Archive of Our Own

Better a holy discord than a profane concord.

- Thomas Adams

In the Ring of Doom fourteen figures sat enthroned in grand and terrible silence. Elves and Maiar came to look solemnly on them and then went away again. The Valar were beautiful in form and majestic in spirit. They had no expressions on their faces. They are angry, some of the Elves whispered. Their hearts are closed.

Sometimes there were fewer than fourteen in the circle. Námo, Lord of Mandos, went to his halls and returned again, dreadful and silent. Ulmo, Lord of the Waters, was half-there and half-elsewhere, for his spirit was ever moved to the deeps.

In fact, all of them were half-there and half-elsewhere. The Elves could not perceive it. The Maiar who looked on them could tell, but could not follow. Yet to the spirits of the Ainur it was plain that in some slack place in the fabric of the universe, a hidden discord hummed between the World-shapers, which resolved itself ever and again into new harmonies.

The trouble with having Elves all over the place, as Aulë had wisely remarked when he set up the private sub-universe, was that it meant you had an audience for everything. Every stray remark might be leapt upon by a dozen Vanyarin theologians. It was peculiar and adorable and very flattering, and the Elves were marvellous and beautiful and entirely worth all the work that had gone into building a world for them, but they did inhibit conversation a bit.

And in the hidden thought-world that they kept between them and did not share, the Valar were having an extremely vigorous conversation.

"I still don't understand why we can't just go to war," said Tulkas. "I'm great at going to war."

"Someone explain it in small words," said Manwë. "Not you, Námo."

Nienna looked sad and understanding and said, "Everything that does evil ends up serving Melkor, you see."

"How is making war against him evil?" demanded Tulkas.

"Well, it's not," said Nienna, "and we could do that. Except that everything which aids evil, or profits from evil, also ends up serving him. And if we go to war against him now, we would be aiding the Noldor, who would then profit from it. Because they would get to have those fair kingdoms in Middle-earth they were talking about." She looked sad. "And the Noldor aren't evil, exactly—"

"They did all those murders," said Námo.

"—apart from all the murders," Nienna said. "The problem is very much the murders."

"And the Oath of Fëanor."

"The other problem is the Oath, yes, because of all the... promising to keep doing evil forever. But they didn't all swear the Oath."

"They didn't all do the murders," Estë pointed out.

"The ones who didn't do the murders aided them," Námo said judgmentally. Everything Námo said came out judgmental. "Or are implicitly or explicitly intending to profit from them. Otherwise, they would have turned around and come back and said sorry."

"Like Finarfin!" said Aulë, who was extremely upset about the loss of all his favourite Elves and clinging desperately to the few good ones he still had.

"I still don't see why we can't just go to war," Tulkas said. "I don't like leaving Melkor running around loose. I said letting him out was bad idea at the time."

"We don't condemn anyone to eternal darkness with no second chances, Tulkas," said Manwë. "Not even Melkor. That would be evil. And we can't go to war against him yet, because then we would be aiding the evil of the Noldor. He must be hoping for it. If he can turn even one of us to his service—"

A painful silence. They all knew that against Melkor, fourteen to one had only just been a winnable fight.

"So we have to just... leave them to it?" Tulkas said. "All of us could barely take him down. They're going up against him with pointy metal sticks! He's going to stamp all over them. And we just leave them to—"

"To the predictable consequences of their intentional actions," said Námo. "To be clear, I mean the murders. I am still talking about the murders."

"But they do have hope," Estë said. "We always give second chances. They just have to say sorry."

"They have to say sorry and mean it," Varda said firmly. "No lying. Melkor got us once."

"They have to say sorry, and mean it, and not expect to be rewarded for it," said Nienna. "They have to say sorry for the right reasons—out of real grief for the wrong they have done, and the people who were hurt. Not because they would like us to come and solve their problems for them so they can get on with conquering kingdoms of their own and being Kings and Queens of Middle-earth. They have to say sorry without the hope that it will change anything."

"Not going to happen," said Námo.

"It might!" protested Irmo.

"All the ones capable of doing that did it already," Námo said. "They rest are going to die horribly. Quickly, too. And then I am going to say I told you so."

"Thank you, Námo," said Manwë wearily. "We do always enjoy it when you say I told you so. You know, by the time this is done, I think even you will feel pity for the plight of Beleriand."

"Pity is not my department," said Námo. "I deal with hard facts."

"So there's nothing any of us can do?" said Tulkas.

There was a slightly guilty silence around the circle.

"Nothing direct," said Manwë. "I mean it. No one is allowed to do anything that directly helps them." He looked embarrassed. "But I may have populated the mountains of Beleriand with divine Eagles."

"My power runs all through the waters of Sirion," said Ulmo.

"The woodlands are awake and full of Ents," said Yavanna.

"I have put it into the hearts of the Dwarves to head west and join the fight against the Shadow," Aulë said. "I mean, they might have done that anyway. Some really lovely stuff in those mountains. Lots to work with. It's completely deniable."

"Melian the Maia holds the borders of Doriath," said Vána. "She is prepared for a long siege. There will be somewhere for the innocent to flee."

"You didn't tell her, did you?" asked Varda sharply.

"Of course not! I haven't spoken to her in aeons," Vána said. "I don't need to tell her anything. She's very clever."

"I have a number of prophetic dreams lined up," Irmo said. "I do think it would be fair to give them all a few hints."

"They already got a hint," said Námo. "The Doom of the Noldor was extremely clear, in my opinion."

"Yes," said his brother, "but let's face it: they're very stupid."

"They're so clever," said Aulë mournfully. "How can such clever people be so stupid?"

"So, in fact, most of us have tried to do something," Manwë said. "Something indirect, within the rules, which will not expose any of us personally to being corrupted by uttermost evil. Is that right?"

"I gave Celegorm my dog," said Oromë.

There was a pause.

Manwë asked, "How is that going to help?"

"I don't know," Oromë said. "But we all have favourites and Celegorm's mine. It might help. And Huan volunteered."

"Celegorm took the Oath of Fëanor and bound himself to evil of his own volition. Huan, for willingly aiding him in this course, now faces damnation," said Námo. "I have delivered a relevant prophecy."

"What, when? How? Was it in a footnote to the Doom of the Noldor? P.S. and about the dog—"

"I'm just worried nothing subtle will help fast enough," Estë said. "Melkor can kill them so easily, and they need to change their minds while they're still alive. The Halls of Mandos are a terrible therapeutic environment—"

"They should have thought of that before they started doing murders," Námo said.

"We are all very aware of the murders, Námo," said Manwë.

The Eagle crossed the Pelori by the light of the Moon. It flew to the Ring of Doom, where it perched on the arm of the throne of Manwë. Manwë raised one great sky-shaping hand and petted its noble head.

In the private conversation hidden in a slack fold of the universe, everyone stared at him. "Well?" said Aulë.

"He's set up shop in the remnants of Utumno," Manwë said.

"Really?" said Tulkas. "Strategically a bit odd, if he's trying to avoid us. Middle-earth is big, he could have gone anywhere."

"He's not trying to avoid us," Manwë said. "He's taunting us." He sighed. "And, yes, as Námo reported, Fëanor is already dead."

"Fëanor is sulking in my basement," Námo said. "He has expressed his intention to continue doing that forever."

"I'm truly sorry, Námo," Manwë said. "Meanwhile, Melkor has rebuilt his fortress in his usual style. I'm sure it will surprise none of you to hear that he put a volcano on top of it. And then he captured the heir of Fëanor and hung him on top of that."

There was a long pause. They were all thinking the same thing.

Yavanna said it. "Oh, he's so boring!"

"I know, darling," said Aulë. "I know."

"But it's just absurd how boring he is!" Yavanna exclaimed passionately. "Didn't he use to be good? I don't mean morally good, although obviously that too. I mean artistically."

"It's always just another torture volcano with Melkor these days," Aulë said. "It's a shame. He was good, I thought."

"He was," said Manwë glumly.

"He's obsessed with originality," said Varda. "It's made him trite."

"No artist can work in a void," Yavanna said. "Everything I've done would be impossible without all of you. Just admit you're doing transformative work—just enjoy it! It's not less worthy just because you used someone else's material as a starting point. If you want to make trees you need light and water and complex hydrocarbons first, that’s not something to be embarrassed about."

"He's never wanted to make trees," Aulë said.

Yavanna sniffed. "As if he could. Trees are subtle. All he can do is just another big pile of rocks—nothing personal, darling, I know you love rocks, I like your rocks. But a big pile of ugly rocks with a sad person in pain at the top. It's not special. It's not clever. It's not even a new evil. The awful stuff he did to the poor Orcs was much worse. I honestly think he hasn't had a new idea in aeons."

"He's clumsy and derivative," said Vairë.

"He's repetitive and narcissistic," said Estë.

"He's boring," said Yavanna. "And horrible."

"Well, I have a limited amount of good news," Manwë said. "Fingolfin's heir decided to attempt a heroic rescue, and—"

"Oh, you didn't," said Námo.

"It wasn't direct," Manwë said defensively. "He wouldn't have got anywhere without the Eagle, but the Eagle might have acted spontaneously."

"If you get corrupted to Melkor's service," said Námo, "the entire universe will be even more Doomed than the Noldor are right now. Don't do it again."

"I know. I do know," Manwë said. "I just felt that as an installation piece it was truly so vile."

"You did the right thing," said Varda. "The rescue was entered into selflessly and with love. It would have been evil not to help."

Manwë did not look much happier. He said, "I only wish there was more we could do."

"Can we go to war yet?" Tulkas said hopefully. "Did either of them say anything about being sorry for the murders?"

"No," said Manwë. "They got distracted kissing."

"Oh, I love it when they kiss," Vána said. "Was there tongue?"

Manwë coughed. "Thorondor didn't wait around to observe, I'm afraid."

"I thought she does flowers?" whispered Aulë to his wife.

"The flowers are a metaphor, dear," Yavanna whispered back. "She's a wonderful collaborator, we're doing amazing things with evolution right now. Sexual selection is such a game-changer—"

"It still sounds bit avant-garde to me—"

"A very heroic moment. True courage and generosity of spirit in defiance of evil. Lovely," Námo said over this not-very-quiet conversation. "But they still aren't sorry for the murders. Do I have to say it?"

"You don't have to say it, Námo."

Námo said it anyway. "I told you so."

"All right, never mind hints," Ulmo said. "I'm going to start giving them explicit instructions."

Everyone looked worried. "I thought Manwë said we can't do that?" said Tulkas.

"Try and stop me," said Ulmo. "I'm not going to help them with anything evil. I'm just going to lay out, in small easy steps, the correct way out of this mess they've gotten themselves into. Scaffold the question, as it were."

"You still can't tell them the answer," said Nienna. "You can't instruct them to be genuinely sorry. They have to work it out themselves, or it doesn't count."

"Right," Ulmo said. "But they obviously need some thinking time, and they're all going to die too fast to figure anything out at this rate. How about a hidden city or two?" He looked at Irmo. "Can you work me up some prophetic dreams?"

"Who do you want to have the dreams?" Irmo asked.

"Better not to count on just one of them," Ulmo said. "They're so stupid. Let's try Finrod, he's one of the less murdery ones. And Turgon."

"Turgon's one of the more murdery ones, isn't he?" said Oromë, and at Ulmo's look, "I'm not criticizing you! I gave Celegorm my dog, remember?"

"Actually, I think more murdery might be better," said Vairë. Everyone turned to her respectfully. Vairë and Námo were the two who best understood Time, but while Námo saw dooms and endings and the inevitability of thermodynamic equilibrium, Vairë the Weaver was indisputably the expert on stories. The Valar, who had come from the timeless thought of the One, had all been a bit startled when it turned out stories were wildly important for any being that experienced events as linear. "The narrative is clearer if it's very obvious what you need to say sorry for," Vairë said to all their hopeful stares. "I think Finrod is still a bit confused about why he's in trouble."

"Implicit endorsement of and intention to profit from the murders—" began her husband.

"Yes, dear," said Vairë. "We know that. I don't think he knows that."

"Hidden cities won't work anyway," said Námo gloomily. "If you give them somewhere nice to live, they'll just have another reason to persuade themselves it was all worth it."

"So I'll tell them that's not the way to look at it," Ulmo said. "We'll put it in a dream."

"Have to phrase it just right," said Irmo. "If we give away the answer that ruins their chances. They won't be able to repent unselfishly if they already know for a fact that we're going to be nice about it. Let me think. Love not too much the works of your own hands—remember your hope comes from the West—something like that—"

"Is hope too much of a hint?" said Nienna.

Everyone looked at Manwë. Manwë looked at his wife.

"It's not too much of a hint," said Varda. "They do have hope. We have not given up on them."

"It's too quiet over there," Tulkas said. "What's Melkor up to? It can't possibly be taking him this long to come up with a way to beat a bunch of small angry people with pointy sticks."

"Bear in mind he's a coward," Manwë said. "But no, I don't think he's prioritizing the Noldor at all just now. The race of Men awoke when the Sun did."

There was a horrified silence.

"We chained him for the Elves," Oromë said. "We went to war, and we cast him down, and we bound him, and even after that we still couldn't save the Orcs."

"Just so. And this time he has a free hand," Manwë said. "Because as long as the Noldor are sitting there in Beleriand smugly intending to rule the world as soon as he's beaten, there is nothing we can do."

"Did he know?" asked Aulë.

"Melkor heard the Music too," Varda said. "His thought is vast and subtle. It would be very unwise to assume that the Lord of all Evil is a fool."

"He's neutralized us," Ulmo said. His voice in anger was the roar of the ocean rising. "Even if the Noldor do eventually work out they need to give up on ruling the world and start being sorry for the murders, we will never get this time back. The Shadow will have its hand on the hearts of Men forever."

"Why haven't they worked it out yet?" Yavanna asked.

"Unfortunately, from their point of view," said Manwë, "everything is going quite well."

"Not for much longer," said Námo. "He hasn't just been corrupting the hearts of Men. He's also been inventing dragons."

"Ah, here it comes," Námo said a little while later. "Dragons. Excuse me, everyone. It tends to be chaotic in the Halls when this many of them die at once. I'll be a little while."

"Námo's been a really long time, hasn't he?" said Vána.

"Shh," said Ulmo. "We were all enjoying the break from I told you so."

"This isn't like him," said Irmo.

"I think," said Vairë, "that the Doom-steerer himself may have become enmeshed in some greater Doom; for the threads of the Story are in the hands of a power greater than he, nay, greater than any of us."

"Do you always talk about your husband like that?" said Yavanna.

"There are lots of ways to have a happy marriage," Vairë said. "At least we don't go around inventing Dwarves and Ents at each other."

"Námo!" said Manwë, rising to his feet. "There you are. Is everything all right?"

Námo lifted his bowed head. Tears were streaming down his face.

Everyone stared. "Námo?" said Nienna.

"We have a niece," said the Lord of Mandos hoarsely. "A child of Elf and Ainu. A child. She came to my halls."

Before Time ever began, a vision was given to the Ainur, who had never been children and who would never have any. It was a vision of beings who might come from mystery, and grow to wonder. They had seen the Children of Eru, who could blossom and thrive and learn and change; who were not each a single note of divine thought, but contained instead within their shining souls entire symphonies that no mere god had ever imagined before.

Elves and Men, Elves and Men! What was the good of making a world, if you had no one to give it to? How long the Valar had laboured, waiting, planning, hoping for the precious day: look, you could say at last, look! I made this for you, isn't it good? I think it's good. I hope you like it. Do you like it?

"Melian?" whispered Vána. "Melian had a daughter?"

"Lúthien. Her name is Lúthien. She is extraordinary," Námo said. He swallowed hard. "And she is so unhappy."

"Does anyone else think it feels very strange to have Námo start breaking all the rules?" muttered Tulkas.

"Shh! She's our niece," whispered Nessa. "And she's sad."

Everything calmed down eventually. They were all very disappointed when Lúthien chose to share one mortal lifespan with her beloved and then leave the world forever. None of them but Námo had even had a chance to talk to her. "But," Varda pointed out, "she's old enough to make her own choices, she clearly knows what she wants, and it's not about us, is it."

"It sounds like quite a lot has happened," said Nessa. "Would someone with divine Eagles, or holy watercourses, or in-depth knowledge of the many parts of the Music I missed while I was inventing dancing, please fill in the gaps?"

"Ah. Yes. Ahem," Námo said. "There are a few key updates which you could probably all use. I have to let you know, Oromë, that Huan gave up on Celegorm."

"Huan gave up on—" said Oromë.

"I'm afraid so," Námo said. "He went to the aid of Beren and Lúthien, and met his Doom not long after. It sounds like Celegorm left him very little choice. And so Huan's former master is alone with the Oath of Fëanor and its consequences. Nothing will help him now."

Everyone was kind enough to look away from Oromë's expression. Vána put her hand on his arm.

"Well," Oromë said at last, "at least Huan managed to help someone. After he volunteered—I am glad that at least—"

He stopped.

"There was never much hope for Celegorm," he said. "I knew that. I could not act. I could not save him. He did all of it to himself, and willingly. I know what comes next. Go on, then. Let's have an I told you so."

Námo was silent for a long time.

Finally, he said, "I am sorry for your loss."

"What did Lúthien do to you?" said Oromë.

"She told me the truth," Námo said. "I already knew it. And yet, for her sake, I pitied the griefs of Arda."

The Valar murmured to each other. Nienna said softly, "There's always room in my tower, brother."

Námo coughed, embarrassed, and changed the subject. "I do have one other important update," he said. "A further result of this whole incident. Finrod is dead, and his spirit has come to the Halls of Mandos."

"Poor Finarfin," murmured Aulë.

Irmo, listening to the tone of his brother's voice, said after a moment, "...and?"

Námo did not smile. He never smiled. "And," he said, "Finrod is very sorry about the murders."

There was an amazed silence. Then there was a collective sigh, half joy, half relief. "Proof of concept," said Estë.

"So it can be done!" said Varda.

"How was it done?" said Manwë.

Námo said, "Well, first he willingly renounced his fair kingdom in Middle-earth. Or, well, he had a tantrum and threw his crown on the ground, but—"

"Close enough!" said Ulmo.

"And then he went on an objectively quite stupid quest, but he showed true courage and generosity of spirit in defiance of evil—"

"Yes," said Tulkas.

"And then he ran into Sauron," said Námo. "Who, as we know, can never resist an easy gotcha. They had a little sing-off, and apparently, for Finrod, having all his worst hypocrisies flung in his face in six-eight time really made an impression."

Nienna said, "Had he really never thought it through?"

"Yes," Námo said. "He had genuinely never thought too hard about the moral implications of ruling the largest kingdom in Beleriand, and filling his lovely hidden city with the treasures he brought from Valinor, and loudly proclaiming his continued faith in the essential goodness of creation—while at the same time supporting and enabling the consequence-free lifestyles of all his mass-murdering relatives, without whom the kingdom full of treasure would not have been possible."

"Sauron must have loved that," said Aulë. "He always did enjoy other people's logical inconsistencies."

"He was never one of your nicer followers, dear," said Yavanna.

"And then Finrod got torn to pieces by a werewolf," said Námo.

"Do we need to invest in therapy werewolves?" said Oromë. His expression was still full of grief, but it was a grief lit with hope and laughter. "Do we need to send Sauron a thank-you note?"

"Ahem," said Námo. "This is, of course, a serious matter. Whatever we decide to do will set an important precedent. For if Finrod, a great prince of the fallen Noldor, can be forgiven and restored—"

"He is one of the less murdery ones," murmured Vairë.

"—then forgiveness and restoration become possible for all the Exiles," said Námo. "Even the very murdery ones, potentially. Eventually. And since the matter is so serious... normally I deal with all questions of eternal judgment myself, but in this case, I thought I'd better refer it to a higher authority."

Everyone looked at Manwë. Manwë looked at his wife.

Varda opened her hands and smiled. "Send him home."

There was such general jubilation in the Valar's private sub-universe that it took them a while to remember the rest of the Noldor. Aulë kept reporting back, gleefully, on Finarfin and his son. "They're walking under the trees," he said, "Finrod's telling him about Dwarves—he has a Dwarven name! He's Felagund now. I devised the Dwarven-tongue myself, you know—"

But talking about Finrod led, inevitably, to talking about Finrod's family. "Finarfin didn't know he had grandchildren—great-grandchildren—"

"He won't for long," said Námo.

"Námo, we all know you love a really pithy and horrendously funny statement of fact," said Yavanna, "but, for once, could you read the room."

"Not the first," muttered Oromë. "Accurate, yes, but possibly the least helpful thing you could have said."

Aulë sighed. "All right, all right. I was just enjoying having one back. I miss them. Fine. Back to all the unrepentant murderers, then. What are they doing now?"

"Gearing up for a big battle," Ulmo said grimly.

Everyone except Námo winced. Námo just looked tired. "Fine, no pithy comments. This one is going to be Tears Unnumbered. I'll expand the Halls again."

"There is nothing else to do," Manwë said. "There is nothing we can do. The Doom is what it is."

"Do they think we did it to them, I wonder?" Nienna said.

"Oh, they think every stupid thing they possibly can," said Námo. "You should hear the self-pity ringing through my house. The cruelty of the Valar! The blindness of the Valar! The selfishness of the Valar! The overweening arrogance of the Valar—and so on, and so on. And not one of them realises that they're talking about themselves."

"If there was only something we could do," whispered Estë. Her heart was in healing. Inaction chafed at her nearly as badly as at Tulkas.

But there was nothing they could do. They had all seen it—all but Tulkas—from the very beginning. The trap that Melkor had set for them was insultingly obvious. Come and help them, he taunted, from his fortress just the other side of the Sea. Come and get your precious Elves, whom you loved, whom you wanted, the people you were waiting for from the very beginning of Time. Because if you do nothing, then I am going to destroy them all and make you watch.

Well? Come and stop me.

It was only a little robbery. It was only a little murder. It's not their fault they're stupid, is it? I told them a lot of lies. How were they supposed to know there would be consequences for their actions? And they'd never met me before. You had. So whose fault is it really?

Don't you feel guilty yet? Does it make you feel better, pretending you're not looking?

Help them. Aid their evil. Do it for love.

Come and serve me.

"Do they realise they're bait?" said Vána eventually.

"No," said Oromë. "They didn't even realise the Silmarils were bait. They think Melkor cares what they do."

"Things Melkor cares about, in order," said Námo. "One, his one-sided creative rivalry with Eru Iluvátar. Two, ruling the universe. Three, getting back at us for beating him twice already. Four, marring or mastering the races of Elves and Men just to prove that he can. Five, his petty grudge against the House of Finwë because Fëanor slammed a door in his face once—"

"The grudge got worse after he stubbed his toe on Fingolfin," said Tulkas.

"Thank you, Tulkas," Námo said. "That much is true. It's still not higher than fifth place, though. And then, somewhere around eleven or twelve at most, comes the minor annoyance that is the rest of the Noldor."

"They really think it's about them," Aulë said. "I suppose it is sort of about them."

"It's as much about them as it is about the Silmarils," said Varda. "Which is to say, entirely, and not at all."

"I need to rework my filing system," said Námo, the next time he returned from overseeing the chaos at the Halls of Mandos. "I've currently got them sorted into irredeemably evil, irredeemably stupid, and irredeemably Fëanor, but I think the stupid category needs sub-divisions. There's a lot of them in there now."

"They've made it to Tears Unnumbered, per their Doom," Tulkas said. "Surely they've got to be sorry now." In the physical world, his great hands clenched into fists. In the thought-world of the Valar, he jumped up and started pacing. "He keeps killing more of them! They still only have pointy sticks! Let me at him, this is agonising—"

"Are they sorry?" Aulë asked with desperate hope. "Are they sorry for the murders yet? Finrod did it, we know it's doable."

"Turgon has sent some ships to seek our aid," Ulmo said.

"Did he come himself? Is he sorry?"

"Well," said Ulmo. "He's sort of sorry. But he's also really enjoying being King of Gondolin."

"You can't repent the crime and keep the profits," Námo said. "I told you the hidden city idea wouldn't work. Anyway, the ships will sink."

"I'm saving at least one of the sailors," Ulmo said. "He can help deliver some more explicit instructions. Maybe if Turgon gets just one more hint—"

"You can try that if you like. It won't make any difference."

Aulë looked haggard. "They're so stupid," he said. "I don't understand it. They're so stupid. At least it can't get any worse."

"Actually," said Manwë, "it looks like they've started murdering people again." He looked at Námo. "Are you going to say I told you so?"

"This time they told us so," Námo said. "It's in the Oath of Fëanor. Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, and so on."

"Who is enforcing that thing?" demanded Yavanna. "I know it's not you two—"

"We don't enforce evil," said Varda.

"—and it's not the One, either, is it?"

"I can't think of any arrogance more profound," said Manwë, "than a gaggle of created beings presuming to bind the One beyond the world with mere poetry."

"There are no words for it," said Oromë.

"Interestingly, they've coined one," said Vairë. "The Noldor who didn't leave are experimenting with a narrative artform called tragedy. The word they've come up with is hubris—my handmaiden Fíriel  is doing some beautiful work—"

"Somebody answer my question! Who is enforcing that Oath?"

Estë said, "Well, either it's a poisonous compound of self-reinforcing psychological factors—denial, anger, shame, self-pity, genuine love for their dead father, and the gambler's fallacy—"

"What's—"

"We've lost so much, we can't stop now," Estë said. "So yes. Either it's that. Or it's Melkor having fun. From the inside, those would feel the same."

"Is psychology really enough to explain how profoundly awful they're being right now?" said Nessa.

"Listen, this is my thing, I don't argue with you about dance. And it's the only thing that explains it, really. They can stop whenever they want—yes, and be condemned to eternal darkness, but we let Melkor out, if they think for two minutes they'll know that's not the real problem. The problem is that if they stop then they have to admit that all the death and suffering were completely meaningless and entirely their own fault. So they will never stop at all. I suspect Melkor is just sitting back and laughing."

Tulkas growled. "You all came into Time to build a beautiful world and meet some adorable little guys," he said. "I came here to kick ass! When do I get to kick his ass?"

"I thought that was clear already," Manwë said. "We can go to war either when the Noldor are all truly sorry for the murders—"

General grimaces around the circle.

"—or when there is no longer any chance that any of them will actually profit from their evil."

"In other words," Námo said, "when they're all dead."

There was an unhappy pause. The stars wheeled. The universe sang. The Ainur did not experience Time in the same way as the Children of Eru. It poured past them like a rushing river. The current was implacable and very fast.

"They're nearly all dead at this point, aren't they?" Aulë said. "I can't believe I'm hoping for it. This is awful. But who's even left? Nargothrond—"

"Nargothrond got dragoned," said Námo. "All the treasures that Finrod brought from Valinor ended as nothing but a bed of gold for Glaurung."

There was a general sigh. "For everything that does, aids, or profits from evil," said Nienna softly, "belongs to Melkor in the end."

"Gondolin?" Aulë said.

"Also dragoned," Námo said. "So much for Turgon."

"I gave him such explicit instructions," said Ulmo sadly.

"Then what's left?"

"A refugee camp at the mouth of the river Sirion," said Manwë.

"Is that getting dragoned?"

"No," said Námo. "It's getting Sons-of-Fëanored. Any minute now."

The Valar waited for the inevitable. They had stopped pretending not to watch. No one said anything. Manwë bowed his head. Oromë stared into the middle distance, grimacing. Gentle Estë flinched and then flinched again. Nienna wept silently. Varda's expression was motionless and terrible.

"Some of them are changing sides in the middle of it," muttered Aulë. "Stabbing their own companions in the back rather than watch them do this again. Is that better? Is it worse?"

"At this point," said Námo, "it's rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic."

There was a pause.

Irmo said, "On the what now?"

"You've skipped ahead again, sweetheart," said Vairë. "That's from a later movement."

"Apologies," Námo said. "A different metaphor: it's shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted. Too little, too late, and everyone's going to drown anyway."

"Even the horse?" said Oromë.

"Maybe less metaphorical, Námo," Manwë said. "But I think we get the idea."

"I told them so," Námo said. "I told them. Actions have consequences. It's the essential principle of Time."

Then Ulmo said, "Enough!"

There was a shocked pause. Ulmo had spoken in his own voice, the voice that rang in the sound of the Sea, the voice of the Lord of the Waters. It was rare, in this place of private speech, for any of them to assert their true majesty. But Ulmo rose to his feet. Time stilled.

The Valar looked on the figure that hung suspended between Ulmo's cupped fingers, falling forever, her silver hair streaming. There was a wondrous light upon her breast, but to all of them that was less important than the light within, the light that none of them could ever have made: the secret fire of a living soul.

"This is our kinswoman," Ulmo said. "Lúthien's granddaughter. She is terrified. She is in despair. She is alone. And she will drown."

"Oh—" said Nienna.

"This is no High-elf," Ulmo said. "She is a child of the Sindar and of Men. She does not know us. We have sent her no prophecies, no instructions, no dreams. We have given her nothing. She has no hope in the West. She has no hope left at all. And so she leapt from darkness into darkness, thinking one could be no worse than the other. Lords of the West, shall she fall unregarded?"

"Oh no—" whispered Estë.

"There are not many of the Noldor left in Beleriand now," said Ulmo. "But there are many Sindar, kin to the Teleri, who began the long journey with Oromë, but stayed in Middle-earth for love of their king. And there are Nandor, the Green-elves of Ossiriand, who honour the trees and water-meads. And there are not a few of the Avari, who chose not to follow Oromë, and shall we say that they were wrong? If their Maker had wanted them to wake in Aman, he could have put them here."

Ulmo looked around at the circle of the Valar. Great was his majesty and deep his thought. No one contradicted him.

"And there are Men," Ulmo went on, "good Men, who willingly sacrifice the little time they have in this world they love in order to defy the Shadow. And there are bad Men too—bad Men who never had much chance to be anything else, because we did not chain Melkor for their waking. And there are Dwarves in the mountains that Melkor shall root up, and Ents in the woodlands that Melkor shall burn. All of these are suffering, and shall suffer, as long as their Enemy broods in the North of the world. Tell me, my friends, at what point does our inaction become the greater evil?"

Time hung suspended. The tiny figure of Elwing with her wet and streaming hair hovered helpless in Ulmo's cupped hands. The silence stretched.

"You have to admit," said Irmo, "he has a point."

"Well?" Ulmo said. He said it to Manwë. Then he looked at Varda and said it again. "Well?"

"All right," said Manwë, "places, everyone. Look stern. He'll be here any moment."

"Eärendil is a Man, isn't he?" said Yavanna. "That's very exciting. I've never met a Man before."

"Actually," Aulë said, "he's technically a Noldo."

"Only on his mother's side," Vána said. "They're very patrilineal, aren't they? I've never quite understood why."

But the others were starting to exchange glances as they caught Aulë's meaning. "Wait, though. He is a Noldo," said Yavanna. "Like his mother."

"His maternal grandfather was arguably the last High King of the Noldor, in fact," Aulë said, "wasn't he? Ulmo?"

"That is definitely one of the things that I could say about Turgon," Ulmo said.

"Which would make Eärendil, technically, the present High King of the Noldor," said Aulë. "Wouldn't it?"

"Wouldn't it be whatshisname?" said Oromë. "Gil-something? He's male line, isn't he, and they are patri—oh."

"Shh," said Nienna, but Oromë had already shut himself up.

"And Eärendil doesn't have a fair kingdom in Middle-earth," Aulë said. "He could have claimed lordship of the Noldor in his mother's right, lordship of Doriath in his wife's right; at the very least he could have been King of the Havens of Sirion—but he left it all behind. He came himself."

"This is extremely technical," muttered Námo. "And he's more sorry about the consequences of the murders than the actual murders. We will have a hard time justifying any of it to the Teleri."

"The Teleri really like Elwing," Ulmo said, "if that helps."

Aulë picked it up gratefully. "Right, and Elwing is married to Eärendil, and therefore, technically, the High Queen of the Noldor." He looked hopefully at Manwë. Then he looked even more hopefully at Varda. "So could we not reasonably say that the Noldor, as represented by their High King, have rejected the lifestyle of murderous colonising overlords and come at last to apologise sincerely for being evil?"

Manwë looked at his wife. Varda looked back at him. The rest of the Valar watched the flickers of their expressions as thought passed directly between them.

Finally, Manwë said, "We are satisfied by the argument, Aulë. Eärendil can speak for the Noldor. But we still must not help anyone to profit from wrongdoing. Melkor's service awaits us if we do."

"I actually had a thought about that?" said Nessa.

"Go on, Nessa," Varda said. Her voice was rich and warm.

"I know I'm not really a wars person," Nessa said. "Or a stories person, or a moral philosophy person, or a psychology person, or—I'm dance. I'm joy. I feel like I really haven't been very useful. But I did have a thought about what we could do, if we went to Beleriand." She looked hopeful. "What if we just… weren't very careful where we put our feet?"

Most of the Valar looked confused. But Ulmo, abruptly, chuckled.

"I mean, they can't profit from evil, can they," Nessa said, "they can't have fair kingdoms, if there isn't anything there to rule. If we were just a bit… you know," she got up and demonstrated, three elegant steps and a beautiful pirouette ending in an exaggerated stumble, "a bit messy…"

"Destroy things?" said Nienna. "On purpose?"

"Accidentally on purpose!"

"We don't destroy things," said Oromë. "Melkor destroys things."

"It would be creative destruction," said Nessa stubbornly. "Regenerative destruction."

There was a pause.

"You know," Estë said thoughtfully, "that is one way to look at the whole concept of healing."

"It's very avant-garde," said Aulë.

"But it's interesting," said Yavanna.

"I like it," Vána said.

"So do I," said Irmo.

Námo said, "I don't. But we're already deep in the technicalities."

"I honestly think it would make for quite a satisfying conclusion," said Vairë.

Then Varda stood up from her throne. "Hail Eärendil, brightest of stars!" she said. "By your light we shall cast down the Lord of all Darkness. So it is decided."

"Then let the Wrath of the Valar come to Middle-earth!" said Ulmo. "By flood—"

"By fire—" said Aulë.

"By storm," said Manwë. "Tulkas, make ready. We are going to war."

"Yes," cried Tulkas, punching the air. "Finally!"

There was a general murmur of decisive satisfaction. But Námo said, "Just one moment."

Tulkas groaned. "What now?"

"Most of them," Námo said, "still aren't personally sorry for the murders. Are they? Yes, I know none of you want to hear it, but telling people things they don't want to hear is my job. I don't like Melkor either. I don't like anything he's done. I have not enjoyed watching this play out, and I am not enjoying having my Halls filled with broken-hearted ghosts who refuse to get better and will never leave. But they must be sorry. And we still cannot tell them the answer."

"All right," said Ulmo. "Good point. Let's take Finarfin with us."

Aulë said, "What? No. Leave Finarfin alone."

"Why would we take anyone with us?" Tulkas said. "I don't need a pointy-stick brigade to wrestle Melkor. The Elves over there keep losing, and the ones here have never even tried to fight anything before."

"Some of the Exiles did all right," said Oromë. "I mean, they lost, but they lost quite impressively."

"Yes, fair, and I could use Fingolfin. And maybe Glorfindel," Tulkas said. "But not Finarfin."

"That's not what I meant," Ulmo said. "I think we should take Finarfin for a different reason. It would be a bit cruel to actually bring Finrod—he's still got werewolf trauma—"

"Ah," said Varda, and she started laughing.

"—but Finarfin loves to talk about him," Ulmo said. "Doesn't he?"

"He does," Aulë said. "He's a very proud father."

"So let's bring Finarfin," Ulmo said. "And if Finarfin happens to let anything slip to the Exiles about the present aliveness status of Finrod Felagund, once a great prince of the fallen Noldor, slain by a werewolf in the darkness under Tol-in-Gaurhoth, now restored and forgiven and home—if he happens to mention how Finrod did it—"

"They literally just have to say sorry and mean it," said Nienna. "It really isn't that hard."

"Isn't that telling them the answer, though?" said Oromë.

"We wouldn't be telling them the answer," Ulmo said. "It would be very unreasonable to say they can't help each other. Helping each other is the opposite of evil, isn't it? And, you know, Elves. They're very sociable."

There was a thoughtful silence.

"Just so we're clear," Manwë said, "our plan now is to save the Noldor through the power of gossip?"

"We already tried the power of Doom, the power of pointed hints, the power of holy rivers and divine Eagles, the power of a good dog, and the power of explicit instructions," Ulmo said. "At this point, even I am almost out of ideas. I say we take Finarfin to Beleriand."

"And you know, thinking about it," Tulkas said, "maybe I could use a few of the pointy-stick brigade—"

"You can't have Fingolfin," Námo said. "He's still full-brother-in-hearting Fëanor, and is therefore, like Fëanor, planning to sulk in my basement for the rest of Time."

"What a waste," said Nienna. "Of both of them."

"Waste is what Melkor likes best," Námo said.

"Wait a minute," Tulkas said. "Does that mean I can have Glorfindel?"

"He died heroically, defying evil," Námo said. "Of course, he never actually said sorry for the murders. But you know what, the bar is on the floor. Yes, fine, Glorfindel redeemed himself, you can have him."

"Good news," Manwë said after the War of Wrath. Their private sub-universe had been very quiet for a while; it was good to be back. "Eonwë had a word with Gil-galad and he's agreed to have the exact details of his patrilineal rights excised from the fabric of reality. He was very understanding once he saw how many problems it solved. He did ask if he could remember who his father was, but I think that's all right provided he never tells anyone. So if you don't mind, Vairë."

Vairë was already getting out her embroidery scissors. "It's only a minor cut," she said. "It will leave a moderately irritating hole in history, but that seems like a small price to pay."

"What about the surviving sons of Fëanor?" Aulë asked. "What's going to happen to them?"

Námo pursed his lips. "Well, are they sorry for being evil?"

There was a pause while Manwë exchanged private speech in another realm with his herald. Then he looked up. "Interesting twist," he said. "They are sorry. But they've decided to keep doing murders anyway."

There was an exasperated pause.

"At this point we've tried everything," said Ulmo.

"Did they not hear about Finrod?" Nienna asked.

"It looks like the gossip didn't get round to them," said Manwë. "No one wants to talk to them anymore."

"I wonder why," said Námo. "Could it be the murders?"

"Does anyone have any sympathy left for these clowns?" said Tulkas. "Do they have any redeeming features at all?"

"They're very narratively compelling," said Vairë.

"Any other redeeming features?"

"No, that's about it."

Vána said, "Good hair, maybe?"

"All Elves have good hair," said Yavanna. "They're not special."

"They must realise they can't have the Silmarils," Irmo said. "They won't be able to touch them, for the same reason Melkor couldn't touch them—because they're murderers. Surely they realise. It's so obvious! It's been obvious for five hundred years!"

"I don't think they do realise," said Aulë. "I think they really are that stupid."

"At this point, the stupidity is almost criminal in itself," said Manwë. "But the truth is going to hurt. Do we let them keep going?"

"We have to give them a chance," Varda said. "We are not evil. We already told them that they need to come and answer for what they have done. That's as much of a hint as they deserve. But we should leave the option open until the last possible moment. Even now, they could still back down."

"And when they don't?"

There was a grim silence.

"Call it," said Námo, "the predictable consequences of their intentional actions."

"Well, that happened," Oromë said in the end. "Nearly everyone died, no one really got what they wanted, the whole thing turned out to be mostly pointless, the Halls of Mandos are full of broken-hearted ghosts, and we had to destroy the continent."

"Waste," said Nienna, "is what Melkor likes best."

"I bet he didn't like getting punched in the dick and thrown out of Time forever, ha," said Tulkas. "That was satisfying."

"And the Noldor are getting very good at tragedy," said Vairë. "As an art form."

"Well, that's all right then!" said Yavanna. "Oh, wait, no it's not! This was all completely awful and horrible and also, actually, I'm still upset about my Trees!"

She burst into tears. Aulë patted her on the shoulder. "I'm still upset about Fëanor," he said. "And, do you know, Finarfin's daughter refused to come home? This whole thing has been so hard on Finarfin."

"What could we do differently?" said Irmo. "Is there anything we could do differently, if—"

He cut himself off. No one wanted to say, if it happened again. But there had been a certain amount of thematic echoing, in the Music. And they all knew that Melkor was very repetitive.

"On reflection," said Manwë at last, "it does seem like a lot of the problems were actually caused by us getting personally involved with the Elves in the first place. It's too late to undo it, we've taken responsibility for them now, but let's try a more hands-off approach with Men." Nods and murmurs of agreement around the circle. "What if we gave them a lovely new continent, something a bit less Melkored than Middle-earth? We could put it close by, but not too close by, and then just… let them get on with it."

"It'll end badly," Námo said.

Everyone ignored him. "I think that sounds like a really nice idea!" said Vána.

"It's been a while since I built a continent," said Aulë. "Do you think they'd like a mountain? I love a good mountain."

Yavanna wiped her eyes. "Fertile land, easy to cultivate—you know, the thing about an island continent is you can introduce all sorts of unique flora and fauna. They could have marsupials," she said. "They could have lemurs."

"How are we getting them there?" Oromë asked. "Shepherding the Elves was honestly quite frustrating last time. They kept wandering off."

"This time, a star will lead them," said Varda.

"Across the Sea! They will be lovers of the Sea," said Ulmo, "and the Sea will love them too. I like Men a lot, have I mentioned?"

Everyone started to look excited. The Valar were artists—in matter and energy, in space and time, in spiralling galaxies and complex hydrocarbons. The song of creation echoed forever in their hearts. It was a song of love and delight and endless possibility. It was regenerative, collaborative, transformative. Look, it sang, I made this for you! Isn't it good? Do you like it?

Námo sighed. "When this ends badly," he said, "I'm going to say I told you so."