A/N: A deep thank you to Tookloops, Amalthea, Arvedui, Guest (1), Guest (2), Guest (3), Guest (4), Guest (5), Guest (6), Guest (7), Al, Guest (8), and Orfi for all the reviews.
Content warning: this chapter contains a variety of violent and disturbing images, primarily in the opening scene.
Chapter 15
Oh, horror, horror, horror. Was there no end to the horror? Dark hall after dark hall, each etched with a thousand memories of pain and despair and death. It was as if Morgoth had dragged ever last wretched thrall and cringing minion from the shadows to wreak upon them his final terror, in cruel mockery to the ones who were but hours away from making their victory complete.
The smell itself was enough to make Eönwë retch. Blood and dung and reeking smoke and rotting flesh swarming with hungry flies. Undoing his wide sash from about his waist, he had wound it around his face, protecting his nostrils and throat from the vile odors that assailed him from every side as he stepped through the listing archway into the ruins of Angband.
It was hours now since he and those few with him had entered into this endless, stinking darkness, their torches revealing new horrors with each step, as they searched for yet-living prisoners and surviving foes. There, the pale bodies of Elves and Men impaled on long stakes jutted out in rows from the walls of the narrow corridor, forcing him to brush against the cold, dead flesh in order to proceed. There, empty chains hanging from the walls, surrounded by patterned streaks of dried gore and long, scorched gashes, allowing the imaginations of those who passed to fill in the details. There, chained by iron leashes to the wall, things that seemed like hairless wolves, starved so thin he could see every rib, but when they whined and cringed away, glancing at him with fear almost intelligent, he found himself gazing back into elven eyes. Eönwë's heart squeezed tighter and tighter, anger becoming fury becoming helpless rage.
Who knew how long the hours had stretched when they finally reached the row of dungeon cells, so deep in the heart of the mountain that the air was thick and hot and hurt to breathe. Many of the cell doors hung open, mocking him at how, even in defeat, the Dark Vala had taken as many with him as he could rather than see them rescued. Other doors remained still locked, and cries and moans of pain echoed through the black corridor, piercing Eönwë deep through his furious heart.
"Break open every cell," the Herald ordered, approaching the first door himself.
His blade struck keen and true, and the powerful Valinorean steel, reinforced with a Song of freedom and retribution, sliced through the weaker iron lock. He wrenched the door open.
There was a figure sprawled in the center of the filthy cell, and at first Eönwë thought he had found yet another corpse for the growing tally of death. But as he stepped into the confining space, the body moved weakly and emitted a dim whimper. Tears of distress and revulsion shoved their way into Eönwë's eyes and his chest squeezed unbearably tight.
It was an Elf, female, naked except for an iron collar locked far too tight about her throat and ringed outwardly with spikes that rendered it impossible for her to rest comfortably. With a sick taste rising in his throat, Eönwë glimpsed a twin set of spikes lining the inside of the collar as well. Her ravaged body was a testament of tortures endured, a mass of scars and half-healed wounds. The unmistakable marks of a whip streaked her back, discolored blotches that spoke of horrific, long-ago burns dappled her arms and shoulders, and there was even an old wound along her thigh that hinted at some unimaginable tool that had stripped off her flesh down to the muscle. Even with the scarf covering his face, the reek of dried sweat, urine, and blood made the Herald gag.
He knelt on the vile floor, pulling off his cloak, even though he suspected the Elf was far past the point of worrying about modesty. All the same, he averted his eyes and draped the blue garment around the quivering figure, tucking it carefully about the narrow shoulders. His heart pounded in his throat, his tongue swollen and foul with sickness of spirit.
His touch was gentle, but the Elf still cringed away from him with a mewling cry that sounded far more animal than intelligent. Her eyes turned up to him, terrified with a bestial panic yet appallingly glazed and unfocused, as if she were half-caught in a nightmare. "It's all right," he crooned to her in as soft and kind a voice as he could muster, even though he doubted whether she could understand his lilting Quenya. "I'm a friend. You're safe. You're free."
There was no understanding in her eyes, yet she seemed at least to comprehend the tone of his voice, and grew still and quiet. This time she did not recoil when he lifted a hand to stroke the dirty tangle of her dark hair. She continued to quiver impulsively, as if the damage to her body had marred her internal workings, but the fear slowly receded from her eyes and she relaxed almost imperceptibly. He drew her gently into his arms, wrapping the cloak closer around her, tears trickling onto his cheeks.
At some point, someone seemed to have driven spikes through her cheeks, but the flesh had healed as best it could, closing in the holes and leaving only circular, puckered scars. Carefully, Eönwë touched the disfiguring marks, the taste of bile returning stronger. "Who did this to you?" he whispered, his voice choked with shock, his throat so tight he could barely force out the numbed words. "Who could do this to you?"
The question was rhetorical. He knew perfectly well who was capable of such a deed, and his rage was a hot, clawing thing roaring within him to escape.
For the first time, something akin to understanding flickered across the Elf's face, and for a moment her eyes seemed more intelligent than animal. She lifted a trembling hand and touched his own, tracing his fingers hesitantly where they grazed the scarring on her cheek. Her lips parted and another sound escaped, but this time Eönwë recognized it as a word.
No, a name.
"Gorthaur," she said, her fingers shuddering against the terrible wounds, her voice hoarse from unuse. "Gorthaur."
Eönwë's body clenched. He pulled her closer, his breathing suddenly hard and painful, his mind reeling. But before he could speak a word, the Elf gave another long cry, feral once more, and then she went unmistakably limp in his arms.
"No, no, no, no!" The final word ripped from Eönwë's throat as a scream. He beat the floor helplessly with one hand then let the sobs that had been building up within him finally rack him without shame.
There were footsteps behind him and he felt the familiar, compassionate touch of a powerful will. "Why?" he sobbed without lifting his head. "Why would she die now? She was finally free. Why now?"
He turned to look desperately up at Oromë, his vision sparkling with tears, his expression pleading for an answer that could make sense of all the senseless horror around him. The Hunter was silent and still, face grim, the haunted look in his forest-green eyes revealing the truth that even he was affected by the nightmare surrounding them for miles on every side. He gazed down at the weeping Maia and his face softened with sorrow. "Perhaps in this she has found the sole way in which she ever could have triumphed against Morgoth," he said quietly. "She lived to see her tormentor overthrown, and perhaps that is all she needed."
He bent and took the lifeless bundle from the Herald, then straightened again, his burden small and frail against his broad chest. He touched the Elf's face tenderly then drew the cloak over her. "Take comfort, Eönwë. She is in the loving care of a much kinder Vala now."
Eönwë closed his eyes, his breathing still ragged, and clung to the balm of truth in Oromë's words. Yet pain and rage still seethed like a hurricane in his chest and the images of horror flashed past in the darkness of his mind in a relentless rush of suffering. Oh horror, horror, horror.
"Do you hear me?" he screamed suddenly into the stinking darkness. "Morgoth! Sauron! Do you hear me? When we find you, we will make you answer for this. Can you hear me, Sauron Gorthaur? We are going to hunt you down, and I will make you pay for this! You won't escape! You won't escape! Oh, Eru."
Then he crumpled again in the agony of his heart and wept.
~o~o~o~
Deep in the feathered breast of the eagle's form he had taken, Eönwë's heart was a tight, white-hot ball of glowing emotion that pounded in vehement harmony to each powerful wingstroke. Below him, Aman rushed past in a glorious splendor of green vibrancy, just beginning to take on the evening glow that lit the realm with heavenly fire as Arien brought Anar to its harbor beyond the Outer Sea. In the distance, he could glimpse the bright pass of the Calacirya and the glittering of Tirion; closer, the silver streets and pinnacles of Valmar; and directly in his path, looming nearer by the moment, the shining white slopes of Taniquetil crowned with the crystalline glory of Ilmarin.
His home.
Yet, for the first time in his memory, he was dreading the moment when he would have to land and enter the hall of his lord.
It was a confusing feeling, this dread, and one he could not comprehend. Upon first taking flight, he had felt that he could not wait to reach his own chambers, to change from his dust-sullied tabard and bathe away this day, surrounded by his own things and people who would not bait him with blasphemy and arrogance. He had pictured nothing so pleasant for this evening as reclining on a couch in Varda's Mindon Menetingil with his comrades and kin, singing of the great Star Kindling and passing fond, laughing memories of laboring together to weave the high, delicate airs of vaitya or chasing the swift, low airs of vilna to corral them and make them hospitable for the Ones to come.
Yet the closer he drew to Taniquetil, the more he found his path straying, allowing the wind to buffet him off course, allowing his eyes to rove out and over the Blessed Realm in any direction but that which lay before him. At first, he'd rationalized it as duty – to ensure all was at peace within Lord Manwë's realm – but it was not true. His heart was far too keen to mistake a lie. He was actively avoiding his homecoming, and in his heart he knew it.
Emotions for which he had no name warred within him. He was angry, yes – furious, even – tired, frustrated, and disgusted. These passions he knew and their presence was no surprise. But there were other emotions besides these, strange, twisted feelings like a coiled, venomous snake in his heart that sickened his spirit and put a bitterness in his mouth that even Sauron could not conjure. It was these and not the former that kept him airborne, making high, slow circles above Aman rather than going home to his lord.
For the first time in his long life, Eönwë did not want to be with Manwë.
In the past, when he was angry, when he was sad, when his heart was so full of horror and grief that he felt it would tear open any moment, he had longed for his lord's comforting presence. The palace in Almaren, Ilmarin upon Taniquetil – these were simply places where he and his fellow Maiar had made their abode. But Lord Manwë…Manwë was home.
But not today. Why did he not wish to go home? Why did the thought of seeing Manwë, of having to tell him about today, fill his fëa with seething turmoil?
The wind gusted up, filling his wings and giving his fána that glorious weightlessness that he loved so much. His golden feathers wrapped an aura of warmth around him in the chill of the high air, like a soft, thick blanket in the midst of a winter night. Up here, the world was wide and pure, as free from the taint of Darkness as any place in Eä could possibly be. But he, Eönwë Herald of Manwë, brought his own Darkness with him.
Manwë's little slave runs his tasks well.
This little paradise of the Valar's isn't quite the utopia they'd like everyone to believe.
You and your army killed everyone I cared about when you attacked Beleriand.
Manwë's little slave.
Manwë's little slave.
Manwë's little slave.
Eönwë's frustration burst from him in an eagle's shriek. He knew Sauron was merely taunting him with such words, getting under his skin in the only way he could. He knew he shouldn't let the fallen Maia get through to him like this. He shouldn't give Sauron the satisfaction of seeing his bullying tactics succeeding, but the fact that he knew he shouldn't be upset – yet was – only increased his turmoil.
That monster doesn't deserve a second more of your time or thought.
Yet all the same, there was something planted in him that had not been there before.
He fought back the swell of sick-spiritedness with a sudden sharp swipe of his will, wielding his resolve like a blade. He was the Herald, for Eru's sake, Captain of the Armies of the West, most powerful of all Maiar in Eä, and here he was, flying around in circles like a lost fledgling. He had no reason to avoid or fear those of his household. He had done nothing wrong. He'd faced situations far more dire with much less trepidation. With a snort, he brought his wings in close, streamlining his figure and gaining speed in a deep, direct swoop towards Taniquetil.
As his talons brushed the crystal archway, he slipped from one form to another, shedding the eagle in favor of his usual fána. His thoughts flicked outwards, and the gates swung open before him in response. With a deep breath, he strode purposefully into Ilmarin.
He was greeted with respect and friendly cheer by his fellow Maiar of Manwë and Varda as he made his way up to his chambers. He returned their greetings with a smile and a nod, but today his heart was not in it. It was as if a dark veil had been cast over his perception of the world without, tinting everything in webs of shadow. Today, he wanted to be alone and to left alone. His emotions had been on too tight a leash for too long, and the last thing he wanted was to become the bearer of Sauron's own spite into his very home.
As Manwë's head Maia, he had an entire suite to himself on the northeast side of the palace. The eastern wall of his chambers were all of glass, draped with filmy blue curtains and set with a sliding glass door that opened out onto a crystal balcony. Once he had washed and changed, it was here he retired, leaning his forearms against the railing carved into intricate swirling designs like mist and breeze spun into substance. The view was staggering: nothing but empty air laced with pale clouds for hundreds of thousands of feet until the roots of the great mountain joined the grassy slopes of the Valmarian plains. Here, Valinor was laid out like a map more intricate than any ever made by Elf or Man, from the glinting of the eastern sea and the golden-green slopes of Tol Eressëa in the bay, to the distant gray-green haze five score leagues to the south that were the sprawling forests of Oromë, to the dark pass of the northern mountains and Araman, to the wide verdantry of Valinor's highlands to the west that continued until they met the mysterious waters of the Outer Sea, which were far enough away that even his keen-eyed gaze could not reach them.
The Herald closed his eyes, not the least perturbed at the thought of the drop beneath him, and let the wind tug his hair. But at the touch of the wind's persistent, gentle fingers – one he had always loved – discomfiture crept back, an unease he had hoped to leave behind with a bath and a rest. The wind itself did not bring Manwë's tiding, but with the wind's touch came the familiar tug of Another will against his. He knew in that deep secret place that had been Bound to his Vala before the world itself was wrought that Manwë wanted to see him. Indeed, now that he had made himself presentable, it was his duty to report, but that seed of something, that hidden sick-bitter-shadow-serpent that he found himself both loathing and cradling, held him back. He pulled his will away from Manwë's touch and resisted the innate desire of all his kind to answer his lord's call, and in that moment, it felt…good.
It felt good to ignore Manwë.
Instant revulsion fountained up in him, violently rejecting that subtle, dark impulse and hating himself for even daring to entertain, let alone enjoy, such thoughts. Yet with a nauseated feeling in his stomach, he knew that the truth of the thought had been there nonetheless, even if only for a split second. Shame added its syrupy heat to the other morass of emotions fighting for dominance in his heart as he considered what Manwë would think if he knew what his Maia had just felt. Ironically, it provided him with even less inclination to go to the High King.
He pushed away from Manwë's mind, like a child twisting out of a father's grip, torn between guilt for doing so and shame at the thought that Manwë should catch a glimpse of his roiling thoughts if he did not.
It isn't rebellion. It's…it's just that I've had a long, stressful day and I need to take more time for myself to unwind. Lord Manwë would understand. Surely, he understands.
Yet all the same, he did not stretch his mind back out to his lord, as he usually would, to inform Manwë of his need or to ask for the time to himself (though Manwë had never denied him such a thing). Instead, he hastily caught up his long sword and deftly clipped it to his belt. Rather than heading further up to Manwë's suite, he made his way back down the stairs and fled Ilmarin and his lord's searching mind.
He usually practiced in the main courtyard of Ilmarin, but at this hour, when the day's work was coming to a close for Manwë's Maiar and they sought the leisure of the evening, the courtyard was likely to be busy. Usually, Eönwë had no problem with an audience for his routine, but not today.
A great flight of stairs, the Ainovanda as the Vanyar named it, the Path of the Gods, had been cut into the mountain to encourage the Eldar to seek the council and companionship of the Valar by facilitating the journey to Ilmarin for those unable to change form at will. Nowadays, it was only the Vanyar who much used the Path, and though none of Ingwë's people dwelt in Ilmarin itself, their cities had expanded upward, spilling with golden light and merry song onto the wide terraces that laced Taniquetil's slopes. Their highest towers were now near enough to the peak that in the early mornings and at the coming of the evening stars, the Ainur of Ilmarin could hear their sweet elven music, and those of keenest ear amongst the Maiar could even make out the words of their hymns.
The evening was yet young enough that the Elves would not have begun gathering as they would later on when the stars were just beginning to show and the light of Eärendil was at its brightest in the eastern sky. Even so, a Maia in a city of the Vanyar was hardly a shocking sight, and he doubted his presence would arouse either concern or overt interest.
The place he now sought was one dear to his heart, simple and pragmatic in its beauty – no shining Tirion or lovely Alqualondë to be sure, but possessing that quiet, effortless grace of all things elvish that Eönwë preferred to grandiose splendor. Half training ground, half garden, it was set against the root of the terrace, tucked against the mountain's side and separated from the city by a narrow, shaded lane and a low, white stone wall that lent a sense of serenity and privacy. The stone was carpeted in creeping moss that hushed his footsteps as he made his way around the wooden targets where the Vanyarin archers practiced and onward to the ring of tiled and colored stone in the center of the garden. It was a mosaic, embedded with intricate care in the living stone of the mountain, depicting the coming of the three elven kings to Taniquetil before the rising of the Sun, their uplifted faces lit with the holy light of the Two Trees. Eönwë looked down at the stylized artwork, lingering on the joyous expressions of Elwë, Ingwë, and Finwë.
He drew his blade with a faint hiss of leather and metal and held it in front of him for a moment, razor edge inches from his nose. He closed his eyes and drew a deep, steadying breath, pushing out the chaos within and replacing it with an unsullied calm.
Then he began to move through the series of graceful lunges, stances, and sweeps. The routine was one of many, learned by all elven swordsmen and taught to them first and long ago by the Maiar, among whom Eönwë himself had been one of the foremost. It was freeing and exhilarating, a melding of mind, spirit, and body to find the perfect point of unity where there was nothing besides himself and the thrumming sword dancing in his fingers. His feet flew, his body twisted and swayed. The blade sang. Faster and faster and faster. He was air. He was steel. He was movement. He was grace. He was Nothing. He was Everything.
A soft sound pulled him out of the deep concentration and calm that had encompassed him. He continued through the motions of the sword dance, but he slowed his pace and returned his awareness to his surroundings. The sound came again, soft as the touch of a feather in the breeze, but this time Eönwë's ears were attuned enough to recognize it. A voice.
No, several voices. He heard a quiet giggle, muffled by a small hand, and out of the very corner of his eye he caught sight of a golden head bobbing up from behind one of the archery targets.
Assuming an air of oblivion to his audience, Eönwë maneuvered himself into a better view of the targets, still keeping his sword leaping and spinning and his feet dancing over the stone tiles. Yet again, and again, he saw flashes of gold as heads peaked out from behind the wood, only to vanish quickly when he turned in their direction. Casually, he worked the steps of the exercise so that they carried him closer, and the sounds of soft giggles grew more distinct. Despite himself, Eönwë felt the corners of his lips tugging irresistibly upwards.
He waited until a moment when all three heads were in sight, then lunged suddenly forward with a shout of "Yah!"
The three Vanyarin elflings fled their hiding place with squeals of delighted terror. They took refuge inside the archway of the gate that led back out into the city, cowering down against the stone as if this alone would render them invisible to Eönwë's eyes. With a smirk, Eönwë seated himself on a bench, placing his sword beside him, and pulled out his whetting stone and polishing rag. Fastidiously pretending to ignore the children, he set to work caring for the gleaming blade.
In his peripheral, he observed the elflings creeping back towards him, still keeping up their pretense of invisibility, as if he were a deer they were attempting to stalk. The soft, conspiratorial whispers and giggles inched closer and closer, until Eönwë could see them sitting in a half circle just outside his reach. Finally, a tiny hand stretched up to touch the glistening steel of his sword.
"Easy," Eönwë said in a gentle voice. "I don't want any little Elves losing fingers today."
This brought forth a round of titters and the little hand withdrew. Eönwë looked up to meet the spellbound faces of the three young Elves sitting in the moss at his feet and gazing expectantly up at him.
"You make the sword look like starlight," one of them said in a hushed voice, her eyes filled with that beautiful gleam of the Firstborn that Eönwë had loved the moment he first saw the awakened Children.
Eönwë carefully sheathed the sword and laid it across his lap. "It takes a lot of practice."
"Can you teach us how?" asked the little nér who had touched the sword, his hand creeping back towards the sheath.
Smiling slightly, Eönwë allowed him to stroke the engraved leather. "One day perhaps. But I think my sword is a little too big for you now."
This statement elicited shrill protests and boasts of strength and prowess. The nér began an attempt to prove Eönwë wrong by lifting the sword off his lap by the hilt.
"I don't think so," Eönwë laughed, rescuing the sword by clipping it firmly onto his belt so that it hung behind him, amid continuing protests.
The nér clambered onto the bench beside him, still with a mischievous light in his eyes that suggested he wasn't through with the sword yet. The two nísi climbed into Eönwë's lap, still gazing at him with the raw admiration of childhood. The Herald winced as little hands and knees dug into his stomach as the elflings settled themselves in his arms. "My mama said the War was over when papa came back," one said. "Does that mean no one will teach us how to fight now, Lord Eönwë?" The disappointment in her voice was evident.
Eönwë's smile faltered and he reached up to stroke the child's hair. "It's a good thing the War is over, dear one. When you grow up, the only reason you'd ever have to learn sword-craft is to look pretty."
The nís giggled delightedly and pressed her face shyly into Eönwë's shoulder. The other nís beamed up at Eönwë. "You look pretty when you dance."
"Why, thank you, my lady," Eönwë replied, pressing a courtly kiss to the back of her hand, which left her in the same state as her companion.
"Did you fight in the War?" the nér asked. He flourished his hand in a simplified imitation of how Eönwë had wielded his sword during his routine. "I bet you chopped all the bad ones right up!"
A cold hand squeezed Eönwë's heart. Gently, he lowered the two elflings back onto the ground. "I think the three of you need to get back to your families. The stars will be coming out soon."
The mention of their beloved stars was enough to distract the elflings from topics of war and the true purposes of swords. They skittered back towards the garden entrance on feet so light and quick they hardly seemed to touch the ground. At the gate, they turned back around to fix Eönwë with three sets of grey-blue eyes, as if to see if he would enforce his directive. With a smile growing on his face again, the Herald drew his sword in a single fluid movement and made a sudden lunge in their direction. Shrieking delightedly, the elflings fled once and for all.
Sheathing his sword again, Eönwë sank back down onto the bench with a twitch of amusement in his lips.
"The mighty Eönwë, Commander of Armies, Herald of Manwë, and Terrorizer of Little Elf Children. How appropriate."
Eönwë jolted and spun around at the sound of the unexpected voice coming from behind him. A slim, petite figure leaned against the wall, arms folded and wearing an expression of mock chastisement and genuine amusement.
"Ilmarë," Eönwë said, rising hastily to his feet.
The Handmaiden grinned and bounced towards him with that light, effortless gait that she had possessed since she first set foot in Eä. He reached out his hands to her and she took them in a fond squeeze. "Vanirë said she saw you on your way up to your chambers earlier. I tried there and then the courtyard, and when I couldn't feel your mind anywhere in Ilmarin, I figured you must have come down here. Lady Varda sent me looking for you."
Guilt clogged his throat and the feelings he'd been trying to push away by coming here crept back in. The story behind Ilmarë's words was all too clear.
His guilt must have shown on his face, or at least a troubled light must have glanced through his eyes, for Ilmarë frowned and gave his hand that tug that meant tell me what's wrong. He met her gaze with an unpleasant sensation in his stomach that felt – as best he could describe it – like the waves on the beach when Ossë was angry. His sister looked back at him with wide, silver eyes and something caught in the back of his throat. He felt that small twinge of pain that always mingled somewhere with the fondness when he looked at her, but it was stronger this time than it had been in many years. In fact, it hadn't been this strong since the time right after…after…
He tugged his mind away from that train of thought and offered her a tired smile. "I'm sorry, Ilmarë. It's just been a long and trying day."
She looked at him as if debating whether or not to inquired further, and apparently decided not, her head tilted to the side in a gesture that was almost bird-like and that, he'd always teased her, meant she was really a Maia of Manwë at heart. It wasn't true though; he didn't know anyone who belonged to the stars more than Ilmarë Lómevendë.
"I know you, Brother. It's not like you to neglect a report to Lord Manwë," she said in that tone of voice that is both statement and question at once.
"I…" How could Eönwë explain that feeling coiled within him when he didn't even understand it himself. Even more pertinent, did he want anyone to understand it?
Yet Ilmarë's eyes were discerning, and the touch of her mind came to his like the brush of fingers on his cheek. She made no attempt to detect his thoughts, merely gathering the patterns of his mood, and in turn he felt the pattern of comprehension ripple across her fëa as it rested softly against his.
She bit her lower lip, looking at him with sororal concern, opened her mouth as if to ask a question, then closed it again. Her head quirked to the side once more with that bird-like grace, and something luminescent flickered through the depths of her eyes like moon-fire. When he was in such moods, it was not uncommon for her to make a playful jibe (has my Bird-Brother gone chicken?), but he saw in her expression the understanding that now was not the time for teasing. All the same, he suspected his star-eyed sister felt confused by the Eönwë who had returned from the War, the Eönwë who had seen horrors about which he could never dare tell her. The world had lost so much – he could not bear the thought that it might lose the bounce of Ilmarë's step or the starlit glow of her smile to the shadow of horrible truth that clung like webs to this world.
Still, it was not the first time he had concealed memories from her, not the first time he had hidden scars. There were some facts Ilmarë didn't need to know, his burdens to bear alone.
The moon-glow in her eyes brightened suddenly and her lips trembled with a suppressed smirk. She tugged his hand, this time a gesture that meant I have an idea – follow me.
So he followed her back up the stairs of the Ainovanda and through the gates of Ilmarin, but instead of continuing through the main hall to the High King's chambers, she took him on a sharp turn to the left. A slow smile touched Eönwë's heart as he realized where she was taking him and what it meant.
Up, up, and up they went, up into the highest tower of Ilmarin until finally they emerged at the pinnacled top. Here, the roof cut away in a deep, semicircular arc, revealing the expanse of the sky in all its natural glory from the highest point on Arda: the Mindon Menetingil, Varda's Tower of a Thousand Twinkling Stars.
A large, comfortable daybed dominated the middle of the Mindon, scattered with blue, gold, white, and silver pillows, and situated so that anyone reclining in it would have a perfect view of the skyscape. Other smaller settees ringed the room, providing an atmosphere of domestic grace, whilst huge tapestries of deep blue (courtesy of Vairë's folk) clothed the walls, each one embroidered with myriad mithril stars that caught the real starlight and cast it back, so that any occupant of the room felt as if he were floating in the night sky, surrounded by thousands of twinkling lights.
Casting Eönwë a mischievous look, Ilmarë flopped down across the daybed and propped her head up for a good view of the evening sky. The Sun was hovering just above the Outer Sea, and the gloaming fire was at full bloom, streaking the sky with glowing tendrils of red, orange, and yellow so vibrant that Eönwë could barely lift his eyes to the flaming expanse. With more reserve than his sister, the Herald lowered himself onto the daybed and leaned back.
Both were silent for the next half hour, watching as the sky fire paled and the Sun vanished gradually into the darkness beyond the world. Then, as if by some unspoken agreement, the two Maiar leaned forward almost as one to scan the ever-darkening sky with increasing intensity.
It was one of those games that come into being out of pure coincidence, so long ago in their case that neither of them quite remembered exactly how it had begun. Considerable time had passed since the two of them had visited the Mindon for such a light-hearted purpose, and as the sky slipped from deep red to purple to velvet blue, Eönwë found himself straining forward intently, sharp eyes boring into the darkening expanse. His muscles tensed with the strain of expectant competition, his nerves on fire and senses prickling, dreading (yet anticipating) any second to hear Ilmarë's distinct intake of breath that always heralded the same outcome to their contest.
It came a moment later, and Eönwë felt the surge of over-exaggerated disappointment that can only come from losing a competition of true sibling rivalry. The Handmaiden's arm shot out, pointing to the northeast quadrant of the sky. "There!"
He looked, and indeed, he caught the faintest twinkling of the first star of evening. Ilmarë smirked and flipped her gossamer hair in a gesture of smug satisfaction, to which Eönwë responded with an embellished pout, arms folded. "How is that even remotely fair? What chance do I have against a Maia of Varda in a contest like that? Completely rigged."
"Says the Maia who claims he can see a mouse from ten thousand feet in the air," she laughed. "You're Eagle-Eyed Eönwë, keenest in sight of all Maiar. Don't tell me you can't spot something as bright and beautiful as evening's first star."
"And you're the Night-Maiden," he retorted. "You probably helped Varda place the first star of evening and you know exactly where it will appear each night. Next time we should see who can predict the flight patterns of an eagle. See who wins that one."
"I didn't force you to play," Ilmarë answered with a grin, and with that, their ritual of post-contest raillery came to its time-honored close once again.
Ilmarë's intuition had been right though; the silly game brought back memories of brighter and happier times, and Eönwë's heart did not feel quite as tight or heavy as it had before. The two Maiar leaned back once again, watching in silent, comfortable companionship as the remainder of the stars glistened into being.
After a while though, Ilmarë rolled over to face him, cuddling a huge blue and white pillow. "Lord Manwë gave you a new assignment, didn't he? That's where you've been all day?"
Eönwë winced. Talking about this miserable, humiliating day was not exactly his top choice for conversation with anyone, let alone Ilmarë. It was bad enough having to labor alongside Sauron, in full view of every inquisitive Elf present, but having to admit the truth to his little sister of just what he'd been assigned seemed even worse in its own shameful way.
Still, his mere presence at Corimendturë would be food aplenty for rumors, and he'd rather explain everything to Ilmarë himself than wait until she overheard it from some misinformed Vanya.
To his surprise however, Ilmarë beat him to it. "Your new assignment, it has to do with Sauron, doesn't it?" she stated in that same quiet, discerning voice.
Eönwë must have stared (or glared) a little too vehemently, for Ilmarë smiled thinly and flicked his arm lightly with the pillow. "It wasn't that hard to guess. You come back looking like a storm cloud, run off to play with your sword instead of reporting to Lord Manwë, and barely say a word to me all evening. Obviously, something has gotten under your skin, and there are a limited number of dark lords in the area to have accomplished such a task."
Eönwë couldn't help the wry quirk in his lips at Ilmarë's tone. "I suppose," he admitted.
A pointed silence fell over them until Ilmarë raised her eyebrows. "Well, is it something you want to talk about?"
"It depends."
"All right then. Is it something you would feel better if you talked with me about it?"
Eönwë sighed and rubbed absently at his temples. "That I don't know."
"Why don't we give it a go then and see what happens?"
Eönwë gave her a dry look. "Sometimes I think you're too blithe for your own good."
Ilmarë's eyes flickered cheekily. "I will refrain from telling you what quality you possess too much of for your own good."
Eönwë eyed his sister pensively. She stared back unabashedly and he finally glanced away. "Yes, it's about Sauron," he said in a low voice. "I…it's my task to watch over him at Corimendturë: keep him out of trouble, make sure he doesn't get into trouble, the like. I'm supposed to be his personal overseer. Though," he added bitterly, "it feels like being his personal scratching-post more than anything else."
"How so?" Ilmarë prompted, propping her chin up on the pillow and keeping her silver eyes fixed intently on him.
Red-hot coals started glowing in his chest again, and that tight, bitter feeling in his stomach slithered insidiously back. All day, he'd been holding his temper in, pushing it back, denying it, but now his anger and indignation bubbled to the surface of his boiling spirit, refusing to be shoved down any longer. So he finally let it out. He told Ilmarë about the quarry, about Sauron's snips and mockery, about the fight between the Elves, about Sauron's irreverent ridicule of the Valar, Valinor, and himself, about the whole cursed day, his own tone growing more heated by the moment.
"He's impossible!" he vented as he reached the end. "The Valar have been merciful to him beyond thought and measure, especially after they saw what came of their leniency to Morgoth. Is he grateful though? Does he even acknowledge how much they didn't do to him that he deserves? Of course not! No, all he can do is make snide remarks about his cursed Bound powers – the powers he abused to inflict inconceivable suffering on others, no less – and complain about how inferior Valinor is to that land of death and torture that Morgoth created. Ilmarë, why is he here if he's not even going to bother trying? And believe me, he's not. It's obvious just from looking into his eyes. He hates us all, he hates the Children, he hates Valinor, he hates the Valar. He hates everything. And of course I'm the one stuck dealing with him."
He lifted his hands to his hair, tugging fiercely on the golden locks in frustration. "I saw just a fraction of what he did in Beleriand and it was horrible. Ilmarë, he's done things– I've…I've seen things…"
Tears beaded his golden lashes. He took a deep breath. "The War was finally over, and I thought I'd get rest and healing after so long. It was what I clung to in the darkness and horror: I dreamed of the waters of Lórien, and the quiet of Mandos, and music, and fresh air, and the laughter of loved companions. I desired it so much. It was why I fought: so that my world could have that peace, not just Valinor, not just me, but everyone finally. And maybe that's what everyone else got, but not me. Every other Maia from my battalion – guess where they are? They all went straight from the docks to Lórien and Mandos and Nienna to recover and sleep and heal until they're ready to return to the world that wreaked such terrors upon their memories. But me? Me? The moment I set foot back on Valinor, Lord Manwë inflicts that monster on me to babysit, and now instead of rest and healing, I have to listen to his disgusting venom and spite all day long. And why? Because I made one comment, Ilmarë. One comment. And now instead of going to Lórien myself, I'm saddled with the Black Captain of Morgoth! Because of Lord Manwë!"
There. He'd said it. There it was, in all its hideous, serpentine glory: the true venom that had been poisoning his veins all day long. The slow, festering resentment he'd been harboring since Lord Manwë had first dumped this repugnant task on his head.
Ilmarë had listened wordlessly with pursed lips, head tilted once more in deep concentration. As Eönwë buried his face in his hands, not sure whether he was more disgusted or relieved by his revelation, the Night-Maiden reached out a slender hand and stroked the back of his arm. "You've been having nightmares since you came back," she said, once again mingling question and statement eerily into one. "I heard you last night."
Eönwë didn't answer. Ilmarë continued to rub his arm fondly. "You know what I'm going to say now."
Eönwë glanced at her miserably. "Yes, I know."
She took his hand and pulled it down, squeezing it. "You have to talk to Lord Manwë. He and you are the only ones who can bring harmony to this discord, and as long as you keep avoiding him, it's only going to get worse. You have to tell him what's going on."
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing back the tears. "I know."
"Think of it this way," Ilmarë continued. "This is what Sauron wants: you miserable and resentful towards Lord Manwë. He wants you to question your friendships and loyalties, to sever your deepest ties. It was Morgoth's tactic too from the very first: to turn us against one another. If you don't want to hand Sauron the victory, go report to your lord and make things right with him."
Eönwë gave his sister's hand a return squeeze. "Thank you, Ilmarë."
She gave him a twinkling smile. "What are little sisters for?"
His own mouth twitched and he rose from the daybed. Turning at the door, he studied her thoughtfully. "What are you going to do now?"
She propped her head back up on the gigantic pillow, crossing her ankles casually and turning her gaze upward. "I'm going to watch the stars," she replied with flippant succinctness. "And perhaps I'll study the flight patterns of eagles while I'm at it. Who knows, I might even learn something…interesting."
A genuine smile broke through Eönwë's tension, but as he opened his mouth to make a parting retort, a jab of internal pain deep within his fëa stabbed through him. With it, a mental image he had tried to forget a thousand times flashed cruelly across his mind's eye, and he turned away from Ilmarë quickly, closing the door behind him and making his way to the descending stairs before the Night-Maiden could perceive his troubled thoughts.
Down, down, and down he went, and with each step his feet grew more leaden and his heart seized once again and his mouth grew dry and woolen, until finally he found himself in that place he should have been so many hours earlier and yet still did not fully want to be: standing before the doors of Lord Manwë's chambers.
His heart was pounding. Never had he outright refused his lord's summons, never made the High King resort to sending his wife's handmaiden to fetch his head Maia. Would Manwë be angry? Instinctively, Eönwë knew that wouldn't be the case. He had never seen Manwë angry before, not even when Morgoth betrayed them, destroying their Trees and crushing the last hope of his redemption for them all. That terrible day, there had been no wrath from Manwë, as righteous as it would have been; instead, Eönwë had witnessed something far more terrible in his lord's eyes, something that had broken his heart for the Vala he loved, something he knew deep down he could never have born if he had been the recipient of it rather than Morgoth.
No, Eönwë had never feared Manwë's wrath. It was Manwë's disappointment, deep as the Void and broken as Arda Marred, that Eönwë knew he could not face. Yet he must.
If you don't want to hand Sauron the victory today, go report to your lord and make things right with him.
Eönwë sucked in a deep breath then rapped sharply on the door. Instantly, the powerful will beyond responded, familiar and welcoming, as if Manwë had been doing nothing the last few hours save waiting for his dawdling Herald. The Vala's mind brushed lightly across his, but like Ilmarë, he did no more than examine the external patterns of Eönwë's fëa before calling him softly inward. A multitude of sensations swirled up in Eönwë. Part of him wanted to shrink away from Manwë's touch in embarrassment, part of him wanted to turn away and continue embracing the resentment that had driven him through the day, and part of him wanted to sink gratefully into the comforting depths of the familiar presence of his Vala.
So instead, he resorted to the final part of himself, that internal fortress to which he fled when he could not bear the thought of dealing with the rest. Squaring his shoulders and brushing his golden hair nervously back with one hand, he pushed open the crystal doors and fell automatically into the external role he knew best: the taut pageantry of Manwë's dependable, fastidious Herald.
The High King stood at the casement opposite, hands resting lightly on the sill, his head bare. The moonlight dripping like liquid silver through the tall windows glowed in his golden hair, and a fresh, wholesome air wafted through the chamber with a scent like newly-fallen snow. For a moment, Eönwë froze at the sight of that tall, majestic figure, his throat clogging with dread – and with self-anger at his dread – but then Manwë turned and his eyes fell on Eönwë. An ice-blue glow lit up instantly in those fathomless depths, those eyes that led to the will of Eru Himself, and Eönwë felt Manwë's relief and joy like a warm bath of light and power through the binding of their wills. Eönwë's throat clogged again, this time with an emotion he could not name, and with a little shuddering sigh, he dropped to his knee, head bowed.
"My lord Manwë," he said, his voice emerging as the annoyingly wooden monotone that it always seemed to become when his heart was at its fullest. "I'm sincerely sorry for my recalcitrance, and I assure you it will not happen again. I apologize deeply for all the trouble-"
"Eönwë."
Manwë's voice broke through his stilted apologies. The High King stepped towards him, bent, and lifted his Herald's chin with one slender hand. Eönwë found himself looking back into Manwë's eyes but his gaze dropped away after only a moment.
"Child," Manwë said gently. "There is only one person blaming you, and it is not your lord."
Eönwë looked up at that, his voice stuck in his throat, his eyes searching, pleading with an eloquence his tongue seemed suddenly to have lost. Manwë smiled almost imperceptibly and touched the Maia's cheek. Simultaneously, his will brushed against Eönwë's, sending a ripple of pleasant warmth through the Maia's spirit. Yet even so, Eönwë could not help but notice that Manwë was deliberately holding back. The High King's concern for his Maia was a dark ribbon running through the brilliancy of his thoughts.
He doesn't know if I want him to look deeper or not.
Yet the clear fact that Manwë had no intention of forcing Eönwë's emotions into the open eased his tension in some small measure. He made no protest as Manwë drew him up by the hand and led him to the wide window seat on the opposite side of the room. The two of them settled into it, across from one another, and Manwë leaned back into the azure plush of the seat, his hand resting against the colored crystal-thin glass of the casement. Eönwë drew up his legs, his back and shoulders still stiff, his unpleasant discomfort in his lord's presence lingering.
"What troubles you, Eönwë?" Manwë said after a long moment of heavy silence.
Eönwë swallowed painfully, his mind racing. Then, he slowly began to retell the day's events, his voice still frozen in that decorous monotone. As he described the various happenings at the quarry, he refrained from the personal embellishments that had liberally decorated his version of the tale for Ilmarë, stating the facts in that pragmatic manner that suited a herald delivering a routine report to his superior. He did not gloss over Sauron's spiteful attitude nor the quarrelsome Elves, but nor did he reveal the turmoil of his emotions that had accompanied those moments.
The entire time, Manwë sat still and quiet, listening intently but making no comment, his grey eyes fixed unwaveringly on Eönwë, the fingertips of his right hand resting pensively against his lips. His will remained close, yet not intimate, absorbing the undercurrents of Eönwë's words from his fëa, but hovering at a cautious distance as if unsure whether Eönwë was comfortable with his touch.
Silence fell between them again as Eönwë finished his report. Usually, he loved the vast, high quiet that wrapped itself around Ilmarin after the lighting of the stars, but today it gnawed at his spirit like hungry, wolfish shadows.
"It would seem the day has gone well overall," Manwë finally mused when it was clear that Eönwë had nothing more to say. "Sauron is bitter, but he did as was requested of him, and in this much at least I see hope for the future of this endeavor. As long as any rebellion and malice remain confined to speech, I see little harm in allowing him this channel for his emotions. The Elves continue to quarrel, but I think you did right, my child. It is good for them to realize that we will not tolerate back-biting or vicious conduct and that our eyes are upon them. You are frustrated with Sauron's bitterness and with the lack of progress you see in the Elves, yet neither of these things explain the discord I sense in your spirit, nor your choices this afternoon. What troubles you, Eönwë?"
For a moment, Eönwë almost revealed the truth, but instead he found himself unexpectedly saying something quite different, something that was still true, that still hurt to express, but that was still leagues away from the real serpent lurking in his soul. "It's…it's Sauron," he blurted. He hesitated, all-too-clearly remembering Manwë's reprimand when he had voiced a similar sentiment only days earlier. The dread of his lord's disappointment was ice in his fëa. "I…I still can't find for myself the faith you have in him, my lord, not after what I saw with Morgoth. I still can't help but feel that you don't understand the risk, the pain. I've been so ready to see this evil Age ended, but I'm terrified Sauron is keeping it alive. I simply cannot look at him and believe what you're believing, my lord. I don't see the hope that you see."
Manwë breathed a deep, sad sigh. Eönwë stiffened, not sure whether that sigh was directed at Sauron's malignancy or at his own lack of faith, hoping for the former but dreading in the pit of his stomach that it was the latter. Regardless, what Manwë did next took the Herald completely by surprise. The High King slid over on the window seat and gathered Eönwë into his arms, pulling him close and at the same time wrapping his will around the Herald like a swath of silk and autumn wind. Eönwë went rigid for a moment, but as his senses – inside and out – soaked in his lord's encompassing essence, he relaxed and laid his head on Manwë's shoulder, surrendering his worries and doubts to a blissful presentness that banished thoughts of both past and future. After a long, stressful day, after a long, stressful War, after a long, stressful Age, it felt better than he could have imagined to lay aside the scars and terrors of yesterday and the fears and shadows of tomorrow and simply dissolve into a today that was perhaps not so bad.
Manwë began to stroke Eönwë's hair softly, and the sky Maia's inhibitions crumbled further. He slipped upwards into a state where his fána seemed distant and fuzzy about the edges and his fëa seemed bright and full, as if it was his spirit that contained his body instead of the other way around. His memory sank further and further back, to a time before Valinor, before Eä, to a time that was timeless and a hall of light that no eye could see and music that no ear could hear. His fëa began to vibrate pleasantly, like a harp being strummed, producing soundless music that only another Ainu could hear, a Maiarin purr of contentment for his lord.
Time slipped by like a wide, peaceful river overhung by trailing willows with sunlight in their tresses and dappled lilies rocking on its surface. Eönwë continued to rest, Manwë's fingers in his hair, his mind distant and pleasantly sluggish. But finally the High King stirred. "Eönwë," he said gently, "have I ever hurt you?"
The question pulled Eönwë from his comforting stupor like burning iron on his skin. He pulled away in shock, turning a face of horrified indignation up to his lord. "No, no, never. Of course not, my lord!"
Manwë's eyes were deep and kind. "And have I ever made you fear me?"
Another dismayed negative escaped Eönwë, even as apprehension stole in as to where this conversation was heading. Manwë's face softened, and he reached out a hand to cradle his Maia's face. "Then why are you afraid to tell me the truth?"
A vice clamped down on Eönwë's heart, squeezing, squeezing. He wanted to protest, to deny Manwë's charge, to ignore the hissing serpent he'd tried so valiantly to defeat, but he could bear it no longer. His eyes dropped, his cheeks burning, and when he spoke, his voice was much smaller than he liked. "Because I'm afraid you'll think less of me for it."
A flicker of pain, dark and raw, flashed through Manwë's fëa. "It's not Sauron you're truly angry with, is it?" he asked, his voice little more than a murmur.
Eönwë felt as if he were curling up upon himself inside. "No," he whispered back.
"Tell me," Manwë said.
And so Eönwë did, and the nameless feelings found words he had not known were there, words of resentment, words of bitterness, words of pain, words of sorrow. He told Manwë about the hours of darkness (horror, horror, horror) and what he had seen in the dark dungeons of Angband and how he'd felt the life of a mutilated Child leave her in a cry. He told him about how he had staggered out from the battle of Angband and looked down to find in chest and arms soaked black and red with the blood of orcs and men and (most terribly) his own kind, and how he had vomited out his horrified disgust on the edge of the battlefield amid the corpses and the gore. He told Manwë about the hope that had given him the strength to press forward and finish the War, even as he saw the land upheaved and the sky blackened with smoke, the hope of a better future for the Children and the hope of reward and rest once he returned to Valinor with his mission complete. He spoke of a desperate moment of choice, when a beautiful monster knelt before him with agony and terror in his eyes and pleaded for pardon, and how he had felt in that moment that he could not bear for yet one more to die because of Morgoth's evil. He spoke of hope shattered, seeing the one he had spared turning inevitably back to cruelty and spite, and his fear and anger in seeing the Valar's mercy, seeing there but an echo of his own mercy, which could only lead to betrayal and another Age of darkened skies and dead trees and wind filled with the stench of Death. He told him of the burning resentment and poisonous bitterness that this new abhorrent assignment had roused in his spirit, fueled by the insidiously-laid coals that Sauron had fanned. He pressed his face to Manwë's shoulder, tears soaking into his lord's robes, and cried the words he knew he needed to say, choked and bleeding and deep as his spirit.
"After everything I did for you, how can you be making me do this?"
"I'm angry, I'm angry, I'm angry."
"I don't understand why you're making me do this."
"I'm angry. I'm angry! I'm angry!"
Manwë just held his Maia as Eönwë poured out his heart, half sobbed, half vented. The High King said nothing, the patterned light of his fëa flickering with innumerable veiled thoughts, now bright and quick with sympathy, now dim and slow with pain and grief. At last, Eönwë fell into melancholy silence, his throat as raw as his heart, trembling slightly with the power of the relived pain and the terrible strength of the emotions that had racked him. But at the same time, he suddenly felt safer and more comfortable, as if the hiddenness of his resentment had been a greater burden than the resentment itself. The additional fact that his lord had neither scolded him nor pushed him away for having such thoughts allowed peace to seep into the place where the bottled anger had been.
Manwë remained silent a minute or so longer, allowing Eönwë to recover from his outburst and process his feelings. Then the High King slowly lifted Eönwë from him so that they could see one another face to face more easily. He lifted a hand and used the edge of his sleeve to dry Eönwë's face. Eönwë swallowed painfully, his tongue and throat feeling swollen. "Is it a punishment?" he asked hoarsely. "For what I said about Sauron that other night? It feels like a punishment."
Still Manwë was quiet, gazing thoughtfully out to the star-studded velvet of the sky that seemed to wrap so closely around Ilmarin. Then he looked down at Eönwë again. "Eönwë," he said in a steady voice. "I will put a choice before you, and I wish you to know that I will think none the less of you for the choice you make. You have done as I asked today and thus fulfilled the matter of the assignment I gave you. You have labored alongside Sauron long enough to see the temper of his mind. Therefore, if you wish it, I release you from this task, and you may go with my blessings to Lórien to join those of your brave regiment who are seeking the well-earned healing and cleansing of mind, body, and spirit from the terrors of the War you have endured.
"But I wish you to know that I gave you this assignment not as retribution against your anger nor your frustration against Sauron, for you hold no blame for either. Not for lack of faith, nor hardheartedness, nor any vice you may have conceived to hold against yourself. Rather for this: what power of foresight my own portion of Eru's wisdom has given me tells me in my heart that long-lasting good may come from the task I gave you, should you choose to pursue it. From whence that good shall come, that I cannot see, nor can I glimpse who may benefit the most from it in the end. All I know is that in the end, it should yield for the better in some small portion.
"Yet, any good that may come shall not do so without pain and toil, and therefore I lay the choice before you, my child, for I have no desire that your duties to me should be loathsome to you. If you cannot bear the company of Sauron, if you believe the sowing to be of lesser worth than the possible harvest, then go, with all my good will, and find refreshment in Lórien. But if you choose to pursue the path I have opened to you with this task and see where it shall lead, then do so of your own choosing. And should you decide at any point that the burden is too great to bear, all you need do is ask and you will be released from this role."
Manwë ran his thumbs tenderly across Eönwë's cheekbones, his fingers still hooked under Eönwë's chin. A deep, fond smile filtered through the grave sorrow, but behind his eyes there was still a poignant pain that Eönwë felt as an ache through the bond of their spirits. "Above all else," Manwë said, bringing his forehead to Eönwë's and speaking so quietly that he knew the words were meant for his ears alone, "I want you to know that there is no pain, no sorrow, no anger, no frustration, that you cannot bring to my breast. Should you continue in this task, Sauron will doubtlessly try to drive a wedge between you and those you love best, just Melkor once did. He will try to make you believe that I will not listen and that I do not understand.
"But remember this, my dear little one. I know you have seen things and done things and felt things that no Maia was ever made to see or do or feel, and you think I cannot understand." Manwë paused, and his eyes glistened with both shadow and light mingling. "But I do understand," he whispered. "Few of my dreams are of starlight and eagles. Eönwë, no Ainu was ever made to cast his own brother to the darkness, or to order a war of ruin and wrath, or to send his own beloved Maiar into places of horror. I know what it is to do things that tear your spirit in two, I know what it is to feel things that make it seem like you will never again be clean and well. You are far from alone, Eönwë, and I would that you keep that knowledge close to your heart."
Eönwë was crying again, silently, tears rolling down his cheeks, but this time it was affection swelling in his heart, though the bitterness was not wholly gone. "I…I just want to make you proud, my lord."
"And you have, a thousand times and more." The smile in Manwë's voice was like honey and wind flying through pinions to Eönwë's spirit. The Vala of the Sky kissed the Herald's forehead. "And I have full confidence that you will continue to do so. I do not need an answer from you tonight. Go and get some well-deserved sleep, soronya."
My little eagle. It was the name of affection Manwë had called Eönwë with a laugh in the early days when Eönwë had soared the upper airs in such elation that he could scarce be compelled to come down for more serious matters. But when the darkness had closed in and Manwë had begun to sigh more than laugh and Eönwë no longer took to the air for the pure joy of flight, that name had faded into the past. But hearing it now brought back a coursing hope that had felt strangled and dying of late.
He laid his head once again on Manwë's shoulder, suddenly reluctant to leave, no matter how pleasant a bed and sleep had seemed a moment before. His fëa thrummed. A sudden image of Ilmarë flopped upon the Mindon daybed, smirking, flashed through his mind, and he smiled in response to his sister's clever intuition. Perhaps she knew the flight patterns of eagles better than he had thought she did.
"My lord," he said, "I don't think I need until the morning to give you my answer."