Once Around the Sun

The thin, grey mist wrapped like snakes around the tall stone pillars that filled the vast hall, seemingly without end. The pillars had no top, nor bottom, they simply – were. The floor, if indeed there was one, was lost in the mists.

Not that those who resided here had need of floors or ceilings. The formless spirits that drifted around the grey halls were unconcerned by physical matters. Only one who resided in these halls had any need for substance and that was more a preference than a true need. Even then he wanted for no more than a high backed stone chair, which was his favourite spot for contemplation, a pastime in which he often indulged.

Vairë watched as he idly twirled a strand of blue ribbon in and out of his fingers. Quiet, thoughtful – as always. She worried about him sometimes. They were, after all, very close and their relationship, while not passionate, was important to her. She had not wish to see him unhappy, with such great weights upon his shoulders.

He had changed over the years, she mused. At the beginning of things he had been far brighter; even the first deaths had not dampened his spirit. Then had come the revolt of the Noldor and everything had changed. He had stepped up, spoken the words that had become the doom of the Noldor. From then on he had become quiet and reserved to those who knew him, silent and intimidating to those who did not. As the numbers of Elven spirits in his care increased, so too did the burdens he carried.

Only once since the Noldor left Aman had his heart truly been moved. Lúthien’s song had awoken a long buried desire in him – the desire for companionship that was more than friendship, for a bond that would ease the weight on his heart and fill him with life. To Melian’s daughter he would have given his heart, for her song {had} stirred him like nothing ever had before, but her heart was given to Beren and, though it was within his power, he had not been able to bring himself to part them. Such cruelty was not his way.

He had never spoken of love again after that. He was still kind to her, and they still enjoyed each other’s companionship. Yet she knew something was missing.

She longed for him to have the fullness her own heart had found. The Maia Olórin had long since claimed her heart. He never complained about her sometimes sombre moods and went to the most extraordinary lengths to make her smile. His zest for life was contagious and his strange obsession with taking the form of an aged man whenever he walked the Hither Lands amused her greatly.

If only he could share that feeling. Yet who could love death?

****************

It was not his calling. His healing skills were the result of necessity, not choice. Yet he was glad of them sometimes, for he hated to see suffering and was glad to ease it where he could.

He had learned to heal amongst the blood and destruction of the Last Alliance. Sent as a banner-bearer, his role had become useless when the High King Gil-galad fell and he had turned his hand to the wounded that needed him far more than those out on the battlefields, who barely even noticed him.

Working under the experienced healers he had learned enough to make himself useful in times of need, when neither lute, harp, nor voice was of any consequence. Even though he returned to his true profession at the end of the war, the knowledge remained, should it ever be needed again.

Today was such a day when it was.

The patrol had been thirty-strong when it left the vale of Imladris three days ago. Only twenty-three had returned and of those, eight hovered dangerously between life and death.

Elrond was tending to the most grievously injured, his two assistants to others, and his sons were also in attendance, but it had still been more than they could manage and so Lindir had been called in. His task was to move between the patients and ensure they remained alive while the attentions of the fully-trained healers were on others.

Yet for all their efforts, some battles were doomed to be lost. Even as Elrond worked desperately, one slipped away, his injuries too severe for him to remain amongst the living.

***In the mist-filled Halls, Námo stood, setting aside the ribbon he had been toying with. “Duty calls,” he said softly to Vairë, before fading away as though he too was made of nothing more than mist.***

Despite learning his skills in war, Lindir was not hardened to death, or suffering. The others grieved, but they had learned over the years to detach from their patients. Lindir had not and it pained him deeply to watch once-proud warriors succumbing to death.

He fought his emotions as Elrond pulled a sheet over the now-still form, his whispered prayer seeming to hang in the air. Lindir rushed out then, wanting to get away from the oppressive room and into the freedom of the gardens. He could not bear to look at the shrouded body and did not want to be there when the grieving relatives arrived. He hated death. It brought nothing but pain.

**********

The spirit of the warrior stood, confused, in the room where his body still lay. Námo appeared before him, a calm expression on his pale face. “Come, the halls await you. You have done well – you can rest now.” With a wave of his hand, the grey doors of the halls appeared. He ushered the warrior through, the Elf’s confused look fading into acceptance as the doors closed behind him.

The Vala’s eyes passed over the remaining Elves. Many were injured, but there were none in immediate need of his hand, thanks to the skills of those that worked to keep them amongst the living.

He turned to leave, his hand raised to open the doors for himself. And then he heard the song.

In the gardens, Lindir sang. His tune carried far, filling the Last Homely House with the poignant song. He grieved for the dead and injured, so cruelly taken. Deeply affected by what he had seen, his emotions carried through into the lament.

Almost against his will, Námo turned back from the doors. He followed the sound, paying no heed to anything else as it led him to the source. No one marked his presence, for he was only seen when he wished to be.

He found the minstrel sitting under a tall tree, looking out over the slightly wild gardens, the tall grass blowing in the evening breeze. The Elf’s eyes were closed and he looked relaxed, but his bitter lament revealed his true feelings.

“Your song is… inspiring.” He spoke only once the song faded away, the last notes lost in the wind.

Lindir turned suddenly, shocked to find himself with an audience after being certain he was alone. Taking in his unexpected companion, his blood seemed to freeze in his veins. Although he had never before laid eyes on the Lord of the Dead, he knew who he was, almost as surely as he knew his own name.

“I am glad it pleases you, Lord Námo.” Somehow, he kept his voice steady.

Námo smiled – a strange look, more unnerving than pleasant. “It is a fitting tribute to those I have called.”

“And they are many,” Lindir remarked, the words leaving his mouth almost of his own accord. He found himself unaccountably annoyed by the Vala’s presence; it seemed to be almost a mockery of the lives lost.

Námo looked slightly surprised at the sudden display of boldness – rare in any who faced him, but more unusual than ever in one whose only weapon was melody and flute. “It is what I do, young minstrel,” he said in reply. “Surely you know this?”

Lindir nodded. “I know it, but I do not like it. There is no law that says I must.”

“Few like death; that is the way of things.” There was the barest hint of hurt in Námo’s cool voice. “Yet it is as much a fact as life. I see no reason why it should be fought so.”

Lindir turned, bitterness in his green eyes. “What do you know of life, save how it ends?”

“Is that not enough?” He was surprised by the fire in the minstrel, it was almost refreshing to be spoken to without fear, yet also unaccountably annoying.

“It is not. Perhaps if you understood life you would see why we cling to it as we do.” Lindir’s eyes blazed with unspoken challenge.

“I see. And how would you suggest I acquire this knowledge?”

Lindir looked firmly at the Lord of the Dead. “By living.”