This is a work of fanfiction.  There is no intent to make any money from it. 

I would like to gratefully thank my beta readers, Aearwen and Ithryn for helping me to beat this into shape. As always, special thanks to Wenont for not allowing me to give up.

The sun was setting.  Hadn’t it been setting when she had entered the tent?  Haleth rubbed her forehead and attempted to clear her thoughts, but it proved impossible.

Where was Inglor?  Drat that elf anyways.  He was constantly offering her long-winded lectures of minutiae, but the moment she really needed an explanation he was nowhere to be found.  She looked around, half expecting him to appear and behave as though nothing untoward had happened.

It was probably just as well that she didn’t know where he was.  He had brought her here. As far as she was concerned, the entire predicament was his fault. 

Haleth’s blood froze.  What if the Valar blamed him for her presence in the Undying lands? What would they do to him?  Her Grandfather had surrendered his life for breaking the Ban.  Her entire country had disappeared beneath the waves in retribution for Ar-Pharazôn and his army attacking Aman.  Would Inglor’s fate be any less dire?

She had to find him.  They had to get away from Aman if it was the last thing they did.  The fact that it probably would be the last thing they ever did hardly mattered; the attempt had to be made. 

But where would she find him?  She drummed her fingers against her lips as she tried to think.  He had always claimed he was of the House of Finarfin.  Finarfin was the King of Tirion. 

What a fool she’d been!  She’d walked past Tirion, refusing a direct invitation to enter!  It was at least a day’s journey behind her. 

She would have to go back.  At least the white road would show her the way.

It would be foolish to go back through Valmar after ignoring the summons of the Valar.  The western gates stood open.  She would circle around the city walls until she found the white road.  She would have to keep hidden, which would slow her progress, but there was no help for it.  Once she got to Tirion, all she would have to do was to sneak into the city, find Inglor, release him, and get the two of them away from Aman. 

She rushed out of the gates of Valmar, already planning how she would enter Tirion without being noticed.

There was a vast green sward just outside of Valmar's gates.  A great number of intricately made chairs – they would have to be called them thrones – were arranged in a great circle upon it. A green mound rose in the centre of the thrones.

Haleth stopped dead in her tracks. That was the Hill of Ezellohar.  In her single-minded haste to rescue Inglor, she had stumbled into the Ring of Doom.  She cursed under her breath.  This was not the way to avoid the summons of the Valar.

She squinted at the thrones in the light of the setting sun. They all appeared reassuringly empty.  The city was behind her.  If she moved quickly enough, she could lose herself in the wide paths and gardens of Valmar. 

The sun dipped below the edge of the earth, leaving the world in twilight.  Haleth slowly backed towards the gates, hardly daring to breathe. The birdsong, while achingly beautiful, reminded her that she was no longer in Middle-earth. 

She had almost gained the gates!  Just two more steps and she would be within their stone bulk.

‘Silmariën of Eldalondë, you are summoned to the Ring of Doom.’ Eonwë’s voice rang through the clear twilight air.

Haleth’s heart sank.  To fail when she had been upon the brink of success left a bitter taste in her mouth.  She could still run.  They would inevitably catch her, but at least she would have tried. 

She made the mistake of looking at the Ring of Doom.  The thrones were now filled with majestic figures glowing with their own light. The Valar were taller than Men or Elves and terrible to look upon. At the very core of her being, Haleth knew she could never hope to escape.  She drew a deep breath to steady herself.  It was a wasted effort.  Her knees were trembling so badly that it was a wonder they could not be heard knocking together.

‘And so it ends here,’ she muttered to herself.  Poor Inglor.  He had thrown himself into great peril for nothing.  She focused upon putting one foot in front of the other without ignominiously falling onto her face and begging forgiveness.

Haleth had traversed the breadth of Eriador several times, but the walk into the Ring of Doom seemed endless.  Scattered shards of her memory returned to sting her; all of the failures and hollow victories; all of the mistakes and errors in judgement.  There were so many that they threatened to overwhelm her.  Squaring her shoulders, she deliberately put them all behind her and stepped forward to meet her fate.  

‘I am here,’ she said, her voice very small in the gathering darkness.  ‘I answer the summons.’  She stepped into the circle of thrones and stopped, uncertain of what to do.  She twisted her silver ring with such force that she might have unscrewed her finger from her hand.

Light shone from the faces of the Valar.  Their raiment glowed in the fading light of day.  Haleth noted this through quick, sidelong glances.  She had no desire to look directly upon them and so she stared at the green grass instead.  Hundreds of tiny white flowers were opening to their blossoms to the evening.  Their sweet fragrance filled the air with delicate perfume.

‘You must stand before Mandos,’ said Eonwë.

Even if she had wanted to – and she most certainly did not want to – Haleth could not comply with the demand.  She was not on a first name basis with any of the Valar and had no idea which of the solemn beings who sat upon the thrones was actually Námo.  She spun in a slow circle looking from one to the next. The Valier were female, so that ruled out half of the group.  She concentrated on the men instead.

She thought she recognized Oromë for a great horn rested by his side.  The Vala with the strong build and the slightly bored expression must be Tulkas.  The one with the hammer tucked into his belt would be Aulë.  Ulmo would certainly be the one with the seashells braided into his beard. 

All fourteen of them were watching her with unreadable expressions.  Haleth suddenly became aware of the passage of time. Her heart pounded in her chest.

The Vala garbed into sky blue had to be Manwë Sulimo.  She bowed her head and lowered her gaze as a sign of respect. 

That left two: Námo and Irmo, the Vëafantur, the spirits of fire.  Her eyes swiveled from one to the other.  They were seated next to each other.  Both were dark haired and grey eyed.  Both seemed stern.  Which one was which?  Námo was the greater of the two but they were both so far above anything Haleth had ever seen that it was impossible for her to judge which was the most majestic. 

Surely her Grandfather would have no trouble identifying which was which but she lacked his wisdom.  She sucked both lips into her mouth and chewed on them, wondering if Manwë would blast her with a lightning bolt if she guessed incorrectly.

At the moment, the lightning bolt would be quite welcome. 

Perhaps she could ask Eonwë for a hint without having to say anything. It was a faint hope, but it was all she had.  Haleth coughed and covered her mouth, looking surreptitiously over her shoulder in the direction of Eonwë’s voice. 

There came a sudden deep rumbling.  Haleth jumped, half expecting a rift to open in the ground before her and swallow her whole.  To her surprise, Ulmo was mimicking her and coughing into his hand.  She stared at him in surprise.  She had not thought the Valar would cough.  Ulmo was looking directly at her.  When he was certain he had her attention he bobbed his head to the right. 

Haleth blinked at him in bewilderment.  He leaned his head to the right and shook it emphatically.  Comprehension hit like the lightning bolt she had been anticipating and she flashed Vala of the Waters a genuine smile of gratitude.

The expression quickly faded to a worried frown as she stood before Mandos.  The span between the thrones seemed to have expanded for it took a great deal of time to traverse the distance, especially since her legs had taken on the consistency of jelly.  There would be no tricks this time; no miraculous escapes.  This was the end.  The only thing she could hope to do was to protect Inglor.

She stood before Námo and tried to hide her trembling.  ‘Well, here I am again where I should not be and it’s my fault. I take full, sole responsibility for my presence here.’ Námo, she decided, had interesting knees.  If one was to judge by the way they had seized her attention, they were the most captivating things she had ever seen.

‘Do you remember how you came to the Undying Lands this time?’  Mandos' voice was deep and surprisingly gentle.

Haleth opened her mouth, the lie already prepared.  But there was no use.  The Valar would certainly know the circumstance of her return.  ‘Not clearly, no,’ she said.  ‘I believe I was poisoned.’

‘You believe?’

‘It was suggested I was poisoned.  It was from a weapon.  It was my fault for getting in the way or not getting out of the way fast enough.  The important thing is that it was my fault,and I should bear the punishment alone,’ she said quickly.

‘That is not for you to decide.’

Haleth bit her lip.  The interview was not going well.

‘Do you remember your life?’

‘I do.  Mostly.  Although not in any particular order. The recollections are a little jumbled.’  

It was a vast understatement.  Her broken memories had returned but they had come back with no rhyme or reason.  Her mind was like a painting that had been torn into thousands of pieces and left scattered on the floor.

‘Do you recall what you said the last time you were here?’

Haleth’s face screwed up in concentration.  She desperately wanted to remember what she had said for it seemed an ill-advised thing to disagree with Námo. But the exact recollection was floating somewhere in a chaotic sea of memory and refused to come forth. 

She was about to admit defeat when it did return.  She had been standing in the almost exactly the same place.  In her confused state she might have mistaken the recollection for the present except first meeting had taken place when the sun had been in the sky.

She had stood before the Valar, her head held high, the blood pounding in her ears.  Her grandfather was dead, having willingly returned the gift of his life.  She knew she was dying; the Ban of the Valar had not been set only to protect the Blessed Realm against the Second Born but to protect the Second Born themselves.  There was some quality to the place that made it impossible for mortals to live for any length of time.  

Their mission had ended in worse than failure.  All of the brave sailors who had set out from Rómenna were dead.  Silmariën was dying; she could feel the life draining out of her with each passing moment.  But she was young, her life burned strongly within her. The emotions of the occasion were easy to recall: anger, fear and fresh grief for her Grandfather mixed with a very bitter cup.  In spite of all she and her Grandfather had told them of the suffering of the Faithful in Numenor, in spite of the humility and the pleading, the Valar had refused to come to their aid. 

‘But you are the Valar, the Powers of Arda.  Sauron is one of your people. Surely there is something you can do?’ she exclaimed in desperation. ‘You helped before, in the Elder Days,’ she said. Part of her marveled at her own bravado, the other part, the part that knew she was dying anyways, knew there was nothing left to lose. ‘You sent an army to overthrow the Great Enemy in the North. Or will you not help because it is not the Elves in peril?’

'Second born, second best,' she said bitterly. It was a cheap shot and she knew it.  The Valar recognized the argument for what it was.  A quick glance at the assembled faces told her that her words had not swayed any of them.  If anything some of them appeared to be growing angry.

‘Then let me go.  If you refuse to do anything, I shall.’

The vision faded leaving a very embarrassed Haleth standing in the gathering dark in the Ring of Doom.

‘I…was…young,’ she said and immediately regretted the choice of words.  She was speaking to beings who had existed before Arda itself had been made.  From their point of view, the eldest of the Firstborn were young. If she had been planning to acquit herself better in this encounter with the Valar, she was doing a very bad job.

‘I beg your forgiveness for my rash words,’ she said, blushing to the roots of her hair and all too aware that she was not helping Inglor in the least.

‘It was not the first time we stood accused of unconscionable inaction.’  Námo’s words rang through her mind.

Haleth flinched.  The interview was every bit as bad as the original had been except that time she had intended to be insulting.  This time she was managing it inadvertently.  She cast a quick glance over her shoulder curious to see of Manwë was pointing a lightning bolt between her shoulders.

‘Look at me, child,’ said Námo.

Once again Haleth fixed her attention upon his knees.

‘At my face, child, not at my shins,’ he said.

Slowly and with more reluctance than she had felt in her life, Haleth raised her gaze to look upon the face of Námo.  She expected to him to be stern or even angry; she certainly would not have blamed him.  Instead of anger, his face shone with gentle compassion. 

‘In the time you were given, what have you done?’ he asked.

‘I – found things,’ she said.  It was a ridiculous answer but she was too overwhelmed to describe her activities any other way. 

‘And once you found them, what did you do with them?’ he asked.

‘I brought them to Círdan, usually,’ she said. 

‘Usually?’

‘There were things that I lost through accident or clumsiness,’ she admitted, thinking of the palantir.  The single sentence was hopelessly inadequate to describe the entire adventure but she had the impression the Valar already knew the full tale.  ‘I am sorry.  I am at fault for all of the failures,’ she said quickly, thinking of Inglor.

‘You are very quick to deal out blame,’ said Námo. 

Haleth shifted nervously.

‘You rendered a service to us, whether you take the blame for that or not your choice.  You have laboured long and hard but the time of your travails is at an end.  What would you now?’

‘I do not understand,’ she said. 

‘You have crossed the Sundering Seas.  There is no way back to Middle-earth.  What would you now?’

It took all of Haleth’s self control to not scream in confusion.  It was not so much the question as the circumstances under which it was posed that confounded her. If she was not smashed to jelly by a troll or eaten by a wolf first, she had fully expected to end her days in bitter loneliness in the emptiness of Eriador. Yet here she was, unexpectedly in the Undying Lands, unable to remember how she had gotten there. The chaos of her restored memory was not helping.  What had the Vala just mentioned?  That there was no way back to Middle-earth.  She was trapped in Valinor which meant, like the last time, that she was dying

She should have been terrified, but a sense of peace descended upon her. Her family was dead and her country gone.  Who knew how much time had passed since she had marched, all alone, against the might of Numenor? Even if she could return to Middle-earth, there was nowhere for her to go.    

The weight of the years pressed upon her shoulders, gently pushing her towards her decision.  ‘Is Amandil’s body still tended in Lorien?’ she asked.

‘It is.’ This came from Irmo.

It was suddenly all so clear.  The Valar were giving her a choice; she could reject their request and die anyways or she could accept her fate graciously and help Inglor. 

A wave of relief washed over her.  For the first time since she had awakened in Elrond’s home, her thoughts were clear. She would do as her forefathers had done and willingly return the gift of her life to the One who had granted it to her. There was no point in fighting against the inevitable.  It would only rob her of what little dignity she had left. If she gave up her life without a fuss, it would make things easier for Inglor.  She thought of him sadly.  He would understand; at least she hoped he would understand in time. The Undying Lands were no place for a mortal.

‘I would ask that my body may rest beside that of my grandfather,’ she said.

She expected Námo to smile upon her choice, so she was quite disappointed and alarmed to discover that he was frowning.  ‘You believe you are dying,’ he said.

‘I’m not?’ she asked.

Námo shook his head.

The sense of peace evaporated. ‘But…how can I not be dying?’ she asked, furious.  ‘I was certainly dying the last time I was here. I was sure I was dying!’  What sort of game were the Valar playing?  She knew she should be dying.  She had resigned herself to the fact, determined to save Inglor.  Now that she was ready to die, they refused to allow it?

‘We cannot order any of the Second Born to return their gift,’ said a soft, feminine voice.  Haleth cringed, certain the Valar had heard her thoughts.

‘You’re not telling me to! I’m saying that I’m ready to!’ cried Haleth.  She looked from face to face, desperate.

‘Perhaps the one who caused this situation should be the one to explain,’ someone eventually said.

Eonwë, who had been standing impassively behind Manwë’s throne, called in a loud voice.  ‘Inglor of the House of Finarfin, you are summoned to stand before the Valar in the Ring of Doom.’

Inglor!  Haleth’s breath caught in her throat as the blond elf shuffled into place.  To say he looked terrible would be a woeful understatement.  His head hung down, tangled hair obscuring his features.  The light that usually shone emanated from him was practically extinguished.

‘Inglor?’  Haleth breathed.  Where had he been all this time and why had he chosen to appear now?  She rushed to his side and took his hand.  ‘What happened to you?’ she whispered.  He winced and would not meet her gaze. Heavy dark circles lay beneath his eyes.

‘I answer the summons,’ he mumbled. 

Eonwë’s voice rolled across the Ring. ‘Inglor of the House of Finarfin, you have been summoned to explain your actions…’

Haleth did not wait for Eonwë to finish.  ‘No. No! Whatever it is, whatever happened, it is my fault.’   She dared to raise her gaze to meet Námo’s.

‘Do you know what has happened, child?’ he asked softly.

‘Not exactly, no,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m still certain it is my fault.’

‘Hush, Haleth. This is not the time,’ Inglor took her hands and squeezed them.

‘To explain your actions regarding this woman.’  Eonwë finished as though there had been no interruption.

Inglor took at deep breath and began to speak.  ‘We had just completed the ship to take us West when we were attacked by Corsairs.’

‘Us?’ echoed Haleth weakly, certain she had heard incorrectly.  The months of frustration and despair returned to her.

‘Yes, us,’ he said quietly before continuing in a louder voice.  ‘We almost succeeded in avoiding them entirely, but Haleth was wounded by an arrow.’

‘What do you mean us?’ Haleth demanded.  ‘You never said us!  You said…’

‘Of course I meant us.  Did you think I could leave you in Middle-earth?  You are far too dangerous.’

In any other circumstances, Haleth would have hit him, but it was unlikely the Valar would approve and it would only show that Inglor was right.

‘The wound was most grievous?’

‘It was,’ said Inglor while Haleth seethed beside him.

‘Is this true?’

‘The wound was poisoned,’ said Haleth. This much, at least, she remembered.

‘She was dying.  I had no choice,’ said Inglor.

‘You had no choice but to take the decision from her?’

‘I must beg your pardon, but it was not her decision to make,’ said Inglor.

‘What decision?’ Haleth wondered silently.

‘Because she was poisoned and unable to communicate?’

‘No.  Because she gave the choice to me of her own free will,’ said Inglor.

‘What choice?’ demanded Haleth, unable to keep her silence any longer.  Inglor winced, looked away and said nothing.

‘In your delirious state you were given limpë to drink.’  It sounded very ominous.  Haleth desperately wished she knew what limpë was. In all of her wanderings, she had never come across it.  Inglor might have mentioned it when he had been droning on and on.  She wished she had paid more attention.

‘When did she give this to you?’

‘When we first met,’ Inglor said, finally looking at Haleth.  ‘In the Long Lake in Middle-earth.’

‘Is this true?’

‘I don’t remember,’ said a thoroughly confused Haleth.  It seemed safer than admitting she had no clue what they were talking about.

‘I saved her from drowning.  She gave her life to me,’ said Inglor.

Námo turned to Haleth, who was too dumbfounded to protest. ‘Is this true?’

‘I…I don’t know,’ she said stupidly.

‘When was the first time you met Inglor?’ a female voice asked.

Haleth combed through the shards of her shattered memory.

‘It was on the shores of Esgaroth,’ she said.  ‘He claimed he had saved me from drowning.’

‘Claimed? Do you harbour no recollection of the exact circumstances?’

Haleth looked helplessly at Inglor.

‘You had the Black Arrow in your hand,’ he said.

‘It must be her memory, not yours.’

Haleth closed her eyes and cast about for the exact recollection.  The waters of the lake had been freezing cold.  Her lungs had burned with a searing fire for want of air.  Her struggles to regain the surface had grown weaker and weaker as the cold sapped her strength.  She had resigned herself to her fate when a glowing figure had approached her.  She had spoken to it.

‘He is correct,’ she said, opening her eyes.  ‘I surrendered my life to him.’

There was a collective intake of breath. 

Námo turned to Inglor.

‘Very well.  The deed is done.  There is nothing that can undo it.’

‘Excuse me, but what, exactly, has been done to me?’ asked Haleth.

‘You were give limpë.  It is not surprising you have not heard of it for the secret was closely guarded from the Second Born. A draught of limpë grants a mortal the fate of the First Born.’ 

Haleth gasped.  Her Gift, just when she had finally come to appreciate it, was gone.  All of the ages of the world hung before her.  She was sundered from her kindred, trapped in a place, however beautiful, where she would never belong.  The enormity of her situation drove her to her knees, her breath coming in strangled sobs.

Inglor was immediately by her side, enfolding her in his arms.

‘Forgive me, Haleth.  Please forgive me.’

‘Why did you do this?  Why? How could you?’ she screamed in her mind.  Her hands balled into fists.  It was all she could do to not beat him or at least push him away.

With a supreme effort she controlled her temper.  It was too late for hysterics and it would hardly change her fate.  It could, however, make her present situation far more difficult. 

Inglor was beside himself. He was trembling as he rocked them back and forth, begging her for forgiveness. Haleth not never believed him capable of this level of emotion.

‘Never mind, Inglor,’ she said, pulling away from him and absently noting the thrones were empty once more.  ‘It will simply take some time to adjust,’ she said with a wry smile.

Inglor smiled with genuine relief and held her close to him once more. ‘Take all the time you need,’ he said softly.

‘I certainly have enough of that,’ thought Haleth bitterly as she rested her head against on his shoulder. 

A/N.  Limpë is not my creation.  As everything else in this story, it belongs to JRR Tolkien and is mentioned in the Book of Lost Tales I, The Chaining of Melko.