BRIDGE: Pá Valaraucar ar Námier

SUMMARY: Námo and Olórin discuss a certain event involving the Maia. A companion piece to DISGUISE: Emissaries. Movieverse.

MEFA 2008: Third Place: Other Beings (General)

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Gandalf opened his eyes, looking up at a stone-carved ceiling, wondering why the walls of Moria had shrunk. Memory was slow in returning and he lay there trying to understand what had happened. The last thing he clearly remembered was standing on a bridge and....

"Frodo!" he yelled in alarm as he sat up.

"Is doing well enough at the moment."

The Wizard turned his head in surprise, recognizing the voice. "M-my Lord Námo?"

Námo, Lord of Mandos, sat upon an intricately carved throne, with an amused expression on his face. "Welcome back, Olórin," he said.

"How did I get here?" the Wizard asked in confusion, finally recognizing this as one of the sleeping chambers of the Mardi Envinyanto. He swung his feet off the couch he’d been lying on and noticed that he no longer wore the hröa he had assumed for so long in Middle-earth. Instead he seemed to have resumed the shape he had normally used as a Maia when incarnating for the sake of the Children in Aman.

Námo raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

Gandalf — no, he was Olórin now — cringed slightly at the tone of the Vala’s voice. "I have to go back," was all he could think to say. "Frodo needs me."

Námo said nothing at first, merely staring at the returned Maia, shaking his head. "They all want to go back," he said with a sigh, more to himself than to Olórin, who wasn’t listening.

Olórin was, in fact, looking for a door but did not see one. He frowned, for there was always a door without a handle, symbolic of the portal back to Life which was closed to the fëar of the Dead. But he wasn’t dead. He was a Maia and could not die as the Children did. Could he?

"I have to go back," he reiterated, "Frodo needs me."

"Indeed," Námo responded rather sharply. "In what way does he need you, Olórin? You are dead. The Living do not need the Dead for anything."

"You don’t understand, Lord," Olórin said almost pleadingly, ignoring the Vala’s words. "The Quest will fail without...."

"Without you?" Námo interrupted somewhat acerbically. "Rather an arrogant assumption on your part, isn’t it, Olórin? And here I was just saying to Vairë how humble you have been through all of this."

Now the Maia truly cringed at Námo’s words. "I have to go back," was all he could think to say. He shook his head, as if to clear it, for he was still feeling unsettled and confused. His only real thought was seeing the expression of horror and disbelief on Frodo’s face just before.... No, he would not think about that, could not think about it. There was too much pain and a deep sense of loss and... and...

"Failure."

Olórin looked up at the Vala still sitting on his throne watching him so dispassionately.

"That’s the word you’re looking for, isn’t it... failure?"

Olórin could only nod and when Námo said nothing to contradict him he felt despair. He had failed, miserably failed in his mission. There was no question about that, yet, if he went back, there was still a chance....

"A chance for you to redeem yourself."

Olórin looked up at Námo whose own expression was unreadable. It might have been carved from stone for all the emotion it showed. Not even the Vala’s amaranthine eyes gave anything away.

"Why am I here?" he finally asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. He had a sick feeling that something terrible was about to happen, more terrible than the pain he’d felt battling his fallen brother.

"Why do you think you are here, Olórin?" Námo answered with a question of his own. "You died. What do you think is going to happen?"

Olórin stared at the Lord of Mandos in disbelief, shaking his head. "No, that’s not possible... I’m not... I’m a Maia... Maiar aren’t Judged." As he spoke those words he tried to think himself away. There was a place deep in the Pelóri, he recalled, a mountain vale surrounded by impossibly sheer cliffs where a waterfall fell into a tarn so deep the water appeared black. No Mirroanwë could ever reach it. It was ‘his place’, where he went whenever he needed silence and solace and space to speak to Atar. Imladris with its many waterfalls had come closest of all the places he had ever visited in Endórë to this particular vale. He wished himself there, but nothing happened and he couldn’t understand it.

Námo’s expression softened somewhat, becoming more compassionate. He sighed. "You will not leave here, my son, until Judgment has been rendered."

"But I’m a Maia, Lord," Olórin said, almost pleadingly, beginning to panic, though he could not have said why. "We cannot be Judged. Only the dead can be Judged and...."

"Olórin."

"...I’m not really dead, because Maiar cannot die like the Children so...."

"Olórin!"

The Maia stuttered to a halt at Námo’s tone, gazing tearfully at the Vala. Námo, for his part, merely stared at the panicking Maia. "What part of ‘You’re dead’ don’t you understand?"

"But...."

"Do you recall the conversation we had when the Istari were formed?" Námo cut in. "Do you remember the words you spoke?"

Olórin hesitated in confusion, not sure what the Vala meant. Námo merely nodded, as if he expected this reaction from the Maia. "Let me remind you then," he said. Suddenly, it was as if a door he didn’t even know was there opened in Olórin’s mind and he was back in the throne room of the Valar in Ilmarin, over two thousand years ago and saw himself speaking....

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"I think it behooves us to become fully incarnate, and allow ourselves to suffer pains of hunger, and thirst, fear and fatigue, just as the Children do."

"Why should we do that?" Aiwendil asked while the other Istari, Curumo especially, looked less than pleased with the idea.

"How can we truly understand them and help them and win their trust if we do not suffer with them, both in joy and sorrow?" Olórin answered.

"In other words," Námo said gravely, "you wish to suffer the possibility of bodily death."

"It seems only fair that we take the same risks as they do simply by being born as Incarnates," Olórin replied with a shrug.

"As you will be truly incarnate, though," Námo intoned, "your hröar should age but slowly as do those of the Firstborn and like the Firstborn you should suffer no illness, but fatigue you will know and hunger and thirst. Doubt and fear will be your companions...."

****

"Did you think that we did not take you at your word, my son?" Námo asked, as the memory faded and Olórin found himself facing the Lord of Mandos once again. "You wished to live as the Incarnates do, in anticipation of death. Even the Eldar still living in Endórë know that every time they take up arms against Sauron or his minions there is a good chance that they will not survive the encounter. Death is always a possibility for them, if not a certainty, as it is with Mortals. Did you think you were merely play-acting at being Incarnate?"

Olórin shook his head. "I’ve suffered hunger and thirst, fatigue and bodily hurts, fear and doubt... and... and death." He sighed then, looking lost and forlorn. "I died," he whispered, seeing in his mind’s eyes his final moments as he lay in the snows of Celebdil, feeling his life flow out of him along with his blood. "I died."

"Yes, Olórin, you did," Námo responded with deep sympathy. "And now comes the moment of truth."

Olórin gave him a sad, quizzical look. "Surely, Lord, you will not make me relive my entire existence from the moment of my Emergence?"

Námo smiled and shook his head. "Nay, child, I will not. We will concern ourselves only with one thing in particular while you were in Endórë."

"What is that, Lord?" the Maia asked, mentally reviewing his life as an Incarnate, wondering what part of that life was being called into question.

Námo gave the Maia a hard stare. "Whatever possessed you to turn your back on your fallen brother?"

Of all the questions he had been anticipating, that was not one of them. For the longest moment he could only stare at Námo dumbfounded, unsure just how to answer the Vala of Doom. "Er... well... um...." He forced himself not to squirm, as if he were young Peregrin facing his older cousins for doing something.... stupid.

"Yes?" Námo enquired with studied patience and Olórin had the distinct feeling the Vala was enjoying seeing his former servant in such an uncomfortable state.

Olórin sighed, closing his eyes, admitting defeat. "I was... stupid," he admitted quietly.

"Indeed." Námo’s tone gave no hint of approval or disapproval.

"And... and I was arrogant," he added barely above a whisper.

"Do you know why you were arrogant?"

Olórin opened his eyes, his expression quizzical, not sure what Námo meant, and shook his head. Why had he been so arrogant? What had he been trying to prove and to whom?

"You knew he was there, did you not?" Námo enquired, the coldness of his voice like a death knell. "You knew your brother was there, waiting, biding his time. You met him before in the depths of Time Before Time and fought against him, forcing him to flee from the field of battle and when you encountered him again, there in Khazad-dûm, what were you thinking, what thoughts ran through your head as you invoked the Flame Imperishable?"

Olórin stood in contemplation of the Vala’s questions, trying to come up with an answer that didn’t sound... stupid or self-important.

"I wasn’t thinking," he finally admitted. "I was... acting the mighty istar who alone could stand between my fallen brother and my... my friends."

"Who had no need to be impressed by anything you did," Námo stated categorically. "You already had their love, and if not that, then certainly their respect."

"What should I have done, Lord?" Olórin demanded hotly. "Allowed that obscenity to take the One Ring? I told Aragorn that swords were of no use there. Who else was equipped to take on one of Melkor’s monsters, if not I?"

"I never said you shouldn’t have, my son," Námo replied calmly. "I said you should never have turned your back on him. That one arrogant act could easily have caused, indeed could still cause, the Quest to fail."

Olórin pondered the Vala’s words for several long moments, replaying the scene on the bridge in his mind from every possible angle. He had indeed been stupid. He should never have turned his back until he was absolutely sure there was no threat. Instead, he had allowed his own arrogance to get the better of him and the result was....

"So if I am dead, what then?" Olórin asked humbly. "Do I return to my duties as one of Lord Manwë’s People or am I condemned to spend my time here in Mandos?"

"Neither," Námo answered as he rose from his throne to approach the Maia. "Atar wants you to go back."

"Excuse me?"

Now Námo’s smile was genuine at the confusion on Olórin’s face. "Back, as in back to Endórë," he responded, placing a hand on the Maia’s shoulder. "Your task is not yet finished, Olórin. There is still much that you need to do to ensure that what we have set in motion comes to fruition as it was meant to."

"What you have set into motion?"

Námo nodded. "You said it yourself to young Frodo: Bilbo was meant to find the Ring and therefore Frodo was also meant to have it as well. When you return you will find that some events have been put into motion that you cannot prevent or alter, but there will be others, however, that will need your subtle touch to assure that all goes as Atar wills."

"I have no hröa," Olórin protested.

"All taken care of," Námo assured him. "Come, we will go to Lórien to consult with my brother. You do not realize it yet, but you need some time to recover from your ordeal. Rest and find refreshment and then when you are ready we will send you back."

"Thank you," Olórin said humbly and with heartfelt gratitude. Then he sighed as another memory that had been niggling at him as he had been speaking to Námo finally came to the fore. "Curumo has betrayed us," he said sadly.

Námo gave him a sympathetic look. "We know, which is why when you return to Endórë you will be the White, not Curumo. You will be the head of the Heren Istarion."

Olórin started in surprise at that. "Me! But why, Lord?"

Námo gave him a most wicked grin. "Why? Because you’ve been promoted, Olórin," the Vala replied with a laugh, "and I cannot think of a more suitable punishment for your folly."

Olórin gave the Lord of Mandos a jaundiced look, though his eyes twinkled with veiled merriment. "I think, my Lord, that Prince Findaráto has been corrupting you while I’ve been away."

"But only in a good way," Námo countered and then the two of them were laughing as they faded from Mandos for Lórien and what would follow.

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All words and phrases are Quenya.

Pá Valaraucar ar Námier: Concerning Balrogs and Judgments.

Mardi Envinyanto: Halls of Renewing/Halls of Healing.

Hröa: Body.

Fëar: Plural of Fëa: Soul, spirit.

Mirroanwë: Incarnate, i.e. Elves and Mortals.

Endórë: Middle-earth.

Istar: Wizard.

Heren Istarion: Order of Wizards.