into an enclosure. Isolated from the other fëar. Sent to a kind of confinement that was solitary, one might say.
With content so controversial and easily misunderstood as sexuality, it was important to set proper boundaries for the safety of the community. Námo’s Halls were for recovery and reintegration. It was paramount that everyone felt welcome. Therefore, he could not abide his Halls becoming associated with any kind of unwholesome, harmful, or derogatory practices that were mis-aligned with their mission. Tolerance of such dreams could be seen as condonement of the actions. He would not be responsible for unleashing such perversions into the population of Aman, if and when the fëar exposed to such content were re-embodied.
The new policy was pronounced as a Doom in all corners of the Halls, by Námo himself, so that there could be no confusion about what was, and wasn’t, considered appropriate.
Of course, the fëar couldn’t really speak, so the question-and-answer roundtables he hosted in small-group breakout sessions all concluded unceremoniously after several moments of awkward silence.
After the new policy went live, fëar who observed a problematic dream were encouraged to report their experiences directly to the nearest Maia, who would take immediate action to prevent the offending individual from doing further harm. They would vacuum them up into the fëa-transportation device whose construction Námo had contracted with Aulë for this exact purpose and transport them into the private alcoves designated for their confinement. No warnings, no second chances.
Before the first day was over, a Noldo had already violated the policy.
This was a Noldo who had survived the First Kinslaying, crossed the seas in the stolen swan-ships, and made it through the ship-burning, before dropping dead from some bad pickled eggs. He dreamed of being a great hero of his people, hoisted up on the shoulders of victory after battle, then having every hair on his body individually plucked off with hot tongs and forced to dance provocatively in front of the entire regiment.
He was just getting to the part of the dream where he was pulled offstage and about to be mounted by a maiden in full plate mail (well, full except for the relevant orifices), when Námo was notified and immediately popped over to put a stop to things.
As the Maiar arrived with the fëa-vacuum, the nearby spirits wriggled in disappointment.
“Everyone needs to feel safe,” Námo repeated.
Time passed. In Middle-earth, the dark creatures of the Great Jerk skirmished with the Elves, resulting in a slow but steady stream of new arrivals, for hundreds of years. And the Halls of Mandos found their new normal. Violations still occurred, but the offending fëar were quickly contained and isolated. The equilibrium of the community was restored.
Then things across the sea began to go, well, very badly indeed. The battle that became known as the Dagor Bragollach resulted in the summons of countless new fëar, many of whom were in pitiable shape.
And not long after that, Námo had his third King of the Noldor to welcome. He housed Nolofinwë—Fingolfin, now—alongside his son, daughter, brother, nephews, and father. The Hall for the Line of Finwë was growing crowded. The Maiar would need to build an annex soon, Námo thought. Maybe they could put a break room in it. A place for a mini-fridge.
Unfortunately, the Bragollach was the just the start of a long series of tragedies and atrocities, bringing yet more fëar to the Halls. Metaphysically speaking, you had to watch your elbows everywhere you went, lest you bump into somebody. And while some of the fëar arrived in pretty bad shape, others were less broken and needed less time to quietly recover. Before he knew it, there were swarms of recovering fëar wandering the Halls again, sharing all sorts of wild dreams and fantasies.
The last thing these new residents of the Halls needed was a vision of a balrog’s balls dangling from atop a chandelier interrupting their healing.
It hadn’t escaped Námo’s notice that the Noldor, in particular, seemed to have great enthusiasm for pretending that they weren’t the least bit interested in sex while someone else forced them into any number of carnal configurations. If it was consensual and uncomplicated, the Noldor didn’t find it sexy at all, no, thank you! These fools needed the excuse of wrapping up eroticism inside a plausible pretext like swearing fealty to one’s lord, submitting to corporal punishment, political negotiations, captivity and torture, ósanwë-induced paralysis, coercion, manipulation, ravishment, enchantments, molestation while one was asleep (or near death), intoxicants, mistaken identity, blackmail, extortion, temporary insanity, deception, outright violence, material desperation, arranged marriages, and something they had discovered deep within the wildest woods, which they termed “sex pollen.” Oh, and they loved their power imbalances: servants and lords, students and teachers, mortals and immortals, patients and healers, warriors and their commanding officers, tenants and landlords, age-gap relationships, experience-gap relationships, intelligence-gap relationships, and vassals and kings.
Námo sighed. Well, he wasn’t going to just give up and let the depraved Noldor run wild. He would just have to increase surveillance. The Maiar could stand to work a few more shifts a week. He resolved to double the Maia of the Month awards. That should keep everyone happy.
After the whole mess with Melian’s girl—which Námo didn’t even want to think about anymore, the paperwork alone had ruined his entire year—there was the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, the Fall of Gondolin, the Ruin of Doriath, the Sack of Sirion, and the War of Wrath.
By the time the smoke all cleared, there were as many as seven more Kings in the Halls of Mandos, depending on who, exactly, you counted.
Námo and his Maiar tried to keep up with everything, they really did, but between intakes, orientations, finding accommodations, and cleaning up the worst of the dream-offenders, there was just too much work. Námo was spending ninety hours a week in the Halls, taking paperwork home on the weekends, and snapping at Vairë, who, Námo knew, really didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of his bad attitude. She was naïve to the problems a manager like him faced every day, but she meant well.
She even showed up to help out when she had spare time, which turned out to be a mixed blessing. Vairë’s main suggestion was to quit worrying about their dreams, let them do what they wanted, and hurry up and re-embody them. Let the other living Elves help them finish up their recovery.
Námo felt guilty for snapping at her, but he couldn’t pretend her silly ideas were worth humoring. “Wife, I can’t do that,” he said, “they’ll infect the entire Blessed Land.”
“Look,” Vairë argued, “just because they dream it, doesn’t mean they’ll do it. You have to give them some autonomy. Let them make their own decisions. Who are they harming, really?”
Well, his lady wife’s argument was weakened by the fact that she was, at that very moment, tacking up her latest tapestry, which depicted a very free, very corporeal, recently re-embodied Finrod Felagund, happily entwined with a mermaid and a merman off the shores of Tol Eressëa. Neither of his hands were visible in the frame. Other parts were.
“I didn’t even know the mer-people were compatible with the Eldar in that way,” said Námo’s lieutenant with a curious tilt to his head.
“They aren’t! This is all unnatural!” Námo cried. “See what I mean?” He whirled on his wife. “You let them have a few little wild fantasies and share them with others. What’s the harm, you ask? Well, next thing you know, they think it’s okay to have three-ways with sea creatures. I’m not even sure if the mer-people are capable of giving informed consent,” Námo said, distraught.
“Aside from Míriel,” he continued—“oh, she says hello, dear, by the way,” his wife interrupted—"Felagund was the first Noldo I re-embodied, and unless they shape up, he’ll be the last.”
Well. His wife knew when he meant business. Vairë zipped her lips, and that was the last of that.
Manwë himself came to investigate the situation, a few centuries later.
“My good fellow,” Manwë said, after he returned from a facility tour led by the most promising recent Maia of the Month, “you know I hate to micromanage. Distributive leadership, that’s always been my operating practice, since the Years of the Lamps. But I’ve been getting some questions from key stakeholders. Aulë, for one, is pining for the Noldor. Can’t we do something to move them along? What’s all the hold-up, then?”
Námo thought about explaining the problem, showing Manwë the cost-benefit analyses, and giving him the implementation reports. But then he thought about it some more, and figured, a busy executive like Manwë, he might prefer a live demonstration. As Námo’s own manual on writing effective Dooms advised: Show, don’t tell.
Yes, Námo decided, better to show him exactly what he had been dealing with.
Námo would take Manwë to the Hall of the Noldor kings.
By this time, Fingolfin had managed to recover enough to dream. And, well. One might reasonably believe, had his dreams had been known at the beginning of the whole Unrest of the Noldor mess, things might have turned out quite differently.
“Glad to hear he’s doing well,” Manwë said cheerfully as they approached Fingolfin’s chamber. “A promising one, even if he got turned around a bit.”
They entered.
It took a few moments for Námo to understand what, exactly, he was perceiving, inside Fingolfin’s dream.
At first, Námo thought he was seeing a giant Fëanor, the size of a tree, towering over his brother. Was Fingolfin reliving his final moments, Fëanor standing in Melkor’s place? But, no, that wasn’t quite right; it wasn’t so much that Fëanor was unusually large, as Fingolfin himself was tiny. Doll-sized, in fact.
Námo mentally readjusted the perspective with which he was viewing the dream. Fëanor, as a very young man, barely out of childhood, perhaps, was playing with his dolls.
Dolls that included a little Finwë, a little Fingolfin, and a little Fëanor, too.
Fëanor made the little doll-Fëanor go up to doll-Fingolfin, push him down, and stomp on him. Then he brought over doll-Finwë to rescue his son.
“Say you’re sorry!” Fëanor made doll-Finwë say.
“No! Won’t!” said doll-Fëanor.
Fëanor brought over a stuffed chicken who was several times the size of the little dolls. “I’m Manwë and you have to do what I say,” Fëanor made the chicken say. “Tell your brother you’re sorry and you love him, or you have to go to time-out.”
In the Halls, the real Manwë turned to Námo. “Look, this is all very psychological, I’m sure, but I don’t see what this has to do with keeping the Noldor isolated and refusing to allow them to return to their bodies.”
Námo nodded his head toward the dream. “Just wait and see.”
Back inside the dream, Fëanor was making his doll-self talk. “Fine,” doll-Fëanor said. “Sorry you’re such a STUPID BABY,” he told his doll-brother, and doll-Fëanor ran out of the scene.
Doll-Fingolfin sat upon the dusty ground, big round tears flowing down his face.
“I gotta go,” doll-Finwë said, and followed doll-Fëanor away.
The regular-sized Fëanor, who had tossed doll-Fëanor and doll-Finwë aside for the moment, picked up the crying doll-Fingolfin. “Shh, shh, don’t be sad,” he said, stroking doll-Fingolfin’s long, sleek hair. “I’ll wash your hair, will that make you feel better?”
Fëanor got out a basin, filled it with water, stripped down the doll-Fingolfin of his little dolly clothes, and put him into the doll-bath. He swirled doll-Fingolfin around in the water. Then he said, “All clean! Good!” He rubbed down doll-Fingolfin with a towel and tried to brush his hair with a tiny doll hairbrush. That was when he ran into a problem. Doll hair wasn’t supposed to get wet. It became tangled and matted, and no matter how gently Fëanor tried to run the brush through doll-Fingolfin’s hair, he couldn’t get the knots out.
“I’m sorry,” Fëanor said sadly, “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut it all off.”
Doll-Fingolfin began to cry even harder.
“I’ll be gentle,” Fëanor promised, and true to his promises, sliced off Fingolfin’s doll hair in one clean snip of the scissors.
Doll-Fingolfin still didn’t stop crying.
“Here, I’ll give you what you need,” Fëanor said, and brought back doll-Fëanor.
“I’m sorry, for real,” doll-Fëanor said, and Fëanor tapped the two dolls’ heads together with a loud smacking noise. “Kiss kiss! Won’t you forgive me? I didn’t mean it.”
Doll-Fingolfin’s tears stopped. The two dolls tapped heads again and then doll-Fingolfin knelt before his doll-brother. “I release thee, and remember no grievance.”
Fëanor removed the clothing from the doll-version of himself. “I love you!” he made doll-Fëanor say. “Will you serve me?”
Doll-Fingolfin bowed his head. “Thou shalt lead and I will follow,” he said. He opened his little doll-mouth.
After that, things began to get weird.
Námo stepped away and gestured for Manwë to come along.
They didn’t speak right away.
“That was… Fëanáro, in Nolofinwë’s dream?” Manwë finally asked.
“Yes. He’s very popular in here.”
“But—the sons of Finwë—the two of them together—they’re brothers!”
“Half-brothers, if you ask Fëanáro,” Námo said wisely. “But trust me. That kind of thing doesn’t matter very much to the Noldor. Not in their hearts of hearts. Not in the truth of their dreams,” he added heavily.
Manwë was speechless.
A little incest? That was barely anything to write home about, when it came to the Noldor. Námo was surprised, of course, the first time he saw one of them dreaming about a cousin. And then it happened again. And again. They just kept doing it. And eventually he realized they mostly all wanted to fuck their cousins, even though they claimed the Eldar wedded not with kin so near (why make up a rule about something that nobody wants to do, after all?). So, Námo came to accept it, and after a while, cousin incest didn’t even register on his slate of things to worry about.
But the brotherfucking. So much brotherfucking, all the time. Younger brothers dreamed about the elders, elders dreamed about the younger, and well, pretty much everyone dreamed about sex with Fëanor, so it honestly didn’t even strike Námo as strange that Fingolfin would, too.
Nothing struck Námo as strange anymore.
Námo led Manwë, who was a little hesitant, down the hall to the next royal Noldo.
Fingon had recovered shockingly quickly from his death of being beaten into a bloody pulp by the balrogs. His fëa was hardly in the Halls for a week before he perked right up and started wandering about, loudly dreaming his dramatic and deranged dreams. Fingon was an unusual Elf, because many of his fantasies appeared to simply reflect real memories of his everyday life as a warlord of the now-sunken lands. He had loved hunting, dancing, feasting, fighting, and riding around his realms on fine horses, swinging finer swords, and so he spent much of his dream-time reliving his greatest living moments.
In death as in life, Fingon was not subtle. He could not be ignored. He had to be isolated even more than the average fëa, for his fantasies were so virile, they overpowered those of anyone else nearby.
It didn’t take long for Námo and Manwë to come within range.
And oh, Fingon didn’t disappoint. Námo had seen variations on this particular fantasy of his, many, many times.
The source material for this specific dream lay in Fingon’s most valiant feat, the deed for which he had won great renown among the princes of the Noldor; even Námo had to concede, it was quite a tale. Fingon’s rescue of his cousin and ancient friend from the torments of Thangorodrim was undoubtedly an act of great bravery, and their escape on the back of Thorondor, a triumph of Fingon’s will and faith in the Valar.
Fingon’s dreams about this particular event, however, tended to veer out of heroic reality and into the realm of erotic parody. And today’s dream was no different.
For one thing, Námo was reasonably confident that in the original event, when the King of Eagles bore the two Elves away from the darkness of Thangorodrim, Fingon wasn’t fully nude, braids and penis swinging in the wind.
For another, in reality, when Maedhros was freshly recovered from his captivity, he was doubtless too deeply in shock, pain, and very serious blood loss to have any capacity left to maintain an erection. Yes, the fire of life was hot within him, but it wouldn’t have been hot within Fingon, not that quickly.
But none of that mattered in Fingon’s fantasy life, where he was pinned down on the back of the Eagle by Maedhros’s one good hand and one freely bleeding stump, thighs spread wide, ankles up by his ears, mouth hanging open, as Maedhros fucked into his cousin to the beat of every flap of the Eagle’s great wings.
With every thrust, Fingon sang out “Utúlie'n aurë! The day has come!”
“Now, that’s just—” Manwë said, horrified.
“I know,” Námo agreed.
“Thorondor wouldn’t consent to—to—any of this! He’s an unwilling voyeur! Shouldn’t they have at least negotiated with him before—before sodomizing each other!” Manwë sputtered.
Námo nodded sagely. Fingon consented, Maedhros consented, but Manwë didn’t.
“All right,” Manwë said, “I think I may have seen enough. Let’s reconvene at the start of the next quarter.”
Námo felt that the review had, on the whole, gone pretty well for him. Manwë seemed to be getting the idea.
After Námo and Manwë departed Fingon’s chamber, and reentered the main Hall of the royal line, it was unsurprising to find that a handful of free-roaming Noldorin fëa had floated nearby, near enough, in fact, to have been observers to Fingon’s latest fantasy.
They soon found themselves on the edges of another dream.
They were in a dusty plain, the shadows and foul airs of Thangorodrim in the distance. The Elves from the hall were there, too, one of them clearly the source of the dream. He was a Noldo of no great distinction, as dark-haired, grey-eyed, tall, and fair-faced as all the rest. Námo knew what those features disguised. He had seen inside too many of their hearts by now.
Overhead, a great Eagle flapped, drawing nearer.
“Oh, Eru above, what’s happening now?” Manwë moaned.
“This is what they do,” Námo said. “They witness one another’s foulest and most depraved fantasies, and then they’re inspired to create ever more loathsome fantasies of their own. See, there’s the former High King and his cousin above,” he said, pointing.
The Noldo, the primary dreamer, stepped forward, looking up to the Eagle in the sky with breathless anticipation and a prominent erection.
“I think the fëar are trying to impress each other,” Námo continued, staring off into the distance, stroking what would have been a beard, had he a chin, or hair upon it. “I think they try to come up with more and more insane dreams on purpose. They egg each other on. One of my Maiar swears that he caught them laying out organized challenges to incubate even more deranged ideas, though he’s cracked down everywhere he catches them. I don’t understand it, and I can’t stop them from wanting such things. We were scrambling for centuries, but I don’t think it can be done. I can’t coddle their fëar any longer. We thought up a dozen different solutions, but this is the only one that makes sense. So, I must keep them isolated. This is why they can’t be permitted to leave the nest and spread their degeneracy to the rest of the world. I don’t know how to whip such desires out of them,” he said, beaten but brave, “but I must do what I can to make the world safe, soft, and easy for everyone else.”
“Your efforts are wise and much appreciated,” Manwë said, comfortingly. “I’m sure that once I consult with the big boss—”
But Námo didn’t quite get to hear what Manwë thought would happen once he consulted with Eru Ilúvatar, because at that moment, the great Eagle soaring above them laid an egg.
An egg that tumbled down from the sky, in dream-slow-motion so that all of them had plenty of time to see it and understand what was happening, yet as in the way of dreams, could no more move out of its way than they could un-Mar the World, and instead could only watch, fixed in place, as the egg landed broad-end first onto the head of the dreaming Noldo and shattered, and all of its viscous, mucous-like insides flooded onto him, soaking his hair, his clothing, his entire body, yolk breaking as it descended upon him in thick, orange-gold globules. The Noldo squealed in delight as an orgasmic tremor visibly shook his body, and then he collapsed, fried.
After that, there was little else to be said. And as Námo escorted Manwë out of the Halls, they were almost to the exit when they came upon one more unrestrained former Exile’s fëa, golden and shining, and thankfully alone, but dreaming, nonetheless.
Námo hadn’t planned this particular observation, but he thought it couldn’t hurt to check in on one more Noldo’s dream.
“Shall we?” Námo asked.
“I’m afraid to see any more,” said Manwë. “What if he’s dreaming something disturbing about Fëanáro, too?”
“We can just keep on our way,” said Námo, “we don’t have to.”
“I have a macabre curiosity,” confessed Manwë. “I know I shouldn’t. I know that if I cross into his thoughts, it will be like… like the corpse of a dove in a lunch bag, inexplicable, putrid and repulsive, and yet…”
“… a part of you wants to consume it,” Námo finished.
“Yes. I am a morbid corvid.”
“Let’s, then,” Námo said, and took his place beside the High King of Arda.
They approached the fëa together.
They perceived the nature of his dreams.
Time stood still. Of course, Time itself was a construct whose laws only applied within the Halls inasmuch as its residents assented to its validity, but so striking, so singular, so spectacularly unspeakable were the contents of this particular fëa’s dreams, their material caused Námo to lose his very grip on the concept of Time itself, and he only regained it upon realizing that Manwë, too, was in danger of falling out of Time.
They backed away.
The dove’s corpse was contaminated and corrupt, indeed.
Námo could not speak. He could not meet Manwë’s eyes. Never before had he witnessed anything so overwhelming, so incomprehensible, so mind-bogglingly loathsome. Námo thought, for a moment, about giving his two weeks’ notice. Perhaps it was time for someone else to give the job a whirl.
He hadn’t had a vacation in—well, ever. Vairë was always talking about the romantic weekend getaways Irmo and Estë enjoyed. It might be nice to tour the ruins of sunken Beleriand together, he thought.
After a while, Manwë faced Námo and forced him to meet his gaze.
Until that moment, Námo hadn’t even known it was possible for Manwë to turn so green.
“We’ve got to get that one out of here,” Manwë said. “He’s too dangerous to be in the Halls at all. And I don’t want him in the Blessed Land, either.”
Námo grimly agreed.
Within two weeks, Glorfindel was on his way back to Middle-earth.
Námo didn’t resign, of course. After careful consideration, Manwë sent word that Námo could proceed with his methods, and that Manwë would not, under any circumstances, be returning to the Halls, unless Fëanáro became conscious again. Until then, Námo was free to do as he felt necessary.
And it turned out that putting more and more of the Noldor into isolation was absolutely fucking necessary.
“How many to horny jail this week?” his wife would ask. She liked making little woven welcome mats for the newly isolated. She was quite crafty, Námo’s wife. He felt a pang of affection for her.
Eventually, there were far more Noldor locked up in their solitary chambers than there were roaming the Halls. It didn’t make Námo’s job any easier—the chambers required regular observation, as the fëar of the Noldor had ingenious ways of wriggling out of captivity when they weren’t being watched properly—but it did make surveillance a simpler task, as any dreaming fëa would stand out more readily against the bare Halls.
That was the Age when Námo really got to know Aredhel, the White Lady of the Noldor. She had been housed with her kinsmen in the royal wing but hadn’t yet been restricted to her cell. She liked to roam throughout the Halls and largely avoided other fëar. When the Maiar reported on her dreams, mostly, they seemed to be about riding fast horses over golden, open fields. Námo had yet to hear anything of great concern about her. (Her son? Well, he was a different matter entirely, but he’d been preemptively locked up the moment his fëa arrived. For everyone’s safety.)
So, he was not prepared when he stumbled upon Aredhel mid-dream, quite by accident. For once, she was not thinking about freedom, or fine steeds, or anything of the sort.
Aredhel was dreaming about Nan Elmoth. It was full night in the darkness of the forest, the thick, high canopy obscuring the moon and the stars. The only lights were twinkling wisps of sickly green, fluttering in and out of view like cursed fireflies. The earth smelled of wet fungus, and there was the tang of iron in the misted air. Aredhel, dressed in soft white furs over a long linen gown, stood in the center of a circle marked by stones, motionless, hair unbound, barefoot. Fog curled around her ankles like a living thing.
The Dark Elf, Eöl, stalked around her in a slowly tightening spiral.
Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Námo thought at first. After all, the Dark Elf had been her husband in life. They had dwelt together for many years, produced a child together.
But something told Námo that this was no common dream of marital bliss.
He watched as Eöl drew ever nearer to his wife. Eöl spoke in a garbled tongue, neither Sindarin nor Khuzdul, nor any of their ancestors or derivatives. Námo did not think it could be comprehended by anything not from that forest. Crackling whispers deep within the trees echoed Eöl’s speech. As he drew nearer, his arms elongated, his hands stretched out, and his white fingers unfurled toward his wife.
Aredhel remained still as Eöl’s fingers traced the ties of her fur cloak. Námo realized with dawning horror that she was not merely stationary, she seemed immobilized. An owl hooted in the distance.
Then Námo saw that it was no longer fog, but metal shackles that curled around Aredhel’s ankles.
Eöl stepped into the warmth of his wife’s waiting body. A hand brushed against her face in a gesture that might have been tenderness, but for the rigidity of his fingers. He whispered something in Aredhel’s ear that Námo could not hear. For the first time, he saw Aredhel truly move—a half shudder, shaking at her husband’s touch. Her jaw was set, her eyes wide and wavering.
The Dark Elf whispered again, and whatever enchantment was upon the lady seemed to lift, for now she turned away from him in full. But she soon discovered that she could not go far, as the shackles around her ankles were connected by a short chain, no longer than the blade of a small knife. The chain, in turn, was bound securely to a baby’s cradle cast of galvorn. It was too heavy to move. She could only stumble, and, when she reached the end of the chain’s slack, fell to the ground.
“Please,” she said, but in her eyes, Námo could see, she knew she had no chance of escape. She was trapped. He had her.
Indeed, the Dark Elf was upon her in an instant, covering her. His white hands were everywhere, first on her face, then twisting in her hair, here, at her hips, there, at her wrist. She turned her head one way, and he pressed dry lips upon her exposed ear-tip. She thrashed the other way, and he laid his hand upon her throat, fixing her in place. He whispered a third time in that strange language of the trees, and Aredhel cried out a reply, a sound of desperation, of begging. She beat at his broad back with her fists, which did little to stop him from capturing her mouth, claiming and plundering her with his tongue.
What was she feeling? Was she afraid? Námo had observed fëar caught up in fear before, visions ripped from the moments just before their violent deaths, or other images drawn up from the darkest depths of their innermost selves. It was not his habit to interrupt.
Námo knew fear, and he did not think that was quite what he was observing here.
Indeed, Eöl shouted and drew back partway, his hips still pinning hers to the earth, but withdrawing his upper torso. He spat a mouthful of his own blood onto her breast, a string of red dangling from his lip, connecting him to her body. “Golodh bitch,” he snarled.
Aredhel smiled up at him. “Dear husband,” she whispered. In one swift, fluid motion, she heaved her husband up and over. She took his shining black sword from its sheath across his back and used it to slice at the shackles at her feet. But it was no use—the shackles were themselves made of the same black iron and where the sword struck, only sparks like tears flew free. She tried again, and again she could not break her chains. The third time, she grasped the hilt with both hands, lifted the sword high above her head, and with all the strength of one of the Calaquendi, Tree-light in her eyes, the valor of the House of Fingolfin in her veins, and the power of the Blessed Realm behind her, she brought the sword down and sliced off her own feet at the ankles.
She screamed.
Námo flinched.
Eöl screamed too and rushed to staunch the great wounds on the ends of her legs with black, loamy soil. Tiny mushrooms sprouted from the wounds. They smelled like night-blooming jasmine and rancid butter. “Shh, shh,” he soothed, cradling her trembling body in his arms, laying her down upon the soft ground, her back crunching on the idle leaves and the worms. The chains were now in Aredhel’s hands, and she wrapped them around her husband’s neck. He coughed and he untied the white fur cloak. He gagged and he pulled up the hem of her plain gown. He choked and he withdrew his cock from his clothing. She squeezed the chains more tightly around his throat, spread her thighs, and welcomed him.
Her screams turned to sounds of pleasure. Accompanying them, the forest air itself seemed to vibrate in time to their coupling. Where he thrust, the leaves in the canopy above rustled; when she moaned, a nightingale trilled. Sweating, they clutched and scratched and glided against one another. Eöl tore at the chain about his neck, but he did not stop rolling his hips.
The greenish wisps of light began to brighten as the two Elves on the ground moved ever more frantically. In the flickering glow, Námo could perceive Aredhel’s face, awash in pain and desire, gaze fixed upon her husband with a dangerous glint. She did not release the chain, no matter how Eöl thrashed, his face purpling. Yet still he drove himself between his lady wife’s open, sawed-off legs, the mushrooms growing larger with each passing wave.
It was when Eöl clenched, stuttered, and shuddered, then collapsed, that Aredhel’s eyes met Námo’s.
She knew him at once, Námo realized. Her stare was as fierce as her grip on the chain.
He felt like an invader. It was not the first time that a fëa in reverie had marked his presence. Yet in the darkness of the forest, Aredhel’s dream-vision of her strangled, spent husband softening inside her, he felt the things in the trees watching him, and did not like the touch of their eyes.
“You,” Aredhel said. She cast her husband’s body off, as easily as if he were stuffed with feathers and raisins instead of flesh and bones. He rolled away, three full revolutions over the ground, then vanished. “Do you wish to take a turn?” she asked, a vicious lilt in her voice. She opened her legs toward Námo.
He did not mean to look—he would not have—but suddenly, he was no longer a safe distance away, an observer’s vantage, but instead found himself within arm’s reach. If he wished, he could have stroked a mangled leg, plucked a midnight mushroom. He could have combed the thatch of curly hair she was offering.
“No? Not what you wanted? No matter,” she said, and reached down to stroke herself, slowly. She traced the seam of her sex with her fingers, holding Námo’s gaze all the while.
“Stop that,” Námo said weakly.
“Why? Aren’t you just going to imprison me, too? Then I might as well enjoy myself,” said she, pressing just inside her folds, the tips of her fingers turning into silver coins and circling her nub.
“It’s for your own safety,” said he.
“Oh, really?” Her hand worked faster. “Tell me, how does locking me up keep me safe? Safe from what?” Aredhel’s voice broke into a gasp, thighs and belly flexing with effort.
Námo struggled. He did not know the answer. He did not know why he was still there, before her, on the dead, cold ground. He should have stopped this long ago.
“Safe from my own memories?” she asked. “But why would I wish to be free of those, when they were so… gripping,” she moaned. She ground the palm of her hand against her mound and thrust her hips up. Námo did not understand how, but he could smell not just the forest, not just the trees and the living things growing in the woods and the dead things feeding them underneath, but the core of her, a raw, alive, animal smell. He hovered above her, transfixed.
“Why are you still here,” Aredhel snarled, and hurled the length of chain at the direction of his neck, if he were the type of being to have a neck, that is.
It struck him and looped around.
Shocked, Námo grabbed at the chain. It felt solid.
“How are you doing this?” he gasped.
“If you must watch me, the least you can offer is a helping hand,” said Aredhel, halting her movements so that she could spread the lips wide and show him where she wanted him. She was pink inside, streaked with the phantasm of Eöl’s seed, and quivering.
“I haven’t had anything real inside me for over a thousand years,” she whispered. “Should I beg of you? Would the Doomsman like to feel what it’s like inside? After all this time, haven’t you earned the right?”
Námo felt her pull the chain, but beyond that, within himself, he felt an inexorable, irresistible pull toward that soft wet hole. He leaned in. He could feel the heat radiating off her in waves.
He extended a tendril of his ëala and slipped it, just the tip, inside her.
In all the millennia of his existence, from before the singing of the Ainulindalë, through the Darkening of Valinor, the rising of the Moon and Sun, and the sinking of Beleriand, Námo had never felt anything like this. He simply had no frame of reference. He had spent less time in physical form than any of the other Valar; there was little point, when his realm was of the spirit world. So, he did not know, had no way to know, what it might feel like to enter a woman’s body with his own flesh. And he still would not know from doing this, for Aredhel’s body wasn’t truly here, merely her dream-manifestation, a suggestion, a costume.
And yet. By probing her spirit with hers, he could nearly imagine how her core might pulse around him. The grip of it, tight, yet welcoming, sweet, and soft. He did not need to imagine how she might hiss in satisfaction and demand more, for she did so presently, arching her back and pushing down against him.
“Don’t tease,” she breathed. “You can give me more than that. I can take it.”
Well, he was one of the Ainur, after all, and he could form himself into any shape she desired. A small, probing finger; a flat, lapping tongue; a thick, pulsing shaft. He could grow a member like the limb of a tree, splitting it off into branching twigs and stems that pierced her insides. He could turn to warm, bubbling liquid, agitating and vibrating inside her with a shaking tremor, like nothing any physical body could achieve. He could make himself hard as a marble pillar and force his way past her limits, he could fill her more deeply than any Incarnate ever could, bury himself until he was lost, pour his essence into the depths of her fëa, breach places she hadn’t known were empty, twist and stretch every seam and split her open until she screamed and clenched, cried and thrashed, wave after wave after wave of spiraling, unbearable pleasure, that rose to a climax, then held, and held, and then rose again to a second peak, and a third, higher still, as he refused to let up. Her fëa convulsed around him, jerked, went limp and then shook again. She pleaded for him to stop, she couldn’t take any more, she begged him to never stop, he was too immense, too awful, too much for her to bear.
He felt himself beginning to break apart, his awareness threatening to fragment, so deeply had his ëala penetrated her fëa. Who was he, really? What was his purpose in the Halls, again? Why was he so concerned about what other people held in their own thoughts, their own dreams? He struggled to grasp it, as his ëala began to crest a great wave—
“Stop that!”
Oh, no.
“My lord husband, just what do you think you’re doing?”
Námo pulled out instantly and poof, he was no longer inside the dream, he was back in his Halls, Aredhel’s fëa now zigzagging away from him and laughing. He didn’t even know fëar could laugh.
“My lady wife!” Námo sputtered. “I can explain.”
Vairë fluttered close. “Can you?” she asked. Her tone was neutral. Clearly, she had not understood what had just happened.
Truly, though, Námo did not know if he could explain. He felt like a great bolt of lightning had just missed him. He felt like he had been about to fall from a great height but was snatched out of the sky at the last minute. He felt like he really, really had to sneeze, but someone had come by and clamped his nose shut. The tickle was still there, but the means to clear it had been lost.
“I must have drifted too deeply into that one’s dreams,” he said at last. “The feelings—the desires—she must have felt so strongly, and I was the only spirit around. She was dreaming of her husband, she must have missed him so badly—thus I took on his role. She needed her husband, and because he isn’t here—I had to do it. Her need was so great.” Námo wasn’t exactly sure where Eöl, was, exactly, why couldn’t he remember something so simple?
“—You had to do it,” said his wife. She was getting it!
“I must have,” Námo repeated.
How else could he explain it?
Perhaps they should look into housing fëar in joint accommodations with their spouses. It would be wise to prevent any similar mishaps in the future.
Chapter Text
Turned out, a sabbatical wasn’t the worst way to spend a few hundred years.
Manwë put Námo on administrative leave, while the Valar assembled to decide what should happen to him. There was no precedent. Nobody had ever had to pronounce a Doom for the Doomsman before.
After forwarding his pending deliverables to his lieutenant, Námo headed for the sea. He spent the years on an underwater walkabout in Beleriand. He hadn’t seen the sunken caves of Nargothrond, the gates of Gondolin, the ruins and drowned forests and civilizations lost to centuries of the water. The sea-monsters scattered before he could come too near, but the whales let him approach. He liked their songs. Once, he came across a pod with three babies. They were curious, their fëar soft and trusting.
Sometimes, Ulmo kept him company. He had remained impartial on the matter of what should happen to Námo, letting the other Valar work out the consequences, but aside from that, he wouldn’t tell him anything about the Halls. “They’ll let you know when they’ve made a decision,” he would say in a reasonable tone.
Námo played hopscotch on the ocean floor with the playful sea-Maiar. When the endless water became monotonous, Ossë would stir up a storm. When he got lonely, Uinen would let him trail along her hair.
Eventually, Eönwë sent a message down with a deep-diving pelican, to come meet him on the surface.
“You can come back now,” Eönwë said. “But you’ll have to agree to some conditions.”
“Did Vairë have a message for me?” Námo found himself asking.
Eönwë just looked at him.
“Irmo says you can stay with him until you get settled back in,” Eönwë finally said, which answered that question.
And so Námo returned. As Eönwë described in excruciating detail while they traveled home, he was required to follow a performance improvement plan. The Halls were no longer under his direct authority. Manwë, selfless as he was, had taken over for the interim. Every quarter, he and Námo were to have a one-on-one, at which they would set stretch goals and monitor progress on key performance indicators. It was humiliating.
Worse, while Námo was away, Manwë had dramatically restructured the Halls. He called it a paradigm shift. Among the many synergistic strategies he implemented: a priority-based ticketing system for new arrivals, fëa reintegration metrics tracking, marketing campaigns to reach the reluctant wandering spirits still in Middle-earth, and part-remote schedules for high-performing Maiar.
Námo had to admit, everything ran like a well-oiled machine. Even more than Námo, Manwë was a real stickler for deadlines.
“You’ve come back at a turning point in our enterprise,” Eönwë told him while he was still getting settled back in. “We’re at the bleeding edge, Námo. Consider it: Halls of Mandos 2.0. Who knows what else the future of death might hold?”
Námo didn’t know.
“You’ll want to see this,” Eönwë continued, leading him down a corridor towards the halls of the Noldor royal line. “We’ve had a new arrival in the years since you left.”
“Oh?” Námo racked his brain. “Not Ereinion, I hope. Whose son was he, again?”
“Not he,” said Eönwë. “The last of the line of Curufinwë Fëanáro.”
“Oh, the ringsmith?” Námo dimly recalled. “Whatever happened to him?”
Eönwë told him the bullet points on the way to Celebrimbor’s alcove.
Námo felt a little sick. Somehow, over the course of his leave, he had lost his sense of perspective. He could no longer hear about betrayal, war, and agony without feeling—something. It was unprofessional. He would need to work on reining it in, if he wanted to resume his old position.
“So, he’s just recently reintegrated, and Manwë felt he would be the perfect beta tester for a new initiative,” said Eönwë. “Fëa-reeducation through scripting and roleplays!”
“Oh, very nice,” Námo said vaguely.
The idea was this: locking up the fëar stopped the spread of their dangerous ideas, but it didn’t stop them from having them in the first place. They needed better models, Manwë had realized. Examples to inspire them.
“We should have done it ourselves from the start,” Manwë said in a rueful tone, “but, well, aside from Yavanna and Aulë, you remember, none of us were really bothering with genitalia for several thousand years. No matter. We know better now.”
Námo did remember Aulë’s great, swinging ball-peen hammer.
Manwë’s plan involved recruiting the best Maiar to act out scenes for the enlightenment of Celebrimbor’s fëa, complete with explicit negotiations of any kinks that may or may not come into play during the act of reproduction.
“I almost hate to ask,” Námo began, “but—”
“Tentacles, mainly,” Manwë answered. “He likes tentacles in every hole. And being tickled.”
Celebrimbor’s fëa, at least, was curious enough to stay put for the demonstration.
“Hello, committed adult partner with whom I am in an established relationship,” said the masculine Maia. “I am interested in exploring a sexual activity with you in a way that celebrates safe and consensual kink practices.”
“That sounds great. I would like to begin now. Please penetrate me anally or orally,” said the feminine Maia.
“Not before discussing boundaries and selecting safe words. We must—sorry, boss, what’s the line?”
“Mutually decide to consent to activities, with the understanding that said consent must be freely given, specific, informed, and reversible at any time,” Manwë called out. The Maia repeated him.
“What specific acts are you interested in enjoying with me today, partner of equal social standing, to whom I am not related, whose sexual identity and gender presentation I fully respect?” asked the feminine Maia.
“I was thinking of putting my member inside your manifestation of a vagina until I ejaculate,” said her scene partner. “Would you consent to that activity?”
“Yes,” said she. “I have a question. Would you be interested in authority-based coercion e.g. teacher/student or doctor/patient?”
“Only in the form of roleplay,” said he. “Let’s negotiate a scene that depicts no pressure, abuse of power, coercion, manipulation, intoxication, or anything ambiguous or that can be taken out of context from a safe and consensual sex scene.”
Celebrimbor’s fëa was beginning to lose interest, Námo observed.
After discussing in lengthy detail the specific places they would put their body parts, the Maiar got down to business.
“I am verbally checking in with you,” said the feminine Maia. “Are you consenting enthusiastically to me sinking down on your flesh penis with a sigh of satisfaction?”
“Yes,” said the prone, masculine Maia.
“Roll over,” Manwë stage-whispered from a few feet away.
The masculine Maia complied. “I maintain that consent continues to be freely given and look forward to having sex with you non-fetishistically.”
The feminine Maia mounted the other at the waist and began to bounce on it. Námo watched. Manwë took notes. Celebrimbor’s fëa began to wander.
“More enthusiastic,” called Manwë from the side. “Can we have a little more joy and agency?”
“I didn’t bring those,” said the feminine Maia.
“That’s not—oh, never mind! I mean, can you put a smile on your face? Make it clear you’re enjoying yourself?”
She stopped bouncing. “I don’t work well taking direction mid-performance. Also, this is exhausting,” she said. She looked down at her scene partner. “Can you take over?”
The masculine Maia sat up, seized her by the hips, and threw her down on the ground with a growl. She squeaked in surprise.
Celebrimbor’s attention snapped back to the scene.
“STOP,” Manwë shouted. “That wasn’t one of the agreed-upon maneuvers. Someone take the Elf out of here!”
Manwë decided the scripts were the problem. He dictated notes to rework them, a Maia scribe at his side.
“You’ve added a lot more dialogue about the ages of the characters,” Námo observed, reading the Maia’s notes.
“Well, yes,” Manwë said. “It must be unmistakably clear that not only are both participants of age, but also that they did not meet until they were of age, thus ensuring that the viewer knows no underage grooming occurred.”
“But they’re Eldar,” Námo found himself arguing. “They commonly marry cross-generationally in life. It’s not unheard of for one of their people to meet their future spouse as a child of a friend or kinsman, you know. What’s a couple hundred years’ age difference going to matter, when they’re bound together for the span of all Arda?”
Manwë ignored him. He was staring into space. “We’ve got to make sure the characters give explicit consent not just before, but during each act. And of course, only endorse the correct positions that can lead to the planting of a seed.”
The Maia scribe wrote down, SETTING: EXTERIOR, GARDEN.
Manwë and the Maia worked on the scripts, with Námo offering occasional suggestions. Frankly, Námo thought that Manwë just didn’t understand the Noldor if he thought this would hold their attention. Unless the fëa in question had a specific interest in judicial procedure and rule-following—not entirely unheard of, but less common in the Noldor than, say, the Vanyar—Námo was pretty sure that, like Celebrimbor, most of the Noldor would find these performances unbearably dull.
“You’ve got to add something in there to make it compelling,” Námo tried to explain. “Nobody wants to watch two interchangeable Maiar with no personalities, just slapped-on roles and cliché lines, put their artificial body parts on each other. There’s no character development. There’s no erotic tension. What about giving them some obstacles to overcome before they can consummate their relationship? The Eldar really seem to enjoy that kind of thing.”
Manwë looked at him strangely. “I don’t want angst,” he said. “These will do just fine. The actors just need a little more practice before we try again with an audience.”
“Have you thought borrowing some of Yavanna’s people?” Námo asked. “Maybe they would have a more natural sense for—earthly pleasures.”
Manwë scoffed. “I can’t trust them to follow a script! Are you kidding me? They’d be rutting like wild beasts in no time. No, that’s enough ideas from you. Don’t forget, you’re still on probation, my friend.”
Námo kept his mouth shut. But he wasn’t surprised when the next few re-education attempts went poorly. The Maiar got better at remembering their lines but didn’t make much progress in giving believable performances. They were spirit-Maiar, after all, who had spent their entire careers in the Halls of Mandos, babysitting traumatized fëar. Most of them, like Námo himself, had never much bothered with taking physical form. They couldn’t deliver an erotically compelling drama any more than they could un-Mar the world. It just wasn’t how they were built.
He compared the flaccid scenes Manwë had written to even the most basic and vanilla fantasies he’d seen the Noldor dream up. The difference was, when a fantasy came from deep within someone’s heart, whether it was perverse or pure, simple or complex, you could feel the truth of it. And that was why, Námo was realizing, they enjoyed observing each other’s erotic dreams. There was a special and powerful intimacy in sharing, even with a person you’d never met, even an anonymous fëa just floating around in the Halls.
There was even, Námo admitted to himself, in shame, that kind of intimate power between, say, a Vala and a Noldorin White Lady. He had underestimated his susceptibility. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but perhaps his spirit was more like the Eldar’s than he had previously realized.
Perhaps they were all just trying to connect with each other in any way they could.
But for right now, there were more immediate problems. After several lackluster responses to their performances, several of the Maiar stopped coming to work entirely.
Of course, that caused a lot more trouble than just needing understudies. The Maiar of Mandos really did need to keep a close eye on the fëar’s chambers. They were too good at breaking loose. Námo couldn’t figure out how they were doing it, until the day that everything went mad.
When he arrived at the Halls that morning, the mayhem was evident from the moment he stepped inside the front door.
Fëar, free from their isolation, all of them, everywhere, all at once! Scooting around from one end of the corridor to another, cavorting over each other like seal pups in shallow water, flirting and swooping and banging on the walls. Some of them were even—well!
“Now that’s enthusiastic consent,” Námo murmured to himself.
A Maia floated by, fëa-vacuum in hand, desperately chasing after a fast little fellow whose spirit, Námo could swear, had little red boots on. “This one keeps slipping out of my grasp! Help!”
Good for him, Námo thought to himself. He pretended to swipe for the fëa, missed, and inwardly cheered as he got away.
Námo picked through the chaos carefully, trying not to interrupt anybody’s good time or accidentally shove someone in the direction of a Maia jailer. They were just doing their job, sure, but Námo no longer felt compelled to enforce the rules.
He wandered over to the Noldor royal suites. Were they still locked up, or had they, too, managed to escape?
He turned the corner and ran smack into one of the last people on Arda he was expecting to see.
“Husband,” said Vairë evenly.
“Wife,” Námo said, shocked. He looked at her. Oh, she was just as beautiful as ever, a shimmering, shining spirit surrounded by sparkles and silver strands. He ached from missing her.
“How have you been?” Vairë asked casually.
A bit too casually, if you asked Námo.
“Fine,” he answered, caution in his voice, suspicion rising.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about all these escaped souls, would you?” he finally asked his dear wife.
She didn’t answer, but her ëala flickered and he thought he caught a glimpse of—
Was that—
Was she holding the master key behind her back?
Námo felt a swell of eternal love, desperate delight, and the greatest pride and joy of his entire existence bursting out of his meager spirit. What a wonderful, clever wife he had. If she would ever give him another chance, he swore to himself, he would make things right. He just had to convince her to let him try.
He met her eye. He nodded. He twinkled and grinned.
And the whole mass of Finwëans, the entire Noldor royal family, plus some extras who must have wriggled their way in before Námo even got there, came flooding out of their chambers, into the corridors, rushing into each other and giggling and screaming and whirling about in both glee and rage, as the Noldor were ever meant to do.
Námo glanced back at Vairë, to make sure she knew his heart.
He whistled, turned around, and headed back the way he came.
“Everything’s fine over there,” he reported to Manwë, who was as frantic as Námo had ever seen him. “Anything else you need me to check out?”
Manwë fluttered, flustered. “I’ve already sent Eönwë to go fetch the others to come help. This is a disaster. A catastrophe. This is almost as bad as the Trees!”
Was it, really? Námo simply could not bring himself to care that much.
Manwë fretted, “Am I going to have to call Daddy to come sort this out?”
Námo felt a frisson of heat run through him and decided he would think about that later.
After Manwë floated away, and Námo wandered back to the great entry Hall, full of joyful, frisky Elven fëar, some of which were free for the first time in over a thousand years, he felt a sense of satisfaction. He observed them (from a safe, respectful distance) and thought he was on the cusp of understanding something. After all, they were simply Incarnates, doing what Incarnates do. Being passionate. Messy, yes, ill-advised, sometimes, but passionate all the same. And he was so close to grasping the meaning of it all—yet it was just out of his reach.
If Námo had had knees, he would have fallen to them. Since he was mostly a blob of undefined ëala, he sort of squished himself down, low to the ground. He raised his awareness to the heavens above.
And he prayed.
“O Father,” he began. “I have lost my way. I have strayed from the path of your Thoughts, from my purpose. I have faltered. I have failed. I have harmed your Children with my arrogance. I do not wish to harm them anymore,” he said, “but neither do I know what should be done. Help me, O Father. Show me your will.”
In the blink of a (figurative) eye, a great blaze of white light came down upon Námo, grasped him by the scruff of the neck, and hauled him up past the ceiling, beyond the rooftop, into the skies, and beyond, and beyond.
Eru had zapped him up to the Timeless Halls.
Oh, my Lord! Námo shuddered to be in His great and terrible presence.
Was he finally here for punishment? His own Doom?
Námo perceived Eru all around, the thrum of perfect Harmony in the not-air. He could not see Him but knew Him. And then Námo felt, too, that Eru had not called him up to scold him or confine him. He felt it in the depths of his spirit.
All right, then. Just a little chat, perhaps.
Only, Eru wasn’t going to start talking first, was He?
Fine.
“I am sorry,” Námo wept. “I am so sorry.”
The great warm hand of Eru’s being patted Námo comfortingly. He grabbed on to it.
“I was meant to keep the Dead, to shepherd their souls, to summon their spirits, and then let them go. I told myself and my people that we were only doing Your will,” Námo admitted, “but—the commands were my own. I knew they did not truly stem from Your Thoughts. I thought I knew best.”
The hand began to radiate light. Námo wanted to be consumed by it. He pressed on.
“It was not for me to decide what should be in the hearts of your Children. That is clear to me, now,” he said. “It was never my purpose to pluck out their Marring like lice from a scalp. Whether it was Your original will or no, they are Marred, now, deliciously, terribly Marred. And even if I could remove it, to do so would be to sever them from their very nature. I would not. I will not.”
There were two great divine hands now, cradling Námo, warming him, the light pouring into his being.
At last, Eru spoke.
“You’ve done so well,” said the One, the All-Father. He paused.
Námo held his breath. He felt so, so warm and held. He dared not speak—was there more yet to come?
“Good boy,” said Eru.
The light from Eru’s hands suddenly brightened and filled the Timeless Halls. Námo reeled, unable to contain his growing ecstasy, the shockwaves rolling through him in an ever-echoing progression of chords that approached but did not quite reach resolution, suspending him on the brink. The crescendo built and built until finally, it reached its crest.
Then a flash, an instant, a scream: blinding, ringing, cacophonous Music that struck Námo to his very core. He pulsed, he trembled, he arched, the eternal, unconditional approval from the One like a burst of pure, white radiance both inside his ëala, and resonating all around.
Námo ejaculated a thunderous arpeggio of undiminished joy.
Insensate, Námo drifted for a measureless time.
Eventually, he was softly returned to the Halls by Eru’s warm hands. Námo did not remember exchanging any further words with his Lord, but he knew that Eru believed in him and trusted him to know what to do.
When Námo regained awareness, he perceived a pair of Noldorin fëar, caught up in each other’s mutual reverie. He took a peek inside their dream, just out of curiosity, just to see what they were enjoying together. He no longer feared what he might find. He no longer feared his own reaction.
It was run-of-the-mill Noldor stuff. In the highest room of the tallest tower in Tirion, one of them was stripped bare naked on the balcony for the entire city to see, while the other spanked him with a crystal-encrusted paddle while scolding him about his poor spelling. The naked man screamed with every strike. The crowd below cheered.
Námo applauded, then he tiptoed away, leaving behind a silent blessing (and the gentle push of a mental suggestion about more exotic implements).
He then went looking for Manwë. It was time to regain control.
But he found Ulmo first. “My friend!” Námo cried, glad to see one of the more reasonable Valar. “You’ve got to help me take back the Halls.”
“Can do,” said Ulmo. “I know just the thing.”
Námo figured out what Ulmo was about to do only a few moments before he did it. “No, wait—”
It was too late.
Ulmo released a cold, dark tsunami that took down every Incarnate spirit, washed them clean, and deposited them in the entry hall.
Well. That was one way to dampen a party.
Most of the fëar (even the sea-loving Falmari) were disoriented enough by the flood, they simply lay in a great pile that swelled and fell with the slow, gentle rhythm of the evening tide.
“Where is Manwë, anyway?” Ulmo asked.
Námo didn’t know. “You wait here, see if he comes round. I’ll go check a few places.”
“Need some help?” a voice asked.
Námo turned. “Brother!” he exclaimed in joy. “I can’t wait to tell you what I’ve just realized about dreams.”
He explained his epiphany, about how you can’t control the inner thoughts and fantasies of any creature, even in death, let alone the Children of Ilúvatar, in all their flawed glory. And there was no point in trying to keep them from sharing with each other, either. It was what Incarnates did. Sharing meant multiplying joy and dividing sorrows. The dreams of the dead were just one manifestation of that great, communal, creative urge that was within each one of them.
Irmo just stared at him for a while. Finally, he said, “Took you long enough. Honestly, why didn’t you just come to me at the very start? I could have saved you a lot of trouble.”
Námo shrugged, and smiled. “I think I needed the trouble.”
Námo couldn’t wait to explain it to Manwë. He could make him see.
They just had to find him, first!
Eönwë didn’t know where he was.
Neither did Vairë, busy re-tacking up a tapestry that had been dislodged in the flood. She winked and gave Námo a smoldering look that he couldn’t wait to get back to later, though. He was having some new thoughts about the erotic potential of manifesting a body.
Nienna didn’t know, either. Although she did guilt Námo and Irmo both, a little, for never coming to see her. It had been too long since they’d had a really good sibling bonding session, Námo admitted, and promised to make up for it soon.
Speaking of sibling bonding, Námo realized that they hadn’t yet looked in the part of the Halls that had housed Fingolfin and Fëanor. Námo knew he’d seen Fingolfin, at least, escape his enclosure along with most of the rest of the Noldor royals, but he didn’t think Fëanor had been among that crowd. Surely, he would have recalled the Spirit of Fire. In fact, come to think of it, Námo was pretty sure that Fëanor was still barely reintegrated enough to hold a shape. He’d regained consciousness during Námo’s sabbatical, Manwë had told him, but was strictly confined to his cell for the safety of himself and others. He didn’t seem to have joined in on any of the hallway fëa-orgies.
Námo should probably go check on him, he thought. Fëanor wasn’t weak, but he was fragile. If he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time when the flood hit—well, that kind of thing could set a fëa’s recovery back centuries.
Námo and his brother approached Fëanor’s private alcove, the same one he’d stayed in all these long years, since the first day of his arrival.
They were relieved to find Fëanor’s fëa, conscious, whole, and even dreaming.
They were startled to find Manwë’s own spirit, loosely wrapped around Fëanor, dreaming right along with him.
“Should we?” Irmo asked.
“I don’t see how we could possibly walk out now,” Námo answered.
They entered the shared dream of Fëanor and Manwë.
Fëanor, in dreams just as tall, fair of face, bright-eyed and raven-haired as he was in life, held a dark iron crown studded with the likenesses of the Silmarils. He stood over Manwë, who knelt on the mound of Ezellohar, between the corpses of the two Trees.
“Just to be sure I’ve got this right,” Fëanor said, “you want me to put on this crown—” he eyed the object warily, “—don a cloak of shadow, take you from behind, and pierce you with my lance?”
“This is weird,” Irmo whispered to Námo, who shushed him.
Manwë nodded eagerly.
“Is there anything I should say while I’m doing it? Any particular lines I shouldn’t cross?”
“Just act like him. You know what he’s like.”
“Dark, dishonest, cowardly. But what’s my motivation? What am I, the Moricotto, getting out of this encounter? I just don’t feel like I’m in touch with the role,” said Fëanor.
“You want to fuck me, that’s what you’re getting out of it! It’s not that complicated! Stop asking questions and just get a move on!” Manwë cried.
Fëanor shrugged. “All right, but after this one, then we’re doing my fantasy,” he said, and plopped the crown atop his head. He staggered. “Fuck, this is heavy.”
Námo couldn’t help it.
He burst out laughing.
Fëanor and Manwë both snapped their heads toward him, shocked, guilt in their faces. Manwë sprang to his feet and manifested a set of robes to cover his impressive Vala-hood.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” Manwë said sheepishly.
“Don’t worry,” said Námo. He composed himself.
“I’m not here to judge.”
FIN
Notes:
Thank you to the friends who cheered me on and helped brainstorm ideas, especially IdleLeaves and dragonbornsandwaffles, without whom this fic could never have existed. Special thanks to Corvid for supporting the vision from earliest stages up through the final draft. Thanks to all the weirdos and freaks who inspire me (you know who you are).
There were more ideas than I could fit into this one story, so I'll be posting a separate work of deleted scenes shortly.
Please let me know what you think! I'm dying to hear reactions on this one. Come find me on Tumblr if you want to talk some more.
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