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Title: Involuntary Admission (#4475)
Author: MrsAnalytica
Chapters: 4

Archive: Tolkien
Category: The Silmarillion
Description: Ages and ages of worrying visions, nagging fëar, and being hated/feared by every living creature have left their trace on Námo... No wonder thus that at long last he starts to behave a little... erratic. When even his wife Vairë gets concerned, the Valar decide to drastic measures...
Published: 11 Jun 2013
Updated: 16 Oct 2013
Warnings: 
Type: Humour
Characters: Námo; Vairë; Manwë; Tulkas; Oromë; Irmo; Nienna


Chapter 1 - Don't Tell Mandos

The Circle of Doom had been called together, but it was missing one crucial element: its Doomsayer. Vairë had been very peculiar about that when she made the request for the gathering, Námo Mandos was not to be told anything about it. Such a request, coming from the Doomsayer’s wife, was certainly disconcerting… They had all heeded it. When at last Ulmo –the perpetual latecomer- arrived and took his place in the circle, Manwë coughed for attention.
“Vairë. You requested an urgent meeting of the Máhanáxar… Now we have gathered, tell us of your reasons.”
The Weaver of Stories hesitatingly spoke up. 
“It’s about my husband, Námo. I… I fear he has… lost his mind.”
Immediately there was worried whispering in the circle. Manwë coughed again to bring the Valar to silence.
“Explain yourself.”
“He… It’s hard to explain. It started long ago, after the unchaining of Melkor. I think he knew of what would happen, to the trees and Arda... But he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t warn us. You know he can only proclaim his dooms when commanded. And then the doom of the Noldor, and the wars… He sees all the fëar of the dead, he hears their stories and sees the damage the war has done to them… I weave the history of the world, watching it as an observer, but he… he sees it through the eyes of the weary and damaged.” She waited a moment. “I know you think of my husband as a cold, stoic person, someone without mercy, without compassion… But he is not, and all the sadness he has hidden over the years has started to… to eat away at his mind.” A tear ran over her cheek, shocking the other Valar. “He is losing himself more and more, and the visions of the future are too much for him to bear now. They have become waking nightmares for him from which even I can’t rouse him. Sometimes he doesn’t even recognize me…”
Nienna got up to comfort her sister in law, while the rest of the Valar exchanged concerned glances and shared thoughts not for Vairë to hear. It was Irmo who spoke up first.
“I can help him, but he would have to let me. In all the ages of our existence he hasn’t once allowed me, or Estë, to help him with the weight of his burden. If you could convince him…”
Vairë shook her head.
“He won’t leave his Halls, not ever. Even in his delirium he is hopelessly devoted to his task, although he is barely capable of performing it anymore. Not to mention that he always made a point of never asking for help.”
Tulkas boomed,
“Then we just have to force him! Oromë and I can catch him easily, and then bring him to you!”
That caused Irmo to indignantly glare at the Vala of War.
“You can’t force mental help on someone, Tulkas! The person has to allow you in his mind, otherwise it’s an act comparable to rape!”
Manwë sighed.
“I see your point, Irmo… but if Vairë is correct then there may be no other way. If your brother is truly this ill, he cannot be held responsible for his choices, and therefor we can’t allow him to choose whether or not you treat him.”
The Master of Dreams glanced unhappily at the crying women, and then at Manwë. 
“If you’re planning on kidnapping my brother and bringing him to me for treatment, then who will run the Halls of Mandos in the meantime? Even in illness Námo has been performing his task, and we can’t have the fëar of the dead without supervision…”
Varda smiled and answered before her husband could.
“That’s easy. We will take over from him until he’s better.”
Ulmo remarked,
“Who will take over? Some of us have tasks to tend to as well…”
“We’ll switch, take turns. Irmo and Estë don’t need to take a turn because they’ll be looking after Námo, and Vairë needs to weave, but the rest of us can certainly take over for a little while, no?”
They all had to admit that Varda’s plan wasn’t bad. After all, how hard could it be, running the Halls of Mandos? First they had to capture the Doomsman though, and that wouldn’t be an easy job if the Weaver were to be believed…


Chapter 2 - Watch Out, He Bites (Or, How To Catch A Vala)

Armed with a special net Aulë had especially made for the purpose of trapping one Námo Mandos, Oromë and Tulkas left for the Halls of Waiting. Oromë was worried about the Doomsman, and wondered in what state they would find him. Tulkas just seemed elated at their “adventure”. When they were sneaking into the grey halls, Tulkas remarked gleefully,
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“What?”
“That we went on a hunt together.”
“This is not a hunt, this is an intervention.”
Tulkas grinned.
“Yes, and we’re intervening with arrows and a net. Which makes it a hunt! We’re hunting for Doom today! You’re called the Great Hunter, I thought you’d be a little more excited…”
“You are really incapable of taking anything seriously, aren’t you?”
“I am capable, I just prefer not to. The world is boring enough without having to be serious about it all the time.”
Oromë sighed and shook his head. The Vala of War was his best friend, but mature he definitely was not. Knowing that it was no use to continue on the subject, he said.
“So, how are we going to go about this?”
“We seek him out, and then you shoot the net at him so he can’t escape, and then I’ll catch him.”
“He’ll be caught in the net already.”
Tulkas laughed.
“Ah yes, but getting him to Irmo won’t be easy, caught in a net or not!”
They had slipped into the Halls effortlessly, but now it was a matter of finding Námo. After passing through room after room full of fëar –who were frightened, impressed, or unmoved by their presence there- without seeing a trace of the elusive Doomsman, Oromë grumbled.
“I wonder if he has ever tried to have a map drawn of this place. I had forgotten it was this big.”
The Vala of War shrugged. 
“Lots of war, means lots of dead people, so there’s a lot of fëar to house. It seems logical to me that the Halls are big. Imagine they wouldn’t be! I mean, if you were dead, would you like having people in your personal space all the time?”
Oromë didn’t know what surprised him more, that Tulkas spent time pondering over such completely useless hypotheses, or that he was familiar with the concept of personal space to begin with. 
“I suppose it would be uncomfortable.”
“Totally. I don’t think we’ll find Námo like this, by the way. Why don’t you just blow your horn, and we lure him here?”
Now there was a good idea. Oromë blew his horn, and as the loud tone echoed through the dark marble halls, the Doomsman appeared from thin air. He looked… well, Vairë hadn’t been exaggerating; he looked horrible. He was even more gaunt than usual, his black hair was unkempt, black bags adorned his deep-laying eyes, and his expression twitched between anger and fear. Oromë didn’t waste time, and before their target had even opened his mouth he shot the net at him, successfully binding his powers. The tirade of curses that exited the Vala’s mouth when he realized this made even Tulkas raise an eyebrow… Oromë tried to apologize.
“We’re really sorry…”
“No, I’m not, this is hilarious.”
The Great Hunter glared at his mirthfully grinning companion.
Not Helping, Tulkas.
“It’s for your own good… We’re just going to bring you to your brother and he’ll help you, and you’ll be back in no time.”
The reaction to that was immediate.
“No! Not my brother! PLEASE! Don’t bring me to Irmo! There’s nothing wrong with me! Let me go you spawn of Morgoth!”
Tulkas smirked and simply picked up the struggling Doomsman and threw him over his shoulder, net and all. 
“I said LET ME GO!”
To put force in his words, Námo bit down hard on the first piece of his captor he could set teeth in. Tulkas frowned.
“Did you just bite me? Námo, did you just actually bite me?!”
Námo answered that question by repeating said action, making Oromë sigh.
“Just so you know, Mandos, you’re not really helping your case here.”
“Argh!”
“If you don’t stop biting me I’ll be obliged to bite back. And just so you know, my teeth are bigger than yours.”
That seemed to stop the Doomsman from setting his teeth in Tulkas, but it didn’t stop him from screaming, cursing and clawing to get out of the net… As they entered the Gardens of Lòrien, Námo was having a full-blown panic-attack-slash-temper-tantrum, screaming and kicking in his restraints. Irmo and Estë, who were waiting for them in the healing house, looked worried. With a wide and triumphant grin, Tulkas deposited his screaming catch on the bed.
“One Doomsman, freshly caught! Watch out, he bites.”
When Irmo looked shocked, Oromë nodded.
“Unfortunately… he does.”

Irmo restrained his brother, who was still in the net to prevent him from escaping, and tried to calm him, to no avail.
“Námo, calm down, it’s just me!”
“I will not let you in my mind and I won’t let you put me to sleep! You can’t force me!”
“I’m not going to force you. You know me.”
And as he said that, Námo’s movements stilled. His breathing calmed, but it was clearly not by his own free will, as he frowned at his brother. He already sounded drowsy when he glared and said,
“How is this… not forcing me?”
“I’m not forcing you. I’m simply allowing your mind to feel its own exhaustion. You’re falling asleep all by yourself.”
“I h-hate you.”
“I know, and I hope you’ll be able to forgive me one day. But now you really need to rest.”
Incapable of fighting it any longer, Námo’s eyes lost focus as he surrendered to sleep. Irmo sadly looked at his brother.
“I’m so, so sorry that I have to do this to you…” Then he turned to the other Valar. “Can anyone get Aulë to release my brother from this net? I can’t treat him like this and he won’t be going anywhere soon anyway.”
Oromë and Tulkas were happy enough to go, having done their duty of Doomsman-hunting…


Chapter 3 - The (Not Very) Good Example

Being the Elder King usually meant that Manwë got to have the last word in things. Now however, it meant he got to have the first shift of Fëar-Sitting in the Halls of Mandos. Giving the good example and all that… It wasn’t very hard, doing Námo’s job. The fëar all neatly responded to the call of the halls when they got separated from their hröar, and he didn’t have to go seek out any disobedient dead. Not having a lot to do, Manwë just sat on the Doomsman’s throne and stared at the ceiling. He missed his airy halls on Taniquetil already… In truth, the Halls of Waiting felt like sitting in a cave; there was dark black marble everywhere, and not a single window. And to add insult to injury, Námo’s throne was terribly uncomfortable. Manwë didn’t know that the Doomsman barely ever sat there, so he wondered how in Eru’s name Námo kept his butt from going numb.
It didn’t take long before the absence of blue sky, snow, and eagles started to affect Manwë. Talking to no one in particular, he mumbled.
“I can see why Námo went mad here… This place is horrible… I’m going mad too, look at me, I’m already talking to the walls…”
He had to do something, and he could better do it quickly before he lost his composure to lack of fresh air and claustrophobia… The best solution would be going home, but thanks to him having to give a good example he couldn’t really abandon the job halfway his shift. No, then the next best thing would be making Mandos’ Halls more like home… and Manwë happened to know exactly how to go about that. A little later, the cries of his eagles echoed through the usually silent halls, and the temperature had dropped several degrees under zero. After adding a “borrowed” pile of pillows from Vairë to it, the throne was a lot more comfortable, and Manwë stretched out in satisfaction with his redecoration efforts. Pristine white snow piled up on the marble floors, soft layers of ice crystals covered the dark walls and seemed to light them up, and from every ridge hung artfully twisted icicles. His eagles weren’t exactly happy to have to stay inside, but luckily Námo’s ceilings were high enough to permit indoors flying. No, Manwë was quite content. Like this, it wasn’t half so bad having to sit there and do nothing… and those pillows were really exquisitely soft… he should ask Vairë if she could make some for his halls, Varda would sure love that… Boredom, familiar sounds, and very soft pillows eventually caused the Elder King to fall asleep. He would have been perfectly happy to lie there and sleep for the rest of his shift –it wasn’t as if those fëar needed anything from him- if not for the sounds of anguish that woke him… 
“Huh!? Wha…?”
He startled up, hearing… well, wailing echoing through the halls. And then his eye caught Thorondor, his favorite eagle, sitting in front of the throne. With its heavy voice it stated.
“Manawenûz, I never thought I’d say this, but… you’re an idiot.”
In complete confusion, Manwë forgot his dignity somewhat.
“Huh? What? What did I do?”
The large bird shook its head.
“Lots and lots of ice. Noldor elves. Wails of anguish. Rings a bell, perhaps?”
Manwë blinked.
“Err… no?”
If eagles were capable of facepalming, Thorondor would have done so. 
“The Helcaraxë, maybe? Most of the elves who died in the Grinding Ice haven’t been re-embodied yet.”
Well, yes. That rung a bell for Manwë. He looked at his pretty white decorations, not understanding how those could bring anyone to wail in anguish. They were pretty!
“But… it’s just a bit of snow!”
“Yeah, here in this hall it is a bit of snow. They’re having a blizzard, three rooms to the left from here. You really shouldn’t mess with the weather inside a building.”
Oh. Right. 
“I… I see…” Manwë pensively bit his lip. “Thorondor, why are you telling me this?”
Again, the great eagle had the urge to facepalm.
“Well, you’re currently holding the position of Lord of Mandos, so you’re supposed to do something about it.”
“But they’re all dead already anyway, what harm can a blizzard do?”
“The Halls of Waiting are supposedly a place to heal from the weariness of a past life. I don’t think much healing is being done with the fëar reliving their traumatic deaths, really.”
For someone nicknamed the Breath of Arda, Manwë was really surprisingly dense at times, Thorondor thought as he watched the positively confused Vala. He greatly respected the Elder King… but in this matter it seemed Manwë was clueless as could be. The eagle helpfully provided;
“You could start with making it stop snowing.”
“Right. Good idea.”

(Author's Notes)
I know Manwë is supposedly the wisest of the Valar, but wise and practical aren't necessarily the same thing. Here, he's the philosophizing, bird-keeping, literally head-in-the-clouds Vala who leaves most of the practical things to his wife while he indulges in making artsy snow figures and worrying about his brother. Also, who else thinks Thorondor is surprisingly down to earth for... well, being a bird, basically? 
*chuckles* I wonder how happy Vairë will be when she discovers what has happened to her pillows... and her tapestries, they're probably all frozen stiff... Ooh, Manwë, you better run (like the wind, ehehehe) xD


Chapter 4 - AUTHOR'S NOTE

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Dear readers,

It wasn't my intention to write slash into this story, but somewhere along the way it happened. Hence why I won't be uploading more chapters to this; I don't want to offend or act against archive regulations. 
The story is complete, and can be found on Fanfiction.net under the same title (just noting this in case someone is interested), but as I said it won't be uploaded here. 
If I have to remove this story from the archive because of this, please let me know. 

Sincerely,
Mrs. Analytica (also known as Quantumphysica)
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