Archive of Our Own

There are many kinds of silence, Eönwë realises. 

There is the beautiful, calm one that comes at the day’s beginning or its end, filled only with the background noise of gentle winds and chirping birds. 

This one is harmonious, idyllic – this one he always liked.

He remembers another silence, or – Silence – would be more apt. The first, primordial one – from before they were all taught how to Sing. That silence was loaded, charged with so much hope and faith and anticipation! He always felt all those emotions made the Music that came after so much sweeter. Yes, the Music that flowed forth from them had been sweet. Beautiful, powerful, harmonious, Harmonious—

Until it wasn’t. 

And from that, another kind of silence was born. 

The quiet that comes before the storm. The storm they failed to notice in time.

And now, Almaren is no more…

…because they failed to notice the storm—

…because they failed to notice—

Because they failed.

The current silence, Eönwë thinks, is born when words offer no measure of grief or pain. When a calamity so great strikes, it transcends thought, speech and comprehension. 

Because when Eönwë stands there, on a hill shrouded in ever-present darkness, looking at the rubble of their first home here on Arda, he fails to comprehend the sight. 

Why…?

Why would anybody want this? How could anyone want this? How could anyone want this enough to make it happen? How…

Words failed him during the First War, and he swore, then, that it would be the only time.

Yet when he eyes the spreading darkness, smells the smoke of violent fires, hears the earth rend and form rifts that crack and weave through the very surface of this world as its symmetry shatters…

He realises it was not an oath he was ever meant to keep.

A lament for Almaren – that is what breaks the silence. Lady Nienna’s voice resounds first and it feels right. The silence after a loss is hers to break, after all. 

The melody spreads as more voices join in, each introducing something of their own. 

It is certainly cathartic to be able to let that grief out. But it brings its own share of difficulties.

Lady Yavanna…

Eönwë sees her when her voice joins the lament and turns it into a lullaby. 

He sees how she falls to her knees, clutching at the ground – and the sight of a Vala in such deep despair stirs something inside of Eönwë – a dark, gaping hole of all-encompassing fear. To see a Power of Arda in such a state… How could it instil in the watcher anything else?

Eönwë has never witnessed a more soul-rending sight. 

Her tears are like mountain springs that carve river beds into the ground. Her shuddering breath makes the trees shed all their leaves, her mournful gaze causes all flowers to close. 

And thus ends the Springs of Arda.

With her voice and her Song. 

The words of her lullaby are gentle and perhaps that is what gets to him. They are soft and delicate, reassuring and calm. They speak of a light that will come again to chase away the dark, they speak of a temporary rest, of dreamless sleep so that nature is spared from the nightmares roaming the night.

But those gentle words are fueled with a gut-wrenching grief and a deep-seated anger that Lady Yavanna shakes from as she sings. She shakes, because she can’t let those emotions guide her, if she wants to put all that is hers to sleep. 

It is a sadness and a rage of a mother, Eönwë realises. The kind that she braves through and swallows for the sake of her creations. Anything, anything to keep them as safe as she can and pray for it to be enough. Because if it isn’t, then… 

Loss of children is not something Ainur have feared. Until now.

Eönwë cries, then.

Eönwë cries as he listens to a lullaby from Mother Earth to all her children. A Lullaby at the End of Spring.

Ilmarë sings of lessons to be learned from their failure, of growing wiser, of being more watchful and doing better.

This song Eönwë compares to bitter medicine – unpleasant, difficult to swallow, but necessary, because Ilmarë sings of truth. His senses flood with guilt and shame when he listens to it. 

He decides to approach and ask whether it is the same for her. The look she gives him – eyes shining from tears like two stars on the verge of death – is enough of an answer. 

“Why does it hurt so much, do you think?” he inquires immediately after. 

Because Eönwë realises he’s afraid underneath all that guilt – of failing again, and that fear cuts him deeply.

“We have all been violently brought down to earth that's been made cold, dark and terrifying,” she answers in a manner that makes it clear she’s been ruminating on that question herself. “Falling is always more painful the greater the height. And you have always soared high, Eönwë.”

But Eönwë doesn’t want to walk the ground when it is made to look like that. When there are not enough young branches on trees for birds to nest, or when black smoke clings to everything and hurts his throat, because clear air has been choked out…

He still wants to hold onto his beliefs – no matter how idealistic, no matter how high he has to soar to reach them…

“My Lady said to me,” Ilmarë speaks up again, as if she can hear his thoughts, “What is faith if not fuel for fire when times are dark?” 

Her words offer a spark of determination that Eönwë clings onto for dear life, and for that – he is grateful. 

He thinks of Lady Yavanna, then. Of how she swallowed the grief and the tears for the sake of all she brought into this world. This fills him with a sudden burst of deep respect for her – because there are those who depend on Eönwë right now, and all he does is wallow in grief.

He cannot mourn forever.

Someday the Sleep will lift, because it is not theirs to sleepwalk through this world. Timeless Halls were the calm underneath one’s eyelids, and the vision the One showed them – a beautiful dream. Arda was meant to be the waking world. The waking world where they make that vision a reality. 

And so, his own voice joins the melody – and he Sings of nightmares to defeat, of wrongs to be righted, and of justice to be dealt.

Because justice will be dealt – and Eönwë will play his part.

When Eönwë talks to others, he can see how differently everyone handles things.

Arien, for example, is angry. 

She is a blazing tornado when he finds her, growling, stomping and tugging at strands of hair that turn to fire at their ends. 

“How dare they?!” She spits out. “Him, and all who decided to follow!”

There is a line of burned grass where she walks back and forth.

“They can’t have the world, so they break it for us all?! ” She roars out, eyes blazing. “I hope their darkness chokes them! I hope they will realise all they’re bound to have when they’re done is rubble and Void! ”

He listens to her rage and waits patiently for the heat to lower, until it is safe to approach.

“All that was built…” she chokes out as her flames dim.

Eönwë manages to catch her before she collapses onto the cold ground. Burnt out as she may be, her skin still remains hot.

“This is not fair, ” she whispers with quiet ire, hitting his chest lightly with a fist.

“It is not,” he echoes softly, still holding her, despite the fact that she’s burning up to the point of discomfort. 

Arien herself seems to reflect. It causes her to flinch back.

“It’s alright—” he tries to tell her, but her fingers fly faster than his words, brushing over his lips in a feather-light touch.

“I don’t want to burn you,” she tells him with a sad smile, as they both kneel in front of each other on charred grass.

Eönwë kisses her scorching-hot fingertips and tells her all is fine. And when she asks for space, he gives it and tells her that he’s still here. That she knows where to find him.

Even though the distance pains him more than her blazing skin, the grateful look she sends him is the first sliver of true comfort Eönwë’s known since Almaren fell. 

The most optimistic voices are those of Lady Nienna’s Maiar. Contrary to their domain, one might think, but to Eönwë – it makes sense. 

They Sing of growth that comes from loss, of new that rises from old – new chances, new homes, new beginnings. 

At first, Eönwë was surprised to find that Mairon Sings about many of those same things. He expected… Well, in truth he doesn’t know what he did expect. Ire perhaps, like Arien? Maybe a bout of this strange melancholy that was prone to gripping his friend like vice, back when Almaren was standing?

But no, Mairon appears adamant, strong, unbroken. Standing tall and Singing of better things to come, and that…

That is brave, Eönwë finds. Admirable. He wishes he could be able to think like that.

If a person’s true worth shines most bright in face of adversity, then his friend is very much deserving of his name. 

Mairon laughs when he tells him as much – loudly, brilliantly, to the point of tears, even. 

“I assure you, Eönwë,” he begins, and the winged Maia realises this is the first time he’s seen anyone grin since the Lamps got destroyed, “I am wholly undeserving of your flattery.”

“Unlike you, to be this modest,” Eönwë notes, though he already feels lighter from hearing the sound of a genuine laugh.

His friend shrugs. 

“I’m sure there will be plenty more occasions for me to gloat.”

The sentence is spoken with such unshakable certainty that a part of this confidence rubs off on Eönwë and fuels him for an entire day. It is a small thing, he knows, but… Small things matter right now. Small things mean the world, when the world lies dark and shattered.

He manages to fall asleep with a small smile on his face as he thanks Eru in his mind – for his friend, and for the fact that he manages to be strong where Eönwë himself cannot.

Before sleep takes him, he thinks that if he could choose a brother, then he would choose Mairon without a shadow of a doubt.

Eönwë manages to surprise his friend three times before what he would later call Valinor is properly established.

The first instance takes place when he finishes attending to matters his Lord Manwë wanted him to take care of – and in times like these, there were many matters to take care of. Which is precisely why Eönwë is still up so late.

As it turns out, he’s not the only one. 

The sight of someone, walking away from everybody, keeping to the nearby treeline surprises him until he realises it is Mairon. It makes sense for him; his sleeping schedule was atrocious in Almaren, where he would sit in his forges for hours on end, even after every other smith long-since went to bed. And Eönwë cannot imagine their current circumstances make it any easier for him to find rest.

He decides to follow, mostly out of growing worry, because Mairon is walking further and further into the now ever-present dark, and it is dangerous there, Eönwë’s mind hisses. Not to mention…

He has long since noticed that Mairon had a tendency to isolate himself whenever he was angry, or bitter, or sad. He would always storm off, disappear somewhere, only to come back much later – sometimes his absences lasted hours, sometimes they approached entire days. 

And Mairon always claimed it helped him, but in Eönwë’s opinion, the effect it had on him was exactly adverse. There was an edge in his gaze, a sharpness – and it only grew with each and every return.

Arien benefits from being given space; Mairon, Eönwë worries, does not.

He doesn’t put much effort into sneaking about, though he does keep a watchful eye on the surroundings, just in case some beast of the Enemy is lurking nearby. 

Mairon seems to be keeping an eye out as well, because he senses someone approaching relatively quickly, his arm raising with veins ignited, flashing fire until—

“Eönwë,” he breathes out. His eyes close as he releases a heavy sigh, raised hand closing into a fist as he allows for his flames to dissipate. “Of course it’s you…”

“Expecting someone else?” Eönwë asks with a small smile.

“Expecting no one,”  his friend admits bitterly, before adding in a mumbled whisper— “That was rather the point…”

The winged Maia moves to a fallen tree trunk, blanketed with a thick layer of moss and sits, patting the spot next to him.

Mairon eyes him very begrudgingly for a long minute, until… he finally stomps over to take a seat. 

“Admirable attempt,” Eönwë tells him lightly, nudging him with his elbow, “but I’m not going to let you isolate yourself so easily.”

His friend cringes and glares daggers. It causes the smile of the winged Maia to widen.

Oh, he knows him too well.

“Come now,” he says, tone friendly. “You’re looking at me as if you’re planning my murder!”

“Perhaps I am,” Mairon replies darkly. It makes Eönwë chuckle. 

“Jokes aside, you shouldn’t wander off like that,” he tells him. “There could be beasts about.”

His friend sits quietly for a long minute, as if he’s trying to make something out in the stretching darkness in front of them, even though Eönwë is fairly certain there’s nothing there.

“Truth be told, they do not scare me much,” he says all of a sudden.

The winged Maia doesn’t know whether to find the statement brave or brazen.

“Well… They scare me a great deal,” he admits.

“Truly?” his friend raises an eyebrow, tucking one leg underneath himself, so he can face him fully. “Tell me – what is the great herald of Manwë afraid of, exactly?”

‘The great herald of Manwë,’ as Mairon called him, smiles to himself somewhat sadly, because he came here with every intention of being the one who listens to sorrows and problems, not the one who voices and lists them. 

But Eönwë realises now that he did not share much of his worries with anyone since Almaren fell. He realises that he wants and needs it – for them to be out and not only in his head.

And so, he tells him.

He tells his friend how heavy his heart feels. How he fears he wasn’t vigilant enough, or perceptive enough to notice there was a storm brewing. That maybe there was something – anything – that could have been done to stop the dark clouds from taking the Lamps and Almaren alongside them. 

“There was nothing anyone could have done to stop it,” Mairont tells him at this point, and, in truth, Eönwë doesn’t know whether that makes him feel better or worse…

He speaks, then, of being afraid of failing again. That, no matter his fondness for the art of sword fighting, he hoped there would be no need for more battles after the First War had ended, and the Great Enemy was chased beyond the Walls of Night. 

He says how that War haunts him, sometimes. He remembers Maiar twisted and corrupted into being of shadow and flame – and that, perhaps, is the scariest thing he’s seen in his entire existence. Because it is proof that even the brightest of them can succumb to that darkness and Discord – and the thought is one of the most terrifying things Eönwë has ever known.

He worried his duties will make him do a lot of things he’s afraid of. And right now, his duties are sad, tiring and numerous, and he could talk about them for ages—

“…but I doubt you want to hear two speeches from me on the same day,” he concludes, feeling somewhat sheepish from monologuing about his own sorrows for so long.  

But Mairon says something that makes Eönwë think he’s simultaneously a great listener and a very gracious friend.

“On the contrary,” he tells him, leaning forward with interest. “I think I’m very much curious to learn what your duties are. You work closely with King Manwë, do you not? What are the Valar planning to do now?”

The winged Maia sighs heavily. 

There are a lot of things on the minds of the Valar at present. There is Lord Námo, trying to keep track of who got disembodied, and how quickly those that lost their fanar can be brought back… There is Lady Estë and her Maiar, tending to the wounded… 

He tells Mairon the numbers – they’re grim.

There is Lord Oromë and those in his service, trying to stay vigilant – keep watch, get the lay of the land and so on…

Eönwë speaks of his collaboration with them, of some scouting routes they established and defences they set up, so that they’re not completely vulnerable out here… 

And then he gets ahead of himself and speaks of his Lord Manwë’s idea – a mountain range and a great wall at the same time. Tall – taller than all mountains that came before; with unscalable cliffs, to fence them all off and protect them from the Enemy, but—

“Ah…” the winged Maia rubs the back of his neck. “I was supposed to keep that one to myself… If I could ask for your secrecy—”

Mairon cuts him off with a chuckle.

“Who do you think will I tell about this?” he asks, amusement lacing his voice.

Eönwë blinks. Then, he huffs out a small, quiet laugh.

Yes… that is a good point. Who could Mairon possibly tell?

The second time he surprises Mairon comes when he’s searching for him, mostly on the behalf of Lord Aulë.

An unknowing behalf, Eönwë has to note. 

The Smith did not send for his pupil, nor was Mairon needed per se; it’s really more that the winged Maia cannot help but feel as if it would be beneficial for the two to speak. 

Lord Aulë was… in a bad way, when Eönwë had been sent there to deliver some message. Lady Yavanna is in no state to offer much support to him, nor is he to her, from what he had seen. 

And where Mairon used to look for every occasion to pull out his smithing tools, he now seems more interested in solitude and… not necessarily staying detached, because the winged Maia is fairly certain his friend pays very close attention to everything around him…

It’s as if he only observes now, even though he used to be the centre of Almaren’s social life, constantly surrounded by one entourage or another.

Eönwë worries this might be a sign that his friend’s mood has taken a rapid turn for the worse.

He manages to spot him standing on top of a grassy hill, one situated just on the outskirts of what the winged Maia considers to be a protected and safe area. 

Mairon has his arm raised – there is some kind of a black-feathered bird perched on his hand.

The sight makes him smile. Who would have thought Mairon would have a hand for animals?

“Switching allegiances?” he calls out, making his presence known. 

It might have been an overcalculation, though. His friend whips around in panic, the bird, too, gets spooked and swiftly flies away into the dark.

“Having such affinity with various creatures is usually more of Lady Yavanna’s domain, is it not?” he says with a smile, hoping the apologetic tone will be enough to soothe him.

“Eönwë…” Mairon sighs, pressing his fingers to his temple, as if to chase away a headache.

“I did not mean to startle you,” he tells him, both his hands raised up placatingly. 

“It’s fine, ” his friend says, even though he doesn’t sound like he truly thinks it is fine. “You startled the crow more than you startled me.”

The winged Maia furrows his brows.

“Raven, surely” he says, eyeing the direction in which the bird flew away. “It seemed far too big for a crow…”

His friend laughs quietly at that.

“Well… I’ll trust you in terms of birds, Eönwë,” he tells him, some form of smile returning to his face. “Did you seek me out on purpose?”

Eönwë did. He even prepared some arguments in advance, suspecting Mairon would need some convincing, if he wanted him to go and speak with Lord Aulë.

“To what end?” is the first thing his friend asks after Eönwë painted him the picture. “You’d think my presence would be able to cheer him up? A little presumptuous – to believe I would be able to chase away the clouds from the mind of a Vala, do you not think?”

“You know he’s fond of you,” Eönwë says, bumping him with his shoulder.

“Oh, I do,” Mairon proclaims. “Not very professional of him, to play favourites…” 

“It never seemed to bother you before,” comes his reply, laced with a frown.

“It never did. And I was simply too polite to point it out aloud.”

Eönwë crosses his arms in front of his chest. There is something in Mairon’s tone that rubs him the wrong way…

“Until now?”

Something changes, then. As if a button has been pressed, or a switch – flipped.

Mairon turns his fiery gaze towards him, with a speed and strength that almost makes Eönwë recoil.

“Do you truly want my honesty, Eönwë?” he asks, but there is something sharp and unpleasant in the way he voices the question.

Hesitantly, the winged Maia nods.

“I have always felt as if there was a distance,” Mairon tells him. “Between us and Them.”

“Between whom? Maiar and Valar?”

There is a nod.

The confirmation makes Eönwë pull back abruptly, eyes wide.

There was a difference in power –  a vast one, that is for certain – but distance? No. 

No, the Valar were the Powers of Arda – there to shape the world and prepare it before the Children awaken, with Maiar there to help them. 

Eönwë always felt this common goal brought them all closer. He serves his Lord Manwë, of course, but it never feels far or distant – his Lord is fair and understanding, guiding with a reasonable voice and a gentle hand. His disposition is that of a mentor, more than that of a king, the winged Maia always thought.

“What are you talking about?” Eönwë shakes his head. “Distant in what way?”

Mairon smiles a small, mirthless smile – all sharp edges and teeth. 

“Have you ever gotten the impression that they look down on us, Eönwë?” his friend narrows his eyes as he speaks. “That what we perceive as protectiveness might actually be condescension ? That they don’t guide us but hinder us? ”

The winged Maia sits on the grass next to him quietly, mouth hanging open. 

After what surely must be a few minutes in the present time, Eönwë, ever so slowly, shakes his head ‘no’.

“I have never felt that, Mairon,” he answers honestly, a deep worry welling up within his chest. Those are dark, dark thoughts his friend is thinking…

Mairon laughs bitterly – the sound is completely devoid of humour. There… there is something about it that makes one’s stomach churn. 

“Of course you didn’t ” his friend all but hisses the words out. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Eönwë asks him. He does not like Mairon’s tone one bit right now.

“Only that you’re you,” comes the reply. “You’re the Eönwë. I would be greatly surprised if your answer was anything else.”

The winged Maia doesn’t know how to respond to that, but Eru, he wishes he did… It doesn’t feel right to leave the conversation here. 

But it seems that Mairon doesn’t have much patience for waiting for an answer.

“Have it your way,” he proclaims, conjuring a small flame to dance between his fingertips. “I shall speak with Aulë, if you think it wise…”

Eönwë notes that the shadows cast by nearby rocks, ones that appeared when Mairon lit his fire, somehow look to be longer and deeper…

Perhaps it’s due to how far out they are in this darkness…?

“Did something happen?” Eönwë manages to ask his friend before he walks away. “Between you and Lord Aulë? Some disagreement that made you estranged?”

“Where does that conclusion come from?”

“You seem disheartened,” he explains. “As if you lost a great deal of faith in your Lord.”

Mairon looks at him for a moment, until… a smile appears on his face. This one Eönwë recognizes as true. Genuine.

“I would not worry, Eönwë ” he tells him, voice confident. “I assure you – I am extremely proud of whom I serve.”

The third time he manages to surprise Mairon happens due to a terrible, unpleasant and sad circumstance.

They’ve been attacked.

Not by any big force, thank the One; some pack of fanged beasts – ones like wolves, but bigger , stronger, corrupted and warped into something terrifying. 

Eönwë eyes the one felled by his sword with contempt. 

What sort of a twisted mind is required to Sing something like this into the world…?

Malevolent atrocity, born from foul melodies. 

A bad omen, a threat, a monster.

It should not exist. It should never have existed. 

Vile.

Horrifying.

Abhorrent.

Eönwë makes sure to wipe the blade thoroughly before he sheathes it.

His nerves are frayed at their edges now, senses sharpened to their limit from the adrenaline still flowing through his veins. He scans the valley that made their battlefield. Instincts from the First War tell him what to do as they’re awakening; suppressed, but not forgotten.

He is tired, but not harmed. Good.

Other Maiar he fought with – he counts them. Same number, no one lost, three– no, four wounded… That is manageable; that is fine, even though it shouldn’t be.

The remaining beasts dispersed after they slayed more than half of them.

“Should we give chase, herald?” someone asks, but Eönwë shakes his head no. 

No, they should get back as soon as possible, to rejoin the others and—

The winged Maia pauses.

How… How did those beasts get here in the first place?

Because it shouldn’t have been possible. They have guards posted, scouting routes mapped out, defences put in place and yet—

This pack of monsters got through all of it… But that should— That should be impossible…!

Something is wrong. 

Something is very, very, very wrong… 

“The rest of you – take the wounded, go back,” he says, eyeing the darkness with a growing worry. “I’ll have a look around…”

It’s ill-advised to remain here alone, but Eönwë has the advantage of wings, should the need arise.

What he wishes for, however, is keener eyes – it's difficult to make things out with so little light. 

He’s not trying to track the beasts; he knows very well from whence they came. It’s more that he worries something else, something more terrifying and far more dangerous is lurking nearby…

Or has been let in.

But Eönwë finds nothing. 

No trace, no footprints. Nothing at all. 

He is just about ready to turn on his heel and go back until he sees…

Until he sees Mairon…!

The first thought that sparks up in Eönwë’s mind is panic.

What is he doing here?! It’s dark and dangerous, dangerous, dangerous—!

He’s walking just on the edge of the nearby treeline, unbothered!

Fool! Does he not know it’s not safe? Is he even armed? What if something attacked him?!

Maybe it’s the fact that the winged Maia is still on edge from the fight, or maybe it’s the unpleasant memories from the first war emerging from deep slumber (he endured loosing enough of his fellow Maiar, then; enough, enough, enough—), but the first thing he wants to do is to get him out of there, to safety.

He finds himself next to him in an instant. 

“What the— Eönwë! ” Mairon all but shouts, struggling to keep straight, because the winged Maia nearly crashed into him.

“Are you alright?” he asks, eyes widened in worry as he grabs him by the shoulder, scanning his form for possible injuries. 

“Why are you even here?! ” his friend hisses out, frantically trying to pull away.

“There has been an attack,” Eönwë explains through gritted teeth. “What were you thinking? This is neither time nor place for your lonely walks! Seek your blasted solitude somewhere safer next time, for Eru’s sake,” he chastises – more harshly than he meant to, but his adrenaline level just spiked and that guides his actions more than any logical thought. 

“What in Void’s name are you doing?!” Mairon demands to know, when the winged Maia grabs him by the elbow and begins to lead him away.

“I’m escorting you back,” he replies, “I am still not entirely sure if it is safe here—”

“Let go of me…”

“There is either something wrong with our defences…”

“Did you not hear what I said? Unhand me— ”

“...or somebody sabotaged them. And I doubt they would take kindly to witnesses, Mairon! What if you stumbled upon them and they would decide to dispose of you?! I assure you, servants of the Enemy stop at nothing— Agh! ”

Mairon abruptly tears his arm away from his grasp, and the winged Maia lets go, because his hand now burns—

“Damn you, Eönwë! ”

Mairon snaps at him, teeth bared in a snarl, flash of fire dimming in his veins.

Eönwë looks at his hand, shocked. There was— He burned him with his flame—

“You’ve always had everything figured out, didn’t you?! ”

“Mairon, what—”

“The Eönwë … Heroic Eönwë, bright and beloved Eönwë…” he begins to list off, tone laced with an edge of biting, cruel laughter. “Helpful, just and honourable Eönwë, herald of Manwë, chief of all Maiar! Never, in your life, did you have a thought that was anything but flawless harmony, is that not right?!”

Eönwë recoils back, as if he just got punched in his stomach, and forcefully.

“What… What are you talking about…?” 

“Only that when I look at you,” Mairon walks forward where the winged Maia has backed away, “I want to grab you and drag you through the mud; push you into the dirt, if only to see for myself if you’d still be so insufferably shiny and perfect! ”

“Mairon…” Eönwë tries to make his tone as calm as one can, without understanding what is going on. “Mairon, calm down… ”

He says it, because his friend’s veins begin to flare again; and there are embers – dancing at the corners of his eyes. 

“Void, how your righteousness sickens me,” he bites out venomously. “One would think you’d be tired of it, too, seeing that it got you exactly nothing! All of those high and lofty ideals about a perfect existence, perfect paradise, perfect Harmony – but you will never put this world in order. Almaren is ruble and ash, even despite your incessant piety and noble beliefs…!” 

He pauses to shake his head, before looking the winged Maia up and down, with something that looks like… contempt. 

It shocks Eönwë to his very core. 

And hurts.

“Does it make you feel better or worse, I wonder?” Mairon muses, eyes narrowing with viciousness. “To know that you did everything right and yet – it was never going to be enough? ”

Eönwë doesn’t like to be angry.

It is, altogether, an unpleasant emotion, one that feels foreign and wrong when it courses through his veins. 

In all honesty, he prefers being sad, or lonely, or afraid, even! He’d take just about anything over needless ire and a rage that chokes.

But right now, there is a flash of anger inside of him, one that appears when those words reach him. Not even because of their meaning – more so, because it is Mairon who speaks them.

Mairon, who knows very well those are some of Eönwë’s deepest worries.

And yet — he tries to bite the emotion down.

Mostly because Mairon looks angry, too, and the winged Maia knows that anger is not the root – it never is. 

No, anger has ever been born from hurt, and that knowledge helps him push his own ire away, because it is swiftly replaced by the thought of: ‘his friend is hurting’

His friend is hurting… And Eönwë doesn’t know why.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Mairon,” he says, voice as cool and levelled as he can possibly muster. “This is… This is not you… ”

“No?” his friend tilts his head, expression twisting in mockery of confusion. “Ah! I forget… You prefer Aulë’s favourite pupil and his star smith; beautiful, perfect, Admirable – you’re so in love with that , that you cannot see beyond it! Even with your eagle eyes – you never could.” 

Mairon’s voice lowers and calms somewhat, as if he’s speaking of something he never thought he would say out loud.

“Beautiful, perfect, Admirable – all by your standards. As if you needed me to continuously feed you your own fiction! Demanded a price for staying in your paradise! No more,” he grits his teeth, closes his fists, and shakes. “I will have no more of that…!”

When the echo of his words fades, there is only silence – yet another kind, one that Eönwë was unfamiliar with, until now.

“...ours,” when he finally speaks, his voice is but a whisper.  “Our paradise. You were there, too, Mairon.”

The other Maia turns away.

“It was never a paradise for me.”

And with that, he begins to march away.

…but this is wrong.

All of this, all of what he said is not true… 

It cannot be.

Eönwë lunges forward, hand flying forward to stop Mairon, because he cannot leave it like that; not like this, not like this—

“What then?!” he grabs him by the shoulder and turns him. “What was it, if not paradise?!”

Eönwë doesn’t understand …

But Mairon smiles – the expression is honest, raw, open, and completely filled with spite and cruel triumph. 

“Fret not, Eonwe,” he tells him. “There will come a day when I’ll get to show you.”

But that doesn’t—

Eönwë’s thought process rapidly falls to ruins, because he suddenly has to shield his eyes from a too-bright flash and pull away from a too-hot burst of pure flame and—

And… 

And Mairon is gone.

He did not… did not even shapeshift as he was wont to do… Just… 

Just discarded his very fana in order to get away.

But that… Why would he do that…?

Eönwë feels lightheaded. He lays on the grass amidst darkness, all alone, unable to comprehend what just happened…

‘There will come a day when I’ll get to show you.’

He doesn’t understand…

Show him what…?

‘It was never a paradise for me.’

But Eönwë cannot imagine Almaren as anything other than that.

Eönwë worries.

He worries, because the argument with his friend feels heavy in his mind and heart.

He worries, because it has been two weeks since he’s seen Mairon last.

He worries, because that could mean that Mairon is heartbroken enough to avoid all contact now. He worries, because it could mean that he’s avoiding him on purpose. He worries, because it could mean that…

Something might have happened to him… Out there, in that darkness. 

And so, growing tired of this incessant, nagging distress, he goes to Lord Aulë. Surely, he would be the best person to ask about the whereabouts of his Maiar…Or, if anything bad has happened, then…

Then he would be the one informed of it, first.

Eönwë is used to seeing Lord Aulë hard at work. Each time when he was sent to his Halls, he would find him hammering out some new creation of his, pouring molten metal into various moulds, working the bellows, adding more charcoal to the furnaces – always, always hard at work.

When he finds him now, the Vala isn’t working.

He remains seated, elbows propped on his knees, chin resting on folded hands. Still. Unmoving. This sight is so completely foreign and unlike him that it makes Eönwë’s worry grow.

“Lord Aulë…” he calls out, announcing his arrival.

The only implication that the Vala acknowledges his presence comes from the slight nod of his head – the movement is so small it’s barely noticeable. 

Eönwë briefly hesitates.

“I… I have come to speak with Mairon,” he proclaims. “But he avoids me, I fear, and—”

“You have not been told…?” the Vala interjects, fixing wide eyes of molten gold upon Eönwë’s form.

“Told of what?” worried words tumble forth from his mouth before he can stop them.

And then, his fears are confirmed.

“He is gone, Eönwë.”

Eönwe feels all strength rapidly leave his muscles, forcing him to support his weight on one of the nearby workbenches. 

He should have done something.

He should have searched, should have combed through that darkness, blade of grass after blade of grass until he found him – his friend, his companion, his brother. Maybe then, then he would have been spared from the dreadful grasp or teeth or claws of whatever foul beast it was that got him.

Eönwë tightens his grip on the surface of the workbench.

Disembodied doesn’t mean dead.

“Have you spoken to Lord Námo yet?” he asks with sudden verve.

“Why Námo, lad?” Lord Aulë speaks in a weak voice, confused for some reason.

“Why…” he shakes his head before taking a step forward. “To ask how long until Mairon can reembody, of course! How long until he can be back—”

“Oh, Eönwë…”

“We— we will have to ask what it was that got to him after he’s returned to us… How long until he’d be alright to speak of this, do you think?”

“Eönwë… ” the Vala echoes again, more insistent this time.

But Eönwë cannot stop talking.

“Is… Can the process be expedited? I’m sure we would all benefit from bringing him back sooner; maybe Lady Estë knows something—”

It’s as if he blinks and suddenly – Lord Aulë is by his side, both hands placed on his shoulders. The touch is careful and gentle but it still makes Eönwë jump.

“Oh, my dear boy…” the Vala begins; the softness of his voice is somewhat broken by it cracking in the middle. “Mairon is not within Námo’s Halls.”

Eönwë’s mind goes blank. 

“What do you mean – where is he?”

The only answer he receives comes in the form of a long and serious look – Aulë’s gaze locked on his – hard, tortured and so complicated and laced with such an overabundance of emotions that it is painful to behold. 

Eönwë doesn’t understand; and he feels nauseous from not understanding at this point, because he’s missing something here, something…

Mairon is gone. 

But… But not within Námo’s Halls, not disembodied… 

And yet, Eönwë has seen him venture on into that darkness. But that—

A scoff escapes his mouth. 

But that would mean…

The scoff is followed by a short laugh; not an amused one – one full of disbelief.

No.

No, no, no, nononono—

“Not Mairon,” is the first thing that falls from his lips. “Surely not…”

Eönwë frowns; his head shakes all on it’s own, because the notion is so utterly ridiculous, so fully and completely preposterous and unthinkable—

But that gaze, that sad, mournful gaze of Lord Aulë is unyielding.

And Eönwë realises he has seen this expression once before, on another Vala— 

On Lady Yavanna.

When she fell to her knees, putting her creations to sleep… Worried that it might be the last time her Song ever reaches them.

“I am so, so sorry, my lad…” Lord Aulë says, but his voice sounds like it’s coming from under water.

‘Beautiful, perfect, Admirable – you’re so in love with that, that you cannot see beyond it!’

‘ It was never a paradise for me.

…

‘I assure you – I am extremely proud of whom I serve,’ Mairon said…

… but he was never talking about Lord Aulë in the first place.

No… 

Eönwë opens his mouth to protest again, but no sound comes out. 

No.

He tries again, but his throat tightens in a manner that blocks words from being let out.

No!

“I am so sorry Eönwë,” Lord Aulë repeats once more. “I know the two of you were friends.”

‘Friends…?’

They were more, they were brothers—!

Why wasn’t that enough…?

Eönwë doesn’t speak. Lord Aulë falls quiet, too – and they stay like this, though for how long, exactly, the winged Maia cannot say.

He leaves the workshop eventually, unaware whether it happened by his own will, or if it was the Smith that sent him away.

When he exits, he does so without a sound and thus – adds yet another kind of silence to his ever-growing list.

Reality feels aberrant. 

Eönwë doesn’t know how the information got out, but soon – rumours began to spread like a wildfire.

The name of Mairon is on everybody’s lips, but in a way it has never been before.

His name used to be invoked with awe, respect and admiration – and it seemed so fitting, his friend’s, his brother’s very namesake shining through…

No more.

Now – awe morphed into fear, respect became loathing ; admiration decayed.

It feels so, so wrong…

Eönwë has never seen so many pieces of jewellery be thrown away en masse.

But the rumours are the worst. 

Mostly because he cannot dodge them or escape them in any way. They all look to him, the other Maiar, and he cannot forsake them. He cannot allow himself the luxury of solitude because of his duty to them and to his Lord.

But the presence of others becomes too much all too-easily, when it is Mairon’s name they slander and drag through the mud.

‘I want to grab you and drag you through the mud; push you into the dirt, if only to see for myself if you’d still be so insufferably shiny and perfect!’ a voice hisses at him in his memory. 

It seems to be the last push, he needs—

He needs to go somewhere to breathe.

He manoeuvres through the whispering crowd, fighting with himself to dash past with his ears covered. Or fly above them. Anything to not be able to hear their words—

“Did you hear that it was him who let those beasts attack us?” one of the Maiar near-crashes into Eönwë when asking the question. 

He backs away with his ears ringing. 

What…?

“But that is…” he mumbles, “that is abhorring…! ”

The Maiar around him drown the surroundings with their voices.

Abhorring, abhorring, abhorring…

The word rolls through the crowd like a wave, a rising tide that he is powerless to break—

Abhorring is what they’re calling him now.

But he didn’t… He didn’t mean to—

Eru… Eru, make them all stop.

Eönwë walks faster, even though his legs feel as if they’re made of nothing more than string and wool.

This is surely one of those abominations that came from the Enemy’s twisting of Lord Irmo’s domain – a nightmare, yes, a nightmare that he’s bound to wake up from any minute now.

Any minute—

Any… any minute… 

But no. 

This is the reality. This is the World that Is.

A world where Eönwë lost his brother. 

He manages to reach a short, grassy hill, situated some distance away from everybody. 

A world where Eönwë lost his brother not to some fanged wolf-beasts, not to distance, not to some meaningless quarrel… But to shadows deeper than all light can pierce. 

He lost Mairon to darkness and Discord. 

“Eru… where did I go wrong…?” he breathes the question out into the all-encompassing night and emptiness before him.

‘Does it make you feel better or worse, I wonder? To know that you did everything right and yet – it was never going to be enough?’ the voice in his memory resounds painfully once again.

And in this moment, Eönwë realises that he preferred the silence.

He stands on that hill for a long time before anyone finds him.

And when someone finally does, Eönwë immediately recognizes the presence.

“My Lord…” he blurts out, startled.

“I would tell you to be at peace,” the Vala speaks calmly, “but I can see peace eludes you.”

He approaches, then, to stand next to him.

His Lord Manwë's gentle eyes carry a sliver of the sky that was lost behind the darkness and dark fumes the Enemy left in his wake.

“Who have you lost to those shadows?” he asks, in his usual, night-omniscient manner. 

“A brother,” Eönwë tells him, keeping his gaze glued to some unspecified spot in the distance.

There is a beat of silence, eventually broken by the winged Maia, who cannot keep the words from escaping, because they well up and press painfully against the surface, as if they’re a geyser about to burst.

“I can’t help but feel as if I have failed him, somehow” he begins and his Lord listens. “Even though I’ve no notion of what I should have done differently…”

Did Mairon not think he could go to him for help? Advice? Or even just an ear, willing to listen…

“If he was my brother and I loved him as such – shouldn’t that have been enough?”

Maybe if those dark thoughts of his found an outlet earlier, then things could have been different. Maybe they wouldn’t fester in him like he now suspects they did; maybe, maybe, maybe…

“And when he roared his truth in my face – should I have agreed with him? Even though I knew he was wrong?” Eönwë says forcefully and frowns. “Would that have stopped him, I wonder…?”

He curses the Enemy in his mind.

He finds that his hands close into fists on their own.

Eru, how he hates anger…

“And now… Now they’re all rebuking and reviling him, as if he’s not one of them, anymore,” he motions with his head towards the crowd they left behind. “As if it is not his name they’re invoking, but that of—”

He stops himself.

He stops himself, when he abruptly remembers exactly who he’s speaking to.

“My Lord Manwë, I beg your pardon…” he begins, shame flooding his heart.

But the only thing the Vala does is place his hand on his shoulder.

“I understand,” his Lord tells him, and when Eönwë risks a glance, he faces an expression that is so complex it makes him feel dizzy.

“It’s just that it is so easy to forget—” he tries to explain himself, but the Vala stops him with a slight shake of his head and a sad smile.

“For some, I am sure,” he begins with a nod. “Yet I find myself ruminating on it time and time again…”

And Eönwë feels as if he shouldn’t be surprised by the admission, but the connection of the Vala before him to the Great Enemy has always seemed a matter that everyone was ever so eager to push as far away from their day-to-day thoughts as they possibly could.

“‘Tis a strange thing to think about, no?” his Lord speaks once more as he eyes the darkness in front of them intently. “We have family out there…”

Family…

Just when the winged Maia thinks he will hear nothing more from King Manwë, he begins a Song.

It is one that Eönwë has never heard him Sing… and yet…

It feels familiar – joining the melody comes to him naturally.

Because, in the end, both him and his Lord Sing of the same things.

And thus, Eönwë thinks, ends the Spring of Arda…

With silence broken by both a Lullaby and a Lament. A Song of a home, a paradise and a family — lost.