2: Máhanaxar

Voices woke him, one of them feminine, the sound of bells in her voice.

"...ten years of the Sun have flown. Manwë commands judgment now."

"His fëa is still weary."

Glorfindel recognized the second voice as Námo’s. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to interrupt.

"Weary or not, brother, this judgment is long overdue."

"So be it," the Lord of Mandos intoned after a moment. There was a brief pause. "You may open your eyes now, Glorfindel." Námo’s voice sounded gently amused.

Glorfindel opened his eyes to see Námo and Another standing over him. The Valië was as tall as Námo, her hair as dark, but bound in a glittering net of pearls and black opals. Her eyes were the dark blue of a mountain tarn, calm and deep. She wore a gown of silver mist shot with blue. Námo was dressed much as Glorfindel remembered, save that the outer robe now matched the color of his companion’s dress. They were both smiling.

Glorfindel became acutely aware of where he was and how he had gotten there and he started to panic. The Valië laughed and sat on the edge of the couch, stroking the elf’s golden locks.

"You have no need to fear, hinya. Come. You have been summoned."

Fear shot through him at those words. Fear and guilt. He must have made some noise of protest or denial for Námo stepped forward and put a finger to the elf’s lips, his expression stern.

"None of that, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower."

The sound of his title on the Vala’s lips steadied him and he nodded. Námo held out his hand and he and his companion helped the elf to stand. Glorfindel felt weak and disoriented. It did not help that no sooner had he stood than he found himself...elsewhere.

His first impression was spaciousness. He was in a ring, a ring made of thrones, twelve of them occupied. He had a confused sense of the Valar gazing at him in implacable silence and he shivered. One of them finally spoke, the echo of the First Song in his voice.

"My brother Námo, my sister Estë, welcome."

Glorfindel looked up into the fathomless eyes of Manwë and his fëa quailed at the Elder King’s regard. He felt Námo’s arms tighten around him in support, his strong presence a calming influence on the elf’s battered senses.

"This is the Balrog-slayer?" Manwë asked, though Glorfindel suspected he already knew the answer.

Námo nodded. "He is, my lord."

"Then let the judgment commence."

Glorfindel suddenly found himself standing in the midst of the Máhanaxar alone, for Námo and Estë had moved at the speed of thought and now sat on their own thrones. Glorfindel had just enough time to note the grave expression on Námo’s face before an onslaught of memories assailed him.

He had no conscious memory of falling to the ground as the Valar forced him to relive every moment of his life. He lay there, his eyes open but unseeing. Every memory was carefully sifted, layers of falsehood and self-delusion stripped away, leaving only unvarnished truth — cold and unforgiving. He never heard himself screaming "Emmë! Emmë!" at one particular memory. Estë left her throne and went to him, cradling him in her arms as he sobbed inconsolably. The other Valar sat impassively, waiting. For long moments only the elf’s weeping was heard. Námo’s expression was still grim but his eyes held an infinity of sorrow in them. Manwë’s expression was thoughtful and sympathetic.

When Glorfindel’s sobbing had slowed, the Elder King spoke. "Let us continue."

Glorfindel clutched at Estë, whimpering. "No, please, no," he implored.

Estë stroked his hair and held him tightly as the interrogation began anew. He never knew how long it lasted, never knew the patience with which the Valar examined his every thought and motive, never knew the infinite love with which they treated him, for love, not hate, was the motivating factor in all that the Valar did there within the Ring of Doom.

And while the Valar took care to examine every memory, it seemed to the elf that they lingered over some more than others — the day he rose to the lordship of the House of the Golden Flower, his proudest moment; giving his fealty to Turgon; the coming of Tuor to Gondolin. Glorfindel had listened to the Man’s message with wonder and trepidation, but he had not dared question Turgon’s decision to ignore Ulmo’s warning. He was too new to the lordship of his House and felt his counsel would be unwelcome. The Valar seemed particularly interested in every memory he had of Eärendil, from the time of his birth to the night of Glorfindel’s death. He sensed a feeling of satisfaction over young Eärendil emanating from the Valar that he did not understand.

At last the pressure of their minds eased and now Námo joined Estë in the center of the Ring. He knelt down beside the elf, wrapping his arms around him.

"It’s over now, my son," he whispered. "Shh. There’s nothing to fear. Just one thing is needed. Open your eyes, Glorfindel."

Glorfindel shook his head and tried to curl into a ball, but Námo only laughed and several of the Valar smiled. Námo stood up, forcing Glorfindel to follow. "Open your eyes, child."

Reluctantly, Glorfindel did and found himself facing the Elder King. Manwë beckoned to him, his expression not unkindly.

"Come to me, son of Gondolin."

Námo gave the elf a little push and Glorfindel half stumbled towards Manwë’s throne but stopped several feet away wondering if he was supposed to bow or kneel and afraid that if he did either he would faint from the effort.

"Closer, my son," Manwë said with infinite tenderness.

Glorfindel gulped and took a few more hesitant steps until he was standing directly before the Elder King. For a long moment Manwë gazed intently at the golden-haired elf and Glorfindel found he could not look away, as much as he wanted to. Finally, Manwë smiled and reached out with his right hand and touched the elf’s forehead. A light seemed to emanate from that hand and slowly, ever so slowly, it spread.

Glorfindel gasped. A warmth that was almost physical began to spread through his fëa and the light from Manwë’s hand seemed to search out every corner of darkness within him. The shadows of his doubts and fears were shredded and the fruits of his sins withered before the pure light of Ilúvatar which Manwë channeled.

Glorfindel found himself closing his eyes and moaning as ecstasy that went beyond the sexual flooded him and he was not aware of collapsing into Námo’s arms. He barely heard Manwë’s words.

"Take him, my brother. He has earned his rest."

Then he was back in the hall in which he had first found himself. Námo led him back to the sleeping couch and he fell gratefully into it with a sigh. He felt Námo’s hand on his forehead.

"Sleep now, Glorfindel. The worst is over. All shall be well for you. Sleep and rest. You are safe now. When you awaken again, things will be different."

He struggled to remain awake for some perverse reason but Námo’s words were too powerful to ignore and soon he was asleep. He never knew that Námo stood watching over him for the longest time, a smile gracing his visage, or that several of the Maiar who tended those dwelling in Mandos ranged themselves around his couch, singing softly an ancient lullaby.

****

Máhanaxar: (Quenya) The Ring of Doom.

Hinya: (Quenya) My child; a contraction of hinanya.

Emmë: (Quenya) Mama; finger play-name for amillë "mother".