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Chapter Text

Eönwë was not used to walking long distances. Never before had he had to use his legs as much as he did now. The distances he had had to cover in Almaren had been few and far between. When he had needed to get from one place to another - from his lord's palace to Lord Aulë's forges, for example - he had simply flown there. Eönwë had always preferred to fly.

He could still remember the feeling of the wind in his hair when he had spread the four wings of his true form, the light of the Two Lamps shimmering on his feathers. He remembered how alive he had felt as he glided through the air. And sometimes he had seen Mairon running beneath him in his favourite shape, that of a great reddish-golden wolf. He had felt such joy at the sight of his best friend. But Mairon... apparently hadn't.

His friend had always wanted wings like Eönwë's - so ambitious and so disappointed with what he already had, even though he was the most talented blacksmith under Lord Aulë's command, the pride an joy of his mentor. Or... well, had been. Everyone in Lord Aulë's forges had looked up to Mairon and his work - but it had never been enough for Mairon. Nothing had ever been enough for him - except what Melkor had offered him so long ago, it seemed.

Eönwë supposed that his best friend had been disappointed in him as well.

The smile that had stolen onto his face vanished, giving way to hard lines and a clenched jaw. He gritted his teeth and marched on into the near-darkness that the light of Laurelin could barely reach, a splitting headache pounding behind his temples.

If there was one thing he had learned since his rebirth, it was that memories of Mairon hurt.

Eönwë shook his head and concentrated on his surroundings once more, his eyes scanning the horizon to the east. His feet sank deep into the sand of the small beach he was walking across, the roar of the ocean loud in his ears. With the rugged cliffs of the southern Pélori Mountains to his left, he slowly made his way north towards the Taniquetil, keeping an eye on the east, where HE had built his evil strongholds. Where evil things still lurked and schemed.

Their hosts hadn't found Mairon or Gothmog or any of Melkor's more powerful Úmaiar in the ruins of Angband and Utumno. Well, Olórin seemingly had sniffed out Mairon’s escape route and even tousled with him, but his little apprentice had been very fortunate to escape this fight with his life. The Valar’s host had, so said his Lord Manwë, who had led their war efforts, killed anyone who got in their way, so that many a Valaraukar and other evil spirit fell to their blades and Songs of Power. But they hadn't tried to hunt down Melkor’s fleeing underlings in their desperate attempt to lay siege to Utumno and capture the Dark Vala.

And now, with Melkor in chains in Lord Námo's domain, no one seemed to expect danger from the Enemy any longer.

They had underestimated him once before.

Eönwë remembered well the Overthrowing of the Two Lamps and the destruction of almost every living thing on Arda that followed in its wake.

Only a few... moments before, at the wedding of Lord Tulkas and Lady Nessa, he had danced with Mairon in the flower meadows, drunk on the mingled light of the Lamps and other sweet things. His friend had laughed for the first time in what seemed like eons when he had spun Eönwë around and dipped him. Then they had both fallen over, Eönwë, the most capable fighter of the Maiar, having lost his balance like a newborn chick and pulling them both to the ground. Then they had laughed and embraced, still rolling around in the grass, and everything had been so simple. They had been so happy.

And then, suddenly, darkness and utter destruction. He could well remember those startled eyes of Mairon's when Eönwë had cried out in terror as the first of many earthquakes hit them. Mairon, who, as he knew now, had known of Melkor's plan, but not that he would act so quickly. The fire that leaked out of the Lamps had consumed the whole world. Destroyed their homes - Eönwë's little house on the hill, Lord Aulë's forges and Mairon's quarters there, as well as everything else in Almaren. It had singed his feathers and his hair. He had run to help, to do something to stop this, to end this madness - and then one of Lady Yavanna's burning trees had fallen on him, almost crushing him. He still remembered Mairon's face, streaked with tears, as he had pulled him from under the burning tree. Mairon had picked him up, as gently as he could, and carried him to safety. Eönwë had been almost out of his mind with pain. Mairon could easily have let him die. He could have put him out of his misery with a single blow. No one would have suspected anything.

Why hadn't he?

Eönwë was torn from his thoughts when an ocean wave hit him, soaking his trousers and boots in an instant. He jumped back with a curse and hit the side of the mountains to his left, but the water still reached his feet.

He narrowed his eyes and fixed them once more on the horizon. The sound of an angry bird escaped his lips as he noticed the wind picking up. The water was becoming increasingly turbulent as the seconds passed. A storm was brewing in the near distance. In the very near distance.

Great.

It would not be long before he had to take flight, for the small sandbank he was walking on would soon be submerged by the ocean. Unfortunately, the Pélori Mountains were high – too high for him to cross in time. His chances of reaching the other side of the mountains before the storm hit were slim.

A moment later, thunder rolled and Eönwë cursed as the first of many raindrops fell on his nose.

"Damn you, Ossë! Is this truly necessary?" he shouted to the sea. Needless to say, the unruly Maia of Storms didn't answer or otherwise acknowledge his presence. Eönwë wasn't even sure if this storm was Ossë's work, although it did seem like him to conjure up a storm when Eönwë would get the full brunt of it. And be late because of it.

Eönwë flipped the ocean off just to be sure.

As if on cue, the storm broke over him. His long, dark cloak and the leather armour he wore underneath would be soaked within moments if he did not find shelter soon. Swearing like a sailor, Eönwë spread his four wings and took flight. And yes, he knew it was reckless to fly in the near darkness where the lights of the trees could barely reach, and in a storm no less, but Eönwë was a Maia of the skies. He would find his way.

Thankfully, he quickly spotted a cave, hidden between treacherous, spiky cliffs and rock faces. In a manoeuvre that was more breakneck than he would have liked, he retracted his wings and landed more or less gracefully on the jagged surface of the rock, rolling with the fall. He looked out of the entrance, where the storm was now in full swing, and groaned. So much for reaching the Taniquetil today. Ilmarë would have his hide.

Eönwë sat down on the mostly dry ground and let out a frustrated sigh. He took off his soaked cloak, hoping it would dry overnight – which it would not –, wrung out his feather-adorned black braid, and shivered in the cold of the cave.

He closed his eyes, slightly tugging at the mental link he had with his sister. Ilmarë was in the middle of organising the arrival with Lady Varda and seemed appropriately irritated at him for interrupting her. What is it, Eönwë? Where are you, the Elves could arrive any moment now!

I... got stuck in a storm.

Her mental silence was deafening.

I am really sorry, Ilmarë, but Ossë is an asshole and I cannot fly in this weather.

You cannot possibly be LATE for the arrival of the Ambassadors of the Firstborn Children of Eru Ilúvatar on Aman, Eönwë! You should have been home hours, no DAYS, ago, and now you tell me that you are somewhere where you cannot reach the Taniquetil today?

Ilmarë ...

No, Eönwë. You know, I understand that you are … not fine. By Eru, I wouldn’t be in your stead, you have only been back for three decades. But this is NOT how you deal with your issues. You will contact Lord Manwë immediately and tell him that you managed to be LATE for an event for which we have been preparing for a YEAR. I will not be your messenger in this.

Then she was gone. Eönwë took a deep breath and hugged his knees to his chest.

Before he could even think of contacting his Lord, his connection to the Elder King came alive with Manwë's presence, and Eönwë wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

Manwë's voice was as soft as a summer breeze. In his mind, Eönwë saw the impression of a cheerful smile and shining blue eyes. Where are you, little one? We are all waiting for you!

Eönwë put his head in his hands and groaned as he answered. I am terribly, terribly sorry, my lord, I... I got caught in one of Ossë's storms.

Where are you? Are you all right? Manwë replied with such genuine concern that Eönwë felt even worse.

Yes, yes, my lord, I am just ... a little wet. I am somewhere in the southeastern Pélori Mountains, in a cave, waiting for the storm to pass. As soon as that happens, I will fly to your palace without further delay. I promise.

Manwë gave the impression of tilting his head, a very bird-like thing they both tended to do when stressed, and asked cautiously, What could have driven you so far from home, little one? Again?, he didn't have to say. A deep sorrow coloured Manwë's voice. Are you no longer happy on Taniquetil?

Eönwë wanted to beat his head against the wall in shame. No, my lord, it is NOT that, I swear to you. I just... I want to make sure that Valinor is safe for the Firstborn. That Melkor has left no... evil here. And I watch the East.

Manwë was silent for a moment and worry thrummed across their bond. His lord didn't need to say what they both already knew. That Eönwë had only begun "patrolling" the eastern Pélori Range after his return to Arda. That his wanderings had been growing ever longer since then.

That he couldn't... get over him.

I will send Thorondor to aid you. He is a fast and strong flyer - if anyone can get you to the Taniquetil in time, it is him.

Eönwë sniffed, wiping away a lone tear with the back of his hand. He didn't deserve Manwë’s … everything. Those last few years, he had only been causing trouble for his lord. But he would accept his kindness, because it would make him happy. Thank you, my lord.

No need to thank me, little one. Just... come home. With that, and the feeling of a soft touch of feathers against his cheek, Manwë was gone.

Eönwë shivered and breathed in the cold of the cave. His breath became misty. Was it supposed to be so cold in Valinor?

Eönwë sighed, leaned back against the cave wall and pulled out his pouch. It was wet, and for a moment his heart leapt into his throat. He fished out his music box and looked at it frantically. Fortunately, it was mostly dry. He didn't know what he would have done if it had broken.

Eönwë placed the box on the floor in front of him. It was not much bigger than his hand, but masterfully crafted, with tiny interwoven letters and designs that Mairon was so fond of making. Or had been so fond of making, a long time ago. Eönwë didn’t know if his former best friend would still take such pleasure in the finer details of his craft.

As he wound up the music box, the Maia wished he could build a fire to warm his tired bones. But he was a spirit of the sky, of wind and rain, Mairon's fiery brand of magic had always eluded him - a fact that had once brought his best friend immense joy. That rain could put out a fire he had ignored, of course. He had ignored many important things.

Oh, how Eönwë wished Mairon were here. For what exactly, he didn't know. He wanted a lot of different things. He wanted to knock Mairon's teeth in. He wanted to hear him laugh again. He wanted to scream at him. He wanted see him forge a new blade. He wanted to kiss him breathless.

Eönwë hated himself for it.

As the soft melody began, the box opened and a mechanical wolf leapt out, moving around the round surface, jumping and playing in time to the music. A large, four-winged bird followed, attached to a golden thread so thin that Eönwë could barely see it. The two played together, seeming to dance to the gentle melody, and he felt tears well up in his eyes.

"What... is that?" Eönwë asked, cradling the most beautiful piece of craftsmanship he had ever seen. It was a small box, delicately forged from gold and steel, with intricate designs on its sides.

Mairon's eyes sparkled in the light of the candle on the table as he looked at Eönwë, a fine eyebrow raised. "A music box, idiot. Wind it up."

He did so and watched in wide-eyed amazement as two animals came to life on the top of the box. It was beautiful. "What's that?"

Mairon rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall. "It's us, featherhead. You can be so dense sometimes."

"But... why?" Eönwë was speechless. What had he done to deserve this... wonderful gift?

Mairon snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. His fiery eyes glittered as they followed the movements of the mechanical creatures. "Because I felt like it. You keep humming that weird tune anyway, so I thought I could finally get it out of my head by doing something about it. It didn't work, to be honest. But I needed to practice my fine mechanics anyway, so I thought I would give it to you when I was done. Because, coincidentally, you are the only one in this forges that I do not totally hate. And you would probably not destroy it in the first five seconds – unlike Aiwendil. That boy is a disaster."

Eönwë looked up at him, too happy about his new music box to react to the teasing. For that was all it was – Mairon could not for the life of him admit that he liked anyone. But he brought Eönwë gifts, and many of them, which made it more than clear what he felt for him. At least for Eönwë.

"Thank you, Mai. I love it," he said, his voice trembling with emotion.

Mairon looked away and shrugged. "You're welcome, I guess."

His pale cheeks had flushed a little.

Eönwë blinked until his eyes returned to the music box in his lap. His head was throbbing, but he wanted to remember. He had to. So he touched the fragile, mechanical wolf with cautious fingertips. It was of a reddish-golden colour, like Mairon's hair. If he looked closely, he could still see the bloodstains on its edges.

As Eönwë crashed into the table, his beloved music box fell with him. It hit the floor and burst open, playing its now distorted tune as Mairon descended upon him in a storm of hate and fire.

The song was still playing as his former best friend – the man he loved – plunged his knife deep into his chest, again and again. Mairon screamed, a guttural sound so full of pain that it shattered something in Eönwë's soul. Tears streamed down Mairon's ashen cheeks, he flinched with each rise of the knife, but still he stabbed him, again and again. Eönwë choked on his own blood, his fana failing him.

With the last of his strength, Eönwë reached out and brushed his fingers across Mairon's high cheekbones. He painted them red with his own blood.

Mairon's eyes were wide and flickered like a dying flame.

"He’s using you, Mai ... He’s wrong ... Please don't do this ... Mai ..."

"Shut up!" Mairon howled and plunged the knife into him again. His whole body shook. "Shut up and die already! Die and NEVER come back! I HATE YOU!"

Eönwë's hand fell to the ground.

Mairon's anguished sobbing was the last thing he heard before his world went dark and silent.

The music box stopped playing.

Eönwë closed it.

Chapter Text

At the beginning of time, when Mairon first took a form made of matter and particles, the first thing he heard was a song. A song so beautiful that he turned his head away from where Lord Aulë was speaking to his starry-eyed Maiar, telling them stories of his beautiful creations, of metals and stones and other things. He knew he should pay attention to his lord's words, but... But Mairon's attention was drawn to this cheerful song, one of the most beautiful voices he had ever heard. He walked towards it, his golden eyes wide with wonder.

It was another Ainu. They were among the Maiar of the Elder King and Lady Varda, dancing to their own tune, while another Maia, a being of the night, tried to keep them in check with a desperate laugh. Even Lord Manwë had stopped what he had been doing to listen to the little one's songs with a warm smile.

And the song... Oh, the song.

The little Maia sang of home, of warmth and joy. They sang of hope.

They sang of the clouds, of the sky. They sang of all that was beautiful in the world. They sang of the birds and the trees swaying in the gentle summer breeze.

They sang of love. Of endless devotion. They sang of sacrifice and of happy endings. They sang of home and they sang of family.

It was only when the yellow eyes of the little Ainu locked with his own that Mairon realised that he had been walking steadily towards them. Like Mairon, they wore a fana that loosely resembled the first-born children of Ilúvatar. But where his hair was fiery red, his skin almost pearly, the other Maia's hair was black, braided back from their face and adorned with golden-black feathers. Their skin was darker than Mairon's and dotted with freckles. They also were a few centimetres shorter than Mairon.

Their grin was of pure light.

When the Maia reached Mairon in their solitary dance, they took his hand and laughingly pulled him with them. Without a word of explanation, they led Mairon in a dance in the all-consuming darkness that was the newly formed Arda, their song and joy filling everything around them. They danced until the little Maia tripped over something - perhaps their own feet, perhaps Mairon's. With a cry of surprise, they spread four great wings, black on the outside, filled with golden-black stripes on the inside, as they fell forward into Mairon's arms. Then they laughed.

Mairon couldn’t look away from their radiant face.

"Hello!" they said then, folding their large wings behind their back and smiling up at him. "I don't believe I've met you before in the Timeless Halls! I am Eönwë, herald and banner-bearer of Lord Manwë! I love the sky, the clouds and the rain, and I invented some of the birds, like this one!" They spread their wings again and grinned proudly. "A black hawk-eagle!"

The next moment, they cocked their head in curiosity. "You must be one of Lord Aulë's, right? Pleased to meet you!"

Mairon felt a little faint in the face of all this... cheer. "Yes, I am Mairon. Of Lord Aulë," he said dumbly.

"The name suits you!" Eönwë laughed and hugged him again. Mairon felt like one of the stones Lord Aulë had spoken of. Very still and heavy.

"You are... not very professional for the herald of the Elder King," Mairon said before he could stop himself.

A laugh came from Eönwë, who had buried their face in Mairon's shoulder. They drew back again after a moment, half grinning, half frowning. "I'm still learning! Give me some time and I will be very professional!"

Somehow, Mairon doubted that. But he couldn't stop himself. He smiled down at Eönwë, who beamed.

"Eönwë!" came a cry from Lady Varda's Maia, who, now that he thought about it, bore a striking resemblance to the winged being currently in his arms. "Leave this poor person alone and come back here, you dolt!"

Eönwë rolled their eyes and said to Mairon in hushed tones, "Forgive my sister, she doesn't like fun." They still pulled away from Mairon with a small, regretful smile. "But I must get back to my lord - we have so much to do! I wish you luck with your mountains and gems and metals! Think of me when you see one of my birds! Until we meet again, my friend!"

Then they were gone before Mairon could even think of saying the "thank you" that was on the tip of his tongue. With a simple flap of their wings, they were back at their lord's side, enveloped in his feathery embrace. Ah. So they were Lord Manwë's favourite. He had wondered.

What a little whirlwind of chaos. And so, so cheerful.

Mairon couldn't help smiling.

Mairon opened his eyes with a start, gasping for breath. He sat up, his chest heaving. Strands of the fiery, reddish-golden hair of his current fana fell into his eyes. He brushed them away with an angry gesture. Tevildo, who had been asleep on his lap, now looked up at him, his blood-red eyes filled with reproach. Mairon gently stroked his little black head in apology, careful not to disturb his brass leg, ... and almost bent the fine golden-black feather in his hand.

Fear churned in his gut and he stopped himself from making any further rash moves. Taking a deep breath, he released his fingers before he accidentally damaged the little thing. The feather sat innocently in his palm, glittering in the light of the flickering fire in the fireplace in front of him. It taunted him with its very presence. With a memory of yellow eyes and a smile like the white light of the Two Lamps.

The only thing he had left of his first friend. Of Eönwë.

Mairon should throw it away. Whenever he touched it or thought about it for too long, those useless, stupid memories returned to him. Memories like the one he had just experienced, millennia old. Tormenting him, showing him again and again what he didn't want to see. What he couldn't have. He had no need of those memories, no need of this stupid feather - and he had never had any need of its previous owner. That blithering idiot with his innocent smile and his big eyes. He should burn it and throw the ashes out of the window.

Mairon had to destroy it. It hurt him, this remnant of a fateful night. It haunted him. Even after a thousand years, he could still see it clearly - Eönwë's gazeless eyes, his blood on the floor of his living quarters. The feel of his beautiful feathers in Mairon's bloody fingers, the same feathers that Mairon had caressed so many times before while preening them, making Eönwë blush and tremble with pleasure. On the day he murdered him, he had just torn them out and taken them to his stronghold. To Angband.

Mairon... didn't really know why he had done that. He frowned, staring at the feather in his hand, as if it held all the answers he needed and had simply chosen to withhold them. Maybe, ... maybe Mairon had just wanted a trophy from the first Ainu he had ever killed. Something to remind him of the choice he had made that day, to mark the moment he had fulfilled his lord's last test and fully renounced the Valar. The day he had left his old life behind, burned it to ashes. The day a lieutenant of Melkor, a Dark Lord, had risen like a phoenix from those ashes.

It made sense. In Angband, Mairon had worn the feathers in his hair - he had embedded them in a thin, braided band of gold, and it had adorned his head like an unholy halo of light. But in the aftermath of the Battle of the Powers, in his desperate flight from the Valar, he had lost all but one.

Oh, Mairon still remembered the shaking of the earth and the howling of the winds that had heralded the coming of utter destruction. And the all-consuming fear he had felt when the Valar had stood on his doorstep - and then proceeded to level his fortress, tear down its walls and battlements as if they were nothing. He had felt it then, Manwë's sorrowful wrath, as he had searched for the murderer of his son - for Eönwë was his family in every way but blood. Mairon had been lucky to be hiding deep in the tunnels of Angband, and the self-proclaimed Lord of Arda had been in a hurry to lay siege to Utumno. Still, he had felt the divine wrath of Manwë in the air around him, even when hidden deep in the earth as he had been. It had felt like poison. Never in his life had he been so afraid. And if everything went according to his plans, he would never feel anything like it again.

When the danger had passed, and he had returned to Angband, he had put the remaining feather away and hidden it in his chambers, never to be used again. He couldn't bear the thought of losing it too. Which was pathetic. He was pathetic.

But he could not throw the damn feather away. It was the only thing left of Eönwë in the world.

"Traitor!"

Mairon whirled to parry the sword aimed at his head. Violet-blue eyes stared back at him from Olórin's too-beautiful face, now stained with a deep hatred. His silver-white hair was tied back and decorated with grey feathers and white jewellery, not unlike the way his teacher had worn his black locks in Almaren. Even the sword he wielded was not his - and Mairon knew it, for he had forged it. It was the first weapon he had ever made for anyone but himself. Eönwë's beloved Mírima.

Mairon's piercing, golden eyes surveyed his enemy and found him wanting. A mere copy of the man he had expected. Disappointment coiled deep within his chest.

"Hello, old friend," Mairon taunted with a grin. He blocked another of Olórin's sloppy blows, danced out of the way and then kicked him to the ground. The Maia went down with a scream. But before Mairon could cut off his head, he materialised his huge white wings, courtesy of his Lord Manwë, and shot out of reach. It made no difference - he was only delaying the inevitable. Mairon had killed better Maiar than this one.

"So the forces of the Valar found me in spite of everything. But it seems you were the only one to discover my escape route," Mairon continued, looking lazily at the Maia with his glowing eyes. "So nothing lost, nothing gained."

Olórin gasped, sword raised in defiance. He knew he could not fight Mairon. That pathetic excuse of a Maia had never been able to best him in a sparring match, let alone a real fight. He had never been able to hold a candle to his teacher's weapon skills.

Mairon grinned, malice seeping from his smile. "But one more thing, Olórin, before I kill you... Tell me, where is Eönwë? I thought he would run after me as soon as he was restored, to drag me back to his side by my ears? But centuries have passed since I killed him. Did I completely misjudge his character? Is he a coward, hiding behind his apprentice?"

He must have hit a nerve. Olórin's face tightened in pure hatred. But there was also a bone-deep sadness in those eyes that made Mairon pause.

"How dare you?!" hissed Olórin, his eyes filling with tears, "How dare you even speak his name with your filthy tongue?! How dare you insult him?!"

Mairon laughed out loud and spread his arms. "Where is he then, Olórin? Where is our oh-so-brave hero?"

Olórin swung at him suddelny. Mairon barely managed to get out of the way in his surprise. Out of instinct, ingrained in him after hours of sparring with the Maiar's most skilled warrior, he grabbed Olórin by the neck and threw him against the cave wall. Olórin groaned in pain.

He raised his sabre to put an end to this pointless quarrel when Olórin cried, "He has not returned!"

Mairon froze. The other Maia used his surprise to his advantage and broke free. With a flap of his great wings, he was out of reach again and lifted Mírima to defend himself. The sword trembled in his hands.

But Mairon could not move. He could do nothing but stare numbly at Olórin, his words echoing in his head.

He had not returned...

The silver-haired Maia was now openly crying. "We have waited, we have waited for centuries, but he has not returned! You destroyed him so thoroughly that not even Eru Ilúvatar could make him come back to us!" He laughed suddenly, a manic sound so unlike the easy, friendly Maia he had known since their kind came into the world. "So congratulations are in order, I suppose! You managed to ruin the only being who ever truly loved you!"

Mairon could not utter a word.

Olórin got away in the end. Mairon did not know how it had happened. He only knew that he had stood there, stunned, for almost an eternity.

Mairon wanted to laugh.

It seemed that in the end, Eönwë had respected Mairon's wish. Had he not told his old friend, just before killing him, never to come back?

Mairon threw his head back and finally burst into laughter. He laughed until tears ran down his cheeks, ruining the red war paint that adorned his face.

Why was it that the only time Eönwë had ever listened to him was the only time Mairon had not really wanted him to?

Mairon stared at the feather and closed his eyes. He could not do it.

He sighed in defeat and poked Tevildo in his furry side until he meowed in protest and jumped down, tail swishing angrily. As the wraith cat disappeared under his bed to sulk, Mairon got up and walked over to his cupboard, where an intricately carved wooden box awaited him. The lid was open, revealing its padded interior. He held the feather in his hand for a moment before placing it back in the box. He closed the lid, locked it and put it away. Out of sight, out of mind. And there it would stay.

It was not as if Eönwë would come back to him anyway.