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There were so many dying.
That was all that could be said. Falling to old enemies, or new ones recently uncovered. A battle that may have been won, but for a few factors, that led to disaster after disaster, destroying nearly every kingdom that still stood against Morgoth. So many dying, and so many more to come. Irmo could not soothe the visions of all around him, Namo was barely able to guide the souls at the speed they came, even with much more help than he normally had. Nienna could not stop crying. There were little moments of pause for the Fëanturi, nor for the Maiar that followed them. The floors were covered with the ghosts of blood spilled from and by the tens of thousands that entered the halls. Ears heard naught but cries, eyes saw only suffering.
Tears unnumbered ye shall shed.,/em.
It had indeed been his brother who had proclaimed that. Rumor was uncertain whether the one who had spoken to the noldor, given them one last opportunity to turn back, or fall in ruin to what lay ahead, had been the doomsman himself, or but a messenger of his. but Irmo knew it had been his brother. The dead from Aqualondë had filled his halls, more slain at once than had been even during the time where Melkor had hunted the Quendi, elves, they now were at times called, before the Valar had found them.
Some of their number had wished to yet show mercy to the noldor. Some were tempted to vanquish them. Osse had nearly done so, a wave the size of a mountain had been stopped moments before it took the kinslayers, along with, most likely, the whole of Alqualondë, in the roaring of the water a scream of rage could be heard.
They had not slain the noldor. But Namo had went to them, and had announced their doom and their last chance to escape it. It was less a curse than stating of the future, but Irmo had felt the rage burning in the fëar of his brother, and he knew that at the least to some extent he may have wished that future on them.
Whoever had made it so, that future had come. Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the battle would be called. The battle of unnumbered tears, just as had been declared after the kinslaying. The numbers of the slain well outweighed those of the survivors, and to those of Beleriand, all had been lost, and the few sparks of hope that remained would have no chance on their own.
The dead walked here. Irmo knew that of his siblings, he was the only one whose duty was often with those who had never died. Namo had not seen a living child of Illuvatar since before the sun had first risen. And, unlike the other valar, he allowed that to be apparent, not merely in his halls, which while they were not pleasant in the way of the lands of nearly all the others, were not a place of pain or fear, those who the halls may hold such things for were well beyond that by the time they reached them. But he showed them on himself, in his very appearance. The death around him did not affect his form, but he chose to make it do so nonetheless, the missing flesh and darker colors he now walked with some strange form of recognition that though Valinor yet seemed a place of light, there was terrible suffering in its past and the lands beyond it.
Over time, as more and more appeared in the halls of Mandos, the keeper of the halls began to resemble the dead to greater extent. As Namo encountered more souls, Irmo could see the changes his brother took were specific.
The more he spoke to those who had their heads cut from their shoulders, the more and deeper jagged lines grew across his neck, certain places now showing nothing but bone. After enough who had been stabbed in the eye, his sunk further into his skull, and their blue turned black. Many had been cut down at the legs, or had their limbs hewn, his robes were torn, as were parts of his flesh. While he did not show it visibly, Irmo knew his chest and back were likely made of only bone by now, with all who had been stabbed or shot. Those who had been consumed by dragon flame were remembered by the darker shadows on him in the forms of burn scars.
While I am aware you wish to recognize all that has been done to these people, it may be unwise to appear this way if you do not wish to alarm them.
Irmo spoke from his fëar into that of his brother.
What they see on my form has already come to pass, to them, and to those around them. They have gone beyond fear.
One who was not accustomed to the sensation of communication of the fëar by Namo would certainly have flinched. Irmo knew his own to be softer, smoother, as was his personality and for the most part his abilities. That of the other fëanturi was of stone falling into place, a flat statement, somewhat similar to a blow, though there was no pain, merely a form of grayness, the stunning intensity increased by the death around him. Irmo and his kind had been in existence for much time before they had physical forms to speak with, he had communicated with his siblings in this way for what could be considered tens of thousands of millenia.
It is true that they have already lived through the most terrible of what could happen, but even so, I doubt any being in existence aside from those we oppose would wish for more reminders of this than what we have before us.
And many who do not see it refuse to remember because it is easier to forget. The slain shall not be forgotten.
Even so.
Irmo returned the rest of his attention back to his physical form, as he was speaking with his brother, he had also been giving instructions to a maia who had gone to the halls of Mandos to assist their lady, Nienna, in caring for the damaged souls. In the tongue of the children of Illuvatar their name was Noelin, the song of lament, their voice could both reveal the hidden pain inside the fëa, and soothe it.
“My apologies, Noelin. Could you repeat that?” Irmo did not need to tell them why he had not understood the first time, the Maiar of Nienna were especially attuned to osanwë, and Noelin was no exception.
“You have no need to worry, Lord Irmo.” A smile of soft rainfall and gray clouds graced their form. “There are many places in which your attention is needed at this time. What I was speaking of was a founding my fellow Maiar and I have discovered of the fëar. They are suffering, as is to be expected; though it appears their pain is far, far deeper than what could have been done in a battle’s time. Many of them have seemed to fear us, not for our presence in the halls, but for our nature as Ainur. We believe that the ancient pain from the ending of the Age of the Trees still haunts them, my lord.”
“Is that so?” Irmo would be lying if he were to say this surprised him. Though many of the Valar refused to acknowledge it, their actions had wounded the Children as much as those of the Children had wounded them, if not more.
“It seems to be.” Though Irmo was far beyond Noelin in power, their voice still possessed its gentle ability to uncover emotion, and the thoughts of the Vala of dreams lingered upon the Exiled children with far more feeling than he was able to allow himself at this time.
“Thank you for telling me, Noelin.”
The Maia nodded, recognizing the statement as a gentle dismissal.
“Of course, my lord.”
And moments later, they no longer stood before Irmo, though the Vala of dreams knew them to be yet in the halls, traversing through the broken Fëar as the rest of all the Ainur who were willing to view this side of their creation did at this time.
Irmo could not fault his fellow Valar who were absent at this time. This was not their realm, and this was not their duty. Though at times, he considered the fact that those who were permitted to be involved throughout Arda were generally not the same ones who witnessed the reality of the beautiful, broken lands.
Tears unnumbered ye shall shed.
And, as Irmo surveyed the halls, full of those who he could not truly help, they did so.