Chapter Text
When Eönwë's fëa flickers on, inside of the Elder King's spiritual mantel, it is still unconscious.
The way it pulses, helpless and frantic, attests to a violent end; and his consciousness is still frozen up from the shock of having its form literally torn away from him.
Only a few hours after Manwë has used his power to directly summon the largest maiarin fëa of his House to him, the news of the death of his Herald was already beginning to spread around Valinor. Ainurin communication doesn't care for distance and they mingle with the Children...with them, information running its course is ineluctable.
Not that it really matters; for now, the Incarnates' politics are only third to the Elder King's concern.
For a few seconds, he feels the wild pulse of the alarmed core, just as he sees the color of its rounded raiment fluctuate... That is, until the fëa becomes aware of his embrace, and registers the identity of the one who holds him.
Manwë let a reassured shimmer ripple through his fána.
However disoriented, the fëa recognizes his Vala's touch... The oaths they have Sung together made matter and energy; the powerful link that marks his Herald, is as strong as ever.
Tentatively, the fëa opens up, allowing his Vala to begin infusing it directly, letting the stronger power heal it from the inside out.
Soon, its hesitation is gone; it surges forth and press onto the larger mass of Manwë's fána, close enough to be magnetized to the buzz of his raw valarin energy... Only there and then does its alarm minutely make place for relief, its color cooling off a few shades.
The Lord of The Breath calls forth a low chant of healing to occupy himself and shares it in the clear refined precision of their ósanwe... both to console the helpless and shapeless prone form of his Maia, coaxing it to stay open as he feed it with new energy, and to persuade it to remain still as patient, while he let his Vala conduct the meld. "You are safe, Urion. You are home;" and as he quietly sings, he molds his voice to be warmer, wholesome.
His nurturing skills possess neither the resiliency and delicateness of Irmo's, nor the swift precision of Vairë's; but the technique he has chosen has an empirical efficiency. Indeed, for a Maia who wears part of his energy inside their core, there is no more potent and efficient way of healing than the ófea; the merging of spirit, a raw sharing of life force.
Yet, if there is no more powerful mean of healing in the Song than ófea, there is no more dangerous one, either.
Even after so many yéni, Manwë can't help but watch the small spirit in his arms with a measure of awe...just as he keeps it from surging deeper into his fána, maintaining it barely merged with his.
You would lose yourself, Urion mine. You know better. Neither of us want to see your assimilated. First because I need you, and your men do too. Second, because I don't want Ilmarë to maim me.
Eönwë can't respond, but his fëa gradually settles down; it only pushes now and then against his Vala's raiment to drink on its energy and hide himself from the hazards and pains of the world.
This display of self-restrain instills pride in Manwë's heart.
Even the base of active consent that is needed for fëar to become permeable; due to their terrible consequences, and the pleasant trance they induce; these joining are a matter of gravity, a testimony of dedication and infinite trust, used only between Ainur who feel the need to unite officially and Maiar who pledge themselves in servitude to their Valar.
The most brief slip of control can result in deep alteration of their cores, and for smaller fëar, not only the definite loss of free will, as was risk for ósanwe, but of individuality altogether; leaving nothing but a thrall, a smaller version of themselves that would feel drawn to them again and again finding only at peace when merged with their other half; their personality then completely and ultimately overridden...
Any Ainu intuitively knows that overriding a fëa feel as painful to the All-Father as a direct blow; and feels inherently wrong...disregarding how the smaller fëa's consent has been gotten, the idea itself feels like one of the worst possible crimes.
Out of this primal dread, the Valar have taken an infinite amount of measures to prevent that fate to befall their Maiar or their spouses. Even more, in the dreaded eventuality of those not being enough, they take time to imprint the structure of the fëa's spirit and personality as an isolated memory, safely kept somewhere else in themselves to be able to cancel what has been done, to restore the Maia before the override can touch their core.
It is for these reasons, that Maiar lovers are strongly encouraged to have their first union supervised by stronger and trusted relatives, and preferably, by their Vala themselves.
These cautions have always been enough to ensure that the two fëar would never merge beyond the threshold they had beforehand decided on. Ófear that includes Maiar are still dreaded and usually postponed by many Valar, usually when they didn't just delegate to Irmo. Still, they were those believed that avoiding practice was only making them more susceptible to irreversible blunders...
Steadily, Manwë feeds the smaller fëa, making sure to erase his influence from the raw, fizzing energy before he feed it to the diminished core, letting it use it as it needs it most. Before his touch, his Herald regrows himself into cohesive sentience.
As other Aratar, the Lord of the Breath can draw effortlessly from the threads of Eä that The One had sung himself. In that way, they are slowly able to regain the full capacity of his own energy, as long as no other Power hinders them.
The responsibilities of an ófea with a barely conscious Maia can be crushing and terrifying. Though, he suspects they are all past that kind of sensibilities. Two wars, the odd fight against void intruders, the vain search for Ungoliant; theirs limitations and failings have taught most of them something of humility but also temperance and steadfastness.
Since he had not favored healing in his contributions to the Song, Manwë Súlimo had to learn the mastery of that art as much as possible within the restrictions of Eä. Ófea is the most efficient solution to heal vassal Maiar...as much as it is an exhausting work of minutia demanding both his patience, his concentration and a serious amount of empathy.
But the practice of this art is not only his role, it also is his privilege and pride to thank the Maiar who serves his domain; the meeker Ainur who have put enough trust in him as to bind their soul to his name in indenture... Still, he can't help being surprised by the peace that he finds in a task so dangerous.
(He double checks his feelings, in case that the trance of the merging might have confused him. Has he let himself grow careless, too secure in his practice? But no, that peace is deep, clear, invigorating; and he knows it to be real...)
The cathartic process itself echoes on his sanwë, and he let himself enjoy the presence of this particular Maia who carry his mark.
Yes. However tiny as he looks, bundled neatly into his mantel, Eönwë has always comforted him... His valiant and generous herald has not only enhanced his confidence as he has ruled along the Ages; his silent presence, in might and discipline, have also filled him with a warm sense of safety even before they are entered Eä; even before he had chosen to pledge himself to him as his Maia.
Pride, protectiveness and love both dance in his heart as he focuses his divine energy into raw wavelengths of compassion for the trusting fëa resting on his lap.
Yet...
However pleasant the moment is, its necessity is testimony to a hurtful tragedy: his Herald, his Urion, has fallen.
Once more.
...The King of Valinor stifles a new ripple in the even and ordered energy waves of his core.
Yet another large, mighty creature intruded into the Song.
As countless others have done, along yéni of Ages, as long as ainurin memory went, it had come from the Void for its own reasons, and become a dangerous hole in the Music...
From some other Maiar; from a lesser strategist, or a warrior lacking discipline, Manwë could have expected hazardous outcomes from a fight of this magnitude. His Herald, however, is no reckless youth and chance is not involved when the Singers of Ea send an envoy to adjust a minor inconvenience.
The rekindling of their ósanwe, one of the many consequences of their roles, tells the Vala that his precious ward is partially conscious, now.
Still, neither share in thoughts yet; and without ósanwe, ófea is vague, its rawness ill-fitted to communicate precise, ordered notions. (They don't need more yet; their fëar fused up to the threshold of their common truths and shared traits of character.)
For now, Manwë doesn't inquire about the fight, neither does he comment on having his Chief Maia, the most skilled weapon master of Arda falter from a singular fight for the fourth time in a yén...
Silently, he just holds the vulnerable essence of his Herald against his chest, and their ósanwe, empty.
They are alone, away from the Children's eyes, and Manwë feels secure in the fact that his old friend will regain his full powers without any kind of loss.
And so, at least, the Vala unwinds the energy dedicated into holding his fána solid... and let his arms fade into ethereal tendrils of glowing wisps.
Manwë's feelings of affection and worry coexist without warring; the silence and the mystery doesn't grow them in intensity; they remain equal through the passing of Valian Hours...
He listens to the Maia's pulse, and feels it shimmer, bask in valarin energy - all high waves and harmonious vibes.
In sanwë and fëa alike; with the swiftness and efficacy of a natural and well-practiced dance; they touch, align, and harmonize themselves as Lord and Maia.
Soon enough, a surge of grateful contentment colors Manwë's raiment: the fëa in his arms has recovered enough to project a new fána - albeit an unsubstantial one. He knows the exact moment when Eönwë is able to hold himself, turn solid, or even to take a shape.
But his Maia remains idle in his arms, so the Lord of The Breath plays along, and keeps him coddled tight.
Trough ósanwe, he feels the blush of his Maia; a sweet low-key buzz that he pretends not noticing; even as it warms him with a satisfaction that he had not felt in many yéni. And, as Valian Hours passes in this manner, his Maia's sheepishness changes into open gratefulness and content abandon.
He sends only a single commend to his ward, the one is precious to him beyond word: stay, rest without care or worry; your duties to the Song and to your ainur all are mine, for now.
For long, floating over the floor of their domain, they let themselves drift slowly in the careful merging of spirits. And when Manwë feels another Ainu ascend the palace, the interruption feels almost unwelcome, too soon.
In the Music of his Domain, he recognizes the Chief servant of his spouse.
Ilmarë does the polite thing and broadcast herself long before entering the throne room. Her gesture is both a salute and a request; and suddenly Manwë feels her and her need to see her other half, the Ainu whom she loves as a part of herself... Seconds later, she is in the hall, in presence, facing him. Her proud figure is cast in the rays of Arien's waning light, beneath the tall glittering monochrome of the large blue stained Mithril.
She only gives the obeisance expected in the presence of another Aratar; he is not a King tonight, with his closest relatives.
Small, graceful, proud, stubborn... Ilmarë knew of Eönwë's state even before she came. But she needed to come, to see for herself that her soulmate is safe and well-cared for; to get the assurance of his imminent and complete recovery...
For this, she is always welcome.
She smiles, eyes ablaze, her mind a song of relief and thankfulness; but Manwë can see the subtle lined of frustration and forlorness on her otherwise young face.
Eventually she bows again to salute the lord of her lover - longer this time; until the Vala returns her salute with an acknowledging nod.
She leaves.
For a moment, it is the two of them again; Maia and Vala, caught in an embrace as ancient as natural in the Song's design, older still, beyond time and space and Eä's rules...
But before long, it is his Chief steward who touches his sanwë, requesting and announcing his arrival. Foresight tells him that Frimmes's arrival preludes the end of the moment of intimacy shared with his oldest Maia.
.
Were they not linked directly through their fëa, the ósanwe would still have given Eönwë notice of it. To the Maia, it feels like only hours have passed. A moment ago, he was fleeing from his body, abandoning it to the wounds taken from the giant void beast. and already Taniquetil needs him to resume his role. He swallows a sight and rises from the arms of his lord.
Lord Manwë inquires about his well-being. — He dismiss his Vala's worry and his eventual offer both. His lord has healed him and he needs nothing more. Days-off could do him no good; his fëa was forged for work, and working is what fills him with peace.
Mostly.
Eönwë focus his newfound energy into matter, shapes it from memory.
The form stretches, curl and mold into that of an tall child of Ingwë, endowed with his beloved powerful and huge white eagle wings...
Still facing the chief steward of Oiolossë, he tries to consolidate this draft of this new fána. He is at his usual size; two foot taller than Frimmes, yet still easily dwarfed by the Vala behind him, patiently watching over the process. He finds himself struggling and remembers that his strength is still recovering.
His Vala softly brushes against his mind as a soothing caress, a blooming offer. After a moment of stubborn effort, Eönwë reluctantly accepts that he is stuck. As a condensed vertical cloud floating idly, he send his agreement — and his polite request for help. (The blur of its features increases from his embarrassment as Lord Manwë glides closer behind him.)
The mantle of power of his lord parts to envelop him and he ignores the protest of his pride as he yield full control on his fana to his Vala. Thick, wholesome, refreshing valarin energy course him to consolidate the shape he had begun to built.
His reluctance is weak-willed and only last so long. Wisdom and trust are made so that his fighting skill only let him revel more in the feelings of this intimate submission to the Ainu who owns his fëa.
Without any reaction to his thoughts, his lord stays focused on shaping the details of his fána; working him from the inside out, with the signature love and tenderness that often lid the mantle of his raw energy.
When he put the final touches to his definition and retreats his energetic mantle, Eönwë's heart sighs from the loss. He turns around to thank him properly, and instead, can't help beaming up at him, his heart too full to devise words.
.
And no words are needed between Ainur of the same House.
Eönwë's gratefulness flows wholesome and unbidden through the spiritual channel that binds him to the Vala of The Breath, and an old, familiar awe resurges again, warm, loving, scented like toasted wheat grains, leaving the taste of a sweet and round wine...
And yet, here again, Manwë also feels something different in the mind of his ambassador: like a dot of silence, a mute hole. (In this, the Ainu recognizes a closed mental door. Even though his own mind betray nothing of the concern it brings yet.) For now, his Herald's body stand solid, fully detailed, and the Elder King feels his patience rewarded.
He returns Eönwë's smile, slides a conniving glance down at his second Chief Maia with an acknowledging tilt of his head. A second brief and satisfying exchange in ósanwe later, at least, Manwë turns away, leaves his two Maiar to their duties.
Peaceful, in ample movements, he glides to the dais where his and his soulmate's thrones stand. There he takes seat and blinks himself towards the wide open balcony. The King of the Powers of Arda, he once again spreads his View to Endórë. His Sight is already covering far beyond Taniquetil when Eönwë and Frimmes eventually bows to take their leave. His dear herald almost jolts out of his shape when he softly thinks his name out in ósanwe.
'We must and will discuss what you have done to your fána...thrice.'
In the span of a heartbeat, Eönwë knows his shame exposed.
'Yet, every topic has a right time and place.'
He can't help but curl his mind down, closing further from his Lord's reach despite himself before he blinks himself away. Swallowing on a lump of dread and regret he nods in ósanwe.
'Aye, my Lord.'