Halls of Mandos
The door opens into his throne room.
His demeanour is quiet. Sombre. It matches the icy winds of this place.
There is nothing but silence.
It is dim.
A gentle breeze blows constantly, always chilled.
His clothing changes instantly: breeches and tunic are replaced by black robes that could be living shadow. His hair is formed into formal braids, and around his head is a sapphire circlet. He walks slowly to his throne of bone and sits.
As if he dreads it all.
And he does.
"Welcome to Mandos, Mary Anne," he says with a dead, hollow voice. "My home."
His demeanour is quiet. Sombre. It matches the icy winds of this place.
There is nothing but silence.
It is dim.
A gentle breeze blows constantly, always chilled.
His clothing changes instantly: breeches and tunic are replaced by black robes that could be living shadow. His hair is formed into formal braids, and around his head is a sapphire circlet. He walks slowly to his throne of bone and sits.
As if he dreads it all.
And he does.
"Welcome to Mandos, Mary Anne," he says with a dead, hollow voice. "My home."