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Námo, Doomsman of the Valar, called Mandos, stared out over the creeping Dark that spread like ink across the sky from the East.
“It is coming,” he said to the figure standing at his side.
“It is,” Vairë, his wife, his friend, his sister, his lifemate said. “Are you ready?”
Námo said nothing. What was there to say? The Dark was coming. He had foreseen this day. Vairë shook her head then and left, her footfalls silent in their somber halls. He did not watch her go.
All about Aman elves and Valar and Men and all the races of Arda made plans, made ready for battle. Námo alone did nothing, sitting in his Halls as he opened his doors and let the souls stay or go. The Dark was coming. He knew how this would end. Had they not heard it in the Song? Námo had been created to fulfill the purpose of voicing Eru's Will and Vision. There was nothing more.
Or so it was said.
One elf lingered. Late in coming to his Halls and refusing to leave, for reasons Námo would not name. That elf drew close to Námo as he sat in his small garden, full of rosemary and rue, lilies and hyacinths. He could hear the elf's approach. He heard them stop, right behind his back.
“Will you not look at me, even now?”
Námo closed his eyes. The heavy knot of grief he carried behind his breastbone twisted, stealing his breath. He bowed his head. He said not a word.
That presence drew closer. Námo fooled himself into thinking he could feel the heat of them through his robes. “The Enemy has come,” that beloved voice said. “Will you not stand with me, to face this ending with bravery, with strength? Will you not take my hand –”
“I was married before I knew what that word meant,” Námo said to the darkness behind his eyelids. His hair fell forward about his face. “My spirit was Bound with vows I cannot break. My role in this world was laid out before Eä was ever formed. I am the servant of the Fire Imperishable. I am nothing but a tool to be used, a vessel that speaks when it must. That is all.”
Námo gasped as arms came about him, warmer than anything he had ever imagined. Hot breath washed over the back of his neck. He was held so tight it felt as though he could feel that elf's heartbeat as his own, beating as one.
“Then why do I dream of a world where you and I pledged our fëa to be Bound before Eru Ilúvatar himself? Why do I dream of a world where you and I love each other so fiercely that nothing could part us? Why do I dream...” That beloved voice broke off with a sob.
Námo raised trembling hands and pressed them over those that were wrapped tight about him. He did not pry them off. He memorized the scars, the callouses, the marks of a life long lived. “I will be the last,” he whispered. He did not mean to. “I was given this doom. I am sorry.”
“Then I will stay here with you.”
“You cannot,” Námo managed a bitter smile. “For your family will come for you and you will go, as you must.”
“I will not –”
“Maglor,” Námo whispered. The arms about him went bruising tight. “Don't.”
“I...I love ...”
“ Don't ,” Námo wanted to rip himself from those arms. He never wanted to leave. “I am married,” he repeated, hopeless. “I can never be un-married. This is the Will that has decided all. Go. Go .” He took the necklace from his throat, a small thing, a pure black disc riddled with what looked like stars. It had been the first piece of E ä he had ever seen. He pressed into those calloused hands. “Go,” he repeated, softer. “This is the first of me. It is all I have to give. I am sorry. Go.”
A desperate kiss was pressed to the back of his neck. Námo felt something hot streak down his face. Then those arms were gone. That presence ran from the room and did not look back. The Dark was at the shores of Aman. All the time for preparation had come to an end.
“You were named the Doomsman of the Valar,” said a light voice from his right. Námo opened his eyes and turned, seeing his wife, his best friend, his Vairë, standing at the door to the hall that led to her domain. Long had they lived like that, side by side, content in their separation. Love they had for each other, yes, but not like Manwë and Varda, nor like Aulë and Yavanna. It had taken many Ages for them to understand what vows they had made in the dawn of the creation of the world and how they could never be unmade. “But that is not what Eru Ilúvatar made thee.”
“I was made to be the one to pronounce the judgments of Manwë and Eru since time began,” he said. “What would you have me do? All this I have foreseen. This is the Will of Eru. Thus it must be done.”
“Must,” she said, stepping into their little courtyard. They both had things to mourn here. Something dragged from her hand, spilling across the ground in an iridescent spill, the twist of the warp and the weft so dizzying it made Námo ill just glancing at it. “And I will remind you now, my dear, that no one knows the Will of Eru Ilúvatar but Himself. Not you, not Manwë.”
Námo stared up at her as she approached, each footfall sounding like a strike of a clock. “Speak, then. Tell me what I must know.”
“All that is and all that was and all that might be exist as one.” She bent down until her hands were planted on his in his lap. That heavy fabric was cold to the touch. It burned his hands with its heat. “We are all a part of His mind. We are all a part of His Song. We Are and so is He. So thus I tell you, my Námo, once-husband, that when we meet again, give me the kiss of Kin and nothing more.”
“What –,” he began but Vairë faded between one breath and the next, the edges of her vanishing like smoke on the breeze. A terrible snap went through him, causing him to flinch so hard he all but fell of the bench. The heavy weight of her work lay spread out on his lap, holding him in place. When he managed to gather his breath he realized he was alone. Unbound. Free.
The Dark had come. There would be no way to turn it back. That was the Vision he had been given. That was the truth he was to uphold. It was the end. Their world had run its course, their song had come to its conclusion. Thus would Eru Ilúvatar start again. And again. And again. And again.
Námo sat on that bench in his little courtyard as Aman went silent and still about him. As the voices, raised high with valiant song, were silenced, one by one. As the lights of those who lived on were snuffed out, one after the other after the other.
Námo sat on that bench as the Dark came closer and closer. This was how he was supposed to meet his end.
Wasn't he?
In one world Bilbo Baggins saw the death of Thorin and Fíli and Kíli and went home with a bauble in his pocket, not telling anyone about it. It would cause a great deal of pain and suffering and inspire another Quest far in the future. In another world Bilbo Baggins saw the death of one of his husbands, the death of the boys he would have gladly claimed as Kin, and fell to his knees in despair. In another world the dragon won and the forces of Mordor would have such a foothold in the north that the armies of the last desperate folk that opposed Sauron would crumble before the strength of those dark forces. In another world and in another world and in another world...
Námo, Doomsman of the Valar, called Mandos, closed his eyes. All the worlds that Were went still. The fabric of Vairë's final tapestry lay in his hands, shredding as the Dark closed in on him, seeping into his skin. Aman was empty, the Dark snapping up all and everything until Námo alone was left. The Dark circled his empty Halls, rattling the doors and cracking the walls. Soon it would force its way in and then there would be no one left in Aman, no force left that once remembered the Light of the Trees or the Song that had created it all. There would only be Darkness left. The howling grew louder. The stone about him began to creak.
Then Námo took what was left of Vairë's tapestry in both hands. It was her most elaborate, her most detailed, the greatest piece she had ever made. It Was and Is and Might Be. He opened his eyes.
Námo ripped the tapestry of Time right down the middle. All the worlds about him became Unmade.
The Song began again.