27: Judgment Recalled
[A/N: Some scenes in this and the next chapter may prove disturbing to some readers and you may skip these two chapters without losing the thread of the story. All you need to know from these two chapters is that, because of Laurendil's question to Finrod about dying, Finrod remembers in greater detail his judgment before the Valar. Lord Námo comes and helps him put the memories in perspective. When Glorfindel looks in on Finrod the next morning he finds him still sleeping and Lord Námo is there watching over him. The story picks up again in chapter 29.]
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Finrod was still pondering Laurendil’s earlier question when he finally retired for the evening. It wasn’t that the question upset him; no one had ever come out and asked him before and he wasn’t sure how he should respond. It had been a very long time since he had actually thought about his death... and afterwards.
He remembered dying, of course, but whatever pain he felt at the time did not survive his memory. One moment he was saying farewell to a weeping Beren and the next...
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He was standing in a hall staring at a tapestry, one that disturbed him immensely, though he did not know why. He could not recall why he was there or even how he had gotten there. Wherever ‘there’ was.
"Findaráto."
He gasped. How long had it been since anyone had called him that? He barely recognized the name as belonging to him. Turning, he found himself face-to-face with the Lord of Mandos. Finrod took a deep breath and unconsciously straightened, waiting for the Vala’s wrath to fall upon him, as he no doubt deserved. Námo, for his part, merely stood there watching as the erstwhile King of Nargothrond mentally girded himself for what he knew must come. It was most amusing, though he did not allow his amusement to show. He held out his hand.
"Take it," he commanded.
Finrod never hesitated, never knowing that he had passed his first trial, never knowing that Námo had just won the bet with his brother, Irmo.
As soon as the elf took Námo’s hand he found himself standing alone in the middle of a ring of thrones, all occupied, and for the first time felt fear. Knowing, as a mental exercise, that this day might come was one thing, being there for real was something else altogether....
One of the Valier stepped down from her throne and walked into the center to face the Elda.
"Well, Findaráto," Varda said, unsmiling, "here we are at last."
Finrod was tempted not to bow to the Queen of Stars, but his innate courtesy and early training made that impossible and he gave her his obeisance, though it was just short of being rude. "My Lady."
"We had high hopes for you Arafinwion," Varda said with a sigh. Her eyes were sad and Finrod found it difficult to look at them directly.
"Had, my Lady?" the once King of Nargothrond echoed. "Does that mean you have lowered your expectations or have given up on me altogether?"
Varda smiled thinly. "I see death has not made you any humbler."
"Was it supposed to?" Somewhere in the back of his mind Finrod was appalled by his own temerity but had decided, as he no longer had anything to lose, it no longer mattered.
"We will see," was all Varda would say.
"Why did you leave, Findaráto?" Námo asked from his throne.
"And more importantly, why did you not turn back with your atar?" Manwë added.
Finrod sighed. How could he possibly answer either question, especially, when, in his mind, they were one and the same? It wasn’t because of his uncle, Fëanáro. Finrod had never trusted him and trusted his sons even less, except possibly Macalaurë. No, he had left because of his love for Turucáno and the lure of adventure, the need to see new places and people. He would not have, could not have, turned back. He never blamed his atar for returning to Tirion. If anything, it had been a relief not to have him there. He was not sure his atar could have survived the Helcaraxë. Not all the elves who made it to the shores of Beleriand made it with their minds intact. Some, Finrod always suspected, had survived the Crossing physically whole, but with their fëar damaged by what they had suffered in that land of eternal white.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. "I fear no answer I give could adequately explain why I did what I did."
Varda shook her head. "You must give an answer Findaráto, however inadequate. You will not be permitted to leave the Rithil Anamo until you do."
"Why did you go with the Mortal Beren?" Námo asked suddenly.
"I gave my oath to Barahir," Finrod said simply, facing the Lord of Mandos, as if that explained everything, which, to his way of thinking, it did. "I had no choice."
"Did you not?" Námo countered.
Finrod could feel himself growing angry. His expression darkened and there was a dangerous light in his eyes. "No, my Lord. I did not. I do not give my oath lightly, which is why I did not follow Fëanáro and his sons into madness."
"Yet you willingly gave your aid to a Mortal to help retrieve one of the Silmarils," Námo commented. "Does that not constitute ‘following Fëanáro into madness’ as you put it?"
"It was never about the Silmarils!" Finrod shouted. "At least, not for me."
"Do you hate us, Findaráto?’ Varda asked.
Finrod faced the Star-Kindler with surprise at the unexpected question. "Why would any of you even care if I did or not?"
"We cursed you," Varda replied sadly, "and have forbidden Aman to you."
Finrod shook his head. "We cursed ourselves, Lady. Or rather, I should say, Fëanáro did it for us."
"You still haven’t answered the question, Arafinwion," Manwë said.
Finrod stood there for a long time contemplating the question. He remembered gently chiding the mortal wisewoman Andreth for disparaging the Powers one spring morning and had meant it... at the time. Now? He shook his head in confusion and looked at Varda, his expression troubled. "I-I don’t know."
"An honest enough answer," Varda allowed. "Perhaps by the end, you will."
Finrod felt himself blushing, as if he were an elfling who had just been reprimanded by an elder.
"Do you regret your rebellion against us, Findaráto?" Námo asked softly.
Finrod lifted his head and stood a little straighter, knowing that the next words he uttered would damn him completely. Never taking his eyes off Varda he answered the Lord of Mandos. "My only regret, my Lord Námo, is that I did not leave Aman sooner."
There was a rustle from the other thrones, a sort of mental sigh that Finrod could not interpret. Varda stared at the Elda for another moment before asking a final question. "And what of your beloved, Findaráto? What of Amarië? Would you abandon her a second time?"
The former King of Nargothrond laughed, though there was no humor in it. He suddenly felt on surer ground and throwing caution to the wind almost sneered. "You’ll have to do better than that, Lady. Sauron got to me with that question first. I suggest you not attempt such games with those of us who know how to play."
It was the closest thing to a slap in the face that Finrod could possibly achieve against the Valar. So much for asking for mercy, he thought with grim humor. Not that he would have ever stooped so low. He may have lost everything, may be deemed the lowest creature to crawl under the Sun, but he knew himself to be the King of Nargothrond and he would go to his doom on his feet, not on his knees.
"And we will see about that, as well," Varda said, her eyes looking even sadder.
Before he could react to her words, Varda returned to her throne, looked at her spouse sitting next to her and nodded. "I think we’ve heard enough, my beloved."
"Yes," the Elder King said slowly, almost regretfully. "I think we have indeed." Then he looked directly at Finrod and, in a voice that was colder than anything Finrod had ever heard before, intoned, "Let judgment commence."
As if those words were the key that unlocked his memories, Finrod suddenly found his mind flooded with images from his past, images of startling detail, as if he were there, living them all over again. Then the sifting began, the peeling away of all the illusions and delusions he had used to cover up and cover over those aspects of himself he no longer wished to acknowledge as belonging to him.
The onslaught of images drove him to his knees with a startled gasp as he attempted to resist what was happening to him. He never felt himself collapse all the way to the ground, writhing in the throes of the Valar’s unrelenting probing. He was unaware of Nienna weeping or even that Estë held him for a time when the true memories of his part in the Rebellion became so overwhelming he began screaming and some dim part of him, aware of what was being done to him, feared he would never stop.
And then when the images focused on a dungeon on the island of Tol-in-Gaurhoth...
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Finrod jerked awake with a cry, his breath ragged. He was surprised to find he had fallen asleep. Why was he dreaming about his judgment? His limbs shook with something akin to terror and he felt himself beginning to panic. His first thought was to find Glorfindel, but dismissed it almost immediately. His second thought was not to fall asleep again, but even as he came to that conclusion he felt himself inexplicably succumbing to great weariness. He lurched out of his bed and went to a large clothespress and opened it, searching frantically. There. He grabbed the stuffed toy from the bottom of the press and slid ungracefully to the floor, clutching it, as if it alone could stave off whatever was happening to him.
"No child," came a soft voice from out of the darkness, and Finrod gave a stifled scream and scrambled across the floor into a corner, nearly cowering, as Námo materialized before him. The Lord of Mandos looked down upon the ellon with grave sympathy and knelt to stroke the elf’s hair. Finrod cringed even further into the corner, the stuffed toy his only shield. Námo shook his head in dismay. "Let the images come, Finrod. Do not be afraid. No harm will come to you. Let them come. It’s time you remembered everything."
Finrod shook his head. "No... please, not again, not again..." he sobbed and Námo reached out and took him into his embrace and held him, though Finrod tried vainly to resist.
"Let them come, child," the Lord of Mandos said again. "Shh. It will be well, I promise you... let them come. I will not leave you to face them alone."
"Why now?" Finrod cried, still resisting, anger beginning to take over. "WHY?"
Námo held him tightly. Finrod squirmed in the Vala’s embrace, screaming invectives as he tried to escape — escape the Vala, escape the memories beginning to overwhelm him again. He did not want to surrender, he wouldn’t surrender, he wouldn’t allow these memories to surface, he wouldn’t...
"Finda! Remember what you promised your atto," Námo suddenly said, his words unlocking the final door to the ellon’s memories. Finrod gave another shuddering sob of despair and collapsed completely into Námo’s arms, surrendering himself to his memories, weeping inconsolably even as he was swept away into the past once again....
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All words are Quenya.
Arafinwion: Son of Arafinwë, Finrod’s patronymic.
Macalaurë: Maglor.
Rithil Anamo: Ring of Doom, literally "Circle of Judgment", also called Máhanaxar, 'Doom Ring', a word adopted and adapted from Valarin.