What if trials of this life
The rain, the storms, the hardest nights
Are your mercies in disguise
- Laura Story, Blessings
They stare up at him, eyes filled with emotions crushing down on them. Námo vanishes from their sight. He dissolves into shadows as he hides himself from the Noldor. The echo of his words still resound in the valley. It's unlikely the words spoken will ever fade from this place. They cut into the history shaping before them, altering it forever. When Námo studies the proud Elves before him he's pleased to find less fear and hushed words than he expected. A few turn around, intend to bow their head before Manwe. But the rest is not ashamed. No, his Doom causes a straightening of backs and the unsure feeling that settled into the hearts of the Noldor after Alqualondë disappears.
Especially Fëanáro's eyes burn with defiance. Eru's greatest child has already turned his back to Aman to cast his eyes forwards onto the black sea. He's not as mad as history will later colour him to be. Like always, ideas, theories and possibilities run through the bright mind, calculating odds and envisioning the future.
Námo can see the heart, aflame and filled with love. All other emotions are pushed to the surface since otherwise there's no room for them.
How many are going to see past the blazing anger, the grief and the fear dancing on shell of Fëanáro's heart?
In the end Námo knows only knows of seven.
Only the Sons won't be deterred by Morgoth Lies.
That's Fëanáro's first and greatest victory of Melkor though it's going to be overlooked. Such loyalty among family is a notable feat after the havoc Melkor wrecked upon the House of Finwë.
The second triumph Fëanáro's forges in this moment. Wherever they desire it or not, all Noldor feel their High King's unyielding will. No matter how they'll curse his name while they cross the Ice, his rebellion has touched hearts and will become their own. Even those thinking of turning back, will follow Fëanáro's call over the sea sooner or later. Námo doesn't have to rely on foresight for this. He's the Judge and sees the truth in the hearts of the Noldor.
Námo knows, his work here is done. Pleased with himself he smiles.
Fear his words they might but in the end the Doom will keep their spirits from breaking. Dark days lay ahead of them but their fierce determination is going to carry the Noldor through them. Loss will not hinder them. Pain and anguish won't be enough to defeat them in battle and shame for their sins is not enough to force the Noldor to kneel Sad as it may be to see Fëanáro die, it's necessary. He will shed his body and as his hröa scatters over his people a spark of his strong will is going to sink into their hearts.
The Noldor will keep Eru's greatest child alive in their own way and make him immortal. They'll archive what the Valar could not.
They'll banish Melkor from this World. And no matter how ugly their deeds might become, Morgoth's will be darker still.
His brother might be laughing right now that the mighty Valar punish the Noldor for the slaying their own kin but Námo knows better. The future is clear and his eyes see true every time.
The Kinslayings, Alqualondë and those yet to come, is the crime Manwë one day shall have to forgive. The King of Arda will lift the Doom from the Noldor himself. When he touches it he'll bow his head in humility and apologize for lashing out in battered pride. The first visible effects of Manwë's bruised ego now gather around Arafinwë, begging him to turn around ask their false gods for forgiveness. Not knowing that their true god readies to abadon them on the bloody shores of Alqualondë anyway.
For a moment Námo's spirit lingers among the Noldor. They don't notice him as they walk past and Námo studies the House of Fëanáro from a safe distance. There are a few among them who can sense his presence at proximity no matter how well he may hide. After he has seen enough Námo turns away and fights the smile that threatens to cross his face. In case his wife asks he'll tell Varië that he too is effected by the events of the past days. But it's unlikely she'll speak up at all. She's too occupied with the blood stains on her tapestries.
Námo hums under his breath and enters his halls. They're dark and lack light. The souls that reside in here shiver in discomfort.
But not for much longer. Soon this tomb will be transformed into a luminous castle again. Fëanáro's spirit is going to ignite the candles that stopped burning when Melkor tainted his home during his imprisonment.
a laita, laita te! Andavë laituvalmet!
Canafinwë shudders when the words reach his hears. He looks up and searches the area. His white blazing eyes shine in the darkness, even more than his fëa does yet they discover nothing. No one of import who could've caught his attention in such a rare, deep tone.
"Bless them, bless them! Long shall we bless them," the voice whispers again, just as Makalaurë is ready to dismiss the sounds as trick of his own mind.
"Who...?" Makalaurë whispers and narrows his eyes in suspicion while his hand travels to his bloodied sword. Ever since the world went dark he's gotten careful with his mind. Whoever spoke to him seems to be aware of this since Canafinwë only feels a gentle touch against his mind like someone's trying to pat his shoulder.
He waits for minutes but when nothing further happens, Makalaurë shrugs and focuses on his previous task. Then his father calls and the incident is forgotten when Fëanáro tells his son to swipe the blood from his face. There're more pressing matters at hand than voices in the wind.