Justice

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Because in my story the Noldorin exiles return to Middle-earth, and nothing happens for no reason.  They've got friends in high places, even if they don't know it.  No names are mentioned, though this story references several other stories ("Broken", "Locked" and "Recoil", plus some others here and there).  Also, it's written from the POV of Mandos, but I'm using his real name instead of the name of his home.  Therefore, he will be referred to in the story as Námo, because I'm a snob.  Takes place somewhere in the Second Age.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion.  At this point, though, the plot is becoming mine.

Pairings: a few mentioned, but none explicitly named

Characters: Mandos, Manwë (mentions of a bunch of unnamed Noldorin elves who are unnamed because that's how I felt like writing the story)

Warning: extremely AU, canon-character death, original characters, anonymity, mentions of premeditated mass murder, war, death, insanity, vengeance, prejudice, genocide, uxoricide, suicide and has blatant precognition

Song: Sayuri's Theme

Words: 1,770
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justice (noun): the quality of being just, impartial, or fair; the principle or ideal of just dealing or right action; conformity to this idea: righteousness; conformity to truth, fact or reason: correctness
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/justice

"Something needs to be done."

Eyes precisely the hue of the open sky stared down at him.  They darkened with each passing moment as Arien's rays began to hide beyond the Door of Night, as if a mirror reflected the heavenly dome through the man before him, the living incarnation of the sky and the air.  Those jewels were set in a face curved with warm laugh-lines and sun-kissed damask cheeks.

But Manwë was not smiling today.

"What dost thou mean, mine brother?"

Of course, he could never understand.  None of their brethren, for all the power, could understand.  It was not their burden to see the way Námo saw.  The world turned and revolved, the seasons changing, and with every decision made, every word whispered, the images that consumed his waking moments and dominated his dreams few and far between morphed and twisted into new patterns, new realities waiting just beyond the corner of time.  A pat on the back here.  A kiss on the cheek there.  A single whispered word overheard behind closed doors.  And suddenly everything was different.

"Thou knowest that I cannot speak aloud of such things."  Let it never be said that the Valar did not learn from their mistakes.

And what a mistake it had been, to speak aloud the Curse of the Noldor.  What a fool he had been!  And still, the Eruhíni were paying the price for his stupidity and pride.  For once a Doom is spoken, it cannot be rescinded.

And they paid.  And they paid.  They were still paying, paying in blood and spirit and kindred.  Paying in the innocence of their children.  Paying in the happiness of their abandoned family.  Paying with their own lives and hopes and dreams.

Paying unnumbered tears.  The payment would never end.

"You see that boy?   That one there?"

"He looks like him--like crazy old Fëanáro--"

"Sweetling, you mustn't play with him."

"What a strange boy."

"What if he turns out as they did?  A monster."

A little boy with green eyes who knew naught more than his father's name, shunned for something that had happened before he was born.  Too late to save.  Too late to stop.  That boy was a grown man with a bitter, festering hatred for his father and father's kin.  A lonely child who had grown up too quickly, who had become the adult in his home before he was even old enough to marry, who spent his days worrying that his mother would never smile, who desperately wished he could be enough.

"It is not right.  Thou dost know of what I speak."

Whispers, whispers, behind every curtain and in every dark corner...

She held his only hand tightly and wished to be anywhere but in the court.

Anywhere but within earshot of those nasty jabs, spears that wounded more terribly than steel.  Deeper than any blade could reach.

"Did you hear?"

"They will never have children."

"What woman would procreate with that vicious creature?"

"Serves them right.  Kinslayers."

A woman who had never left the sanctuary of Valinor, but who could no longer enter a shop on the streets without patrons hissing threats and vicious remarks at her turned back, well aware that she could hear them as clearly as though they had been spoken to her face.  More than anything, she had desired children, a house full of little ones, more than her husband had brothers!  But though she took comfort in his return, in the safety of his arms and his overwhelming presence, there would be no children, and the dark whispers would not cease.

"Say it plainly, brother."

Dark eyes.  Judging eyes.  They watched with calculation, with ice cold shields distorting the horror deeply hidden beyond.  Lying to his face.  Pretending to care.

Were they not supposed to be his parents?  Yet, they had not even recognized his face.

They could not even look at his face.

And the comments they made.  Should settle down.  Should have stayed.  Should have sired an heir.  Should have watched over his siblings.  Should have this and should have that and...

And every night he regretted ever leaving the apathetic safety of the Halls, because this hell was no longer a sanctuary, no longer the bright light at the end of a road of suffering and honor.

It was a nightmare.

How anyone could fault a man who had ever served others before himself?  There was no better man than this one, no spirit that burned so brightly with happiness, so gloriously with compassion, no soul so willing to put himself in danger for the betterment of his people, to uphold his dignity and honor, to save another life, even one he barely knew.  And yet the weak fools' eyes could see naught but the twisted maze of scars made home upon a once beautiful face to match the golden treasure hidden underneath.

So blind they were.  So provincial and prejudiced.  So vindictive and bitter.

"Thou wishest that I speak plainly?  Thou wilt not like what I have to say."

Worse still, he could see what lay in wait, crouching like a great cat, stalking its prey through the twilight until the darkness of spirit set in, until all the lights were turned out, until there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide and no way to see from which direction the attack was initiated.  Even his own kin did not understand.

They did not see a husband slipping poison into his wife's wine at their evening meal.

He just wanted her to be happy.  He wanted her to forget.

He wanted her to move on, to be apart from him, though it would kill him to let her go.

Because she deserved so much better than a man marked by death and torture and murder.

She deserved a life without whispers.  She deserved a husband who could give her the family she had always dreamed of.

She deserved to be happy.

And when her body was cold, he wept both in despair and horrible joy.  Because it was finally over, and if he slit his throat on the morn and laid with her one final time in the rising light of Anar, no one would be there to miss him in the afternoon.

Wrong, wrong, wrong... 

And that a thousand voices whispered in his head of desire.  Of "Would that I could end those murderers as they ended my people" and "Look at that face; it should not be allowed to grace public viewing!  How disgusting!" and "Pining for a mortal?  What an imbecile!  What an utter fool!" and "If I just slip a knife into my bodice at the party, I can bury it in his gut just as he did to my older brother" and--

"I have always believed in fostering the innocence of our people--the ignorance.  But it has gone too far.  They have tasted vengeance, and though they deal it out not with sword or spear, they wield it to destructive power all the same."

"And what wouldst thou have me do?  The exiles have done wrong.  Is the reaction of the people--wronged and slaughtered--not justified?"

Námo felt dirty for even considering it, and that his king would think such action justice rankled him fiercely, made his hands twitch with the urge to do harm to his own kith and kin, to shake that regal bearing until it crumbled beneath shattered naivety, until those everlasting blue eyes saw reason.  

No, it seemed none of them could understand the difference, could see that this cycle of hatred and revenge would never end.  It would keep going and going until, finally, it ended in a climactic tragedy, a culmination of all the terror and the bitterness of their sundered children tucked snugly under a rug of deceit and placation.  Until the emotional ammunition was set alight and exploded, sending scalding flame licking across their faces. Teaching them a lesson that ought already to have been learned.

"There is nothing justified about it.  Justice implies correctness, and all I see waiting at the end of our current path is self-destruction."

Because he could see the mobs, see the images in their mind, the feigned justice, the diaphanous veil disguising wrath and vengeance as something purer and saner.

No sanity awaited there.

He could see them turning on their own kin as the Noldor had long ago, in blood and fire and fury.

He could see the dead lying in the streets with lifeless, glazed eyes.

He could see the Kinslayers weeping as their victims had once wept.  And he could see the madness returning to their star-like glances, leeching away their terror and replacing it with a familiar lust for blood, a lust to reclaim, to retake, to ravage, to avenge.

He could see history repeating itself.  Again and again and again...

"Trust me," he ordered. "Trust in my Sight.  Has it ever been wrong before?"

It never had.

"Justice will prevail, but not here.  And not by the hands of the people.  They are not impartial.  They do not see in terms of equality.  They see only what they wish to see."

His king gazed upon him with incisive directness. "This is a foolhardy decision.  Art thou certain?"

"I am.  Let them find redemption across the sea.  Let them be sundered from this land should they choose.  Let them break the endless circle of vengeance before it has a chance to sprout and branch and feed its poisonous fruit to our people."

There was a slow, diffident nod, uncharacteristic of their self-assured king. "I will permit this.  They will be under thy jurisdiction." He paused, lips pursing tightly, brows furrowing in concern for the Children. "Watch over them, mine brother."

"I shall."

Because in the end, he could see them.

Could see redemption lurking for those brave enough to reach for it.

Could see repentance in the fey eyes and fiery hearts.

Could see better days watering the seeds of contentment and compassion, birthing light more powerful than any Silmaril could hope to shine.

There was hope yet in better tomorrows.

Justice and righteousness must prevail.  He did not tell his brother that the fate of their greatest passion and creation depended upon it.

Because once spoken, Dooms could not be rescinded.

The future was yet uncertain.  They could not afford a second mistake.
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This thing is rather bizarre, but it came to me earlier today and stuck.  I hope you don't mind its strangeness.  Writing from the perspective of a vala is a bit loony.  I imagine that they don't work quite the same way as regular people do.  And man, can you imagine how much pressure you would be under if you could see the future of everything?  I know, classically bad things happen when you try to change things and make them better, but can you blame a guy for trying?

I found an amazing song today while sifting through John Williams music (because I'm a dork like that, let's be honest here), and though it has literally nothing to do with the story itself, I still think it's amazing music.  Williams stole God's iPod.  That's the only explanation. Sayuri's Theme from Memories of a Geisha.  Beautiful piece.

And because it's fun: Vala: Mandos and Vala: Manwe by *noei1984 on dA.  I swear, it's impossible to find good Mandos fanart.  Mostly it's just a creepy guy in a dark cloak.  Come on, where's the fun in that?  He's not just the Lord of the Dead.

In fact, as a little fun trivia, you should all know that Mandos' name (and I swear I didn't make this up) is Námo the Just. "Námo" means "the judge" in Quenya.