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It was a large battle, and Námo walked the field of many dead. There were spirits here before the Morannon, in the final battle where the power of Sauron broke at last, many, rising from broken and battered shells, severing ties to the slow rolling of the earth beneath them. They rose towards him, many men, and he opened the door for them to continue on. They walked forward, some haltingly, others eagerly, but most without realization at all. He would judge them, and pass them on, and they would go, then, whither the spirits of men did, as he could only guess and only Iluvatar knew.
It was a large battle, and Irmo walked beside him. With them also was Nienna, weeping over the field of the dead. Námo and Irmo only walked, but Nienna stopped and knelt often, closing eyes, inviting spirits into peace a few minutes before they were due, or ringing a soft bell in the mind of one still walking, to turn around and bring aid.
Námo stared hard at the wavering spirits of the many orcs that lay dead or dying. With a great breath he gathered himself, and then blew out, blowing the spirits from the orcish bodies. They rose, crying out, and he herded them towards the door which he held open. The spirits were of mostly elf-shape, twisted and corrupted, and rank with the evil touch of Melkor and his minions, but Námo would judge them, and keep them, and perhaps in time they would come to know the light they had been denied their entire lives. He sent them forward into a dark corner of Mandos with the slightest curl of his lip, for they had been wickedly used and had caused harm upon Middle Earth, almost to its ruin.
Námo turned and waved a hand at a struggling soul, reaching down to help it exit its body. The soul was quite young, a son of Gondor, blinking scared eyes that would perceive the Vala as a bright light with only faint shape. Námo opened the door and invited the soul inside. It was confused, not yet old enough to know what to expect of death, and unlike many of the soldiers who rose from corpses across the field, it did not carry its sword with it. Go, child of peace, Námo said, giving the soul a light push in the right direction. Your life was short, and unstained before this. Go now, to whereafter awaits you. Finally, the soul drifted forward, disappearing through the door that Námo held open.
The sound of Nienna weeping made him turn from his guiding of souls that continued to rise and file through the doorways he held for them. Nienna was on her knees again, stroking the hair of one fallen. Ah, Námo thought, drawing nearer. Here was the one he sought. The elf among the field of men and orcs; the immortal soul he had come to collect.
Nienna was kneeling beside him, her hands caressing the worn face of the companion who had crashed to his knees beside the still figure, pressing desperate hands to the would that spilled the elf's blood onto the cold earth.
"No, no! Legolas!" The companion was a dwarf. How unlikely, but then Vairë had told him of this particular pair. She'd laughed, tickled at the poetic justice of their friendship. She would be cross with him, he knew, for taking this one home before their story had time to truly finish. "Come on you, blasted elf," the dwarf growled. He wept with Nienna, as she laid her hands over his eyes. "You don't get to give up on me now! Healer! We need a healer here!" He turned his head, yelling in a booming voice behind him. Nienna looked up, and at her beckoning a young page heard and scurried off.
You are too late, Námo thought. This is one I have already called. Nienna and the dwarf both ignored him. Still, as he watched, the flickering feä of the elf began to rise fitfully from the broken chest.
Come, little child of Iluvatar, Námo said. Your fight has ended. It is time to rest.
The elf's feä flickered again. It was drawn towards Námo, but it was fighting him. Nienna wept, smoothing her hands over the fledgling feä, stilling its struggle momentarily. He hurts himself, she said.
Your fight has ended, Námo said again, more forcefully. Come, you have earned your rest. You have many awaiting you.
The feä flickered and tensed, but did not move any farther from the dwarf and the battered hroä. That hroä was unsettled, already pale skin turning clammy and starting to deny the feä access.
"No, no, no," the dwarf muttered. He looked around wildly at the battlefield, finally spotting the healers coming. They were in the distance. Far away, too far. Legolas was dying, the dwarf knew it, suddenly. "Don't!" he cried. Námo turned to watch the dwarf. Nienna was pressing her hands over his heart. "Do not, please, Mandos, Lord of Spirits, please leave this one with us."
Námo stared, a little bit shocked. He had not heard many dwarves cry out his name. Perhaps this one had learned of it from his friend the elf, whose feä even now fought against the Vala's call. The dwarf continued, losing clear words in his muttered panic, but the prayer of his heart was loud and unmistakable. Please! Do not take him now.
Námo narrowed his eyes. That hroä was very nearly too broken to accept the feä back, even if he did release his claim upon it.
He is hurting, Brother, Nienna said, holding onto the golden feä of the elf that spasmed fitfully about the body. He will hurt if you take him now.
They are all hurting, Námo said. Death was not often the choice of those who became acquainted with it. He did not choose for them, either, he only shepherded the souls when their time had ended. This one has fought well. He has spent his blood for his people and his land, and so honors himself. There is grief upon him, also, He said, for he perceived the siren call of the sea clinging to this feä and knew it was unwelcome in such a child of the forest. It is time. The hroä is broken. To linger would be more grief.
"Don't you dare, you leaf-brained fool," the dwarf whispered fiercely. He fumbled against the chill of the elf's blood-soaked chest, pulling at something more than cloth and armor. Inexplicably, Námo saw the golden feä almost respond, pulling for just a moment towards the dwarf instead of the Vala. "I've not dragged you this far to see you fall here, not when we're so damn close to home."
Námo held his place, unyielding, as Nienna's tears fell beside him, and as each tear touched the earth, a strange and gentle glow spread outward. Irmo, quiet at Námo's side and having drawn near at one point to watch, lowered his head, a faint sigh of sorrow on his lips.
"Legolas," the dwarf whispered, voice rough. "You flighty, infuriating fool of an elf, Legolas!" The dwarf pressed both hands desperately in firm pressure against the weeping wound, the warrior's creased face a grimace of fear. "I know how you love running off, but by Mahal no one's going anywhere today. You listen, you mad tree-climber—I will not leave you."
Námo's gaze was fixed solely on the dwarf. He marveled at the fury and grief swelling from the stout figure bent over his friend's broken body. Here, he thought, is a rare love. Nienna was peering up at Námo, her tears mingling with the ones that fell down the dwarf's face, mingling with the pulsating struggle of the straining feä.
What would you have me do? said Námo, regarding the strange tableau. He spoke again to the feä that fought him still. You have given yourself fully to this world, child of Ilúvatar. You have fought bravely. Rest is no weakness; it is a gift, and it is yours.
But the feä resisted, a pulse of golden light shaking against his call. It clung to the edge of the broken hroä, and Námo saw that same unspoken prayer in its shimmer—a fierce, wordless refusal.
Nienna looked to Irmo then, beseeching the younger brother. Unbidden, Námo felt his siblings' touch upon his thoughts. There was the grief of the dwarf kneeling in the dirt, then of a man, the new king of men flickering between a young, dusty ranger and the new, resplendent king, the golden laugh of the elf beside him always. Then the plaintive faces of four hobbits, flashes of conversations around the fire, of a bond deeper than brotherhood forged in the long miles of their journey and the gentle regard for growing things. Then the flashing feä of the elvenking he knew well, the proud, inimitable, tumultuous power of him protecting fiercely the children of Iluvatar against shadow and evil and clutching close this golden feä that soothed like a balm and stoked as a fire in turn. There were flashes of a bright forest, slowly rebuilding itself after great fires, then Fangorn, ancient and mysterious, explored through steadfast friendship, the land of Ithilien made beautiful once more, then and finally last, the sea, returned to with grief and pain but not braved alone. Then the anguish of the dwarf again, close to the sea yet not there yet, the possible future dimming as the dwarf sat on his knees in the black sand, before the Morannon, hands stained with the lifeblood of the elf even as his heart cried out to Námo in desperation. Námo settled his mouth grimly, looking hard at Nienna, and at the little feä that trembled in her grasp.
What would you have me do? he said again. It was not right for a soul to turn back once he had called it forth. It was not right to restore it to a body that could not hold it, nor to divert the marching of fate for personal attestation.
"Please, do not do this," the dwarf gasped, eyes tracking the progress of the healers who rushed towards them, and came only too slowly. "He has fought too hard to fall here. Legolas, I shall never forgive you if you die on me in this accursed place!"
The feä trembled harder, once again pulling away from Námo and towards the dwarf. Námo stared, something close to amazement on his immaterial face. Twice, this little feä had directly defied him. Already it clung to a battered hroä far longer than it should have been able to, and twice it resisted his gentle calling enough to turn away.
This will mean more pain for you, Námo said to the straining feä. The elf understood. I would give you rest. Healing. There are many waiting to greet you, Beyond. The feä flickered, struggling to cling to the slowly cooling hroä. The years you gain will not be kind to you. You have already done your due and more for this Earth. There is no shame in letting go.
The feä did not stop.
Let him fight, said Nienna, pushing the feä back towards the elf's chest. He has chosen.
Slowly, strangely, Námo released the feä from his attention, watching as it wavered for a moment, no longer drawn towards him, then drifted back towards its body. More people swarmed into the unexplainable scene, one figure, in tattered armour, half of it discarded, grabbed the elf's head and called aloud. He reached for the feä and Námo was only briefly surprised at the authority within the command that was issued and the power with which this mortal reached into the spiritual realm.
"Legolas! Come back to us, mellon-nin," Aragorn, son of kings commanded, alighting a different path for the fluttering feä. Námo watched as the little soul struggled eagerly down this new path.
Suddenly, with wide eyes, Aragorn Elessar looked up, his eyes flitting briefly around. He perceived them, Námo could tell, though he couldn't say to what degree.
"Please," Aragorn panted then, "My Lords, do not take him now." His healer's hands, well trained and driven by fierce purpose, set about repairing the strained hroä. The others around him hurried to assist, and if they found their new king's words strange, they said nothing. "Please let him live," Aragorn murmured, continually forcing the door back to Legolas' hroä open with his own spirit and will. "He has things to do, yet."
So Námo watched as the feä fought to re-settle, amazed at the strength of this little soul and the love which drew him back. The king of men needn't have beseeched him then, for Námo had already released the elf from his summons. Now he need call only to the prince of elves himself, and eagerly did the prince reply.
Brave little warrior, Námo said in small wonder as the soul forced itself back into the broken body, taking one determined breath, then another. You have chosen a path of more pain, little one. Which I do not think you truly understand. He watched as Legolas breathed again.
Yet, he chose, said Nienna, as she wept both in joy and in grief, as she so often did.
Námo lingered only a brief moment after that, for his presence looming over the elf would make the efforts of both healer and patient more difficult. But he regarded the strange scene with some curiosity, for it was rare, exceedingly rare, that the hand of fate was averted so cleanly. By the combined grief of elf, man, and dwarf. What a strange love, Námo thought. To have defied a thing like death.