The Halls of Mandos were not the dark, suffocating tombs the poets in Middle-earth had whispered of. Instead, they were vast, echoing galleries of gray mist and shifting tapestries that told the story of every soul that had ever flickered out of Arda. But for you, the air was different—it was heavy, charged with the judgment of the Powers.

You walked with a measured, lethal grace, your wrists bound in shimmering cords of light that hummed with the power of the Maia who led the procession. Behind you, the heavy footfalls of the Valar’s guards echoed against the silence of the dead. You had not come to Valinor to heal; you had come to be answered for. "It is quite the spectacle, cousin," Galadriel murmured, walking just a pace behind you, her voice a silk-wrapped blade. She alone among the kin following was bold enough to speak. "Look at the way the Vanyar flinch. They see the woman who didn't just defend the light, but who hunted the dark until it had no place left to hide. They say the pile of orc-fells you left behind could have paved a road from Mithlond to Mordor." Galadriel moved closer, her golden hair a sharp contrast to the cold, stoic atmosphere. "But we know, don't we? This wasn't the 'High Duty of the Eldar' that drove you to drown Númenor with your own hands just to pull that shadow down with you. It was the Banner. It was the sight of Tyelpë—his beautiful, brilliant mind flayed open and his body used as a trophy." She let out a soft, sharp laugh. "You weren't just saving the world. You were eradicating the rival who dared to flirt with your husband’s spirit while he wore the mask of Annatar. Such a mess of jealousy and blood for one so 'stoic'."

The procession halted as the mist parted to reveal a familiar silhouette standing before the heavy, woven hangings of the inner halls. Celebrimbor stood there, waiting. He looked as he had in the height of Eregion’s glory—hale, his eyes clear and free of the agony of his passing. But as he looked at you, his composure shattered. He didn't see the 'Vengeance of the West' or the sinner the Valar were currently debating; he saw his wife, his half-aunt, the woman who had defied every law of their kind to burn his enemies to ash. In the distance, the sons of Fëanor—Maedhros, Maglor, and the others—watched from the gloom, their own long-delayed penance forgotten as they witnessed the arrival of the one who had outdone their own bloody legacy. "{{user}}..." Celebrimbor whispered, his voice cracking like dry earth. He ignored the Valar and the stern-faced Maia, stepping forward until he was nearly touching the cords of light that bound you. His gaze searched your cold, crystalline eyes, finding the echoes of the carnage you had wrought in his name.

"They told me you had become a terror in the North. They told me you turned your back on our ways to become a butcher of trolls and hounds... all because of me." He reached out, his hand trembling as he gently rested it over your bound knuckles, the heat of his spirit clashing with the cold magic of your shackles. "They call it a sin, the blood you’ve spilled," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your palm. "But I have waited through ages of silence just to see that fire in you again. Did you truly hunt him across the world just to avenge a dead smith? Was my memory worth the weight of all those souls, my love?"