Title: A Mother's Choice
Author: BittenBuggy
Rating: PG for angsty theme
Notes: Was written on a whim after browsing the challenges. Thanks to Viv/Maram and those who submit challenges!
Summary: Sacrifice for our children, their strength will be well used.

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The black walls were silent, offering no comfort to the figure who walked so quietly into the presence of the Great Judge. Her feet left the ground, slowly being risen up until she was face to face with the dark Valar. Her heart was heavy as she gazed into the unreadable expression.

‘I will see.’ She spoke softly, but with determination.

‘You know not what pain it will bring upon you, Míriel.’

‘It was my weakness that brought his downfall. I have heard, Námo, heard the cries of anguish that echo in these halls. Their spirits suffer because I would not. I will see.’

Námo closed his shining eyes for a moment and nodded. When they opened, the pupils were gone and only a shimmering silver remained. Mist obscured the purity, like clouds rolling across the sky. The Ainur faded away until Míriel knew nothing but the image of those eyes.

‘She denied me her love. There is a blackness in me she could not bear.’ The words belonged to a small figure, enclosed in her husband’s embrace. His tiny arms wrapped around Finwë’s neck, face obscured by long black hair. His voice was choked with the remnants of tears.

‘You are strong, Hênen. (1) She gave all of herself to you, there is too little of me that resides here.’ Finwë placed his hand against his son’s heart.

‘I am filled with a despair.’ Fëanor’s voice sounded urgent. ‘I know not what causes this coldness in my chest, but I fear it.’ Child’s arms tightened around his father’s form. ‘Please Atar, do not let it take me.’ (2)

Míriel’s eyes were pricked with tears. Her arms outstretched in vain, trying to take hold the form of her son. ‘No!’ She cried when Mandos’s eyes cleared. ‘Do not take his image from me!’

‘Do you wish to see more?’ Mandos asked, a sad question in his eyes. At Míriel’s nod, the room faded once more.

Her son, how tall and strong stood in the Ring of Doom. His face set with determination and hate. Life and vitality was alive in his very skin, the bright burning of his eyes as intense as blue flame.

‘This doom is now made: for twelve years thou shalt leave Tirion where this threat was uttered. In that time take counsel with thyself, and remember who and what thou art. But after that time this matter shall be set in peace and held redressed if others will release thee.’ Manwë’s voice was strong and clear, but Fëanor unmoved. (3)

A hand reached out to clasp the young Prince, but he turned in disgust. A proud gait took him from the judgement of the Valar, back held straight and proud in defiance of the gods themselves.

Pride warred with sadness in Míriel. The coldness had taken him, even as he had begged to be free from it. Yet it had not taken his passion, he was not broken.

A familiar voice spoke before the image appeared. ‘I hear thee. So be it.’ (4)

Pelóri’s great peaks appeared, Oiolossë rising above the rest. As if the words caused the light to be sucked from the land, so it happened. Stricken Elves sobbed, clinging to one another in the endless dark. The Valar shone with inner light, illuminating the areas around which they stood.

Two half-brothers, their arms clasped by the other, stood within the circle of the Ainur’s light. Another figure appeared, a face familiar but could not be placed.

The elf addressed Fëanor. The words were lost, but a afflicted expression appeared on the Prince’s face. He fled from the light. Rains had come to wash away the filth, they now soaked him as he ran without tire through Lórien’s gardens. Tears mingled with the rain as he stumbled. Naught but mud came up to catch him, but Fëanor paid no heed. Lain prostrate, his form shook and he clutched at the merciless earth.

A great cry rose up from him, the sound of one who has lost the dearest thing to his heart. Writhing in helpless despair, a pitiful whisper escaped him. ‘Do not leave me Atar. Please... Let them take every creation of my hands, but do not part from me.’

‘I can bear no more!’ Míriel cried.

‘But there is more, far more.’

‘Nothing could be so horrid as that.’ Tears fell off her cheeks as she shook her head.

Wind whipped about Fëanor as he stood on the shore. Licks of fire shone in his eyes, a feral smile marring his beautiful face. White sails succumbed to the heat of hatred. ‘What I have left I count now no loss; needless baggage on the road it has proved. Let those that cursed my name, curse me still, and whine their way back to the cages of the Valar! Let the ships burn!’ (5)

A new kind of fire appeared in his eyes. Wretched and made of malice and perversion. Creatures of flame, towering over the figure of her son as he fought in savage joy. No pain was seen in his features, even when he was broken and struck to the ground. Loving hands raised him up and carried him to a hilltop. There he was laid to rest and as the life in his eyes was extinguished, his body turned to ash and was born up upon the very winds of battle below.

‘That is what became of my son. My life... that went into him, this is what has happened?’

‘This is not all. So great was his pain that it brought the downfall of the Noldor and the lasting sorrow in the hearts of all Elves.’

Images unbidden filled her mind, names and knowledge came with them. Her grandson’s wrist, caught fast in an unbreakable chain as he hung in torment. The valiant silver of a shield, belonging to the eldest son of Indis, hovering beneath the tower of evil that is Morgoth. A lonely figure, wandering the sandy beaches of Midde-Earth, singing endless laments for all that is lost.

‘Am I the cause of this?’ Míriel asked, her voice shaking along with her body.

‘It was fate, Míriel. I knew what would become of your choice, just as I know all in the future that Ilúvatar has revealed to me. Fëanor was broken by the loss of you as a child. If you had stayed, things would have unfolded much differently.’

‘Let me heal the hurts!’ Her voice was fervent as she clutched at the robes of Mandos. ‘Master of souls, please unmake my choice!’

‘That is neither in my power, nor my desire. Ilúvatar does not allow me to see what would have happened had you remained with Finwë and your son. Neither does any but He have the power to unmake the past. There is but one hurt you can heal, Míriel.’

Námo stood, drawing back a black curtain, revealing a tapestry. Fëanor sat, his form downcast and humbled. As she watched, the images in the arras moved. She looked up at Mandos in surprise, her heart filling with hope.

‘Go to him.’ A gentle smile played upon the Valar’s features as he nodded.

With a hesitant step, she found herself in an empty room, save for her son. Silent tears ran heavy and glad down her cheeks as he lifted his head and the recognition glimmered in his eyes. The burden of a thousand lives lifted from his spirit as he looked upon her.

With voice, clear as a child, he spoke. ‘Amil.’

So It Ends.

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(1) My Son
(2) Father
(3)/(4)/(5) Whole or partial dialogue taken from the Silmarillion