Archive of Our Own

Eönwë stood under an old pine tree that had survived the fire. He cleaned his sword. His squire could have done it, of course, but today, he felt he needed to wash the blood and gore away by himself. They had finally managed to make an advance in the pass of Sirion, but at what cost? The whole camp was mourning for the dead, Elves and Men both. Today would be the day of the mass funeral. Drumming and singing would begin as soon as they had secured the new location of the war camp.

He had taken lives, too. Lives of Orcs and also Children of Ilúvatar who were fighting for Moringotto. Their blood gave the wash water a sickly reddish colour. He wrung a rag in his hands before continuing to wipe the sword clean. There was certainly some blood left, even though his eyes could not see it. He smelled it.

The host of the Valar had arrived in Middle-earth many years ago, led by Oromë and Tulkas, but Moringotto still abode in his northern fortress. His corruption was only spreading further, an inevitable consequence of the war. They hadn’t been able to stop him despite what they had promised to Eärendil. The Valar had time, Eönwë knew, but he had seen too many Elves and Men dying on his side. Beleriand did not have much time left.

Lately, Eönwë had too often lost himself in those gloomy thoughts. That, too, had to be a part of Moringotto’s corruption. Desperately, he tried to imagine something beautiful, something worth fighting for. But around him, there were only skeletons of burnt pine trees against barren hills.

The sword should have been clean already, but still he scrubbed it with the dirty rag.

“Let me see it,” a gentle voice spoke behind him.

Hearing that voice brought joy to Eönwë’s heart. He spun around to face his friend – yes, his friend. He had not known that such a close friendship between a Maia and an incarnate could be possible, but the lonely years spent on the battlefield had moulded them both.

“Ingo, you are back!” he exclaimed. You are alive, he thought but did not say.

King Arafinwë gave a weak smile as he took the sword Eönwë had been cleaning. He had removed his gloves, but not taken off the rest of his battle armour, and the golden parts of it shone together with his fair hair. Still, Eönwë saw the tell-tale signs of after-battle weariness on the Elf’s face.

Arafinwë took the filthy rag from his hand despite his objections. “Let me,” he repeated in a firm voice. Eönwë’s shoulders sank, and he muttered a weary thank you.

“I have been in the camp a while already,” Arafinwë told him as he began to scrub Eönwë’s sword. “I wanted to check that everyone was well.”

“And were they?” Eönwë asked after a pause.

“Too many of the Noldor are dead. I hope it was worth it.” He sighed deeply. “My sister is well. Angry, but well. She was in a bad place, but luck was on her side.”

“Good to hear that.” He knew how close Arafinwë and Lalwen had become after their reunion. It would be a devastating blow if they lost each other again.

“Your sword should be clean now,” Ingo said after a while. “Do you have any oil around here?”

Eönwë found some in a box with common supplies. “Here. But I can finish it, you don’t have to…”

“I know. But I really want to do it, Eönwë. Please, sit down and relax.”

His friend’s words made him realize how exhausted he really was. The friendly advice suddenly felt very good. He slumped down on his knees, not caring whether his trousers or the tips of his wings got dusty. He still wore his breastplate with a carving of the holy mountain on it – the Elder King’s emblem. It accentuated his status as Manwë’s herald, and he never took it off. Manwë had stayed in Taniquetil. In the war camp, Eönwë was the only one who was able to communicate with Manwë and to make the Elder King’s will known. Even Oromë and Tulkas listened to him.

Sometimes, he wondered what they would do if something happened to him. He had seen Úmaiar bleed to death, their decapitated bodies turning into charcoal on the battlefield. Would his spirit fly back to Manwë if he lost his fana, or would he stay in Middle-earth, incorporeal? Perhaps he would stay, silently encouraging and spurring their hosts to fulfil their duty: to overthrow Moringotto’s rule over the land.

He felt Arafinwë’s hand on his shoulder. “Thinking dark thoughts again?”

He was about to deny it, but then he met Arafinwë’s tree-lit eyes, both solemn and gentle, and he could not lie to his friend.

“I’m afraid, Ingo. I fear…” But what he feared, he could not say. He was not sure of it himself.

Arafinwë studied him for a moment, then nodded, not questioning him further. Eönwë was grateful for it.

“Your sword, my lord.” Arafinwë knelt in front of him, suddenly very formal, offering the weapon to him like in a private ceremony. They were both kneeling now, facing each other. Eönwë knew he should have risen, in accordance with the ceremony, but he had no energy left. He took the sword in his hands. Arafinwë had made the metal shine again.

“It is made by Aulë, isn’t it?” Arafinwë asked. “I felt a strange buzz when I cleaned it, as if remains of an ancient song.”

“It is.”

It was a song of war, what the Elf had felt. It would not stop until Moringotto was chained. Eönwë sheathed the sword; he did not want to feel the buzz of it now.

“Thank you, Ingo,” he said, and Arafinwë bowed to him, showing his unwavering support.

Back in the camp, after Arafinwë had rested, Eönwë was called to an unofficial meeting. They met in Arafinwë’s command tent, just the three of them. Lalwen had pulled her chair close to her brother. She had become used to Eönwë’s presence over the years, but she never seemed totally at ease with his presence, much like the rest of the exiled Noldor. The tent was high enough for Eönwë to stand upright in his winged form, for which he was grateful. He felt naked without his wings.

“All my spies have returned,” Lalwen told them. Her report was meant for her brother only, but Arafinwë had asked Eönwë to be present; he valued his opinion and knew that Eönwë could keep the secret.

“They found some traces of their presence in the area,” Lalwen continued after a short pause. “Camps abandoned recently, remains of traps, footprints. Two people. Elves, certainly. One of them is probably tall. They are staying rather close to our hosts but change their camp frequently. They don’t act like ordinary travellers, and in any case everyone who once lived in this area has either been enslaved already or fled before the battle. It must be them.”

By them she meant the two eldest sons of Fëanor; the only ones who were still alive. Arafinwë had been trying to find them with the help of her sister’s spies, but so far without success. He was convinced that his nephews still had a role in the war against Moringotto – ever since he had started to have a recurring dream about them. He had asked Eönwë about the dream once; asked if he knew what it meant. Eönwë had shaken his head. Only Irmo knew such things.

Arafinwë had explained that he sometimes had dreams that later turned out to be prophetic, and this one felt just like them.

“It must be them,” Arafinwë agreed. “It is in their interests to be present when we overthrow Moringotto. They have taken an oath to get the Silmarils back.”

The Silmarils. Fëanor had carried them proudly on his chest once, and Eärendil had worn one upon his brow. They kept the light of the ancient world inside them; the world that was no more. The remaining two were kept inside the fortress of Angband. It was common knowledge that Moringotto was wearing them in his crown.

When Melkor is chained, it is your duty to take care of the Silmarils. Those had been Manwë’s instructions to him. The Elder King had said nothing of giving them back to the sons of Fëanor.

“Perhaps it would be best if the Fëanorions were not here,” Eönwë was compelled to say. “That could lead to a conflict between them and other Elves. They have done much evil already.”

“I know,” Arafinwë said solemnly. “Nevertheless, I want to find them. I feel better if I know where they are. I have no grievance against them. They are still my nephews. Whatever they have done, they have been driven by forces stronger than themselves.” He studied Eönwë, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps you could be able to find them. Ainur have skills that Elves lack.”

“Perhaps I could, but they would not be pleased to see me. They would not listen to my words, nor follow me to the camp. Besides, I am needed here. I’m the only one who can speak directly with Manwë.”

“Of course,” Arafinwë replied. He was going to add something more, but Lalwen interrupted him.

“I can find them,” she said with confidence. “If you allow me to go, I know where to search. Let me do it, Ingo.”

Arafinwë considered that for a while. Eönwë knew that he was worried about her in the battlefield, but this task was not without dangers either. Would the sons of Fëanor trust her, or would they see her as a threat? But Lalwen was right. She had probably the best chance of finding them and earning their trust.

“All right,” Arafinwë said at last. “Go and find them. Bring them to me.” He glanced at Eönwë as if to make sure that he had made the right decision. Eönwë gave him a gentle nod, even though he still had some doubts.

* * * * *

Eönwë regularly reported on the war situation to Manwë. For this, he preferred to be away from the incarnates. He knew that his usual appearance changed when he spoke to the Elder King. The words of Valarin would sound like thunder and storm in their ears. The Elves usually found that disquieting.

The camp was surrounded by mountain ranges from each side. He flew all the way to the western range and landed on a windswept plateau near the summit. It was just the kind of place Manwë liked. Contacting him would be easier in a place like that.

His appearance had already changed. He had a beak instead of a mouth, and the sharp eyes of an eagle. His body looked mostly like before, dark-skinned, and agile, like one of an Elf, but feathers covered his skin in many places. He opened his wings and called a gust of wind. It lifted him up in the air.

He hovered over the plateau for a while, enjoying the freedom of movement and the vast sky. In the north-east, however, the sky was tainted with orange smoke. He could see a red glow from Thangorodrim. The smoke had spread over Anfauglith and almost to their camp. If the hosts of the West and North wanted to proceed, they could not avoid it much longer.

He felt Manwë’s attention on him like a warm hug.

There you are, little one. The words were spoken in his mind, very softly, and even as he was filled with happiness he trembled inside. He imagined Manwë on his throne in Taniquetil, unmoving and eyes closed, reaching towards Middle-earth where he would not allow himself to appear in person. Eönwë could feel the Elder King’s growing apprehension as he waited for his report. Manwë hated war and destruction because it forced him to become a little like his brother. But this was a necessary war, wasn’t it?

He gave his report. He told Manwë about the advance they had made, and about the many dead. But they had been victorious in the end, he assured him. Moringotto’s army had fled before them, all the way to Fen of Serech. That would be the place of the next battle; a battle they needed to win if they wanted to get to Anfauglith, and finally to Moringotto’s hideous fortress. It would happen on another day, after they had rested, Manwë decided. Silently, Eönwë was relieved that they were allowed this short pause in fighting.

He let Manwë see his nightmarish memories of Elves dying around him. They had been Vanyar who had believed that staying close to Manwë’s herald would keep them alive. It had been the complete opposite. His presence had lured a Valarauko there. He had managed to wound the dark spirit and finally drive it away, but it had been too late for those Elves.

Eönwë sensed Manwë’s aversion to the horrors of the battlefield; the shared emotion was almost physical. His wings wavered.

So much destruction, the Elder King lamented from beyond the sea. There’s no other way, though. We must stop the chaos Melkor is creating before the whole of Arda is lost.

Manwë never called the fallen Vala Moringotto. He was still Melkor to him, although his brother had turned his might towards oppression.

I have a special mission for you, Eönwë. Would you do something for me?

Of course, he assured him, feeling a rush of happiness about the words special mission. Manwë’s trust warmed his heart. But when Manwë made him aware of the details, the uncomfortable feeling returned. The Elder King wanted him to go scouting the area of Anfauglith. He wanted him to go into that horrible smoke, to get a better understanding of what was waiting for the host of the Valar there. Eönwë did not want to go. He could never admit this to his King, however. He was loyal, always.

I need to see it with your eyes, Manwë explained, and Eönwë agreed. There was no other way. He was his Lord’s eyes.

When will I leave?

He feared that Manwë sensed the apprehension in his mind, and he was ashamed. But Manwë did not comment on it.

As soon as you can. Tell Oromë that I have ordered you to go.

He landed on the plateau near the summit. Half man, half bird, he knelt and bowed his head low, even though his King was far from there – except as an entity in his mind.

It will happen, my King, he spoke in Valarin, and a burst of wind hit the summit and ruffled his feathers. He felt Manwë’s desperation in a gust of wind.

Manwë had asked him to go as soon as he could, but he could not leave without meeting with Arafinwë first. He found him inspecting the defences on the northern perimeter of the camp. Arafinwë brightened up when he saw him. Eönwë’s fana was more Elf-like again, only wings remained.

They were surrounded by Elven warriors, so Arafinwë did not embrace him like a close friend he really was. Instead, he gave him a deep bow of reverence, a fitting greeting to Manwë’s herald.

“I have something to tell you,” Eönwë muttered, and Arafinwë’s smile vanished. He saw instantly that something was wrong.

“Not here,” Eönwë added quickly, and Arafinwë gave him a nod. He guided him straight to the command tent. When they entered, Arafinwë asked a guard posted outside to not let anyone disturb them.

“What is it, Eönwë?” His friend’s bright eyes looked concerned.

“I received a special mission from Manwë. I’m going to the enemy area for a short scouting trip.”

Arafinwë froze. “Alone?”

“Yes. We need to gather more intelligence on what’s waiting for us there. I am best suited for the mission.”

His friend sighed deeply. “I do not like this, Eönwë. Not at all. If the enemy spots you...” But he did not say that he should not do it. They both knew it needed to be done.

“I will leave as soon as I have told the news to Oromë.”

There was a quiver in Arafinwë’s voice as he asked, “Are the fumes there dangerous to a Maia?”

A strong aversion hit Eönwë as he thought about smoke that covered the barren land and hid Moringotto’s fortress from view. He did not want to go there.

He should not have shown Ingo his hesitation, but it was too late. Arafinwë’s eyes were wide and full of worry. “Oh, Eönwë.”

Suddenly, Ingoldo’s arms were around him. The Elven-king pulled him to an embrace as tender as Manwë’s touch. And still, it was completely different. He allowed himself to be embraced. Ingo pressed his cheek softly against the cold metal of his breastplate. He had to hear Eönwë’s heart beating rapidly under his armour and skin. Eönwë wrapped his wings and arms protectively around his friend and closed his eyes. Ingo held him in an affectionate embrace. He took great care not to crush his wings. Slowly, his hands slid lower, to Eönwë’s waist, and lower still. His touch felt very good, and still –

“Ingo,” he breathed a gentle warning. “We should not...” he trailed off, not sure how to continue. Should not love? Should not continue the war?

Arafinwë raised his head and retreated. The suddenly-embarrassed look in his eyes was too much for Eönwë to bear. He had enjoyed the shared intimacy of the moment. Eönwë felt like a hypocrite. But the moment was over. He gently took Ingo’s hand, lacing his fingers with Ingo’s. Their hands were so beautiful together, his brown hand against Ingo’s pale skin. He breathed into their interlaced hands. Ingo let out a hushed sigh.

“I don’t want you to go there!” his friend exclaimed with a note of desperation. “It’s a bad place.”

Eönwë studied him, a majestic Elf whose eyes still reflected ancient light. Even now, Ingo managed to produce an apologetic smile as if it would be somehow wrong to show such deep concern.

Eönwë wanted to reassure him that it would be all right, but the words stuck in his throat.

“We all need to go there in the end,” he found himself saying instead. “It’s for the best of all that I will do a scouting trip first. I will try to return soon. I don’t like the fumes either.” He paused. “I won’t leave you, Ingo. Not until this is over.”

He could see Arafinwë’s eyes widen with some emotion, and briefly wondered if he had promised something he could not keep.

“Let me embrace you one more time before you go, then,” Arafinwë said at last and opened his arms again.

Eönwë answered the embrace wholeheartedly, his previous worry about their ill-advised closeness pushed aside. Suddenly he felt Ingo’s lips on his forehead. Their touch was soft, feather-light – then it was gone.

“For luck,” Ingo whispered.

Oromë did not comment on the perils of the journey when he heard Manwë’s order – he did not need to. A strange light always burnt in the Vala’s eyes lately. Those were the eyes of the Hunter.

“Keep an eye on Sauron,” Oromë did warn him. “If he notices you out there, he might come to you. You cannot win against him in a fight on your own – do not even try. You need to avoid meeting him at all costs.”

It was an unnerving thought, and something he usually preferred not to think about. Mairon, his first friend, who had become Moringotto’s lieutenant. They called him Sauron now. After the destruction of Utumno, Eönwë had dared to hope that Mairon would return to Valinor, but it had not happened. Afterwards, it had become clear that he had not repented, but had become an even more horrible entity. Eönwë shivered. He assured Oromë that he would keep away from Sauron. Even though it hurt him to say so.

Eönwë braced himself for a trip into enemy territory. It was no use delaying the inevitable.

He wished Arafinwë would have been there when he finally opened his wings and departed, but he was nowhere to be seen. Still, many others watched him and craned their necks as he flew away from the camp. He knew that for many, he was a symbol of hope. What would it mean to them if he returned injured from the evil territory – or did not return at all?

It would not happen to him, he promised himself. Manwë would not send him there without hope for return.

Below him, countless rows of tents were spread out in the mountain pass between abandoned Tol Sirion and treacherous Fen of Serech. Close to the fen, another camp stood, its tents lesser in number, but only because most of Moringotto’s Orcs did not seem to prefer such luxury. Foreign banners announced the presence of several tribes of Men who served under Moringotto. He even spotted a Balrog, as the fiery Úmaiar were called in Middle-earth. The ground around the Balrog was on fire, threatening to spread out. Some of the Orcs desperately tried to keep the fire in control. The sight of an Úmaia made Eönwë immediately change his direction in the air. He was not sure if Balrogs had wings, but this was not a good moment to find out. Moringotto’s army was much bigger than the hosts of the West and North altogether, and behind it, smoke and fumes could hide almost anything.

It was difficult to tell at first where the toxic air began. But as Eönwë flew onwards, the visibility became poorer, and he knew he was inside a cloud of fumes. In this form, he needed to breathe in order to survive, but he did not want to abandon his fana. He preferred to see with real eyes. Without a body, he might become a lost spirit in that barren land. Now he carried Aulë’s sword with him. He would fight against being captured, if needed.

To his horror, he realized that the wide plain was filled with Moringotto’s troops. From above, they looked like insects swarming from their nest between the three mighty volcanoes of Thangorodrim. Ominous dark shapes near the gates of Angband could not be anything other than troop movements. They burst from the gates in unending lines. In desperation, Eönwë flew over the plain, straight towards Moringotto’s mountains. Would he be forced to return to the camp just to tell others that there was no hope left?

Here, the land itself was sick. Huge cracks were forming on the ground; vapour and fumes rose from them. Nothing grew there, not even on the Hill of Tears. It had to be because of Moringotto’s growing influence. For now, the corruption was limited to the plain of Anfauglith, but Eönwë was sure that only their resistance prevented it from expanding throughout the land of Beleriand.

There was a strange glow on Thangorodrim. Eönwë flew closer to see better. It was magma, vomited by the mountains and spread out on the plain. Eönwë wondered if it was intentional or some side effect of Moringotto’s powers.

Air smelled putrid there, in a way that would be simply impossible in Aman. Eönwë’s breathing was getting uncomfortable; the air burned in his throat. He was tense and on alert, knowing all too well that he could not quite hide the radiance of his being even inside a cloud of fumes. If one of those Úmaiar noticed him – or worse, Mairon – it might be hard to escape them. He shivered. He did not want to imagine what they would do to him if they managed to capture him.

A wave of dizziness assailed him. Were the toxic fumes affecting him already? It was better to land for a while, Eönwë decided. By now, he had come close to the colossal mountain peaks of Thangorodrim. As if mocking Manwë’s magnificent Taniquetil, they rose grand and imposing, but lava floods and black smoke stained them. There was a rocky area on a slope of one of the mountains, and that was where he landed. He hid himself behind a large boulder. There, if he sneaked a bit closer to the edge, he could observe the gates of Angband without being spotted – or so he hoped.

Something was happening. Orcs and Men were gathering at the gates. Commands were shouted, and enemy soldiers were now forming rows on both sides of a columned walkway. That was just below Eönwë’s hiding place. He tried his best to peek over the edge and see what the commotion was about. He heard scraping and rattling as if something metallic and rusty had just started to move. An iron wheel turned, the gates were opening, and the rows of Orcs and Men went totally silent. The sudden quiet felt ominous.

Eönwë stared into the darkness of the iron prison, trying to imagine how it would be to live in such a disheartening place. He shivered at the thought. As he watched, the darkness turned into a pillar of light emerging from the gates, and Eönwë’s world turned upside down as he understood what he was seeing.

It was Mairon, but not as he remembered him. He was a commanding figure; power and self-confidence radiated from him. Like Eönwë, he wore shining armour but no helmet. His long copper-red hair danced around him like flames. There was a foreign-looking sword in his hand. Was this really his quiet and thoughtful friend? But his ëala was unmistakable – Eönwë could feel that it was indeed him. Or rather, this was who he had become: Sauron, Moringotto’s lieutenant.

He did not dare to move, not even to breathe. If he could feel Sauron’s spirit so easily, would Sauron recognize his presence, too? He knew too well that the tips of his wings could be spotted from behind the boulder, but he did not dare to shift his shape.

Fortunately, it looked like Sauron’s attention was caught by something else, something that was still inside the fortress. Eönwë heard a low rumble coming from inside. It made him shiver with apprehension. He realized with horror that some kind of a monstrous being was coming out of gates. He understood now what had made these Orcs cower in fear. It was not Sauron, but this monster of Moringotto. Even Sauron himself looked wary of a creature that slowly crawled out.

Frozen to the spot, Eönwë could not turn his eyes away from Moringotto’s monster. It was like a snake, but impossibly large. Its thick body was wider than Sauron was tall. And even though the great worm slithered on the stones, it also had two pairs of skeletal legs ending in very lethal-looking claws. Eönwë knew that under no circumstances should he look the creature in the eyes, for it was indeed a dragon, similar to those that had tormented their army in the battlefield. He could not help noticing the strong jaw and razor-sharp teeth. Deep rumbles had been coming from the monster’s belly, but now the purr had stopped, and the creature spoke to Sauron with a ringing voice.

“My winged children are ready. When can they leave their nest?”

“Soon,” Sauron answered. He was avoiding the creature’s eyes as well. “The enemy will launch another attack soon. They will try to enter the great plain. Your children will throw them back.”

“And what about me?” The dragon’s voice was seductive. Its wagging tail had moved closer to Sauron who took a cautious step backwards. “You did not give me wings – am I doomed to stay behind while the others feast on the flesh of our enemies?”

“Of course not, Gostir,” Sauron said quickly. “You can gather their shining pieces of armour after the dragonfire has finished them. I am sure you will find that a generous reward for hatching and nursing your brood.”

Eönwë felt sick. He leaned heavily against the stone, his legs weak and shaking. He needed to get away – the news could not wait! Moringotto had created new kinds of dragons that could fly. He needed to warn everyone.

Should he stay behind the boulder, or leave and risk the exposure? Before he had come to a decision, the dragon went suddenly very still. It sniffed the air audibly. When it finally spoke, the words chilled Eönwë to the bone.

“I smell Manwë’s Maia nearby. He is spying on us.” The dragon growled and jerked its enormous head towards Eönwë’s hiding place. “There you are, little bird.”

And just like a little bird, Eönwë fled. He heard Mairon exclaim something behind him; it might have been his name. He did not have time to look back over his shoulder as he rose to the sky. This dragon had no wings, he reminded himself, even though the newly hatched ones did. But what if it was a fire-breathing dragon?

He got his answer too soon. The dragon exhaled, and a nasty-smelling cloud surrounded him. He could not breathe. It was not fire. It was something else, but no less destructive. Toxic fumes were burning his lungs. He had to get away at once.

Eönwë’s wings worked hard. He opened his mouth in song – Manwë’s song, only to be used in desperate need. A howling gale hit Mairon and the dragon on the platform. Then the song summoned a strong wind that gave Eönwë strength and carried him towards the safety of the western mountains. But his throat burned, and the song ended too soon.

Mairon did not follow him. When Eönwë finally dared to take a look behind, he was alone in the air. It was already difficult to see Thangorodrim clearly because of the smoke. He thought he saw a shining figure standing where the gates were, but perhaps he was just imagining things.

“Why did you let me go?” he cried out, although Mairon could not possibly hear him.

Using his voice made him cough violently. There was something wrong with him; he felt light-headed and nauseous. The toxic cloud that the dragon had belched must have poisoned him. The mountains were too far. His wings hit the air desperately, but it became more and more difficult for him to fly onwards. It was difficult even to think clearly. He was going to come crashing down on the enemy territory. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the mountain range looming ahead of him, all too far. He was never going to make it there.

* * * * *

When Eönwë regained consciousness, he felt that he was carried, or rather dragged, across a dusty land. Every now and then, a sharp stone scraped his unarmoured knees. There was no pain, only weariness. His eyes were puffy and burning. It was difficult to open them enough to see who was carrying him, but it could only be an enemy. He was captured! But the grip loosened when he struggled, and he dropped to his knees. His legs felt wobbly, refusing to support him. He tried to open his wings, but there was no strength left in his muscles. Only now did he feel panic rising within him. Half-blind and filled with such weakness, he was in no shape to flee. He reached for his sword, but his capturer had taken off his sword belt. Of course.

He had promised Ingo that he would not leave him alone. Now he felt utterly desperate, fearing that he could not keep his promise.

“Come on, drink,” said a voice – a female voice! She guided him to a sitting position and pressed a leather drinking vessel to his lips. Eönwë expected a taste of some foul drink, but instead fresh water poured into his mouth. He drank eagerly. When he had had enough, some water from the vessel was poured over his face. It rinsed the remains of fumes from his eyes. The burning sensation vanished. After he had thoroughly rubbed his swollen eyes, he finally managed to open his eyelids enough to see his capturer – or rather, saviour – before him.

Like Eönwë, she was a winged being, but her wings were dark and leathery. Her pointed ears were larger than an Elf’s. Together with her wings, that made Eönwë think of bats. She was dressed in dark clothes, black leather and brown fur, and her face was very pale and looked concerned. Eönwë could hear the strange song of which she was made. She had to be a Maia, or rather an Úmaia. When she noticed Eönwë watching her, she flashed a smile that revealed two rows of very sharp teeth. An unnerving sight.

“Where am I?” Eönwë asked. The words came out as a hoarse whisper. He leaned against a large rock, still too weak to rise. His sword and scabbard lay on the ground some distance away, but the Úmaia stood between him and his sword. “And who are you?” he continued because he was suddenly curious. She did not look like a Balrog.

“I am Thuringwethil,” she announced as if that were enough of an explanation. “And you are somewhere where you should not be, Maia. This place is not healthy for a being like you.”

Eönwë looked around. They were sheltered by giant rocks, but they must be still on the plain. He knew he could not have reached the mountains before he passed out.

“You are right, I need to get out of here,” he muttered and tried to get up, but a wave of nausea hit him again. Thuringwethil’s firm hand pressed him down.

“Rest is what you need,” she announced firmly. “You have inhaled dragon fumes. Very stupid. An incarnate would have died already. Rest,” she said again, frowning, when Eönwë made another futile attempt to get up. “It’s safe here.”

He was too weary to resist. His eyes shut against his will, and for a while he stayed in sweet oblivion.

The next time Eönwë woke, his eyes snapped open, and he found himself fully alert. There was a weird metallic taste in his mouth. The night had fallen while he had been unconscious. There was a lantern next to him that gave off an eerie light. This time, he managed to get up even though he felt thirsty and dizzy. Thuringwethil was still there; he could sense her presence nearby from the delicate smell of leather and something else, almost like blood.

He needed to get his sword and leave. But when he took a step ahead, Thuringwethil was suddenly squatting on a large rock above him, holding his scabbard in her hands, out of his reach. It was as if she had been invisible a moment ago. She studied the hilt of his sword with open curiosity but did not pull the sword fully from its sheath.

“What’s this? This is not made by an incarnate, no. This sword is almost as magnificent as the ones made by the lieutenant.”

Eönwë reached out and tried to snatch the sword from her hands, but she evaded him.

“Almost? You mean Sauron, don’t you? This sword is made by Vala Aulë himself! I cannot imagine his former pupil surpassing him in sword-making. Give it back to me now.”

Thuringwethil laughed, a joyous laugh that despite her dark demeanour somehow managed to lighten Eönwë’s spirits. Again, she jumped out of Eönwë’s reach when he tried to catch the sword. She was surprisingly nimble.

“Are you Aulë’s pupil, then?” she asked, tilting her head. “You don’t look like one. Those wings must be totally impractical in a forge.”

Eönwë stayed still. He knew he could not win his sword back by force, the Úmaia was too quick for him. Besides, he was curious.

“Who are you, then, and why did you help me?” he asked instead of answering Thuringwethil’s question. “Let me guess, you are one of Moringotto’s Maiar.”

She suddenly sobered. “I’m not. Not anymore. I was his lieutenant’s messenger. But now I’m nothing. They all think I’m dead.”

The look on her face was so forlorn that Eönwë pitied her. “You look very much alive to me,” he said.

“Yes, yes. But it took me a long time to make a new body after I was... no, I cannot speak about it, it was horrible! When I came back, the tower was in ruins. I lingered there for a while, gathering my strength. Then I travelled all the way back here. But this is a war zone! I thought I would go and kneel before the throne of Lord Melkor, as I have vowed to serve him eternally, but there’s nothing but destruction waiting for me here! This land is dying, and I am such a coward, I don’t want to go back just to be slain again!”

She started to weep and could not speak anymore. Her tears were blood-red.

“To stay alive is a very reasonable thing to want, in my opinion,” Eönwë commented. “Perhaps you should not go there at all. There are other places, much nicer than this one.”

She sighed in frustration, her hand squeezing the hilt of Eönwë’s sword. “I have taken a vow, I cannot leave.” She gave a nervous laugh. “But you know, I can always delay my return. I’m in no hurry. Perhaps this war will end one day.”

Eönwë nodded. Vows and oaths were a wicked thing. The oath Fëanor’s sons had taken had made them do horrible things. He knew he could not ask her to break her vow.

“I’m glad that you helped me,” he said instead, and that was true.

“This is a dangerous place for us Maiar. The breath of the dragon would have killed even you eventually if I had not intervened. I gave you some of my own blood, it will heal you.”

So that was the weird taste in his mouth. He gulped, trying to hide his natural disgust. But he felt better already, so it could not have been dangerous, could it? And she had really tried to help, in her own way.

“Thank you,” Eönwë said after a pause. “I’m feeling better already.”

“You did not tell me whose Maia you are,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “But actually, this is an easy one. I guess that with those wings and feathers, you belong to Manwë. Am I right, bird boy?”

“You’re right,” he admitted reluctantly. “I don’t want any harm to come to you, Thuringwethil, but I’d really like to leave now. My friends in the camp will become worried if I don’t return soon.”

There was that forlorn look again. “Friends? I wish I had friends, too. There’s only death here.”

He hesitated. It felt weird, but he wanted to say it. She had saved his life. “I can be your friend, Thuringwethil. If you want me to.”

She stared at him for some time, her look unreadable. Eönwë waited; he did not dare to ask her for his sword again.

“I would like that,” she stated, “I would like to know my friend’s name.”

“It’s Eönwë,” he said with a trace of a smile.

She smiled back, her sharp teeth glimmering in the light of the lantern. “Here, Eönwë, take your sword. It’s good work. Just don’t harm my master with it. Or the lieutenant. No, I won’t make you promise. I know this is war, and they are your enemies.” After a pause, she continued. “Go now, my friend, before I change my mind.”

He took the offered sword. There was a lump in his throat, and he only managed a short “Goodbye.” Then he opened his wings and left. He realized that he had been quite close to the mountains already. He would be back in the camp in no time.

He needed to speak to Oromë. If they captured Thuringwethil later, he needed to make sure that she would not be harmed. Then he remembered the newly hatched winged dragons, and all hope abandoned him.

Still, he flew on.

* * * * *

Eönwë should have given his report to Manwë at once, but he wanted to see Arafinwë first, and that was nothing to do with duty. He found the Elven-king in his command tent, alone, writing a document of some kind. His eyes widened when he noticed Eönwë’s winged figure in the doorway. He placed the pen back in the inkwell and stood up.

“You’re back,” Arafinwë said and came to embrace him.

“I promised you I would return.”

“You look horrible. I did not know that was possible. What’s that smell?”

“Mostly dragon fumes, I guess. With a nice mix of smoke straight from Thangorodrim. And perhaps a drop of blood, too. I met a vampire on my way.”

“Did you get rid of it?” his friend asked, trying to hide his disgust.

“Her,” Eönwë corrected. “No. Actually, she saved my life. Using some blood magic, but what else could she have done? Her name is Thuringwethil, and I will take care that she is not harmed if she is captured later.”

Arafinwë stared at him. “Sounds like a lot happened to you there. You need to tell me everything. I was worried for you.”

“First of all, I need to report back to Manwë.” Eönwë hesitated. Usually, he avoided showing the incarnates his more eldritch form. This time he was exhausted, however. The thought of flying away from the camp in his current state terrified him. “Do you think I could contact the Elder King from here?” he asked tentatively. “You don’t have to see me while I’m wearing my... other form,” he quickly added. “I’m sorry that I have to ask you this, but I’m afraid I am too tired to go elsewhere.”

He felt Arafinwë’s hand gently touch his chin. “Look at me, Eönwë. Of course you can do it. I am not afraid to see you in any of your forms. Just promise me that you will rest afterwards. You are not well; your eyes are swollen, and your hands – they are trembling. I’ve never seen them tremble before.”

Eönwë used the rest of his powers to transform into his bird-like form. His eyes became beady and black; brown feathers covered his face. His fingers became claws. In this form, he was not aware of his surroundings. He did not know if Arafinwë was still watching him. He sought Manwë and found him at once. The Elder King was always there for his birds.

He told Manwë everything. He could not hide things from him. Hearing about the dragons made Manwë very angry, and his cold fury chilled Eönwë. They could not delay their next move; that was Manwë’s strict order.

Aulë will join you soon, and he will bring Angainor with him. When he has arrived, you will advance with all your might. Moringotto must be chained. Tell this to Oromë and Tulkas.

Eönwë bowed his head. However, there was one more thing he needed to know.

Is there any hope for Mairon? Seeing his former friend had upset him more than he had realized.

His case must be judged at Máhanaxar. Only then can we say.

The following week, their camp received some reinforcements. As Manwë had promised, Aulë joined them, bringing with him the chain that would be used to restrain Melkor. And Lalwen returned with Maedhros and Maglor Fëanorion.

They looked dishevelled and weary, but when Eönwë entered Arafinwë’s tent behind Lalwen, their heads snapped up and they stared at him with already-hardened eyes. The other Ainur did not yet know about them, Lalwen had told him. The Finwëan siblings had decided that Eönwë should be the first one to know.

“You are welcome, sons of Fëanor,” he greeted them. He knew, of course, about their horrible deeds, but the battlefield was not the time and place to sit in judgement, and he was not a judge.

“Eönwë,” said the shorter one, Maglor. There was a slight quiver in his voice.

“We only came because of our uncle’s wish,” said the other, Maedhros. “We can fight, but we will not serve under the Valar in any circumstances.”

“I understand,” Eönwë said. “Arafinwë and Lalwen have already given me a briefing on your case.”

Some emotion flashed in their eyes.

“Then you must know that we do not have many friends left,” Maedhros stated flatly. He seemed to be their spokesman.

“I will make sure that no harm comes to you in this camp,” Eönwë promised, and Arafinwë and Lalwen nodded in unison, but the sons of Fëanor still looked suspicious.

“Are you only here to get back the gems your father made?” Eönwë asked after a pause.

“We are here to avenge their theft,” Maedhros said. “And all other evil deeds of Morgoth. He is our enemy. I hope that is good enough for you.”

“It is,” Eönwë said, but a sense of disquiet didn’t leave him.

* * * * *

The great battle had begun. Eönwë had lost his sense of time. It felt like the battle around them had been going on for eternity. He hardly remembered a time before it had started. He only remembered the dead, the abominable flying dragons that attacked their troops from the air, and the stench. The rotting, burning smell that surrounded them all the time. The dragons had finally left their nest, full of vigour and malice.

Still, they were making progress. They were on the plain, close to the gates of Angband. Even now, Moringotto was hiding there. The armies of Orcs and Men could not resist the wrath of Tulkas and Oromë. The two Valar ran ahead of the host, one of them laughing, another blowing his horn. The earth shattered under their feet; hills crumbled and buried Moringotto’s troops alive. But no one could stop the flying dragons that breathed fire on them.

They were getting closer to Thangorodrim and Moringotto’s lair, but the price was high. Death and destruction followed in their wake. The dying earth was trembling, fiery cracks forming before them. Many of their soldiers fell in and met their deaths. The destruction was not even limited to the battlefield. Distressed and confused messengers who came from the coast told of unseen storms and floods. People were forced to flee inland from the coast, but the earthquakes meant it was not safe there either.

“I fear this land won’t survive the wrath of the Valar,” Arafinwë confessed when they rested in an uncomfortable trench, somewhere on the perilous plain. The fumes had made them sick. Maedhros and Maglor were with them; they were never found far from Arafinwë, whom they seemed to trust. They had fought bravely and more fiercely than most, but they still eyed Eönwë with suspicion. He wondered if they knew that Manwë had given him the duty of protecting the Silmarils.

“There is always hope,” Eönwë answered, but he was not sure if he believed it anymore.

The following days were a nightmare.

It was their final push against Moringotto’s troops. Thangorodrim loomed above them now, and still there was no sign of the fallen Vala. He had decided not to come to fight. The enemy forces were formidable, nonetheless, and even Oromë and Tulkas feared the fire of the flying dragons. Not Aulë, though. He spurred the host of the Valar to attack, a mighty hammer in his huge hand and Angainor in the other, ready to capture and bind Moringotto. The mere sight of Angainor made Moringotto’s troops waver. Orcs and Men fled before him, and when Tulkas came to help him, even Balrogs could not withstand their wrath. Most of them were killed. Still, the dragons sowed chaos in the battlefield, and many burned to death in dragon-fire. No one could stop them.

Eönwë faced a horrible truth: it was his duty to drive back the dragons. He was the only one who could fly like them.

This time, he did not dare to tell Arafinwë where he was going. The earth trembled as if in the convulsions of death. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos Aulë, Oromë and Tulkas fought together against the mightiest of the enemy troops: Valaraukar and dragons. It was not a place for an incarnate. It should not be a place for a Maia either, Eönwë thought in horror, but he forced himself to fly onwards. He thought about Arafinwë and Lalwen and others who were defenceless against Moringotto’s terror.

He thought about Manwë Súlimo who had not come to the battlefield himself, much like his brother, but he did not let himself doubt the Elder King’s decision.

The air was yellow, and the visibility became even poorer as he flew on. He could distinguish dark shapes and occasional bursts of fire ahead of him. Were they dragons? His eyes were filled with tears. It was impossible to say. He had his sword in his hand. If a sword made by Aulë was not enough, nothing was. But there was no hope left in Eönwë’s heart as he attacked the nearest dark shape in the air.

Suddenly he was not alone. Manwë’s eagles had arrived and began to fight alongside him. He had forgotten that there were other winged beings, too.

The fighting was fierce in the smoky air, but even allied with the birds he was no match for the dragons. Their destructive fire burnt the wings of many great eagles, and they fell. Eönwë cried the Elder King’s name and rushed to save his feathered brothers, but a great ball of fire flew towards him. He shrieked in fright like an eagle, and he burnt just like the eagles, and together they fell from the sky.

For what felt like a great length of time, he could not remember who he was. He could not remember what he did in that land of dust and smoke, a dead land, and why he hurt so much. The smell of burned feathers filled his nostrils, and it took a while to understand that it was his wings he smelled – what was left of them. Suddenly, it all came back to him. He remembered the approaching dragon-fire, and how he had turned around in panic, covering his eyes with his gauntlet. But his wings had caught fire, and they had been severely damaged. The armour had protected the skin on his back, but the wing stumps hurt. There had to be some cursed quality to dragon-fire, for he realized that he could not heal his burns.

He was alone, and it was eerily quiet, for the battle had moved elsewhere. Suddenly he was shivering and sobbing. The memory of the battle was too close in his mind. He had no energy left to form a link with Manwë. There was only one thought in his mind. He had to find Ingo. Slowly, he dragged himself across the barren land and towards the host of the Valar. During his fall, he had lost his sword. If the enemy spotted him, he would be defenceless.

He remembered Mairon, the spotless lieutenant of the fallen Vala. Perhaps Mairon would find him. His death would be quick in Mairon’s hands, he was sure of it. It would even be a relief. His old friend would not let him suffer.

Enough of gloomy thoughts! There was still something he needed to do before the end, he reminded himself. He needed to make sure that Ingo was safe – that Ingo was still alive. Eönwë forced himself to continue walking. He avoided open places and moved only where the smoke was at its thickest. He could not be spotted by the enemy before he had seen Ingo.

He walked a long time along the trembling earth. At times, he had to close his eyes and rest. It took too long. He feared he could not find Ingo in time.

Finally, he heard a clamour of voices and followed them. Something was happening on the battlefield. Exclamations filled the air. For some reason, they sounded hopeful. Eönwë did not raise his eyes from the dusty ground; he had no hope left and he feared nothing. He only wanted to see Ingoldo one more time before the end.

Suddenly, there were riders around him. They had appeared from nowhere. He did not recognize them, but he asked them to take him to Arafinwë. He was not sure if they understood him. His head felt heavy, and it was difficult to speak. They seemed to be concerned about something else.

Suddenly, strong hands seized him. He was helped into the saddle of a grey war horse. When the horse began to gallop, Eönwë’s hands sought its mane and gripped it. The pain in his back made it difficult to think.

The horse stopped at last, and Eönwë felt himself slide down from the saddle. He would have fallen to the dusty ground, but those strong hands were there again. They caught him and broke his fall.

“Come and help me, he’s injured!” a familiar voice shouted. Ingo’s voice. Those had been his hands all along.

Eönwë was carried into a tent and placed on a simple blanket. He lay curled up on his side, still in the armour bearing Manwë’s emblem – his burns hurt too much to remove it. Arafinwë commanded others to leave them, and suddenly they were alone in the tent. It was good. Tree-light shone brighter than ever from Ingo’s eyes when he turned to speak to Eönwë. His face broke into a faint smile that made Eönwë’s heart leap.

“We won,” Arafinwë said, but he looked sad despite the words and the accompanying smile.

“Ingo, it’s really you.” Eönwë tried to concentrate, but the pain made it difficult. “Won what?”

“The battle. The war. It’s over, Eönwë. All the dragons are destroyed.”

“How?” His mouth was dry; it was difficult to speak. He shivered when he remembered the dragon-fire. No one could resist it. He did not understand what Ingo was trying to tell him.

“Eärendil came. It was a miracle. A Silmaril shone on his brow; the rays of light the jewel emitted burnt the dragons. He slew Ancalagon and broke Thangorodrim, and suddenly all of us felt a spark of hope kindle in our hearts. We have fought all day with this new hope spurring us on. It’s over now.”

“But... the earthquakes,” Eönwë said in a weak voice, still unable to comprehend what he had heard.

“Yes, they have not stopped. The land itself is acting strangely. We think it’s because of Moringotto.”

Eönwë’s heart jumped. “He is not captured yet?”

“The Valar are preparing to go inside Angband, or what is left of it. They have Angainor with them. Moringotto will be chained again in no time.”

That made Eönwë spring into action – only to realize he felt too weak to stand without support. Fortunately, Ingoldo’s arms were there to catch him. He cried in pain when the Elf involuntarily touched his maimed wing-stubs protruding from the slots of his armour.

“Please, Eönwë, you are not fit to go anywhere.” Ingoldo’s voice was full of worry. “Allow me to check your wounds first.”

“But Manwë... The Elder King has given me a duty...”

“The Elder King can wait,” Ingo said firmly. “He has been waiting for so long, and Moringotto is not going anywhere. If the Valar need your help they will wait until you’re fit to give it. Let me take a look first.”

His friend began to take off Eönwë’s armour. It was a difficult and messy job. Eönwë helped as much as he could. Finally, the armour and dirty undershirt were gone. The cold air against his skin made Eönwë shiver, or perhaps he had a fever. He turned obediently so that Ingo could examine his burned wing-stumps.

Ingo gasped when he saw them. “Can’t you... can’t you heal yourself? Make them grow again?”

He shuddered. “Not right now. I’m too weary.”

Ingo helped him into a prone position so that he could take care of his wounds. He cleaned them with a wet cloth and carefully put some ointment on the burned wing-stumps. It had a very distinctive sweet smell, and Eönwë knew that he was in good hands. The pain was not so bad anymore; his back had gone a little numb, but it was a good feeling. Ingo’s loving hands continued to rub the herb ointment onto his back. Eönwë closed his eyes and felt himself relax under the touch.

He must have dozed off. When he opened his eyes, he was startled by a strange feeling. Instead of a tent canvas, he saw a dull red sky. Oromë had come for him. The Vala was carrying him in his strong arms. Someone had even managed to put his armour back on him while he slept.

“Please, Lord, have mercy on him!” Arafinwë’s voice uttered nearby. “He’s not well – he must rest!”

“He is needed elsewhere,” Oromë declared and began to hurry away.

Eönwë turned to look back and saw Arafinwë standing in front of a tent, worried and forlorn. He would never oppose a Vala, however.

And that was the right thing to do. Eönwë was not one of the incarnates. He was Manwë’s herald and under a duty to help the Valar. How could he have forgotten that?

“We need you to contact Manwë and tell him about the victory at once,” Oromë told him while he strode on, Eönwë still in his arms. “We are going to invade Moringotto’s chamber, and Manwë needs to know this.”

“But... my wings...”

“I will take care of them. Why didn’t you seek us in the first place? An incarnate cannot heal such injuries, not even one who is king.”

Eönwë wanted to tell Oromë that he had not sought healing when he had gone to Ingo, just affirmation of his friend’s well-being. But he feared that Oromë would fail to understand, so he stayed silent. Besides, the Vala was wrong. Ingo’s hands had cured him of his despair.

After a while, Oromë let him down and began to sing, rebuilding Eönwë’s fana like only the Valar could. Because it was the Huntsman of the Valar who did this, Eönwë’s new wings were lean and sharp-tipped like those of a falcon used for hunting. His injuries were gone as if they had never been there. The pain had vanished. For a moment he missed the pain because it had made him feel vulnerable, like Ingo.

When he looked north with his new hawk-eyes, he saw – through reddish smoke – the widespread devastation around Angband, the fallen mountains and half burnt corpse of a giant dragon. Was Mairon there, too, buried under the mountain?

“You really need to contact Manwë now,” Oromë said strictly, and Eönwë forced himself to turn his attention back to his duty.

“Of course,” he replied, already opening his wings, ready to call Manwë Súlimo with the cry of a hawk.

* * * * *

Later, Eönwë did not want to remember the long descent to the throne room of Angband. Manwë had asked him to accompany the Valar, and he could not disobey. He knew Manwë needed his eyes to see what was waiting for them there. He had feared that a fight would break out when they reached Moringotto’s chamber, but the fallen Vala had remained there alone. Moringotto offered little resistance – he seemed to understand that he had already lost. There was no sign of Mairon. He was either dead or had managed to flee.

The Silmarils shone on Melkor’s crown, a light from the past. Eönwë knew what he must do. Manwë had given him a clear order. When Melkor was restrained with the chain Angainor, and Oromë and Tulkas held him still, Eönwë stepped forth and took the iron crown from his head. It was heavier than it should be. Only then did Melkor sneer at him and try to fight, but it was in vain.

Eönwë was shaking uncontrollably when they finally left Angband behind. The Valar guarded their chained prisoner. Melkor was taken elsewhere; Eönwë was left in possession of the two Silmarils that Aulë had removed from the iron crown.

After a discussion with his friend, they decided that Arafinwë and Lalwen would guard the Silmarils. Eönwë would be there as much as he could, as well, but he had other duties he could not neglect. Now that Melkor was their prisoner, Manwë wanted daily reports on his brother’s behaviour and the things he said. Mostly, they had been various insults. Eönwë did not particularly enjoy repeating them to the Elder King, but, as he was the only one who could reach Manwë beyond the sea, it had to be him.

He always left the camp when it was time to contact Manwë, seeking a private place where he could change his form discreetly. He did not want the incarnates to see his transformation. Their new camp stood in the barren plain of Anfauglith where massive cracks had opened up in the earth. It was not easy to find a suitable place. This time, he found a gorge that felt stable enough and descended there, careful not to cause a landslide.

It was not wholly safe to go so far away from the camp. Bands of Orcs, remains of Moringotto’s defeated army, still lurked in the area. But Eönwë was a Maia; the Orcs would fear him enough to leave him alone. If everything else failed, he could always rise to the skies.

Yes, he had his own wings again, not those weird appendages made for him by Oromë. After a proper rest – and a cup of miruvórë Aulë had reserved for dire emergencies – Eönwë had been able to rebuild his fana back into one to his liking.

Speaking with Manwë always made him fall into a trance-like state where it was hard to be aware of his surroundings. This time, however, a nagging feeling that he was not alone did not leave him. He needed to investigate. Eönwë ended their mind-link hastily, muttering some lame excuse about Arafinwë needing him. He did not want to make the Elder King worried. What could he even do, from the other side of the great sea? If Manwë noticed that something was wrong, he did not comment on it.

Quick as a flash, Eönwë changed his form back to one more suitable for defending himself. The bird-like features vanished; only his familiar wings remained. Manwë’s emblem shone on his armour. His hand was on the hilt of a sword when he whirled around, readying himself for fight or flight.

It was not a band of Orcs, as he had feared. It was Mairon.

Eönwë’s heart leapt. His former friend looked utterly devastated. There was almost nothing left of the imposing lieutenant of Moringotto whom Eönwë had seen commanding dragons at the gates of Angband. He had lost most of his armour, and the parts that remained were dirty and dented. His hair was matted and tangled; his skin had a sickly pallid tinge. There was a hollow look in his eyes as he studied Eönwë. Next moment, a short knife he had been holding in his hand dropped on the ground, and he knelt down before Eönwë, bowing his head as if in shame.

“Have mercy on me,” Mairon said quickly in a hoarse voice, as if he had shouted too much lately. “Oh, Eönwë...”

“Mairon...” Words stuck in his throat. He wanted to embrace his friend, to tell him that everything was all right, but he could not make himself move. There had been a knife in Mairon’s hand just a moment ago. He hated himself because of the distrust that should never have come between them.

Mairon must have seen the hesitation in his eyes. As a gesture of surrender, he tossed the dropped knife towards Eönwë, out of Mairon’s reach. The knife was a crude design, not something he would have expected Mairon to carry. But Eönwë had lost his sword, too; the precious weapon that Aulë himself had made lay somewhere on the battlefield. His new one was just one of the many swords that had belonged to the deceased. Perhaps it was the same with Mairon’s dark knife. When Eönwë picked it up, it vibrated with a strange, unpleasant song. With aversion, he threw the knife as far as he could; it vanished among the stones.

Mairon lifted his head. His eyes were wide with terror, pleading. “I did not know where else to go,” he said in a strained voice. “Please don’t hurt me, Eönwë. I want to give myself up.”

“I won’t hurt you,” Eönwë assured. The words made his heart ache. He shouldn’t need to say something so obvious to his friend. “I am sure everything will be alright.”

Mairon looked miserable. He seemed to want to say something, starting a couple of times, but the words refused to come out. Eönwë pitied him.

“Come with me to the camp,” he dared to suggest. “I’ll make sure that no one hurts you there. You were one of us once.”

Once – and it had been aeons ago. Suddenly Eönwë felt as if he was young again, talking with his first friend in Almaren. This was not the first time he had got Mairon out of trouble. Only now, the trouble was of a different magnitude and, in truth, he was not sure if he could help Mairon this time.

He took a cautious step ahead. Mairon remained kneeling on the dirty ground. Did he even care that his clothes were covered in ash and dust? Before, he would have. Another step, and Eönwë could have touched him. Still, he hesitated.

“I’m not going to burn you,” Mairon said, his voice sharper than before. Something flashed in his eyes and, briefly, it looked like his hair had caught fire. But it was just an illusion.

Eönwë overcame his wariness and slowly reached out to touch Mairon. It was like approaching a wounded beast. But this was his friend. Gently, he put his hand on Mairon’s shoulder. Such a simple gesture. But Mairon had seen his hesitation. Nothing was like before.

Still, Mairon managed to give him a weak smile. “Look, you’re quite safe with me.”

He had not lost his sense of humour, Eönwë thought with a pang.

“I can protect you at the camp,” Eönwë restated his offer. “If you repent of what you have done, the Valar will be lenient with you.”

Mairon’s eyes were fixed on him; he seemed to be considering his options.

“I repent,” he admitted at last, looking sad and forlorn. “I went too far, Eönwë. I want to take a new course of action. That’s why I came to you.”

“Oh, Mairon, that is so good to hear.”

Eönwë offered Mairon his hand and helped him stand. Mairon’s hand felt warm even though a chilly wind blew on the plain. Touching him made the situation feel more real. This was his once lost friend, now returning home. He had done horrible deeds, Eönwë knew, but it must have been because of Moringotto. The fallen Vala had led him astray. He had feared that there was no hope left for Mairon, but now he knew better. Not even Manwë Súlimo had denied all hope from Mairon, he remembered.

“I will defend you at the Máhanaxar,” he promised.

Mairon took an involuntary step back, as if he had feared that Eönwë would snatch him and take him straight to the Ring of Doom.

“My place is here,” Mairon said after a pause. “Always has been. I don’t trust the Valar.”

Eönwë hated the feeling of distrust that threatened to come between them again. “That is because you lived so long with a Vala who cannot be trusted!” he snapped, instantly regretting his words. Mairon’s face hardened, and suddenly Eönwë knew that he had lost him.

Still, he had to try. “As Manwë’s herald, I know that the Elder King is willing to give you a second chance. But he demands that you come to Máhanaxar to be judged.”

“Demands,” Mairon repeated with a sneer in his voice. “Oh, he demands.”

“Mairon, please...” Eönwë wanted to touch him again, to tell him that he did not see him as abhorrent, but he could not find the right words.

“How is Melkor?” Mairon asked suddenly.

Eönwë did not want to remember the fallen Vala and his piercing pit-black eyes that had looked at him, full of hatred, when he had taken the iron crown.

“He’s alive,” he answered at last. “Why do you still think of him?”

“What will happen to him?” Mairon asked instead of answering Eönwë’s question.

“He will be taken to Manwë,” Eönwë said reluctantly. He suddenly remembered that Mairon was still counted as their enemy, and here he was sharing crucial information with him. But what could Mairon do? The Valar were guarding Moringotto at all times. Mairon could not free him even if he wanted to.

“And what happens then?” Mairon asked.

This was just how it had always been between them in the past: Mairon asking questions to which Eönwë had no answers. Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m sorry – I don’t know.”

Later, he wondered if things would have gone differently if he had embraced Mairon then. His friend stood some distance away, strained and dismal. Moringotto still had a strong influence on him. Eönwë hated it. It looked like Mairon had lost his way. Perhaps a friendly embrace could have pulled him back. Perhaps not.

“Mairon, come with me to the camp,” he said. “You can decide there what you want to do next.”

It was practically a lie. The Valar would probably not allow their renegade Maia to decide his own fate. Eönwë did not want to mention the very real possibility of imprisonment. Perhaps Mairon knew it in his heart, nevertheless.

This time, Mairon did not take his offered hand, but when Eönwë took the lead Mairon reluctantly followed him. Together, they climbed the steeply ascending path out of the gorge. The earth was in upheaval. Earthquakes shook the ground; molten lava was flowing through horrible cracks. Eönwë feared that the Valar could not protect the land from destruction anymore. Meanwhile, Mairon appeared indifferent to the hideous destruction around them.

When they passed a nearby crack, a sudden cloud of vapour rose from the lava stream, enveloping them. It was difficult to see through the vapour. The air smelled rotten. Eönwë did not like it. He tried to find Mairon’s hand to guide him away, but suddenly Mairon was nowhere to be found.

“Mairon?”

There was no answer, and with a pang he realized that his friend had fled.

Eönwë searched for him for a long time, but clouds of vapour and fumes made visibility poor, and Mairon did not answer his calls. Finally, he had to admit that Mairon did not want to be found. He felt terrible sadness. It took him a long time before he could make himself return to the others.

In the camp, Arafinwë was waiting for him. There was a troubled look on his face. Eönwë learned that Mairon was not the only one who had gone missing. Maedhros and Maglor were nowhere to be found. Eönwë had forbidden them from seeing the Silmarils after they had claimed that the jewels belonged to them. That was the last time anyone had seen the Fëanorions.

“They are plotting a theft, or worse,” Arafinwë said gloomily. His nephews had a certain reputation.

When Eönwë explained the situation to Manwë, he got a strict answer.

They have done too much evil, Manwë declared. They cannot touch the Silmarils. They don’t have the right to own them anymore. The jewels shall return to Valinor.

The following day, a hastily written message from Maedhros and Maglor was brought to Eönwë. The letter was short, the tone of it polite but the message clear: they were the rightful owners of the Silmarils, and Eönwë should return the jewels to them post-haste.

Eönwë’s reply was even shorter. Those few words were hard to write down. He found himself repeating Manwë’s words. The Silmarils did not belong to the sons of Fëanor anymore; they would go to the West. Written down, the words felt merciless. He knew the reply would not satisfy the Fëanorions. The courier who patiently waited while he wrote the letter was just a boy of the race of Men. He was probably the only one who knew where Maedhros and Maglor were currently hiding, but Eönwë did not press him to reveal their hiding place.

When the courier boy hurried away with his reply, Eönwë searched out Arafinwë and Lalwen and told them about Manwë’s words and Maedhros and Maglor’s message. The three of them were certain that the Fëanorions would return to claim the two Silmarils. What would happen then, Eönwë could only guess.

“Their oath will bind them more than lord Manwë’s will,” Lalwen said grimly.

Arafinwë stayed silent, looking thoughtful. Eönwë saw how his friend frowned in frustration, and he wanted to protect him. A sense of foreboding filled Eönwë. Surely, it would end up in violence, and he did not want Ingo to get hurt.

“We need to find a solution to this conflict,” Arafinwë sighed as Eönwë touched his shoulder lightly. The Elf seemed determined to find the solution himself.

Another earthquake shook the ground, and their eyes met. They did not have much time left.

The sons of Fëanor came in the dead of the night. They wore dark cloaks and had drawn their swords. Eönwë was keeping vigil. He faced them at the entrance of Arafinwë’s command tent where they kept the Silmarils.

“You cannot go in there,” he said to the gloomy-looking Elves. His own sword was still in its sheath. He hoped his voice of authority would be enough.

No such luck. “This is not your business, Eönwë,” Maedhros said through gritted teeth. “Let us take back what is truly ours. Then, and only then, we will leave.”

Their dispute made Arafinwë step out of the tent, Lalwen behind him. His friend gestured to him to wait when Eönwë was about to order them to go back inside.

“Nelyafinwë,” Arafinwë said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “Makalaurë.”

“Hello again, uncle,” Maedhros replied. He eyed them warily. Eönwë was very conscious of the still downward-pointing sword in Maedhros’ hand. “Hello, aunt. So, the Valar have made you the guardians of our father’s prized jewels.”

“Greetings, nephews,” Lalwen spoke. “We chose this task ourselves to honour your father. To honour our brother.”

“Give us the Silmarils,” Maedhros said bluntly.

Eönwë watched in horror as the tall red-headed Elf pointed the tip of his long sword at Arafinwë, forcing his uncle to take a step back. Lalwen uttered a curse and drew her own sword, but Maglor’s sword was out, too, and the two blades clashed together, making an awful ringing noise. Arafinwë stood as if frozen to the spot, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword that still lay in its scabbard.

There was going to be blood.

“Drop your weapons,” Eönwë commanded the Fëanorions, and suddenly his own sword appeared in his hand, though he could not remember drawing it from its sheath. “The Silmarils are not yours to take. The Elder King does not permit you to have them.”

“Eönwë, wait,” Arafinwë pleaded as Maedhros’ sword made him take another step back. “Let me talk to them.” He really did not want Eönwë to interfere.

“There is nothing to talk about,” Maedhros said stubbornly. “We have come to take them and take them we will.”

Beside them, Maglor threatened Lalwen with his blade until she surrendered and dropped her sword. As the weapon hit the earth with a metallic clang, the ground trembled as if in response.

The Fëanorions forced Arafinwë and Lalwen to retreat back into the tent and followed after them. Eönwë wanted to do something to prevent the imminent violence from happening. But that would only mean more violence. He, too, stepped inside where the light of the Silmarils now surrounded them all. How could he shed blood in that hallowed light?

Trust me, Ingoldo sent to him through osanwë.

The sons of Fëanor tried to push Arafinwë and Lalwen aside to get the Silmarils, but Arafinwë did not give up.

“Wait!” Ingoldo shouted in a trembling voice, and raised his hands. “My dear nephews, please listen to what I have to say to you!”

There was something in his voice that made Maedhros and Maglor hold back. Even Lalwen did not dare to move.

“I have seen how this will go. I have seen it in a dream.” Arafinwë spoke quickly, at the same time gesturing to the impatient Fëanorions. “Please, nothing good will come of this. The jewels will burn your hands. You will be doomed.”

Maglor laughed, a beautiful, melodic laugh that yet had a note of insanity in it. “We are already doomed. Your prophecy tells us nothing new.”

And before anyone could stop him, Maglor had grabbed the metal casket that held the Silmarils. He looked very pale in their ancient light that shone through the lattice.

“We got them,” he uttered in awe. Lalwen tried to snatch the casket back from his hand, but Maglor pushed her away as if in trance. “We got them, Mae. Here, one of them is yours.”

“No,” said Arafinwë, but it was too late. Maedhros had already put his hand in the casket and taken one of the Silmarils out. His brother grabbed the other one and pressed it against his chest. The casket dropped unceremoniously on the ground.

Eönwë could not avoid noticing their increasing distress when the pain started to become unbearable. The Fëanorions stared at each other with horrified eyes, and Eönwë remembered Manwë’s ominous words. They cannot touch the Silmarils. It had not been an order. Manwë had just stated a fact.

Even Arafinwë seemed to understand what the jewels were doing to his nephews. “Why don’t you put them back into the container?” he asked them, his bright eyes full of sorrow. “It would ease the pain.”

“We won’t give them to you. They belong to us.”

“Yes, they do,” Arafinwë replied, surprising Eönwë. “And that is why I want you to carry them to Valinor. That casket is built so that they won’t burn you.”

“To take them to Valinor so that the Valar can break them?” Maglor cried. “I don’t think so!”

“The Valar won’t break them,” Arafinwë said. “Eönwë can vow that this is true.”

Eönwë felt a lurch in his chest when he heard the words. And as if articulating his uneasiness, Maedhros spat, “He cannot promise that. He’s not a Vala.”

“He is Manwë’s herald,” Arafinwë stated. “He speaks with the voice of the Elder King; he knows lord Manwë’s will. There is a museum in Tirion – I founded it. It is called the House of the Bygone Era. I would be honoured if you put your Silmarils on permanent display there. In one of the rooms there is a statue of Fëanor, sculpted by Nerdanel. He looks just like when he was alive. I have left that room otherwise empty; I could not find any display that would do him justice. Now I imagine that he would look spectacular in the light of the Silmarils.”

Maedhros and Maglor exchanged glances. They seemed to be in silent conversation. There were sweat pearls on their foreheads because of pain, but still, they could not part with the Silmarils.

“You would be the rightful owners of the jewels, of course,” Arafinwë added. “It would be a great honour if you allowed them to be a part of the exhibition.”

“The Valar will never allow them to stay in the museum,” Maedhros snapped.

“Eönwë?” Arafinwë turned to look at him, raising an innocent eyebrow, and Eönwë realized with horror what he had to do.

He had to lie to them.

He made it look convincing. His head turned bird-like. Feathers covered most of his body and in place of his mouth there was a huge beak. He opened his wings as much as he could in the tent that was becoming cramped for them. Eyes closed, he made noises that must have sounded eerie to the Elves.

He did not contact Manwë; he had no desire to do that now. He would sort it out later with the Elder King. He was sure that Manwë would agree – this was the only chance to save the sons of Fëanor.

Finally satisfied with his performance, he opened his eyes and changed back into his usual shape.

“Manwë agrees to the plan,” Eönwë announced coolly. “The sons of Fëanor may keep the Silmarils if they allow them to be put on display in the museum.”

There was something new in the eyes of the Fëanorions now – a glimpse of hope. Still, they hesitated.

“But what about our oath?” Maedhros asked with a wavering voice. The pain must have been almost unbearable. His clenched fist was pressed against his chest; light poured through his hand. “Giving the jewels for Arafinwë to keep will cast us into everlasting darkness!”

“You will still be the rightful owners,” Arafinwë said. He must have thought this through. “The museum in question is the former palace of Fëanor in Tirion. You – together with your mother – are the rightful owners of the place. I have just taken care of the property in accordance with Nerdanel’s wishes.”

Maedhros and Maglor thought about this for a while. Suddenly they both relaxed as if a heavy burden had been taken off their shoulders, even though they still clutched the burning gems.

“I think that might work.”

“It might be enough to keep the everlasting darkness at bay.”

The world waited for their decision. Finally, they seemed to come to life. They put the burning jewels back in their casket, one after another. The act was followed by a shared sigh of relief.

Arafinwë nodded, gratified. “In Valinor, you will heal in time. One day, you will be able to touch the Silmarils again.”

Was that yet another prophecy? Eönwë did not know, but the words rang true.

In silence, Maedhros and Maglor sheathed their swords, wincing at the pain. The Fëanorions took the hollow casket and lifted it together. They looked suddenly very weary and old in the light of the Silmarils. They would not be able to stay in Middle-earth for long without fading, Eönwë realized.

“Let’s go home,” Maedhros said, and Maglor nodded to him, seemingly unable to speak. Tears were running down the minstrel’s face.

* * * * *

“I hope you won’t get into trouble with Manwë,” Arafinwë said to him later.

They were alone together in Ingo’s private tent. Eönwë leant against a pile of straw pillows, Arafinwë’s head was on his lap. For once, he had shed his wings because there was simply no room for them in the tent Ingo slept in. The earthquakes had become worse; the evacuation of the area would begin tomorrow. This short moment together was all they had left.

“Ah, you seem to know that I did not contact him.” It was a relief not to pretend that he had.

“I have seen you speak with lord Manwë once before. You felt much more eldritch then.”

“Oh.” Eönwë fell silent.

“It was the right thing to do, to give them hope. I think they are not bound by their oath anymore.”

“I will ensure that Manwë will not intervene to take the Silmarils, or something. I know I can make him understand.”

“Thank you, Eönwë.”

Ingo raised himself on one elbow and leant towards him. His sudden closeness thrilled Eönwë; he could feel Ingo’s breath on his face. Would they kiss? Did he really dare to do this?

Once, he had been very scared, and Ingo had made him feel better again. He was scared again, but he knew that Ingo was there to comfort him.

He found himself moving closer to Ingoldo. Their lips touched, gently at first. Soon, the kiss became fuller, like spring turning to summer. A pleasant shiver went through Eönwë, arousing him. Ingo’s eyes were widened when the kiss eventually ended. What did we just do? they seemed to ask. The kiss had not been planned, and now they both had to live with the consequences.

Eönwë had kissed only one person on the mouth before. But it had been different with Mairon. His kiss had been fiery and intense, while Ingoldo’s was sweet and fulfilling. Its gentleness assured him that there was still good in the world.

“Thank you, Ingo,” he breathed against the Elf’s slender neck. “Thank you for the love you give to me.” I needed it, he would have liked to say, but dared not.

“This does not mean that we...” Ingo started, struggling to find the right words. “I mean, I love Eärwen very much. But you are dear to me, Eönwë.”

“And that’s enough for me,” he said soothingly. “You have a special place in my heart. Yes, Ingoldo, you are dear to me, too.”

“Can I kiss you again?” Ingo asked, almost shyly.

Eönwë nodded, and warmth filled his heart as their lips met again. They embraced each other, basking in their shared closeness. It was good. It was enough.

Later in Valinor, when something would remind them of the War of Wrath, they would always remember that night, too. And both of them would always blush a little, but it was all right. They never kept it secret from their loved ones, Eärwen and Manwë.

“I am glad you did not have to be alone there,” their loved ones said, and they felt seen and understood.

Meanwhile, the new exhibition in the House of The Bygone Era was an instant success in Tirion.