Doomsman of the Valar

(This is from milliways_bar canon where Námo has a mate (Gorlim the Unhappy) and children.)

The castle chamber he and Gorlim had taken as theirs a year ago was quiet. The fire crackled softly in the grate, and the wind outside the window rustled dry branches. Autumn was slowly giving way to winter; the air was chilled when they ventured outside the fire-heated rooms.

Every winter, though, Námo became reclusive, withdrawn, and melancholy. His children didn't approach him as openly, Gorlim treaded carefully around him, and the other inhabitants of the castle kept their distance.

In his chamber, Námo laid on the expansive bed, hands laced on his stomach and his eyes closed. His breathing was even, silent, and the untrained eye might have assumed the body on the bed wasn't living. But it wasn't an untrained eye that gazed upon him. It was a very well-trained eye that roamed over his figure with a slight pout gracing an ageless face.

"This is what? The third year?" Gorlim asked, arms crossed over his chest. "What is it that preys upon your thoughts? You shield them from me, keep the pain to yourself."

Námo cracked an eye and glanced at Gorlim. "I do not know what it is you speak of." The lie was awkward on his lips, and they both knew it.

"You're in my head, lovely," Gorlim said with a knowing grin. "Can't lie to me. Never could."

"It is during the winter that... Lee..." Námo took a deep breath and let is go slowly. "We lost him. We lost him and that still hurts."

Gorlim crawled up on the bed, brushing back his mate's dark hair. "I know," he whispered. "It'll... always hurt. But, you can't let the hurt take hold of you every year. Mourn it once, then let it rest, pretty heron. That's the way it should be. He's gone. Out of our reach. Away from our hearts." Tears glistened in Gorlim's eyes as he relived the pain the loss of his brother still caused him. "We survived it. Don't pick the wound open year after year to see how deep it still runs."

Námo took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around Gorlim, drawing the Man down onto the bed, curled against his side. "We know how deep the wound runs," he murmured.

"Then stop prodding at it. Making it bleed again."

They were quiet then, taking the moment to mourn something they had lost. Something beautiful and precious and gone forever.

After a few moments, Gorlim poked Námo's side. "Are you done?" he asked with a teasing chuckle.

Námo couldn't help but laugh quietly, Gorlim's light-heartedness contagious. "Do I have any option available to me but being through with this?"

Gorlim sat up, his unruly birch hair falling around his face as he looked down at Námo. "I could kick your ass some."

"Eru forbid," Námo said, sitting up himself. "What would your mother say?"

As they stood and headed for the door, the melancholy of the moment buried in the past where it belonged, Gorlim shrugged. "Prob'ly say you deserved it."

"Aye," Námo agreed, closing their bedroom door as they headed downstairs for supper with their large, adopted family. "Nerdanel would say that, would she not?"

Muse: Námo
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Word Count: 529

What is time to someone like him?

When he can recall without any trouble the times before time was counted, what is twenty years into the future? Past, present, and future are all one to him, and so he doesn't look forward, he doesn't look back, he simply looks.

Námo, in twenty years time, will be as he is now. A ghostly figure among Men and Elves. Something to fear. Something to welcome. He is run from as much as he is embraced, and it will be such for him until time ends.

Even then, who can say if he will not exist as he always has? Only Eru knows for certain.

Twenty years.

He measures those years not in personal gain or accomplishment, but in the tears his brethren have shed for the blood spilled by their charges. Wars and vengeance, hatred and steel. Those are what account for the days, weeks, and months of those twenty years.

The only difference Námo can say between now and twenty years from now is that he will feel the weight of his age more. He will be just a fraction more tired. A fraction more cold. A fraction more jaded. A fraction more removed.

Twenty years causes little change for one of the Aratar, but even the little changes can be noted.

Muse: Námo
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Word Count: 221

I will tell you a secret.

Nothing you do is your choice.

You have no free will.

Every choice you make, every choice you have made, I know it all. I knew it before there was a measure of time. I knew it long before life was even a thought in the mind of the Ainur. It is the burden I bear.

Because I know all that will come, you have no choice but to walk the path I see for you. There is no changing direction. If your end is to be a traitor, then you cannot turn from it. If your end is to be hero, then you cannot change it. If your end is to be nothing more than a nameless face in the mass of life teeming in Arda, then that is what you will be and there is no diverting the fate.

By knowing your end, I condemn you to it.

Does that not make you feel better?

Removing all blame and placing it on my shoulders, does that not make all the wrong you do somehow less? You are able to walk without the shame of choice, without the burning pressures of free will. You cannot undo what I know. You cannot make a decision I cannot already outline for you.

This is the greatest secret of our world. All was Sung into existence for the benefit and amusement of the Ainur. You are nothing but puppets for us to watch play out the Song we Sang for our Father's enjoyment.

Does it make you feel better?

Muse: Námo
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Word Count: 263

Mother is not something I know.

Even Father is merely a word to me, the name of what created me.

The argument could be made that He is both my Mother and my Father, but to my knowledge, I was neither conceived nor birthed, and so I do not believe He is either.

Does that make sense to anyone but me?

I often watch the Elves and the Men with their young, and the young with their parents. It is a strange thing, to see them dote on the children and the children clinging to skirts and tunics. I was never so young or so innocent, and I sometimes find myself craving the safety of skirts to hide behind or a tunic to clutch in my hand. It is not an urge I understand, but it is one I have nonetheless.

So when I see the Lady Nerdanel round with her twins and five other children clutching at her... and her ever loving, ever forgiving, ever caring eyes focus on her offspring... something inside my spirit weeps.

Maybe the Valar are as they are because we never had such careful devotion given when our spirits were young. But that brings me back to the problem Mother and Father create: if we had neither, were we ever young?

I am not certain.

All I know is that somewhere in the recesses of my spirit, the Song I carry craves the loving, forgiving embrace of Mother.

Muse: Námo
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Word Count: 244

I remember everything.

I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday.

Yes, I realise how overly dramatic that sounds, but it is the truth. Time means little to me. It is nothing to me. Nothing. How can it mean anything significant when it is the mithril that binds your hands? For many, a prison sentence is something that will end, and so time passes. Time is marked. Time is treasured and cajoled and endured.

My prison sentence will never end.

Even now, I long for the beginning.

Or the end.

In the beginning, which is just as clear to me now as it was then, there was nothing. Nothing for me to endure. It was song and joy. The joys of discovering new power. The sweeping enjoyment of creating this world given to us. We carved caverns, raised mountains, ran rivers! I breathed the air and I smiled.

But the beginning always brings the middle, and it is the middle that is unending. The final moments are but a distant, hopeful future, which seems to grow farther in distance. Every time I reach for that blinding end, that moment when the First Song will conclude and the peace I crave can be given, it slips away.

Another sour note to drive it away.

Time means nothing to me.

Muse: Námo
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Word Count: 221

He stood beside Manwë as the Lord of the Valar looked out into the coming Darkness. It swept Aman like a plague, a living thing woven from Light and malice. He had known.

Námo had always known.

Silence was his burden and now Night had come. Deep within him, Námo seethed.

Without a single outward tell, the Lord of Mandos hated. He despised himself for his lack of choice, and he despised Melkor for doing as fate had dictated he would.

For a brief, frightening moment, he even felt unbridled fury at his Creator.

This was, after all, Eru's fault!

Manwë's voice, soft and sad, broke him of his loathsome thoughts.

"He has avenged himself fully."

Námo remained still and quiet. Melkor's true vengeance would span an Age, not just this night. This night was nothing compared to the tears the Valar would shed, and the blood the Elves would spill. But it was this night when Aman lost its most treasured possessions. It was this night that all that was good and wholesome in the realm of the Valar died a pitiful, painful death.

This night, when nightfall came to devour the hearts of the Elves, was when all would begin.

"We must go to the Ring of Doom," Námo said in a firm, unflinching tone. "We must decide what will be done."

The winds of Manwë were called to drive back the stench of decay and permit Varda's stars to shine in the perpetual night, and the two Valar left the high perch of Taniquentil and descended to the Ring.

As they walked, Námo kept his head high, his lips shut.

Nightfall had come to Aman.

Muse: Námo
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Word Count: 278

Time passes quickly for those who are happy.

He often travelled away from this world. Sharing his spirit with Gorlim over the years had infected him with the warrior's wanderlust. Sometimes it was only for two or three days, but other times he could not see his home for weeks. Once he had inadvertently become lost on his paths for over two months. It was only when Gorlim had tugged on their bond and reminded him of their family that he returned.

Worlds. There were so many worlds! He followed his brother first, from place to place, tempted to force him back to the Void. It hadn't been long before he began to travel for the simple pleasure of wandering in new places. Perhaps it was because he was away so much, or because he was content and happy when he was home, that he never noticed the years whipping by him.

For immortals, time is a strange thing. A single decade moves as swiftly as a single day to them. He had been gone again from the castle for no more than two weeks and he was eager to see his lover and their children.

As he turned the corner toward the room he shared with Gorlim, a ball of laughing child slammed into him. Arms, long and thin, wrapped around his waist with eager joy. He stared down at the head of untamed chestnut hair that reached the child's waist, his brow knitted in confusion. Then the child looked up at him with eyes so like the eyes that had long ago captured his heart.

"Kelly?" he asked, his hands resting lightly on her shoulder.

"Papa Mo! You've come back!" The ten-year-old grinned up at him, her cheeks smeared with gods knew what. "Papa said you'd come back today."

"Did he?" Námo lifted her onto his hip. Even at ten, he was able to easily carry her about. "Your Papa is wise and knowing in the field of a Vala's habits."

Kelly giggled as she buried her face in her father's dark locks. "He just knows you."

Námo smiled, though she could not see him. "So he does."

"Will you be leaving again?" The question was asked softly, hesitantly, and Námo shifted her so he could see her face.

"Not for a while, dovelet." He brushed his hand through her hair, removing a tangle. "I have been remiss in spending time with you, have I not?" The Vala sighed and walked the rest of the way to his room, which was empty at the moment. He sat on the bed, settling the half-grown girl in his lap. "You have grown quickly. It seems only a few days back that you were a toddler learning to run through the castle."

Kelly looked at him with eyes so wise for her being so young. "I'll be eleven soon."

He smiled as he shook his head. "Before I realise it, you will be married."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Not yet. Not for a while."

Námo was quiet for a moment, then looked out the windows. "When you were but a baby, I made you a promise. I told you that, one day, I would tell you a story."

"You've told me lots of stories!" Kelly reminded him with a chirping sound.

"This was a *special* story, though," he said softly. Would you like to hear it now?"

Kelly's hands tangled in the long strands of his hair and she nodded. "I would."

Námo took a deep breath before locking his gaze with hers. "Once, many, many years ago, there was a great house made of stone that stood before a vast forest of pine trees. It was there a warrior and his new bride lived. For a very brief time, there was love and brightness, hope like a blossoming rose, for the young couple. However, war came to their land and the warrior left his wife to fight bravely."

The young girl's hands remained in the Vala's hair as she stared mutely into the endless depths of this creature she had always thought of as her father. In this moment, and it was not to be the last in her long life, she saw him as something Other. He was *old*... older than old... and he Knew things she hoped she would be spared.

"There was a great foe whose only desire was to rule the lands this warrior defended. Bit by bit, the great foe overtook those lands, slaughtering all his twisted minions encountered. The warrior's captain bid his wife to gather the women and children, to bear arms, and flee from their homelands. His wife did this, taking with her those who would go, leaving behind the men to defend their homes. The warrior kissed his young wife and begged her to go with the others, but he had to leave before he saw her off and so her fate was never known to him.

"One by one, the men these women had left behind were killed, until only thirteen were left: the captain and his twelve warriors. Our warrior was among them, heartsick and tired of the bloodshed and cold, lonely nights." His words, spoken softly and filled with power, painted a vivid picture for the young mind listening to him. "He was no longer a warrior, but an outlaw. Desperate and without hope as their homes were burned and their families slain. These were men who could neither escape nor *yield* to the darkness that pursued them."

Kelly heard deep sadness in her Papa Mo's voice, but she didn't understand it. Had he been one of those outlaws who fought? Surely not, because he was powerful. Ancient and full of sparkly magic she'd seen him use before. If he had been there, he would have sent those monsters running for the borders!

"They were hunted and they fled toward the highlands of their realm, and even though the waited for news, for *help*, nothing ever came to aid them. They were a band abandoned to find what rest they could in the heather under the cloudy skies. More than seven years passed in which they were forced to sleep on the unforgiving ground in rain, snow, and blistering heat. Their meals were most times no more than water and softened bark. It was hard to feel anything other than despair in those dark times, and it is that despair that grappled and held our warrior's spirit captive.

"The outlaws had made their home along the banks of the lake called Tarn Aeluin, where the lands around it were untamed. They chose this place because the waters of Tarn Aeluin were unspoiled by the darkness that had claimed most of the land. The captain was able to keep their lair secret from the great foe, though the word of their heroic deeds did travel far and wide. The great foe took his loyal servant aside and spoke to him in low tones, demanding that his loyal servant discover the lair of the outlaws."

Námo paused briefly, then spoke to his daughter. "Seven years had our warrior been forced into this life. Seven years without knowing the fate of his new bride. He had been in love with his beautiful wife as only a newly wed man can be, and it was this lovesickness that made his nightly sleep in the heather one of deep sorrow. You understand how much it would hurt to be away from someone you love so much for so long, not knowing if they are alive or dead?" he asked her.

Even her young mind could imagine that. If her fathers or brothers, or even her Elven mother, were to be kept from her for more than a brief span of time, she would worry for them. She could easily escalate that worry into a stomach-churning sorrow if mere days were turned into years. Kelly nodded solemnly at her father. "I do," she whispered, her eyes wide.

He turned his gaze back to the windows as he began the next portion of his tale. "Our warrior was a fierce one. When he returned from the war upon the marches seven years previous, he had found his home vacant, long plundered, and his young bride missing. He fled with his captain; our warrior was the most fierce, Kelly. He was desperate and fell, and when he fought, he was like something out of a nightmare. Our warrior was the greatest of the thirteen when in battle, but his heart hurt. Doubt ate at him. Because he had not seen his wife's body or bones, he could not convince himself she was dead. Soon, he became an accomplished liar as well as warrior, and he would depart from Tarn Aeluin in secret to venture back to his home near the desolate pine forest.

"But in this dark time, even the trees spoke treason, and soon the great foe and his loyal servant discovered our warrior's habits. The seasons changed, lies were told, and as autumn began to bleed into winter, our warrior travelled to the ghost of his home. In the darkness of night, his eyes spoke to him of a light in a window and despite the unlikelihood of there being good lit by that light, our warrior crept closer to his old home." Kelly's body was tense in Námo's arms, and he allowed his eyes to finally meet her gaze again. "In that light, he saw his wife, though time had much changed her. She looked worn from grief, thin from hunger, and so very tired. On the gentle night wind, he thought he heard her sobbing her sadness, her fears that he had forsaken her to this cold dread. Our warrior cried out to her, to reassure his beloved wife that he had *not* forgotten her, and the light in the window went out and the great foe's hunters grabbed him from behind while the dark wolves screamed to the night sky."

Námo eyes grew dark and sad. "They took him to a camp where they tormented our lovesick warrior. The beasts tortured him, demanding he tell them where to find the other outlaws. They spent weeks with him, performing all sorts of awful deeds, but our warrior would not speak of his companions. The great foe's beasts were not smart, but the loyal servant was. After weeks of little food and foul water, of torture and bloodletting, the loyal servant came to our warrior's side and whispered into his ear of his wife. They had his wife, the loyal servant told him. If he would bargain his companions, they would unite him with his beloved."

"He didn't, did he?" Kelly breathed. "Our warrior spat in his face and told him to go eat dirt, right?" She was swept up in the tale, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright.

He shook his head once, slowly. "Our warrior broke then. He agreed to tell all if he could be with his wife once more. The loyal servant took our warrior into the great, filthy pits of the great foe and threw him at the feet of his master. But our warrior had time to reconsider and, when faced with the great foe, declined to speak once more. Again he was put to torment, only this time, the great foe himself dealt great damage to our warrior." He did not tell his young daughter all that Gorlim had suffered, for she would never have need to know that. "After over a month of continuous pain, after years of loneliness and war, our warrior truly gave in to their demands. In exchange for his wife, he would tell them where to find his captain and the others. The deal was struck and our warrior indeed told the great foe where to find them, and as he knelt on the cold stone, the loyal servant left with a small hunting party. Our warrior glared up at the great foe, demanding his wife, and the great foe laughed. Of course he would fulfil his part of their deal and our warrior was cruelly slain then, for his wife had long since been murdered by the great foe."

Kelly gasped, releasing Námo's hair and covering her mouth with her small hands. "After all that, he died anyway?"

Námo nodded. "His treason was for nought. With his dying breath, though, our warrior cursed himself. He had sworn his soul to the great foe in his treason, and his spirit went to his captain's son, who had not been with the others at that time. Our warrior's wraith wept and told his friend of his evil deeds and told him to run, to find their captain and save their companions. Then, his weary spirit returned to the place of his death where it was held captive and tormented by the great foe."

"Did he ever get free?" she asked with shimmering eyes. The poor warrior! He had betrayed them all for the love of one woman, and even then, he had been tricked.

"Thousands of years passed, but eventually, yes, he was freed. His came to a tavern at the end of all worlds, where his wife's spirit also one day dwelled." Námo's smile was enigmatic, but his eyes still held a touch of guilt Kelly didn't understand. "It was there that our warrior found even more sorrow, but also joys. Still, he was no more than a dead traitor, and his ghosts haunted his every step. One day, while the warrior sat at the tavern's bar, another of his world entered. The brother to the great foe, whose eyes saw all and whose memory was longer than history."

Kelly's grey eyes grew as large as saucers. She'd heard her Elven mother speak of Papa Mo's eyes and memory in such words. "Your brother hurt our warrior?"

"Yes," Námo said softly. "My brother, who I still love despite his actions, caused much grief. I came to the tavern and I found the warrior. He was filled with so much sadness and self-hatred, darling dovelet. But there was good in him, and something that... something that drew me to him that very first night. It was not long before he woke in me feeling and love and desire." He chuckled. "He and his wife had desired a child, but they were nothing but spirits, and they could not have children. However, long ago while they were still alive and living in that stone house, they had bore one living child who had died shortly after she had been born. It was in my power to bring the child to them, to give her life once more."

The girl was a smart, smart child. No child that was raised by three beings as old as Námo, Nerdanel, and Gorlim were could be an idiot. The pieces fell together in Kelly's mind and she just *stared* at her father.

"Your father had suffered so much for love and duty," he explained to her. "You were something he wanted so badly, and I wanted to give him something to ease some of the pain he still felt. I loved him even though I did not know the words. Walking the paths of time, I went and retrieved you, gave you life again, and brought you to his arms. You are so very special, Kelly," he said, his hand cupping her cheek. "You were the first gift I ever gave to him, and the one that taught me to love a child. You are the last of the Bëoring blood, of a race that fought valiantly to survive but died under the banner of treason." His thumb moved over the apple of her cheek and he smiled gently. "Do you understand all I have told you?"

"Papa is our brave warrior," she said to him.

"Our *very* brave warrior," he agreed.

"And you brought me to him."

"I did."

"You're even more my Papa Mo than I thought," she mused with a wondering smile. "You gave birth to me in a strange way."

Námo laughed, hugging her to his breast. "If you say so, sweetling."

She pushed away from him a little. "That isn't the end of the story, though. Our brave warrior isn't dead!" Kelly immediately regretted her words when sapphire eyes reflected wounds so deep she didn't think they would ever heal.

"Our brave warrior fought another battle in that tavern," he said slowly. "He wanted to protect all those he loved and he bargained himself yet again. Our warrior endured so much in the course of a few months, and it led to his second death. Some day, when you are even older than you are now, perhaps I will tell you that tale, but right now, you are much too young." She frowned, but didn't protest his words. Kelly knew her Papa Mo never changed his mind when he had made a decision. "His spirit came to me because there was no great foe to trap him. But I love your father. I love him desperately, as he loved your mother. I could not stand for him to be dead."

"You made him alive, too. Like me." Childish wonder again shined in her eyes.

"I love him." It was all the reasoning either of them needed. He loved Gorlim, as he loved her, and his love was enough to defy rules of life and death. "That, dovelet, is the end of my story. Why do you not run off and find Gabriel. Tell him his Atar is home."

She squirmed off his lap, but paused before leaving the room. Kelly reached up and hugged him close, kissing his snowy cheek. "I love you, Papa Mo, and thank you for telling me the story." And then she was gone like a warm spring breeze. He smiled at the door, his cheek still tingling from her kiss.

"Such tales you tell our daughter," Gorlim murmured as he climbed on the bed behind Námo. "Did you know I was there and that is why you said such nice things about the traitor?" His arms encircled Námo's shoulders, and the Vala contentedly leaned back into the embrace.

"I did not know where you were, imp. You have grown very adept at hiding your whereabouts from me." He let his head fall back against Gorlim's shoulder so he could look at him. "And you know I only speak truths."

Gorlim smirked, his eyes sparkling. "Truths as you see them."

"That is all that matters."

Their lips met in a brief, loving kiss. "Welcome home, pretty heron."

He had been invited only because it was proper.

Finwë and Indis had sent the invitation to all the Valar, for it was by their decision they were permitted to wed. Námo had thought to decline, but Vairë was insistent; to not appear would be rude and a slight against the High King of the Noldor.

While the other Valar laughed, danced, and mingled with the Elves of Finwë's House, Námo remained by one of the large windows in a forgotten salon. The sounds of revelry and music filtered through the walls, but the Lord of the Dead cared nothing for any of it. He was lost in his thoughts, feeling uncomfortable and out of place among the living.

He was drawn from his musings by a tugging on his robe. Námo looked down into the face of a small child with Finwë's eyes and Indis' hair.

"Greetings, Arafinwë," he said in a voice like icy midnight. He expected the youngest son of Finwë to cower; instead, the child smiled brightly up at him.

"Lord Mandos," Arafinwë replied, "I wanted to give you something." He reached up, indicating that he wanted to be picked up. Although Námo had no children of his own nor practical experience with them, he still understood the command. Obediently, he hefted the child into his arms, settling him on his hip.

"What is it you wished to give me, young Master?" Námo asked, finding the unusual weight and closeness strangely natural.

Arafinwë leaned over and pressed a wet kiss to Námo's cheek. "Merry Yule, Lord Mandos!" he declared before squirming his way out of the Vala's arms and running back toward the festivities in the main ballroom.

Námo stood there, the child's kiss warm on his cheek.

Then he smiled as he turned back to the window.

"Merry Yule, child," he whispered.

Muse: Námo
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Word Count: 307

The house was quiet.

Nerdanel and Maglor had packed everyone up to visit Mahtan, and Eilinel had the little button today.

Námo sat in the large library, reading a history Feanáro had long ago penned. Occasionally, he looks up and gazes out the window, a small smile on his lips as he is lost in memory. The scent of the ocean wafts through the open windows, the breeze already sharp with fall, the smell of salt and rotting leaves warming him.

It was a curious thing, really. Each week, he ventured to his Halls for a day or so while Gorlim returned to the Bar, and he would take Gabriel with him. They would spend the time learning about the spirits, about Duty, and the young boy would play with Vairë and her maidens while his father would go about his own business. But... the Halls... they were not home.

If he had to choose a place to call home at this very moment, it would be the modest home Nerdanel kept. The place where he felt... not like a Vala. Felt more like part of a family.

He liked that.

Námo chuckles to himself as he shakes his head and turns his eyes back to the book.

It has been a few days since they had parted, and Gabriel sat on the kitchen counter happily yammering at Námo as they waited for Nerdanel to come and instruct them on the finer points of cooking.

Hell, give Námo any of the points of cooking.

She comes in through the backdoor, flushed and worried looking. Námo frowns and looks at her with questions in his eyes.

"Something... is happening in the bar," she says quietly as Gabriel plays with a carrot. "A large clock has appeared and it's been making earthquakes..."

Námo nods, knowing instantly he would go for the family there. "I will go--"

Nerdanel places a hand on his arm. "After dinner, my lord. It's important Feaho not feel as if there is anything out of order."

He nods again and sits.

The Vala watches as Nerdanel cuts vegetables, explaining to Gabriel what each one was, and when it was ready to go into her mixing bowl, she would allow him to put them in it.

Námo quickly becomes lost in his own thoughts. A clock in the bar, causing earthquakes? Why? He worries for Asar-Suti, but he knows the volcano god can take good care of himself and his faun, but Kelly and Gorlim...

"Atar!" Gabriel yells, laughing, and then the Vala is struck on the chest with a cube of potato.

He looks at Nerdanel who only shakes her head and chuckles.

Námo stands up and picks his son up, nuzzling his neck to tickle him, and Gabriel laughs and wriggles, so happy when he has his Atar's attention like this!

"Come on. Upstairs with us so you can be clean for supper," Námo informs him, heading toward the stairs.

"I's clean!"

"You most certainly are not."

"Am! Am clean!"

"Do not argue."

"Not 'guing, tellin' truff."

"I do not think so."

"Silly Atar."

Nerdanel looks at the ceiling fondly before returning to the preparation of their evening meal.