1: Death Is but the Beginning

How does one pick up the pieces of a life after one has died? I know that I died, but I have no memory of the actual event and there are none to tell me the tale. Where does one begin? At the beginning? The beginning of what? From when I found myself in Mandos facing its dread lord? From when I woke from the sleep of oblivion that robbed me of everything save my name? I am not even sure how long I slept or how long I remained oblivious to myself. I only know that a time came when Lord Námo summoned me back to Life just as surely as he had summoned me into Death and then I woke up to find myself within a hröa for the first time, again....

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"Findaráto."

It was a voice he did not recognize. Voice? Hear? He could hear! He concentrated on the sensation of sound. There was a rustle somewhere but he could not identify its source. Somewhere further away was....

Birdsong! Yes, that is what it was. He tried to identify the bird itself but his memory was hazy and disjointed.

"Findaráto."

That voice again. He tried to place it but could not, so instead he concentrated on the sounds it had been making, trying to decipher their meaning. He had heard those particular sounds in that particular order once, he was sure, but again his memory played him false and he could not remember what meaning was to be attached to the sounds.

"Finrod."

Wait! He knew that name, and was inordinately pleased with himself that he knew it to be a name and that it belonged to him. Finrod. That is who he was: Finrod.

"Open your eyes, child," the voice said.

Now Finrod was in another quandary. Eyes. They were for... seeing. He felt a thrill of excitement course through him. See! Could he see as well as hear? He pondered that for a moment, trying to remember just how eyes were supposed to be opened. He felt a twitch somewhere and then there was a blinding sensation that left him gasping in pain.

"Hush now," came the voice, soothing and encouraging. He felt something brush against him and felt himself relax. "Take your time. Slowly... that’s it."

This time the... light... yes, light... was not so terrifying, nor did it hurt. Still, he had to blink several times to clear the blurriness caused by tears of pain. He found himself staring up at someone whom he did not know. The someone was smiling down at him, still caressing his hair.

"Welcome back, child. I am Tindomerel of the People of Námo. Do you remember me?"

Well he recognized the name Námo, but Tindomerel was not known to him, or at least he could not remember if she was. There must have been something in his eyes to let the Maia know this and he felt a pang of sorrow that he could not give a positive answer.

Tindomerel smiled. "That’s all right, child. It will take time for your memories to surface. I will be one of your attendants while you regain the use of your hröa. The other is Olórin. You will meet him soon. For now, I think you should sleep."

But I just woke up! he wanted to say but his mouth refused to cooperate and all that came from him was a gurgling noise that surprised him more than anything. It didn’t even sound like him. And then he had to stop and ponder what that meant. Did he even remember what he used to sound like when he spoke?

Tindomerel merely smiled more deeply, as if aware of his scattered thoughts and was amused by them. He felt himself sigh and then inexplicably an overwhelming lethargy swept through him and before he understood what it meant or had time to analyze the sensation and categorize it he could feel himself slipping back into darkness. It was only much later that he came to appreciate the fact that he was succumbing to normal sleep for the first time in five hundred and twenty-five years.

"That’s it, child," he heard the Maia murmur even as his consciousness was fading. "Sleep and renew your strength. You have passed out of the realm of Death into Life once again and soon you will come to understand that Death is but the beginning, not the end."

Her words followed him into sleep and entered his dreams, dreams that were too vivid and too frightening. He woke screaming and then there were soothing hands calming him until he slipped into sleep once again, wondering why it all felt familiar, as if he had done this before: waking from a nightmare only to be soothed back to sleep.

If he dreamed again, he did not remember.

****

Hröa: (Quenya) Body.

Historical note: Finrod died in 468, one hundred and twenty-two years before the end of the First Age, thus this story begins in Second Age 403.