PROLOGUE

—before—

The roaring of the seas had died down at last, and ruin encased the earth wholly. The skies were bleeding silver rain that fell upon the drowned land like the tears of Nienna, Lady of Mourning and Pity. There was nothing now but the ghost of the fortress in the north—its lovely beauty and sweet darkness had fallen into the abyss of the sea. South from here, glimpses of the ruins of Himring and some of the mountains of Mithrim to the west could be seen out of the glassy, dark mirror. The trees were drowned in the water's sweet intoxication and so did many of the last of the people, not that it was ever recorded that the drowning of Beleriand slaughtered the surviving Eldalië and Atani as well as the servants of shadow.

Mairon stooped, crooked and broken upon the snow-blanketed ground, his head bowed in despair and utter defeat. The white flakes fell upon his auburn hair, a tangled mess matted with crusts of dried blood. He carried no daggers upon him, not even one hidden in his boot, and his garb was mildly ragged, smeared with blotches of scarlet. He pressed a shaking hand upon a wound bleeding at his side, trying to conceal his obvious pain of the injury yet chiefly of the downfallen fortress in the north. The trail of blood he had left upon the ground had soaked into the snow, imbruing its pure whiteness like a splatter of ink on parchment.

Eönwë was behind him, standing, sword still in hand and the steel stained with scarlet, his countenance revealing nothing but vain consolation. He took a uncertain step toward his old friend now archenemy, hesitated, and slid his sword back into its sheath upon his back. The wings upon his back were heavy with fatigue although he strived to keep them up, trying to be sure that no one saw his weariness nor his weakness. He had almost let his feet sink into the snow as he dared another step forward, noting Mairon's every movement.

When Ancalagon had fallen, his massive body breaking the towers of Thangorodrim, and the last of the Urulóki destroyed, all the pits of Morgoth were broken and unroofed, and the might of the Valar descended into the depths of the earth. There Morgoth stood at last at bay, and yet unvaliant. He fled into the deepest of his mines, and sued for peace and pardon; but his feet were hewn from under him, and he was hurled upon his face. Then he was bound with the chain Angainor which he had worn aforetime, and his iron crown they beat into a collar for his neck, and his head was bowed upon his knees. And the two Silmarils which remained to Morgoth were taken from his crown, and they shone unsullied beneath the sky; and Eönwë took them, and guarded them.

He had remembered Mairon, who he had fought at the very end of the war. His orders from Manwë were to keep him occupied so that he could not go to fight beside his Urulóki, for they would, doubtless, rally at his coming. Eönwë knew of the great care he gave for them, even as he masked his desperateness beneath the ruthless smile he had curved onto his lips, and it hurt him more than he would have thought. He had fought him nonetheless, and given him the hideous wound at his side.

After he had entrusted the Silmarils to his squire, commanding the lords of the Vanyar and Noldor to guard it with care, he returned to the desolation of the land where he and Mairon had fought. For hours he had wandered in the snow-stricken forest, the trees grey, bare, and lonely in the straying mist. It was odd to feel no presence of life anywhere about save the icy trees; not even ravens perched amongst them, for many of them had been spies of Morgoth. There was only a barren, frozen world, dead even after the victory of the war. Such a bitter victory it had cost them, so sour, so biting. Were victories not supposed to be sweet? After all, that was how they were sung in the songs.

Then at last he had found him in the snow, wounded and broken, but not nearly dead. It was told among the Valar that in the beginning of Arda, Morgoth had seduced him to his allegiance, and he became one of his greatest and most trusted servants. They said that he was the most perilous, for he could assume many forms, and for as long as he willed he could appear noble and beautiful, so as to deceive all but the most wary.

In Aman, to rally the Eldalië, Manwë had given a speech reciting all the evil deeds of Melkor, and Mairon's beside him. He spoke of what Melkor had done in the First War of Arda, defiling the pure green earth and destroying the Lamps, of how he had suborned Ungoliant to his will, consuming the light of the Two Trees of Valinor, and of what he had done to all the Eldalië in the First Age in Endórë. He told of how Mairon had how he had nearly slain Beren and Lúthien, slaughtered the last Barahir and his companions, of how he had killed Finrod Felagund, whom he had known as Findaráto in Quenya.

Eönwë wondered if that was all true, thinking of how they called him Sauron now, the vile, the terrible, the cruel. He still remembered their friendship in Aman in the beginning of Arda, and almost longed for it again. Sometimes he wearied merely from thinking of it, the burden of memory too great on him.

Now Mairon was before him, at his mercy, broken and despairing. The Valar had severed Morgoth's feet from under him when he was at last found. He wondered if he was obliged to do the same to Mairon.

"I am spent," Eönwë said at last. "The war is over. The fortress in the north has fallen, and Morgoth conquered. You are free now, free to your own will, Mairon."

Mairon lifted his head vaguely, his voice was cracked and despairing when he spoke. "What would you have me do?"

Eönwë hesitated. "Come back with me to Aman. There you may receive judgement with Lord Manwë and live as you did before in Valinor. I would do it myself, but it is not in my place to pardon those of my own order."

There was a moment of absolute silence, for there were no leaves upon the boughs of trees to shake in the wind.

"I confess that I do remember those times," Mairon said softly. "Those sweet, foolish days in Aman when the world was young and the mountains green. How naïve we were—do you remember? How doltish, how senseless. What is life without struggle, without pain?"

Eönwë noticed that he had shifted out of his winged form. "Vain."

He turned, the gash on his cheekbone glistening scarlet. "How many losses?"

"Severe, they say," Eönwë told him. "We have lost many, more than we can count. It will a be a grief unspoken of when we return to Aman."

"I almost regret it," Mairon murmured, his eyes cast to the ground.

Eönwë was almost surprised.

"I was frightened," Mairon said. "I hadn't remembered feeling fear like that for many centuries. The wrath of the Valar was great, more than I would have imagined."

"I was afraid too," Eönwë confessed. "Their power. . .I did not know it could be like that."

"I did not know you could be like that. I did not know you could do such terrible things."

"Neither did I."

Eönwë held his gaze long and steadily. "You're very. . .different from before."

"I know."

He hesitated again. "Will you come?"

Mairon bared his teeth, although still a mere shadow of the fierceness he had shown before. "Not in this state."

Eönwë took another cautious step forward, holding out his hand to him as if he could help, but Mairon growled, the talons upon his hand suddenly coming forth and slashing across his bare hand. Blood ran out from the jagged slash, leaking to the snow before him. Mairon stood up, with difficulty, and limped backwards.

"If you care of me, leave me," Mairon hissed, his crimson eyes suddenly alive and ablaze again, yet only for a moment.

Eönwë opened his mouth and closed it, not knowing what to say. "I hope you do choose to come," he said quietly, and turned away. He knew that Mairon was ashamed to return to the Valar in humiliation and to receive from them a sentence, for it might well be a long servitude in proof of his good faith. In the days when Aman thrived, Mairon had been a Maia of Aulë, and worked in the forges often. He remembered how he was so fond of order, planning, and coordination, disliking confusion and chaos. It was quite ironic how it had all come to be now, wasn't it?

He took a shuddering breath, feeling the frigid air seep into his lungs, and when he let it out, the warmth formed a short-lived cloud before his lips.

When he turned around again, Mairon was gone.

In a few hours' time, he made his way back to the camp, concealing his tattered hand in the shadows of his cloak as best he could for the others. He nodded politely at some of the Eldalië lords that passed by but made haste to his tent, where he knew his squire would be waiting. The earth felt moist and damp beneath his feet even with his combat boots on; the tears of Nienna had touched Yavanna and seeped through it all, weeping for the bitter sorrow of their victory.

His squire was a young Vanya, golden-haired and green-eyed, generally outspoken and vehement, yet today he was silent and wan when he called for him. He wore only a weathered grey cloak against the cold and light shoes, but seemed not to be bothered by the chill.

"Hetanë, will you help me bind this wound?" Eönwë said, and the ellon nodded, going to retrieve the salve and bindings.

"Where did you go, my lord?" Hetanë asked when he had returned and was cleaning the wound.

"Beyond the forest," Eönwë told him, his eyes staring distantly past all things. Then he would say no more.

When Hetanë was finished, he made his way to the tent where the Silmarils were being kept, and gave a crisp nod to each of the guards outside. It was nightfall now, and they made sure to stand tall and straight before their commander, pretending they were unafraid and not doleful.

The jewels were wrapped in thick cloths that concealed their scintillating light, but now Eönwë stepped forward and unveiled them, gazing at the cruelly beautiful brilliance. Funny how they would fight wars for these trinkets, these cold stars.

A messenger let himself in the tent. "My lord Eönwë."

He covered the Silmarils and turned. "Yes?"

"The last two sons of Fëanáro have brought a message, bidding you yield up the jewels which of old their father made and Morgoth stole from him," the messenger said, eyes glinting as Phanaikelūth revealed its cold light through the flaps of the tent flying in the gale.

Eönwë remembered Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë from Valinor. They had been young, guiltless ellyn then, untainted with melancholy and sorrow. It was a pity how it had all come to this. Now they stood alone against all the world, even in all their weariness and loathing. But the right to the work of their father, which the sons of Fëanor formerly possessed, had now perished, because of their many and merciless deeds, being blinded by their oath, and most of all because of their slaying of Dior and the assault upon the Havens. The light of the Silmarils should go now into the West, whence it came in the beginning; to Valinor must they return, and there abide the judgement of the Valar, by whose decree alone would Eönwë yield the jewels from his charge.

Alone against all the world. "Thank you for telling me. I will send them my answer on the morrow."

Eönwë went to the crest of the crag and gazed at the drowned land before him. The sea dangerously quiet and bitterly beautiful, so dark it seemed like the everlasting darkness itself. A mirror it had been, and a mirror it would be, he hoped. He hoped for a lot of things, and not many of them came true.

Alone against all the world.

He could almost hear Mairon laughing at the words.

Phanaikelūth. (V) Valian/Valarin word for the Moon.

Ellon. (S) Male Elda, plural ellyn.

*Chapter XXIV, 'Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath,' The Quenta Silmarillion.