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Part 9 of Otterless Mayhem
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Published:
2023-01-02
Completed:
2023-01-02
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The Battle of All Battles

Summary:

How Morgoth broke out of the void, and how the final battle was fought.

The story of Eonwe's role in the end of the world.

Notes:

People (Q/S)
Elerondo/Elrond
Curufinwe/Curufin
Lairisse/Lumreth (Curufin's wife)
Turukano/Turgon
Itarille/Idril
Salakanto/Salgant of the Harp
Aldaron/Galdor of the Tree
Eldatanno/Elladan
Eldaroquen/Elrohir
Lomion/Tinnuion (Maeglin)
Rauko/Rog of the Hammer of Wrath
Laurefindele/Glorfindel of the Golden Flower
Ehtello/Ecthelion of the Fountain
Aikaldemor/Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch
Makalaure/Maglor
Arafinwe/Finarfin
Nolofinwe/Fingolfin
Araniyon/Ereinion Gil-Galad
Ingwion- High Prince of all Elves, crown prince of the Vanyar
Feanaro/Feanor

Horses
Gwaerhin- Elladan's charger, S. stormchaser
Wilwarin- Elrohir's courser, Q. butterfly
Nahar- Orome's horse (Q., probably onomatopoeic, for neighing)

Places (Q/S)
Ondolinde/Gondolin
Endore/Enor- the eastern lands (not Valinor)
Ekkaia- the Encircling Seas (west of Valinor, opposite Belegaer, which is between Valinor and Endore)
Almaren- the center of early Arda, where the Valar lived before Valinor, destroyed by Morgoth

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Arien crashed to earth like a meteor, flame and fear and the knowledge of the end. She’d leapt from her ship, risking the fall over staying, and with her crash, the world went dark.

In the sudden darkness, it was easy to see that the moon was off course, half-eclipsed in the darkness, and Tillion was momentarily silhouetted in the flower, grappling with something far larger than himself. Then he leapt too.

Eonwë managed to catch Tillion when he plummeted from his ship.

Estë swept Arien to Lorien, as she was in no shape to give a report. Tillion, on the other hand, was bloodied but furious as he stood in the Ring of Doom.

Eonwë flexed his power in a way he seldom had cause to do so, drawing on his connection to the Elder King to power the working and pull everyone he needed through the wind at once.

The Council of the Valar stood in various poses of confusion in the Ring of Doom.

“Forgive us,” Manwë said. “For the abrupt summons.”

“What happened?” Elerondo demanded.

Eonwë could feel the place the Arda was torn, a rent across the universe between the Door of Night and the soft place where the world had bent.

“Melkor has returned,” Manwë said gravely.

Tillion, his fana reflecting his battering, had blood on his mouth, but he wiped it from his face with the back of his hand. “Coward,” he growled in Valarin, and then in Quenya added, “He jumped me from behind.” He paused to lick his teeth and spat blood off to the side.

“Can I-?” Elerondo offered.

Tillion bared bloody teeth. “I’m fine,” he said to the elf. “Fana’s a bit battered, but he did me little enough damage. Just the flower,” he snarled, regret and fury warring in his tone.

Orome settled a hand on his shoulder, and Tillion leaned into the touch.

Nerdanel asked, “What do we know of his movements?”

Eonwë looked skyward, focusing on the whisperings of the air currents. “He’s in the north,” he said. “And he’s marshalling his creatures from the void. More than that, I cannot tell.”

“Nor I,” Manwë agreed. “He shrouds himself in the mire and the gloom to blind us.”

Varda growled softly. “The stars say there is only a blackness where there should be ground.”

“Word must be sent to New Ondolindë, Formenos, and the settlements of the Kindi. The civilians must be evacuated south while the armies move north,” Indis said gravely.

“We will go,” Ilmarë said. “Eonwë and I. There are few others who could face him, if he challenges us.”

“Hurry,” Varda told her handmaiden. “And we will begin preparing here.”

“He’s coming for Taniquetil,” Eonwë heard Tulkas grumble as Ilmarë stepped into the shadow of his wings. “But he’ll raze everything along the way.”

Then they were in the northernmost settlement of the Kindi, which was in a wild but structured flurry.

“Herald, Handmaid!” the Kindi chieftess said, pausing beside them, a basket on her hip.

Eonwë bowed politely. “You see the shape of the problem,” he observed.

“Well the sun’s fallen and the moon’s gone dark, so we figured there wasn’t much that could be but the end,” she replied.

“Morgoth moves in the north,” Ilmarë said sadly. “You’re in the line of fire.”

The Chieftess nodded, and said, “We’re almost ready to begin the march.”

“We will carry you,” Ilmarë replied. “South of the Halls?” she asked Eonwë.

He nodded, and breathed. With Ilmarë there to help him, he could probably bear the village through the wind.

“We’ve only what we need on us,” the Chieftess said. “Leave the rest.”

Eonwë nodded gratefully and watched them gather hastily in the square. It took perhaps a quarter of an hour, and every second Eonwë’s Song hummed that it was too slow. Then he pulled them through the wind.

He was not particularly surprised to find Melyanna and Olorin waiting in the field where they deposited the kindi.

“Here,” Melyana said, kissing his forehead and pressing the strength of her Song into him. “You’ll need it more than me.”

“The Noldor and the Vanyar are already marching north,” Olorin reported. “They were alarmingly prepared.”

This made Eonwë smile, even if it made Ilmarë look even more grim. “Of course they were,” she grumbled.

Olorin nodded and clasped Eonwë’s hand, pressing his own strength into him as well. “Eru’s Grace go with you,” he murmured.

Eonwë nodded and drew Ilmarë with him to the next settlement, and to the next.

Formenos was empty when they got there, and abandoned in a hurry. Eonwë asked the wind for the location of Curufinwë, and found that he and his wife, and the Perelda twins with them, were riding hard for New Ondolindë.

Eonwë pulled himself and Ilmarë there, and brought the four eldar with him.

Curufinwë’s horse reared, but Eldaroquen had dismounted and quieted the beast before Curufinwë could fall.

“Eonwë,” Eldatanno said. “Is it time? Dagor Dagorath?”

Eonwë nodded grimly. “He’s taken the north, and we’re evacuating the civilians. Formenos and New Ondolindë are on his path southwards.”

They were in the main square of the King, and the palace doors flung open. Turukano and all his lords hurrying out to meet them.

“He’ll make for Taniquetil eventually,” Ilmarë repeated, tipping her head to include the Ondolindië. “But he’ll raze the settlements of the eldar along the way.”

“The Armies of the West are already marching north,” Eonwë added, listening to the wind. “But it’s unlikely they’ll be here in time.” Already he could sense Morgoth’s army creeping south, a skittering across his senses.

Turukano and his lords exchanged a glance. “Itarillë,” Turukano said quietly.

His daughter squared her jaw. “Papa,” she said pleadingly. Then she sighed and relented. “Of course.”

“Salakanto,” Turukano said. “Aldaron, with her.”

“Mean you to make me the survivor again, my lord?” Aldaron asked wryly. Before Turukano could answer, he bowed. “Of course my lord. As you say.”

Aldaron, Salakanto, and Itarillë strode away, the princess already issuing orders for the evacuation.

Turukano looked at the others.

Curufinwë said, “Laira, go with the boys.”

The perelda twins looked between Curufinwë and Lairissë. Eldatanno’s jaw worked. “Someone should take the horses,” he agreed grimly.

Lairissë looked between the twins. “I don’t understand.”

“We’re taking the tunnel to the sea,” Eldaroquen said, face stern and fair, “And then we’ll take the sea to Alqualondë, to warn them, if Ulmo hasn’t yet. You’ll have to bring Wilwarin and Gwaerhin south down the beach after us, or Gwaerhin will probably try to stay and fight.”

“He’s not going to cross the mountains till he’s taken Tirion, He won’t dare challenge Ulmo in his domain till he’s defeated the others,” Curufinwë said. “It’ll be safer.”

Lairissë scowled, but accepted her orders. She was no fighter, and she knew it.”

“Ulmo is likely still in conference with the Valar,” Eonwë said slowly. “Ossë may have warned them, but he may be at war in the ice of the north as well.”

Curufinwë looked at Rauko and Lomion. “We’ve things to do, yes?”

Rauko nodded, and the three smiths hurried to their forges.

Eldaroquen remounted Wilwarin, and he and his brother and Lairissë turned from the square.

None of them, Eonwë noticed, were saying goodbye. Desperation, hope, or superstition, he wondered, and then nodded at Turukano. As the twins had been discussing their plan, Turukano had dispersed his other lords to prepare to hold Morgoth at New Ondolindë until the armies could get there.

“I’ll go with the civilians,” Ilmarë said quietly, knowing he didn’t have the strength to send them far enough to matter, not after all he’d done with the kindi.

Eonwë nodded at her, and she followed Itarillë. He didn’t say farewell either, but it was different between them. Melkor didn’t have the ability to destroy them, though he could make them wish he could. Unlike the frail Children preparing their final stand, this was unlikely to need a farewell, for the two of them.

 

Morgoth’s armies came south in a black cloud that sapped Eonwë’s strength and made him feel like he was missing a sense. He stood with Turukano and Laurefindelë and held the line, until Turukano ordered the retreat out of the city.

Rauko was the last of the lords to join them, his house falling in around them with sooty faces and wolfish grins.

And as Morgoth’s forces took the city and the Ondolindië retreated backwards across the plain, Turukano said, “Wait for it.”

Rauko, some of the blackening on his face more obviously yrch blood in the torchlight, bared his teeth.

“Now,” Turukano ordered a few moments later, and Rauko signaled with his torch.

A flaming arrow arched high overhead, and vanished into one of the windows of the guard tower.

There was a slow rumbling noise.

Eonwë watched in fascination as the whole of the city seemed to shudder, shake, and then begin to bow outward.

A series of rolling explosions shook the walls. A sheet of fire licked over the city, and there was an ominous silence, into which Rauko shouted in Sindarin, “DOWN.”

The Ondolindië hit the ground as a shockwave rolled over them, leaving Eonwë’s ears ringing and his wings ruffled. The city, only just visible in the sudden gloom of the extinguished torches, was gone.

“Morgoth’s balls, Rog!” Ehtëllo said wonderingly in Sindarin. “What did you do?”

“Filled your plumbing with blasting powder once you’d run all the water out,” the kindi replied, eyes gleaming in the darkness. He was as pleased with himself as a cat with a fish.

As he ought to have been; from afar on the wind, Eonwë could hear Morgoth’s fury.

“Form up,” Turukano commanded. “Look sharp!”

They retreated slowly in ranks, holding back the press of the army as best they could, until they hit the pass by Formenos.

Curufinwë said to Rauko, “If you have any more blasting powder,” and to Turukano, “And if you can hold them here for about half an hour, we could bring down the pass, too.”

Turukano eyed his cousin. “We can hold,” he promised.

“How much do you need?” Rauko asked.

Curufinwë made a measure with his hands.

Rauko laughed viciously. “Oh we have more than that.”

The two smiths vanished into the gloom, and Turukano called his orders.

Aikaldemor, at his king’s flank with his curved blade, observed wryly, “You know, this could be worse.”

Turukano scoffed at him. “How so?”

“I think our cousin would say something about wolves,” Aikaldemor said cheerfully. As Turukano made an outraged noise, he continued blithely, “But I was going to say, the stars are bright, the weather’s fine, and we know exactly who the bad guy is.”

Turukano sighed. “I suppose that’s fair,” he admitted reluctantly. And then the battle was joined again, the vanguards of their pursuit upon them again.

Eonwë squared off against the void-creature that held their foes’ flanks, hissing as the venom ate at his breastplate. Void-beasts were not Ainu, and could be killed, but it took far more work than dispatching a creature of Ea. Eonwë was sweat-soaked and hastily wrapping a burn on his forearm when he rejoined Turukano, the creature slain.

Turukano nodded at him. “Their half hour is almost up,” he observed.

As if summoned, Curufinwë and Rauko came skidding down the sides of the pass to rejoin the army. “We should back up,” Rauko suggested.

Turukano ordered the retreat. He, Laurefindelë, Ehtëllo, and Eonwë held the front lines as their small army backed slowly out of the pass. It was a careful game, trying to get clear and still hold their enemies in the pass to be destroyed by the blast.

They cut it a tiny bit close, Eonwë shielding the eldar with his wings as some rubble from the blast, rockslide, and cliff-collapse bounced alarmingly close.

Laurefindelë whistled admiringly. “Remind me never to piss you off,” he told Rauko and Curufinwë.

“It’s mostly woods from here on,” Turukano said quietly to his lords. Ehtëllo and Laurefindele nodded slowly.

“We split up by house,” Aikaldemor said. “Fill the woods. And we hold them here till the army comes.”

Turukano nodded. “Good luck,” he said quietly. The others clasped hands or shoulders, bumped gauntlets, and otherwise avoided saying their farewells, just as they had with their fellows in the city. Then they started peeling off into groups, vanishing into the woods.

Eonwë watched Turukano last of all take the House of the King into the trees, the woods leaning low over them to shield them as best as it could.

Eonwë stood as he was. The void-creatures would find their way through the collapsed pass first, and Turukano’s people could not face such things without light. The yrch would go around, hesitant to face him, but he could hold the void-beasts. Perhaps it would save some of the Ondolindië.

 

The next time Eonwë had time for thought, he had been joined in his fight against the void-creatures by the Maiar of the Hunt. Tyaliëewë had fallen in beside him, covering his flanks with her bow, and Ráta was raising the trees against the yrch to help defend the eldar sheltering there.

Tillion, to Eonwë’s surprise, was in the thick of the fighting against the yrch. He still looked terrible, and he avoided the void-creatures like he knew he had not the strength to fight them, but he was there, and he was fighting.

Valaroma cracked the air.

Turukano’s people gave ragged cheers as the Hunt swept past them, Oromë himself at their head. Nahar’s hooves flashed, and the great horse crushed the last of Eonwë’s foes beneath his heels.

Eonwë, breathing heavily, fell back and let the Hunt take the brunt of the fighting for a moment, to breathe.

Ilmarë appeared beside him. “Here,” she said, and set to cleaning his burns from the fangs of the void-creatures.

“I’m well,” he promised her.

“I know,” she replied, and tied her veil around the burn on his bicep with a little half-smile.

The Hunt, it turned out, were the vanguard of the Armies of the West. Eonwë took the moment to stand down, aware that Morgoth’s forces were doing the same on their side of the pass.

They had light with them, to Eonwë’s relief. Ilmarë nodded to his sigh, and said, “Uinen kept one safe. And it turns out Runyawë has had the third all along.”

Aulë’s most distant maia, the one who kept volcanoes and lava flows, spent most of his time in Endorë rather than Aman, much like Ossë. That he had kept track of the gemstone in his lava tracks was not, actually, that much of a surprise to Eonwë, any more than Uinen keeping the one Makalaurë had given her. That the eldar had some of the light of the Trees was relieving to Eonwë, though.

Ilmarë frowned, turning east.

“Something’s wrong,” Eonwë said quietly, head tilted.

Ilmarë made a soft noise of dismay. “My Lady is calling,” she said. “I have to go.” And then she was gone, and Eonwë was left staring to the east in vague confusion. Something was wrong around the Door of Night.

He cracked the world, Manwë’s knowledge swept through Eonwë. And the edges are beginning to crumble.

Eonwë knew then that he would be alone in the battle, save Tulkas. The other Ainu would be holding the world together, and it would be up to him and Tulkas, and the eldar, to defeat their foe. He swallowed a very un-ainu pang of fear.

Tulkas lay a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll hold,” he said quietly.

“We have to,” Eonwë answered, and they set to preparing for a long, hard battle.

 

Battle came and went in waves, as they always did. Eonwë’s fana ached in an unfamiliar way, the exhaustion and pain in his eala bleeding into his fana until even physical wounds hurt in ways they never had before.

Morgoth couldn’t beat him and Tulkas together, but he was holding. And Eonwë would not be able to fight like this forever.

In the next ebb, where Morgoth retreated to plot his battle, Eonwë made his way to Elerondo’s tent in the healing ward, if only because it would be quiet, and no one would seek him there.

Elerondo was cleaning his sword, yrch blood on his face. He looked up when Eonwë came in. “News?” he asked hoarsely.

Eonwë shook his head. “Just seeking a moment of quiet, with a friend, if I may.”

Elerondo smiled at him, tired, his Song worn around the edges like Eonwë felt.

Eonwë nodded at his sword. “Has battle come all the way here, then?” he asked.

Elerondo nodded. “Barely,” he said. “Mostly the lines hold.”

“But not always,” Eonwë observed. Elerondo would not need to clean his sword if he had not used it.

Elerondo showed teeth, for a moment every inch the battle-hardened warrior he so rarely let himself be. “My patients are defended, by the armies or by their healer,” he replied.

Relieved, Eonwë smiled back. “How is it, truly?” he asked quietly.

“We’re holding,” Elerondo said firmly. “We will hold as long as we have to.”

“But not forever,” Eonwë sighed.

“No,” Elerondo agreed. “But we don’t have to hold forever. Just till you stop him.”

Eonwë nodded. They would; they had to.

The wind stirred in the tent, and Eonwë nodded. “I have to go,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Eru guide you,” Elerondo replied.

And Eonwë returned to the front, returned to Tulkas’ side, and returned to harrying Morgoth in the hopes that Tulkas could land a blow.

 

Then the dragon came. Morgoth left the field for a time, as the dragon wrecked the edges of their lines. Eonwë would have to go, he knew. But he joined the hasty council of war first.

“A dragon,” Ingwion said, scowling.

“I will face it,” Eonwë said, and couldn’t quite keep the weariness from his voice. “I have to.” He sighed, and looked at the sons of Finwë, who were, without a doubt, the most valiant on the field, and most effective, thanks to the silmarili on their brows. “But Tulkas will need help keeping Morgoth at bay while I cannot be there.”

“Why you?” Arafinwë asked.

“Earendil has faced dragons before,” Ingwion added.

Eonwë shook his head. “Elves are not built to slay dragons,” he said in reply, a truth writ into the fabric of creation. “And he’s an elf now, even if he wasn’t before.”

Elerondo cleared his throat from the corner where he was rolling bandages. “Where are Eldatanno and Eldaroquen?” he asked quietly into the quiet.

Eonwë stared at him in surprise.

Elerondo’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Not elves,” he reminded them gently.

It was Araniyon who answered. “I’ll go,” he said quietly, and slipped from the tent to find the young pereldar.

Eonwë did not know how to speak the gratitude in his heart, and knew that Elerondo would not want it anyway, not for the sacrifice speaking such words had been. Eonwë only nodded to him, once, and returned to the lines, to the battle with Morgoth, to his own slow and grinding demise, safe in the knowledge that he would never have to make such a choice.

Eonwë was on the ground, one wing crumpled beneath him, Grond denting his breastplate beyond even Aulë’s repair, when the world shook under the death throes of the dragon.

Eonwë, given respite by Morgoth’s retreat in the face of the destruction of his great beast, lay in the dirt and breathed, despite the lack of need, until his lungs no longer felt like shattered bellows.

Tulkas hauled him to his feet. He too looked a bit battered, his armor showing scuffs where Grond had struck him, though his was not yet bent. “Okay?” he asked.

Eonwë nodded. There wasn’t another possible answer. He had to be okay. He shook his wings, trying to get his flight feathers turned the right direction again. “What’s he doing?” he asked. It was mostly rhetorical; Tulkas likely had no more idea than he did.

“He changed something,” Tulkas rumbled.

Eonwë nodded slowly. The world was crumbling faster now. It felt like part of the ekkaia was missing. It felt like some of the wind was missing. “What-?” he started, and then the battle was joined around them again, new foes, human foes sweeping the field.

“Black Numenoreans,” Tulkas rumbled.

Eonwë nodded grimly, hefting his spear.

And then Morgoth was against them again, and Eonwë could do nothing except fight.

Chapter 2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Eonwë felt the air change, felt the wind suddenly fighting to hold him up, his wings straining. He also felt, from afar, Manwë’s sudden struggle, his desperation, his need.

“Go,” Tulkas rasped, barely enough air in his lungs to speak.

Eonwë’s wings strained to pull him aloft, pull him away from the battle.

The wind fought the suction of the void to give him an opening, and Eonwë lunged through it and rolled to an ungainly stop on the floor of the Ring of Doom.

Manwë knelt beside him, cupped his chin, and pushed.

Eonwë left his fana behind, becoming the wind in a way he had not since Almaren, when the currents needed to be taught their paths and he had flown with them, as them.

Manwë held his eala steady, and in turn, Eonwë held the wind. He set himself against the rents in the universe, and held.

The void ripped at him, tearing against his tattered eala as it tried to pull all of Ea back into its darkness. Eonwë fought, with his very being, with every scrap of Song he had left.

Uinen’s voice joined his, holding the water back from the cracks in the world. Ulmo was holding her tenderly, Ossë’s Song wound through her’s, strengthening her, connecting her to Eonwë through their shared joy in the wind.

Ilmarë was suddenly there, pushing herself into his Song, like Ossë helped Uinen, bringing light to fight the darkness. And then Runyawë was there, Singing back the flow of the molten core of the earth, steady as stone. He was alone, but he had spent less of himself so far than Eonwë or Uinen, the battlefield not yet reaching his domain.

The void hurt, everywhere it touched them. Ilmarë wept, helplessly as it dragged like claws over their beings. Uinen’s screeching was fury and fear and pain, and it echoed in all their Songs. Runyawë’s pain was the grind of plate tectonics, slow and inexorable and ruinous. For Eonwë it was like having feathers plucked from his heart, but still they held.

There was no other choice. If the eldar could not breathe, if the waves failed and the earth crumbled, it would not matter if Tulkas would win or lose.

As Eonwë spun himself into a funnel cloud to turn the winds away from the tears in the world, he Sang of hope. He Sang of building. He Sang of his friends among the Eldar who had taught him to change for the better. Ilmarë, spraying ions everywhere and reinforcing his spin with every pass of her sparkling exhilaration, Sang of their joy in discovery and the light they carried.

We have it now, Ilmarë breathed to him. Go, you’re needed.

Eonwë peeled himself out of their Song and back into his fana, still in the dirt in the Ring of Doom. His covert feathers on his left wing were crushed uncomfortably beneath him and his primaries were twisted agonizingly. His head was spinning.

 

When the world resolved into clarity again, a process which took, in Eonwë’s opinion, far too long, Manwë knelt over him, touching his face tenderly. “I need you,” he breathed, wrecked by the destruction of the world that was part of him as much as he was part of it. “Once more, my herald.”

Eonwë dragged to his feet. He didn’t have words, barely had flight, but he squared himself. He knew what he needed to do, and he turned through the wind to the camps of the eldar.

Morgoth was defeated. Eonwë could feel it in the air, and it was obvious by the baffled joy that echoed the camp.

He found Ingwion first, who clasped his shoulder warmly and nodded him on. Eonwë nodded back; he would find his friend later, when the world was safe. When he had the strength to be there.

The Sons of Finwë were together in a tent, heads bent close over a map. It was Feanaro who looked up and saw him. “Ah,” he said.

Eonwë offered a half-smile. “Congratulations,” he rasped, voice a bare croak.

“You had as much to do with it as we did,” Nolofinwë said. “Maybe more, if I’m right in assuming you left to keep the air in.”

Eonwë nodded.

“May I?” Arafinwë asked.

Eonwë looked at him in surprise.

Arafinwë put gentle hands on his damaged left wing and started gently turning his primary feathers the correct direction.

Eonwë hissed softly, but eased into the touch.

Feanaro looked at Nolofinwë. “You have things here?” he asked his brothers.

Nolofinwë frowned at him.

“It’s the end of days,” Feanaro reminded him.

“I noticed,” Nolofinwë grumbled.

“Yavanna needs the silmarili to renew Arda,” Feanaro said. “I mean, I assume that’s why you’re here?” he asked Eonwë.

Eonwë nodded slowly. “If-” he said hoarsely. He must’ve been screaming at some point, because the throat of his fana rasped painfully.

Feanaro brushed this aside impatiently. “Of course I am,” he said. “I’m hardly going to let the world end after we fought so hard to save it,” he grumbled.

Eonwë smiled tiredly. Aside from the obvious bit, he thought fondly, Feanaro never changed.

Arafinwë patted his wing gently, feathers smoothed to rightness.

Eonwë squeezed his hand gratefully.

Arafinwë patted his shoulder and took the stone from his brow. Nolofinwë did the same.

Feanaro, still wearing his, took the others and dropped one into the pocket of his ever-present apron. The second, he handed to Eonwë; immediately the light smoothed over the battered edges of his eala. “Come on,” Feanaro said briskly, stepping closer to Eonwë to reduce the power needed to transport them both. “While you’ve still got the strength to get us there.”

Eonwë nodded, tucked his good wing around Feanaro’s shoulders, and pulled them, one last time, through the wind.

Feanaro looked around the Ring of Doom, at the Valar, pressed together or clinging to their maiar, still straining to hold the world together. Eonwë knew he should go back to Ilmarë and the edges of the void, knew they needed him, but he needed just a moment to breathe. He handed the gemstone back to Feanaro first, though.

Yavanna was in an elven fana, and had her hands pressed to the earth. Aulë was bracing her from behind, and tears rolled silently down her cheeks.

Feanaro knelt at her side. “What do you need?” he asked, setting the two silmarili not on his brow in the sand before her. The light across her face seemed to ease some of Yavanna’s suffering.

Eonwë, too, felt a little better for having touched the light. He squared his shoulders and moved back to his place at Manwë’s side.

Manwë cupped his nape and gently drew his head down into his lord’s lap. Eonwë closed his eyes and let himself fall back into the Song.

Light blazed behind his eyelids for a moment, and then he was beyond his fana, beyond eyesight, beyond touch.

The Song of the Light swept over them all, though– Ossë and Uinen, Ilmarë and Runyawë, Eonwë, plus Manwë and Varda, and Ulmo and Aulë through them.

The void fell back, cowed by the light and overwhelmed by it.

Eonwë, also cowed and overwhelmed, leaned trustingly into Manwë’s Song, and let the Valar guide the Music, just as they had Before.

 

For a glorious, timeless moment, Eonwë could see the whole Music. Generally, he was privy only to his own Song, and perhaps the Songs of those around him, here and there. If he strained and drew on his lord’s powers, he could sometimes trace Melodies forward or backwards across the Music, but generally the Melody of the World was beyond him, except his own small part in it.

This, though, was awesome, in the old sense of the word. For a little while, he got to be every wind, in every moment. He laughed, and the Music laughed with him. Why shouldn’t it, when the marring was healed?

Since he could, for the moment, sense everything, Eonwë indulged himself, tracing the chords of the Song back to each of his friends, the slumbering eldar, pereldar, and mortals who had taught him so much, his sister dancing along the cosmos, his friends sunk deep in their own Melodies; his lord, reveling in their joy with his eala filled with love.

And a bass decrescendo in the depths of Endorë, a low vibrato that could have felt discordant but instead felt merely lost.

Eonwë held the broken Song in his heart, needing to return to it once he was only himself again.

Time was meaningless as the Music wound on, and Eonwë, who was not designed to be aware of all of Ea, lost himself for a time in the Melodies, but eventually he settled back into himself, as the wind drifted softly through the trees and Ossë played with him over the seas.

Eventually, he became aware of himself again, not just the winds and the skies and the heart of his lord, but himself, his own eala, and perhaps even the fana that went with it, and he followed the breeze to the mountain of his home, his aerie, and the seat of his lord.

The Music did not end as much as it began, and Eonwë settled back into his fana and his role in the world.

 

Eonwë opened his eyes very slowly. Nothing hurt anymore; his wing was back in pristine condition and his exhaustion had faded. The claw marks the void had left on his eala were gone.

Manwë stroked the down feathers where the top of his wing joined his nape gently. His pride and affection drifted through the places their ealar touched, the places Eonwë belonged to him. “Rest,” Manwë murmured aloud.

“I’m fine,” Eonwë protested.

“And yet,” Manwë replied fondly, stroking the contour feathers on his back. “Rest,” he repeated. “You did well.”

Eonwë subsided, leaning back into his lord.

Ilmarë slouched at Varda’s feet much the same way Eonwë sat at Manwë’s. To Eonwë’s surprise, Ossë and Uinen were both curled around Ulmo’s knees, all three of them more water than anything else, and Runyawë was tucked between Aulë and Yavanna’s legs, his molten hair spilling across Aulë’s thighs. Perhaps most surprising though, was the way Arien was curled into Tillion’s embrace, both of them pressed tenderly between Oromë and Vána.

None of them showed the damage they had taken in the battle, but there was weariness still in their eyes as their Valar sheltered them. Eonwë realized belatedly that he felt it too, that truly, there was very little he wanted except to sit here, coddled and safe, and rest until his Song felt less raw.

“The Children will wake in a few days,” Varda reported quietly, stroking Ilmarë’s hair gently. “They are settled well and safely.”

“My Children are hard at work in the foundations of the world,” Aulë added. He was twining Runyawë’s hair between his fingers as if testing the texture. “They’ll have it stabilized by the time the others wake.”

“Excellent,” Yavanna said. “The groves and crops are thriving,” she added. She had her heel hooked gently over Runyawë’s thigh, affection in every line of the vines twining over his lap.

“And the herds are at peace,” Oromë agreed, his palm cupped over Tillion’s nape and thumb drifting in lazy strokes. “They will not starve.”

“And the Trees will have begun to flower by the time they wake,” Vána agreed; she was holding one of Arien’s hands, lifted over Tillion’s shoulder to rest in the Valie’s lap. “So they will have light.”

“The sun was nice, though,” Varda observed. “The moon too,” she acknowledged, shooting a fond smile at Tillion. “Parts of Endorë are so far for the light to travel from here.”

“You can ask,” Arien said softly, smiling up at the Valar, brilliant eyes dancing. “We’ll probably even say yes.”

“Shifts,” Oromë grumbled, tightening his grip on Tillion’s nape. “I won’t send you up there full time again.”

Vána nodded her agreement. “Never,” she agreed, squeezing Arien’s hand.

“There will be time for all of that later,” Manwë said.

“Yes,” Nessa said, speaking for the first time. She was sitting in Tulkas’ throne instead of her own, and her husband was on the ground before her, his head in her lap. If he wasn’t asleep, he was very near to it. “There will. Now is a time to rest, before the Children wake, and we have more to do.”

There would be much more to do–the eldar would wake and need guidance and care as they rebuilt themselves and their cities. The men especially would need help, mostly coming as they did from beyond the circles of the world. And there was still the matter of that broken Song, far across the sea. But for now, there was this: his lord, his sister, his Maiar friends, unharmed, unburdened for the moment, at peace.

“Yes,” Manwë agreed, lighter than the air he governed. “Rest,” he said again, still petting Eonwë’s feathers.

Eonwë, content as he could be in the absence of all his friends, closed his eyes and obeyed.

Notes:

Some of My Headcanons about Maiar, Which Might Make This Make More Sense
The Maiar each reflect aspects of the Vala that they serve, and there’s a connection between a maia and his or her vala that allows communication and an exchange of power over distance. Most of this connection exists in the maia–Eonwe has both given bits of himself to Manwe to hold and use, and let Manwe have space in him. In its proper working, it both lets Eonwe use Manwe’s power to do his work when he needs, and it lets Manwe feel and know what he needs to from Eonwe instantly (Morgoth of course, uses this very wrongly and uses it to control Sauron, rather than it being a mutual exchange).
The Maiar’s names are Quenya, but mostly Quenya transliterations of their Valarin names, which is why I don’t translate them like I translate the elves’ names. Also why I *do* translate Sauron/Gorthaur, because those are elvish names given to him by the elves; Mairon is the transliteration of his Valarin name (presumably) but it became a Quenya word in and of itself, so I went ahead and translated that one to Clauron along the way.
Eonwe- Herald of Manwe (winds)
Arien- Vana's maia, steered the sun (hearthfire and garden flowers)
Tillion- Orome's maia, steered the moon (predators)
Ilmare- Handmaiden of Varda (solar winds and auroras)
Olorin- Nienna's maia (wisdom found in sorrow)
Melyanna- Vana's maia (spring flowers)
*Tyalieewe- Orome’s maia (willow trees)
*Rata- Orome’s maia (berry bushes)
*Runyawe- Aule's maia (lava flows)
Osse- Ulmo's maia (tempests)
Uinen- Ulmo's maia (deep water)
Mairon as Aule’s is flame-as-a-tool; Mairon as Melkor’s is flame-as-a-weapon

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