Second Chance

Mellow Soulmate AU.  And so the modern love story of an elf and a mortal continues.  All Sindarin names except, of course, Mandos, who is called Námo.  This is a continuation of "Ballad" and "Edge", but comes before "Euphoria" obviously and hints at some future plans yet to be set in motion.  But you know, just for fun I had to mess around with his powers of "knowing things".  Takes place somewhere in the US in modern times.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion.

Pairings: past Caranthir x Haleth (one-sided)

Characters: Mandos, Caranthir (mentions Haleth and Haley as well as Fëanor, Nienna, spontaneous children of unknown identity (to you) and other random elves)

Warning: non-canon compliant (obviously), non-canon relationship, foresight/premonition, references to torture, mass murder and suicide

Song: Vanille's Theme

Words: 1,587
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chance (noun): a situation favoring some purpose: opportunity; the possibility of a particular outcome in an uncertain situation
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/chance

Hands slammed down upon the table, rattling the single cup and saucer upon the smooth surface.  Ripples lapped at the lip of the cup, their amplitude only demonstrating the level of anger abounding in the air.

"You knew exactly what was going to happen, did you not?"

The elf sounded pissed.  And Námo could not say that he was incredibly surprised given the circumstances.  Caranthir had never been a particularly pleasant and mild-tempered creature, though his fits of rage were usually short for all their violence and impulsiveness, and he was certainly not one to listen to arguments or explanations lest they be shoved bodily down his throat.

At the moment, the fourth son of Fëanor was as red-faced as his namesake implied, half-slouched in the chair opposite the slyly smirking vala.  Arms pulled back from the table and crossed, a glare fixed firmly in place upon that visage, and he reminded Námo almost of a pouting child who was humiliated and embarrassed at being tricked like a gullible imbecile.  But, as there always would be in children of that cursed bloodline, there was a simmering danger lurking just beneath the boyish expression of discontent.

No, Caranthir had not yet exploded into true anger.  If anything, he was just very irritated.

Still, Námo couldn't help but find the image amusing.

"I do not know what you mean."

Those eyes flashed with the ghost of Fëanor.  A warning if ever there was one.  But while a mortal might be intimidated at the raw power and heat of that stare, he was one of the Valar, and no mortal could have done him harm had they tried.

Not even this one.  And, at the moment, Caranthir looked very close to trying despite knowing the futility of such a course of action.

"You do."  The clench of that angular jaw was blatant and the screech of teeth grinding in fury was audible. "Tell me, what kind of disgusting joke is this supposed to be?"

Ah, so that is why he is angry.

"It was not meant to be a joke.  To the contrary, it is anything but."

"Anything but..."

Fists clenched so tightly on the edge of the table that Námo was worried for a millisecond that it might actually crack beneath the pressure.  But the elf across from him sucked in a breath, holding it deep in his lungs until his color had returned halfway to normal.  Until his form stopped trembling in passionate emoting and his hand released their iron grip.

Those eyes opened.  Still white-hot.  Still enraged.  But focused.

Calculating.

"Is this punishment, then?  Was living beyond her death not enough?  Was suffering through all the ages of the world not enough?"

It was more than enough.  

Námo was not a forgiving creature--as the Judge, it was his job to fairly and indiscriminately punish the sins of elvenkind no matter their name, no matter any pity he might feel for them in his heart.  It was the job of his sister to weep tears for their fate and plead for their salvation and absolution, but his place was only to look with an unbiased eye and examine the facts.  Come to a conclusion based purely off evidence.

Caranthir was a murderer hundreds of times over.  Not only of warriors in battle--for that sort of killing was out of necessity and fealty to kingship--but of warriors outside of battle.  Of tradesman and craftsman protecting their homes and livelihoods.  Of minstrels and counselors who had barely held a sword in their life.  Of woman and children who stood unprotected with their fathers and brothers cut down around them.

The only saving grace of any of the children of Fëanor was their penchant for genuine remorse.

They hated what they had done in the name of their Oath.  What they felt they had to do and did only because they believed there was no other way.  Every single one of them wept and rained scorn upon himself in penitence, no matter how hidden that inner remorse might have been, buried deep beneath layer upon layer of defense.

Nonetheless, they were punished.  Some with long years of looking back upon their memories.  Some with bouts of terrifying madness and confusion.  Some with shunning, with the suffering of those they held dear to their hearts.

Rare was it that Námo needed to punish an elf personally and intentionally, for Eru had his ways of directing the world.

Caranthir had fallen for a mortal woman who rejected his love.  He had pined and suffered after her brief life and death.  He had killed and sated his lust for blood but given himself up in the end rather than take more innocent lives in what to him seemed a pointless quest of vengeance.

He had paid the price of each drop of blood spilled by his blade--paid in tears and torment and loneliness.  In the loss of all he held dear.  And Námo could only ask until there was nothing else to be given.

The vala would have been content to house this spirit of darkness and smoldering, charred ash within the jail of his Halls until the End of Days.  Spared this spirit any more of the pain of living.

But Caranthir had chosen rebirth.  He had chosen to sail back.

It was he who had chosen to live on when he could have curled up in the Halls of the Waiting and languished for eternity in grief and dementia.  And it was he who continued to live, resisting the call of the West, resisting the fading, resisting the loneliness and bitter ache of remorse in order to survive another day in a world he neither loved nor desired.

No, Námo had never needed to punish this pathetic, sad creature.  Not like this.

"I do not believe that this event was conspired to punish you, child."

"If not to torment me then what purpose does her face on a mortal's body do me?  What is it you desire then, oh Lord of the Dead?  For me to become attached again to a woman fated to die in a few short decades?  For me to suffer through rejection twice and watch her grow old and vanish like the morning mist?  To topple what little remains of my will to live and watch me plummet into madness?"

Breathing hard despite the quiet of his hissed words, Caranthir leaned across the table and sneered.  Never had Námo beheld a face so wretched, so wrecked and twisted, upon a creation meant to be pure and beautiful.  A face of accusation and betrayal and utter disdain.  But the vala knew that this elf believed he was cruel and vindictive enough to throw the loss of his One in his face, tear open old and scarred wounds and rub them with salt and poison for sport.

Such was the reputation of the Judge.

"This is not a punishment.  If anything, this is a second chance.  Your second chance."

Those eyes narrowed. "Oh yes, a second chance to destroy myself properly this time.  I see."

"So cruel you believe I am, but I did not create this series of coincidences to harm you.  In fact, I did not create them at all.  I am only aware of what may happen."

He could see many paths.  Could see two in particular for this elf before him, one of utter ruin and one of bittersweet joy.

One where he sat alone at a grave and wept for what could have been but never was.  They only met once, but he had shoved her away out of fear of the pain of parting.  And yet, though he knew not even her name or whether she might have been the re-embodiment of his One, Caranthir still mourned as though she had been.

Languished in the unknowing.  In ends left untied...

Fraying and fraying...

And one where he stood also at a grave, face worn and weary, but with a child at each shoulder with his height and sharpness but her features and resolute expression.  Still, he wept and felt the overpowering tide of grief at the tearing apart of their bond, but there was too the remembrance of joy that had been gotten.  Of sweet moments of togetherness, of creating the family that he had always been denied...

Of no longer being alone.  And knowing that, though the pain would never fade...

It was a price well-paid...

"The Father has granted you a boon.  An opportunity.  One that can be squandered or one that can be furnished and tended." The vala leaned back in his seat, eyeing the distraught, infuriated elf with contemplation.  He did not hesitate a moment to meet those blazing eyes, for all the ashy hatred that scalded their depths at that moment.

"It is up to you to decide how to use this gift.  To accept it or deny it is your choice."

And then he stood, turning away, all amusement lost.  The future wavered precariously within his mind's eye, teeter-tottering back and forth between fates, still not set in stone.

"Only the Father has the power to reincarnate a soul," he added. "And He does nothing without reason.  Perhaps He has deemed your punishment finished."

He glanced back, found the fire fading fast.  Watched the balance shift...

"Perhaps He just wants you to be happy, silly child."