41: The Halls of Oromë

Once they had finished eating, they wondered what they could do next, for none of them felt the need to sleep, at least not yet. It was too early for that, but few felt comfortable enough in their new surroundings to want to tell tales or sing songs. As they lingered over tea — “And no Valar in sight,” Arthalion muttered to everyone’s amusement, speaking in Quenya, which, by mutual consent, they were speaking rather than Sindarin, deciding they needed the practice — Denethor asked Maglor to describe what he remembered of the Valar. “For, except for Lord Oromë, whom some of us remember from the Great Journey, we know nothing of them save for rumors brought to us by the Noldor.”

“I fear my own memories of them are, shall we say, skewed,” Maglor said with a rueful look. “We did not part in friendship.”

“Yet, there was a time when you were in their good graces and knew only of their love for you,” Denethor pointed out. “Perhaps you could just tell us a little something about each of them as you remember them.”

“To tell you the truth, I had little converse with any of them save for Lord Aulë,” Maglor said. “I do not recall ever speaking to Lord Irmo, for instance, or his brother. I chanced upon the Lady Vána once as she danced across a field and flowers sprang up around her. She made me dance with her.” He felt himself turning warm with the memory and Glóredhel gave him an enquiring look, which he ignored.

“What about the Elder King?” Arthalion asked. “What is he like?”

Maglor shrugged. “I visited Ilmarin with Anatar Finwë a few times. He would go there occasionally to consult with the Valar and would take one or two of his grandsons with him if Atar was unable to accompany him. Lord Manwë was ever polite, taking the time to ask me how my studies with Lord Aulë were coming along or what new thing I and my brothers had discovered on our travels across the length and breadth of Aman, before speaking with Anatar on matters concerning the governing of Eldamar.”

Silence settled among them as the others contemplated Maglor’s words. After a minute or two, Estel gave Maglor a puzzled look, “Are we prisoners?”

“Why do you ask that, my son?” Maglor responded with surprise. “Do you see us in chains? Do you think if we were prisoners we would have been given such a fine repast as we’ve enjoyed or be housed in a luxury you have never experienced?”

“I meant, are we allowed to wander or must we remain here until summoned?”

“Where would you like to go?” Glóredhel asked.

“Lord Findaráto mentioned staying at the Laughing Vala. What is that? It sounds rather interesting and I was wondering about being able to visit Eldamas. Why are we being denied the company of others? Do the Valar fear we will taint them in some way because we come from Endórë and dress in leather tunics and leggings instead of in brocades and silks?”

“I have never heard of the Laughing Vala,” Maglor answered, “though I suspect it must be an inn of some sort, a place where travelers may stay to eat and sleep before resuming their journey or where locals may go to meet with friends over a meal. As for the rest, I do not know, Estel. Perhaps there is some truth to your words. I suspect that it is mostly for my sake that we are sequestered here rather than staying at an inn or even at the royal townhouse, which is certainly large enough to have accommodated us as well as the royal entourage.”

Ragnor spoke up then. “When we were in Tirion I spoke to someone who described how those who Sailed were initially denied entrance to Eldamar proper, but had to live on Tol Eressëa for a time until the darkness which had tainted their fëar had been replaced by the Valar’s Peace.”

“Darkness? What darkness?” Russandol demanded angrily. “Do they think we are evil, then?”

“No,” Maglor said. “Certainly not you or your siblings or any of you children born to us these last few yéni, but your elders have all lived through and experienced great times of darkness. Your Uncle Voronwë was a slave in the mines of Morgoth, for instance, and most of us fought in the wars against Morgoth and later against Sauron. I have shed the blood of other Elves and that is a crime that cannot be ignored. I do not know what punishment the Valar will mete out for that. Exile, most likely, I just don’t know. And I suspect that we have been brought here out of the sight of others for our own safety.”

“Yet, so far we’ve been treated well by the Amanians,” Estel insisted. “We were not sequestered in Alqualondë or in Tirion, so why here? Do these Valar trust us even less than the Amanians? It just seems unfair that we are denied our freedom to go where we please. And if we are doomed to be sent into exile because the Valar fear we will taint their precious pet Elves then why did we even bother to come here? We might as well have just stayed home and I am wishing more and more that we had.”

“All our lives, we were told that our destiny was to leave Endórë for Valinor,” Ivorwen interjected, “that the Valar actually summoned you to find the Straight Road, but I confess that until we actually built our ships and set sail, I did not believe we would ever desert our home.”

“And would you truly wish to return to live in a ruined city, my daughter?” Arthalion asked.

Ivorwen shrugged, looking uncertain. “At least we knew it and loved it, for it was home. I fear this place will never be home for me, just a place where I ended up because I had no choice in the matter, for you never gave us the option of remaining behind.”

More than one of the younger Elves, including Maglor’s own children, nodded in agreement. The older Elves looked as sad and troubled as Maglor felt at Ivorwen’s words.

“I don’t think any of us gave it a thought,” Denethor finally said with a sigh. “From the beginning, our goal was to find a way to come here, for we had indeed been summoned. It just never occurred to us to ask what you youngsters wanted, and for that, I apologize. Yet, I don’t think we could have borne the thought of leaving any of you behind.”

“I still resent being treated like a prisoner, though,” Estel groused, glaring at nothing in particular.

Before Maglor could address his son, there was a sigh that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, though not a single mallorn leaf stirred, and then they heard someone climbing the stairs and when they looked there was one who appeared to be an Elf standing at the entrance of the flet but Maglor knew it was no Elf and stumbled to his feet in shock at the sight of the Elder King. The others were slow to follow, unsure what the stranger’s presence portended.

“My Lord Manwë,” Maglor whispered as he belatedly gave the Vala his obeisance. There were gasps of surprise and dismay from the others who began to rise, but Manwë gestured at them.

“Do not trouble yourselves, my children. Remain seated and be at peace. Macalaurë, sit.”

Maglor reluctantly complied, trying to understand what Manwë being there might mean. Manwë, for his part, ignored them as he called up a chair of his own, setting it in the open space between the two side tables. It was somewhat more ornate than those in which the Elves were sitting, and while it was not exactly a throne, Maglor, who knew something of living in a royal court, thought it was close enough as to make no difference.

When they were all settled, Manwë addressed them. “I had hoped that you would enjoy yourselves this evening and not be overly concerned for what the future might hold for any of you. We are not punishing you, any of you, by having you spend the night here rather than in Eldamas. We truly thought you would be more comfortable. You are free to leave and wander where you will; none will stay you. If you make your way into Eldamas, continue on the main road past the third square and take the street to your left and you will find the Laughing Vala two blocks down.”

“You’ve been spying on us, listening to all that we’ve said?” Estel exclaimed, looking mortified and angry at the same time.

“Spying?” Manwë retorted mildly. “No, but you are in Valmar, the heart of our demesne where we hold all authority. Nothing happens here that is not known to us immediately. I am the Lord of the Breath of Arda and your words come to me upon the air just as my brother Ulmo hears all that occurs wherever there is water, be it an ocean or a fountain. It is simply the nature of things and you must not read into it any ulterior motive on our part.”

“So you say,” Estel retorted with a sneer.

“Estel! You forget yourself,” Maglor hissed angrily, feeling embarrassed by his son’s continued truculence. Estel was not the only one to cringe at his tone, for as loving as Maglor was toward his children, they knew well not to push him too far.

Manwë gave them a sympathetic smile. Before Maglor could formulate an apology for his son’s words, the room was filled with multicolored lights too bright to endure and one or two of them screamed for the pain. Some of them actually fell to the floor and cowered under the table in fear as seven other Beings clothed themselves and became visible. Maglor felt the blood drain from him as he recognized the other Valar — Aulë and Yavanna, Ulmo and Oromë, Nienna and Varda and finally Námo — and when his eyes fell upon the dread Lord of Mandos, he leapt to his feet and without conscious thought was halfway to the stairs when someone caught him. He screamed in terror and fought but whoever held him did not release him but held him close to them and let him thrash and yell to his heart’s content.

After a few minutes, gulping for breath, his thrashing slowed and then ceased altogether and he simply stood there waiting for doom to fall upon him, but when nothing happened and his breathing had slowed to something more normal he opened his eyes to find that he was being held by Lord Aulë who smiled down at him.

“Feeling better?”

Maglor could only blink at him, not sure how to respond.

“Don’t worry,” the Earthsmith said, giving him a wink, “my brother Námo often has that effect on people.”

“You’re not helping, Aulë,” Maglor heard Námo retort, sounding amused.

Aulë turned to face Námo, forcing Maglor to do the same. “We keep telling you, Námo, that black is not your color.”

“And so, what you are really saying is that these poor children take one look at my clothes and fall into despair at my lack of fashion sense.”

“Exactly,” Aulë replied, smiling down at Maglor and giving him another wink.

Maglor wasn’t the only Elf to gape at the two Valar. Manwë and the other Valar started chuckling. “Enough, you two,” Manwë said. “Macalaurë, come sit down, and you, too, my children. There is naught to fear. All is well.”

Aulë pulled Maglor back to the table and made him sit, then stood behind the chair as if to make sure he didn’t try to run off again. The other Valar ranged themselves in a circle around the tables with Varda standing next to Manwë and Námo facing them, standing directly behind Saelmir who looked as pale as Maglor felt. When everyone had resumed their seats, giving the Valar fearful looks, Manwë spoke again, his tone gentle and nonthreatening.

“I promise you, you have naught to fear. These are the Aratar, you might say my inner council, and I thought it would be well for us to meet informally, to assure you that you are all welcome here, including you, Macalaurë, though I know you are doubtful of this, expecting that you will be punished for your crimes and that your family and friends will suffer for them as well. Nothing is further from the truth.”

“Macalaurë,” Námo said, his voice dark and melodious, and Maglor looked at him. “Tomorrow, you and these others will come to the Máhanaxar and what occurs there will be only a formality for the sake of propriety and for the record. But what passes between us tonight is what matters the most.”

“So is Atto going to be punished?” Russandol asked, looking fearful.

The Valar sighed almost as one but Varda smiled at the young ellon. “Child, Judgment has nothing to do with punishment but with justice and only when there is justice can there be mercy for mercy flows from justice, not the other way around. We are not here to punish your atar. He’s been punished enough, as far as we’re concerned. We’re here to see that justice is done.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Denethor asked, frowning. His tone was respectful but there was a hint of something bordering on wariness in it.

For an answer, Manwë spoke a single name. “Eönwë.” Immediately, the Elder King’s Herald was there holding a blue-leather book in his hands. The Maia gazed dispassionately upon the Elves. Some of the older ellyn rose in salute. “Captain!” one of them exclaimed. Eönwë smiled, giving them a nod in greeting. Manwë glanced at his herald with an amused look, then addressed the Elves who were still standing.

“You can trade war tales with your captain later, but for now, please be seated and we will go on.”

The ellyn blushed in embarrassment, muttering apologies while the Valar looked on. Maglor could tell that some were trying hard to hide their amusement. Oromë even rolled his eyes and muttered something that he could not hear but Aulë actually snickered and even Námo’s mien seemed to lighten somewhat. Manwë turned his attention on Maglor, his blue eyes ringed with gold warm and sympathetic. “Tell me, my son, what you consider to be your worst sin.”

“Killing my fellow Elves,” Maglor said without hesitation.

“Yes, as I suspected,” Manwë said with a nod, “but you would be wrong.”

Maglor blinked, unsure what the Elder King was saying. “Murdering my kith and kin in cold blood or even in hot blood was not a sin?”

“I didn’t say that,” Manwë replied in a mild tone, “but the Kinslayings in which you participated were symptomatic of an earlier, more grievous, sin. Can you think what that might be?”

“My Oath,” Maglor whispered and Manwë nodded.

“How can mere words be more sinful than slaughtering people?” Russandol asked. “That makes no sense.”

“Russa, hush,” Glóredhel admonished him, but Manwë shook his head.

“No, my dear, your son has the right to ask, for it is a legitimate question.” He did not look at Russandol, though, but at Námo, who raised an eyebrow.

“Russandol,” Námo said and the ellon actually cringed, giving the Lord of Mandos a fearful look. Námo actually smiled, his amaranthine eyes brightening with amusement. “No, child, I’m not about to punish you for… um… borrowing your brother’s best bow and breaking it.”

“Hey!” Estel exclaimed, glaring at his brother. “You said you didn’t know how it got broken.”

“And I didn’t,” Russandol retorted. “I was too busy trying to stay alive to worry about your stupid bow.”

“Why you….”

“Enough!” Maglor nearly shouted, giving both his sons his best ‘atar-is-not-happy’ glare, as Míriel liked to call it. Both ellyn subsided.

“Where were we?” Námo asked rhetorically after a brief, uncomfortable moment. “Ah yes, words. Russandol, the killing of another person is indeed a grievous wrong and is to be avoided if at all possible, though we have legitimized the act in matters of warfare or self-defense, but the slaying of one’s spirit under any circumstances is a worse crime for it is an affront to Ilúvatar. When your atar uttered his Oath, though he called upon us and Ilúvatar as witnesses, we rejected that role for ourselves, for not to do so would have made us complicit to the terms of the Oath and they were against everything we stood for as Ilüvatar’s agents here in Arda.”

“And whether your atar knew it or not,” Manwë added, “in speaking that Oath he was destroying his connection with Ilúvatar, denying his status as an Eruhin, and in doing so, opening himself to other sins that he would never have contemplated committing otherwise, such as killing other Elves. So, let us hear thy words, Macalaurë Fëanárion.” The Elder King nodded to Eönwë and the book in the Maia’s hands opened of its own accord. Maglor watched in dread and fascination as the pages turned of themselves and then stopped. Eönwë glanced down at the page and began reading out loud.

“This oath I now swear: Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Moringotto or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Apanónar, Nér yet unborn upon Middle-earth, neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him from Macalaurë, whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth a Silmaril. This swear I: death I will deal him ere Day’s ending, woe unto world’s end! My word hear thou, Eru Ilúvatar! To the Everlasting Dark doom me if my deed faileth. On the holy mountain of Taniquetil hear in witness and my vow remember, Manwe and Varda!”

Maglor felt the world darken around him as if he were going blind and more than one of the Elves cried out, clapping their hands over their ears, shuddering at the words and looking pale. The Valar immediately raised their hands and a flickering light seemed to fall upon them like gold and silver raindrops and as the light fell upon Maglor he felt the darkness receding, his fëa washed clean of the filth that seemed to cling to it when Eönwë repeated the words of the Oath. He blinked a couple of times, as if waking. Aulë leaned over and picked up Maglor’s goblet and handed it to him.

“Drink, child,” the Earthsmith said in a kindly voice and even as Maglor accepted the goblet he noticed the other Valar were also encouraging the others to drink as well. Maglor took a sip or two and felt better.

Everyone stared at him in horror and disbelief and when his eyes met those of his children, they looked away, as if in shame or in fear. Even Glóredhel stared at him with something like horror in her eyes and when he went to embrace her she flinched. The sense of rejection even from his beloved unmanned him and he stumbled to his feet ready to flee, but Aulë reached out  negligently and grabbed him by the elbow, not letting him leave. Maglor remained standing, refusing to return to his seat.

“You… you actually said that?” Denethor whispered.

Maglor turned to face the others. “We were insane,” he replied harshly.

“Yet, not so insane that you did not know what you were doing,” Manwë interjected mildly before anyone else could speak.

Maglor sighed, casting his eyes down. “No, not so insane,” he whispered. Aulë pushed him back into his seat, patting his shoulder.

“But he renounced that Oath,” Arthalion said hotly, glaring at Manwë. “He renounced it, so why are you dredging it up now? What more does he need to do to expiate himself? Slit his own throat while you all watch?”

Even Maglor blinked at that, staring at the ellon in surprise.

“Well, the thought had crossed our minds,” Námo drawled, his voice sardonic.

The Elves had the dubious pleasure of seeing Lady Nienna actually punch her brother in the arm, giving him a disgusted look, while Lord Ormoé, standing on the other side of the Lord of Mandos, shook his head, muttering something none of them could hear. The other Valar just rolled their eyes.

“You’re not helping, Námo,” Manwë said.

“On the contrary,” Námo retorted, his visage darkening somewhat. “Arthalion’s question is certainly legitimate, if spoken rather rashly. The thought had crossed our minds, or at least mine. Do you know how many times I had to manipulate things to keep this one from cluttering up my doorway with his sorry fëa and his woe-is-me attitude whenever he contemplated suicide? I had his brothers to deal with and I didn’t need him making my life even more miserable than it already was. You know how long it took me to convince the twins, never mind Maitimo or the others, to accept judgment. So yes, Arthalion, the thought had crossed our minds to just let Macalaurë do himself in, thereby compounding his sins even more. We are not, as you so succinctly put it, dredging up the Oath out of a malicious need to get our revenge on Macalaurë. That Oath needs to be acknowledged in all its particulars before any of us can move on.”

An awkward silence settled among them, the Elves sitting in stunned astonishment at the sight of the Lord of Mandos fuming. After a moment or two, Manwë spoke again.

“Eönwë, let us hear Macalaurë’s Renouncement.”

Eönwë nodded and glanced at the open book and began reading:

“I, Macalaurë Fëanárion, confess to you who sit upon the thrones of the West and to the One who is above all thrones, that I have sinned in deed and in word most grievously in what I have done and what I have failed to do. I hereby solemnly and of my free will renounce all claims to this or any other Silmaril for all the ages of Arda that may remain and beyond. I humbly ask for your forgiveness and accept whatever punishment is my due for my crimes.”

“Thank you,” Manwë said when the Maia had finished. Eönwë closed the book and bowed to Manwë even as he faded from their view. Manwë glanced around the room as if gauging the emotions of the Elves sitting there. “A lovely oath and sincerely spoken,” he finally said as his gaze fell upon Maglor.

“I liked the song he sang about himself afterwards,” Lady Varda said, her voice sounding like the music of waterfalls. “I even danced to it.” She twirled about and it seemed as if rainbows and stars followed in her wake. Manwë gave her a loving smile.

“So what now?” Maglor asked.

“Do you understand why speaking that Oath was your greatest sin, my son?” Manwë asked.

“Yes,” Maglor said with a nod, staring down at his right hand as he flexed it, the faint white scars of the Silmaril etched on his palm.

“Your regaining the full use of your hand was the sign that you had been forgiven,” Manwë said, “but in spite of this, you never fully believed it. All this time as you prepared to Sail you were convinced that you were sailing to your doom, that once on these shores we would exact punishment for what you did.”

“And will you?” Maglor asked.

“No, nor will anyone else,” Manwë replied. “You have repaid your debt many times over in service to your fellow Elves,” — he nodded to Maglor’s companions — “and in finding love and accepting it as your due.” Now he smiled at Glóredhel and their children. “All we’ve ever wished for you, for any of you, is joy.” He stood, his chair disappearing. “Now, we will leave you. Tomorrow, as Námo said, is a mere formality, so do not concern yourselves over it. Be at peace and know that you have always had our love, though you might not think so. Estel, Míriel, Russandol, do not fear your atar. He is the same loving ellon you have always known. Glóredhel, I leave it to you to come to terms with what you have learned about your husband tonight. I imagine the two of you have much to discuss.”

With that, he and the other Valar shed their fanar, momentarily blinding the Elves. When they found themselves alone once again, no one spoke and no one could meet anyone else’s gaze. Maglor felt, rather than saw, Glóredhel lean over and kiss him on the cheek. He looked at her, trying to gauge her mood.

“I love you,” she said softly, her eyes full of warmth and acceptance.

“I love you, too,” he whispered back and it was as if a dam broke and all the emotions of the last several minutes which he had tried to keep in check spilled out and he started weeping. Glóredhel wrapped her arms around his shoulders and rocked him, crooning a lullaby. There was a flurry of motion and then Maglor sensed his three children huddled around them, offering their own love and then they, too, began to sing, picking up the refrain. Soon all the Elves were singing as Maglor continued to weep, wrapped in the arms of love.

****

Words are Quenya:

Anatar: Grandfather.

Fëar: Plural of Fëa: Soul, spirit.

Aratar: ‘The Supreme’, the name given to the eight most powerful of the Valar.

Eruhin: Child of Eru, i.e. an Elf or Mortal.

Fanar: Plural of Fana: the ‘raiment’ in which the Valar presented themselves to physical eyes.

Note: The Oath is taken verbatim from Morgoth’s Ring, ‘The Annals of Aman, sec. 134’, with some slight modifications in language to reflect the fact that a single person is speaking it and that it is Maglor’s Oath as recorded. See In Darkness Bound, chapter 58, ‘Sië Quentë Fëanáro’.