Chapter Text
Námo, where art thou?
Oromë's call resonated with Námo's fëa, but the Vala studiously ignored it, his pure violet aura shading toward red in anger. He wrapped himself tighter about the star core and clung tightly, letting its incandescent heat soothe him.
None of my business, is it? Oromë persisted, as though his Little Brother had spoken. I am coming to find thee, Námo. Thou'rt needed.
I am not.
The reply, whispered though it was, told Oromë what he needed to know and he just barely avoided thinking himself on top of the younger Vala. He stayed a respectful distance away, waiting patiently as Námo was rocked gently by the pulsing star core. Enough of this now, thou'rt Atar's beloved Child and He would not wish this upon thee. Come.
Then Atar shouldn't have allowed him to...to... Námo's mental voice trailed off in an anguished cry.
I have not seen thee this overwrought since the early days of Arda, Oromë commented rather than responding. We are all upset, Námo, trust me. I myself have lost a beloved apprentice.
Damn you for an ornery fool, Oromë! Námo yelled back, straightening up as his violet aura spiked with black and red fire. Leave me alone! Leave. Me. ALONE!
No. If you will not speak with me civilly here, or return to Valmar with me, at least we may go down to the surface of Nasarphelun and we will speak there, the Huntsman replied. Still, we must be brief, Lord Manwë is waiting.
Unwillingly, the Doomsman of Arda thought himself down to the surface of the rust-red world they had named Nasarphelun in the days before Time began to be counted, though the Firstborn called it Erumëambar instead. He had unconsciously thought himself to the foot of Dáhanigwishtelgun - the original, rather than the one in Valinor called Taniquetil. He had also, Námo realized, incarnated. Slowly he began to climb the mountain, trying to delay the inevitable, and he felt the presence of Oromë beside him. Oromë was climbing as well, equally silent.
When at last they reached the caldera, Oromë seated himself on the edge and gestured for Námo to join him. "Tell me," he said simply, and Námo cast his gaze aside, swallowing hard.
"Fëanáro," Námo replied quietly, shaking. "That damnable Oath..."
"I know. My sorrow is thine, too, Little Brother," Oromë murmured. "We shall just have to see how it falls out, for good or ill."
Námo nodded. "I did not think Arafinwë would come back," he said. "In all the futures I saw while speaking the Doom, not one showed me thus."
"He has ever been the wisest of Finwë's House," Oromë replied, taking Námo by the hand. "He will make a capable Noldòran - once he stops blaming himself for his eldest brother's sins," the Huntsman added pointedly, giving his Little Brother a look. Námo had the grace to blush.
"Now, my brother, art thou ready to return?" Oromë asked Námo, lightly squeezing his hand. Together, on the mountain, a sense of peace enfolded them, and Oromë felt, rather than saw, his brother nod.
"Yea, I am. There is much to be done before Arafinwë cometh before us to face his judgement."
"His - but we do not blame him for the rash actions of Fëanáro," Oromë exclaimed.
"Nay, but he blameth himself," Námo replied, "and that guilt is more than he can bear."
Oromë nodded. He understood his Little Brother's empathy for this lastborn son of Finwë. "Then let us return."
Together, they Thought themselves back to Ilmarin. There was much work to be done.