One In the Fires of the Heart of the World by Isilme_among_the_stars  

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Colour and Shape

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Námo surveyed the gathering of souls from a distance. Communing of sizeable groups was unusual in Mandos, where souls reached habitually only for those dearest to them in life. There were exceptions of course, but the Fëanorions were not one of them. Their chief peculiarity remained the number of children to be found in the one family, in life or in Mandos. Their flight and war-making had brought them, as prophesied, almost all to death. Only one brother had yet to pass the threshold of these halls.

“They cling to one another, almost desperately,” Námo observed.

“Are you surprised, brother?” Nienna asked.

“It is not surprise, but dread anticipation that irks me. Alone they are a concern, together they are a force. Is it wise to allow such closeness?”

“It is kind. There is often wisdom in kindness. Together they may achieve what is impossible apart.”

Námo frowned, “That is what worries me.”

“Brother, you think too much on devastation, but not all dooms lead to that end. Turn. Look from another angle.”

To Námo souls were colour and shape. Each being came from Eru’s thought vibrant with a colour of their own and a form like no other. This was of course, a simplification, but a helpful one, for his purposes. For thousands of years Námo had watched souls bend, twist, muddy and darken. Their essences would always be a beautiful thing, he supposed, a child of Eru still, no matter how far out of shape they became. Still, there were days when he found them almost unbearable to look upon, so wrong did they seem set beside the memory of their original design. Not least of all the brothers he now studied. The eldest, sapped almost entirely of his colour, to Námo appeared burned black and collapsed inward. Before him, the souls shimmered and shifted.

“What is your meaning sister? I do not see it.”

“Watch the points at which they touch.”

The changes were small, but obvious under close examination. A small shift in colour or smoothing of the texture at the point of contact. Not every touch brought it forth, and some achieved greater shifts than others.

“I see it. Yet, I cannot determine the trajectory of this change. How do you judge it?”

“I do not. I withhold judgement. If it is further marring, which to my mind is doubtful indeed, it will soon become apparent, and you shall intervene. Until then, let them be. The middle brother is healing well, is he not?”

A jewel-bright green shone in the midst, still far from perfect, and yet closer to the original design than any of the others.

“He is,” Námo admitted.

“One grief in my heart that begins to ease,” Nienna whispered, a quiet note of hope tantalising on the edges of her words.

Námo rounded on her, “Do you not cry for the harms they have caused?”

“I cry for all griefs.” Nienna turned her ever-weeping countenance toward him as it to emphasise the point. “Does any one tear weigh more than the others? I shall be glad for every single one that I am no longer obliged to shed.”

“And yet an ocean of weeping must outweigh a puddle, surely.”

“Does the drying of the puddle prevent evaporation from the sea? Besides, there is good that can come from even these if moved to pity. I have already seen some such reparation, and that before any healing your domain could offer.”

Námo shifted uncomfortably. “You speak of the twins?”

“Indeed. Their hearts are clean, courageous and compassionate. Their mark in the world will be a hopeful one, I deem.”

The Noldor had spawned too much false hope over the last age for that to sit comfortably inside him, squandered too much unrealised potential. Not that Námo could admit to the degree to which that stung his heart. He was not one for displays of emotion.

“Do not cheapen their integrity by attributing it to others.”

“I do not,” Nienna countered, seeing more truly the barb that inspired his words than the Doomsman would have liked. “The mortar does not take credit for the pestle’s labour, and yet enables it. So it is with the peredhil twins.”

Námo pondered this. “There is reason in your words, loathe though I am to admit it.”

Nienna reached out to him, her embrace kind. Her next words came with the softness of understanding, not accusation. “You spit bitterness like venom so easily for one who has already shown pity to the red-haired one.”

“Pity does not preclude anger.”

“Well do I know it.”

Long Nienna and Námo surveyed the souls before them. Shifting shades bright and dim a kaleidoscope of thought, character and emotion careening toward a thousand touch points. The language of souls was a strange and beautiful one. At length a new pair of fëar joined the six, causing a bright ripple to pass through them, a warm welcome drawing both into their circle. Finwë embraced his crowd of grandsons (seven of them at once, for with him had come Fingon) a feat not possible in the physical world. Fingon’s gilt embrace blew like a spring breeze, touching each of his cousins in turn, pausing to wrap the blackened hull of the eldest long in its warmth.

Nienna looked with warm approval upon the unfolding scene, “The golden one, he seems much amended. Will you release him soon?”

Námo sighed, turning to her with pleading eyes. “The time draws near, but I must be sure he is ready. It is no easy call.”

In Nienna’s ever mournful face there seemed to grow a twinkle of humour, “that, my dear brother, is your domain.”

“Will you go among them?”

“Soon, and often it shall be needed, I think. How does it go with their father?”

“Do you know,” Námo told her conversationally, “not one of those boys has yet drawn near Fëanor, though their thoughts endlessly and anxiously seek him. I myself am shocked. Is it not shocking, sister?”

Nienna narrowed her eyes. Námo caved.

“He burns hotter than Arien and scorches anything that comes near save Finwë. Likely his sons have come to realise they are not fire-proof. I do not blame them.”

“That fire wreaths a wound I would dearly like to soothe, if only he would let me at it.”

Námo snorted, “I wish you luck.”

“Oh, I have something much better. Patience.”

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The time of renewing drew near. Fingon knew this the way he knew the signs of spring would soon appear in Hithlum. It was a deep sense in his core, at once a settled rightness and a restless stirring. It may have been foolishness, but Fingon did not think he could leave without reaching out at least once. It was not to satisfy curiosity, nor to exorcise anger. Neither was it out of love for Maedhros, or some sense of familial responsibility. In the end, he did it for himself, for the sake of gaining perspective. Of course, once he’d taken the first step, the action morphed and took on purposes of its own.

Fingon had stood before Fëanor, and the elf had not seemed to him as formidable as he had once thought. His uncle’s soul, sharp and edged with danger though it was, did not seem like a siren call that might master him any longer.

Why have you come? Fëanor had asked.

To understand, he had answered, forthright.

I am not some phenomenon to be studied, nephew.

The words had bite but lacked venom. Fingon had kept his own response mild.

Fortunate for you I am no scholar, uncle.

Then what is there for you to understand?

I never truly knew you in life. You would not allow it. Were there any you permitted close enough?

Findekáno. A warning. The touch point of their souls quivered with apprehensive tension.

No, fear not. I do not ask it of you. I will ask nothing that you do not wish to give. In truth, I have satisfied my need already.

You are not as formidable as you believe you are, uncle, Fingon thought to himself, you burn, in truth, less brightly than your son once did. And I am no longer daunted by fire.

Fëanor’s curiosity was piqued. Wary reticence receded as he leaned into their connection. Pray, tell. What have you learned?

That we have all grown past what we were at the darkening.

And you have gleaned that from me how?

I have learned, uncle, that you, soul of fire though you may be, are still only an elf. I was young and your words were full of promise. But if I was enchanted by them, it was because I was ready to be enchanted. If father was goaded to cross the ice for you, it was because he was ready to be goaded. And before you bristle and spark at me, hear this: since you are only an elf, then there is hope. For even as generously endowed with stubbornness as you are, an elf can learn. I did. Father, mulish though he can also be, did. Maedhros did.

Fëanor had flared then. You presume-

Fingon, finding himself more impatient than he liked, had pushed back. I presume nothing! I know more of our nature than you might think. For that, war is a fine teacher.

Fëanor, unused to being answered thus, had been silent. He seethed, but did not make riposte with harsh words, did not seek to wound him, as he might once have done, but took time to master himself.

You have my brother’s flint, but you are not as he, he had said, and his thoughts had carried with them a sense of esteem Fingon was not expecting. Fëanor had seen him in a new light and was surprised to find it more favourable than expected. In the touch of his uncle’s mind there was to be found a picture of Nerdanel, hands on her hips, unswerving, yet patient and warm with hope in her defiance. Fëanor had fit Fingon’s own response beside this old one of hers.

I am not as wise as she, Fingon told him.

You misunderstand the comparison. Not many stand firm before me with generosity still in their heart. You are a rare one, Findekáno. What can you tell me of my son?

He is suffering, uncle. He has been for a long time. I would see it lifted from him, if I could.

He had not meant for their interaction to take this turn, purposing only to get the measure of Fëanor and in doing so of his younger self. But concern for his cousin had been prodding at his fëa since their meeting. Fingon, unpretentious as they come, could not keep that sentiment from surfacing. Fëanor, at least, did not judge his forthrightness with rancour, seemingly the opposite. His thought was soft, bordering on resigned.

You tried, did you not?

He had wondered then what Fëanor already read in his fëa. A flood of memories inundated their shared space: the comfort that he had tried to give, Maedhros resolute and wilful. Yes, but it was not my burden to lift.

Just as it was not my wife’s to turn me from my course, nor divert that of our sons.

His uncle’s sharp edges had dulled, his fire banked. Fingon sent his next thought gently, as a fortifying hand resting on a shoulder.

No. You must do that for yourselves.

You lay it at my feet.

I know Maedhros. He will come to you eventually. When he does, do not point him again down a path of ruin. Filial and fraternal loyalty have ever been the largest stumbling block for his good sense.

Do you care not for my other sons? Are they not also your cousins? Fëanor quipped. It was easier, perhaps, for him to find a point of contention and draw it out than to acknowledge the realisation that echoed within his soul. From its shape, it was a conclusion that Fëanor had come to some time ago: that his actions had doomed his children, and moreover he no longer thought them right. This, though, he did not quite hide from Fingon. Nor was there outright refusal, as had come of most attempts to counsel Fëanor during his life. Does he actually intend to heed my words? Fingon had wondered.

You need only steer Maedhros. Where he leads, his brothers will follow, or else be corralled. Always it was so in Beleriand.

And do you presume to lead me, Findekáno?

A bubble of wry mirth had burst within him then, its ripples reaching Fëanor. More fool would I be if I tried! I know how that goes, uncle. Kingships, thankfully are ceded upon death. Good riddance to the crown too. No, I merely advise.

Life coalesces around you. You will not dwell here much longer, Fëanor observed. Then hesitantly and with much self-chagrin, as though it pained him to ask, he had added, when you find yourself again with breath, if you remember this conversation, give my apologies to my wife and brother. Not that I expect Ñolofinwë will believe it of me.

That had been a surprise. Fingon had begun wondering lightly if Námo had done something nefarious to Fëanor that evoked such a wild swing in character.

I shall, he had agreed, beginning to withdraw. And uncle? You forgot the ‘half’.

The strangeness of that interaction still pulsed through Fingon as he drew near to his cousins, though they were too preoccupied to notice it within him. Maedhros’s brothers huddled about him like hands around a candle on a windy day. How odd to see the fierce and proud Fëanorions thus, with all the care of one tiptoeing about shattered glass. Fingon wondered if it were like this between them in life and he just hadn’t been able to see it. The nakedness of souls in Mandos often showed a person in a way one was unaccustomed to seeing them. Not Maedhros, though. At least not to Fingon. Then again, from him there was very little that his oldest cousin had ever sought to hide.

Turning his soul toward Maedhros dulled the noise of chattering thoughts to a low hum. His cousin was quiet. This, though, was a false stillness, only as silent as the frozen North which hid much beneath. It had never been truly quiet on the Helcaraxë. There had been an endless wall of noise, so static as to have lost all meaning, drowning out all coherent sound until one was left with only their own thoughts. If not the wind, then the ice howled and shrieked, as eerie and ominous as it was unending. Such, he thought, was his cousin’s now habitual quietude.

There had been an accident, early on in the journey, before the perils had become as familiar as breathing. An elf had gone over the side of a widening crevasse, and with him, the crystal lamp that he bore. Fingon had rushed to the edge, still naive enough not to know. And he had discovered, among other things, that ice could be blue. It was the kind of phantom colour that shifted as you looked, with no apparent origin beyond the translucent white ice. The aqua deepened without seeming to wholly be there, somehow imbued within each atom of the cleft, and would yet show in none unless it were packed hard and deep enough. That was what Maedhros put him in mind of at that moment.

Maedhros, he called.

You have come to say farewell, his cousin guessed.

I do not know if I will get another chance to do so. If Námo offers life now, I will take it.

That is as it should be.

And yet, I do not like to leave you as you are.

With the twisted form of ruin at your feet, and the truth of you translucent and weak within your soul still, he added to himself.

“Look up, Findekáno,” his father had said as he stared down at a sight that would have been kinder had it truly been an abyss. Fingon, unable to pull away entirely, had fixed his eyes instead on that ephemeral blue. Staring until the reality of what lay below it faded before the spectre of the crevasse’s grandeur and his eyes blurred helped little. But little was enough to steel himself and finally drag his body away. After that there was blue in every shelf of ice. He could not help but see it, nor what had lain below.

Maedhros cut into his thoughts. Do not concern yourself over me.

He may as well have asked Fingon to forget about that which lay wedged and lifeless in the illuminated dark below, first victim of a beautifully ferocious landscape.

And since when have I failed to do so? I will be waiting for you Maedhros. I will be waiting where the sun shines.

And I will come to you, if I can, Maedhros promised with no surety at all.

You had better, he pressed, for I do not wish to become used to a world without you in it.

Images of the lost graven behind his eyelids had faded in time, but the ice had never ceased to be blue. Fingon had sat with Maedhros musing over that once, high in the hills over Mithrim, when his body had become hale but his mind was yet decidedly not. Ribbons of emerald and magenta streaked in grand displays across the cloudless sky. Maedhros had snorted. The unguarded sound of amusement still rare enough to have taken Fingon by surprise.

“You will always see the beauty in the world. Perhaps most when it bleeds. You always have,” he had said. It had re-wired Fingon’s brain slightly, and suddenly he knew why he had searched for that elusive shade then and ever since.

“Well,” he had answered, “if there is good to be found, why not seek it? Why not hold it close?”

“Perhaps because it will hurt all the more when it fades?” Maedhros, ever the cynic in those days, had suggested.

“Or perhaps, if I do so, it will grow.”

And there had been the ghost of a smile on Maedhros’s lips then, as his eyes tracked the lights through the sky. A ghost of hope flickered between them now. Fingon watched colour flare and deepen a shade within his cousin once more. There it was. Clean, warm and beautiful cornflower blue. 

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Chapter End Notes

urprise! A POV other than Maedhros’s to break things up a little. I thought it might be interesting for us to see Maedhros from Námo and Fingon’s perspectives this time. I hope you’ve enjoyed something a little different.

I checked the dates for this one the other day, and wow, it really has been over 2 months since I updated it. Life has been wearing on me a bit lately so I have not kept up the pace of writing I wanted too. The good news, though, is I have been working on stories for Scribbles and Drabbles in the background for you to enjoy come reveals in November (including one bittersweet Russingon Nirnaeth story I am quite excited about). Thanks for sticking with me!

For the curious, these are the kind of sounds I imagine Fingon and the others in the Noldorin host would have heard crossing the Helcaraxë.