Chapter Text
He hovered above the Sea, riding the white crests of the waves, letting the salty spray play in his golden curls and cling to his pale feathers.
Eönwë no longer knew how long he had circled thus. His gaze roamed over the wrecks and the slain that drifted upon the waters, chilling witnesses to the tragedy that had shaken the world forever. The island of Númenor, the jewel of human civilization, had been cast down beneath a mighty wave —its palaces, its temples, its gardens, and its people all drowned, having seen the vast wall of water approach with no hope of escape.
Of the splendor of the star-shaped island there remained only a tiny outcrop of rock, once the summit of the sacred mountain Meneltarma. The herald of Manwë shivered before the blind power unleashed by Eru Ilúvatar: the cataclysm had swept all away without distinction, even the innocent, and he turned aside when he beheld the small, still forms of children. Yes, Men had committed a grievous act of hybris in seeking to invade Valinor, and the host that had dared to set foot upon the Undying Lands had been punished… But their families? Their wives, and their little ones? Mortal though they were, their appointed hour should have come far later.
Eönwë was beginning to despair of finding what he had come to seek when suddenly he saw something drifting in the trough of the waves: a body, half-sprawled upon a piece of black timber that rocked gently with the swell. His heart gave a tremor. He dived at once, folding his wings, then spreading them wide just before he touched the water —long enough to gather the body into his arms. Then he beat his wings and rose toward the lonely islet, the last remnant of the lost kingdom, and at last he set foot upon the rock after long hours borne upon the winds.
He knelt to lay the body down without quite releasing it, handling it with care —almost with reverence— bending over it; and a shadow of the great wave that had overwhelmed Númenor moved in the blue of his eyes when he murmured:
“Mairon…”
His fingers slid almost absently into the water-soaked hair. Once it had been a blazing auburn; now it spread in long strands of dull vermilion. The eyes were closed, fringed with dark, wet lashes; Eönwë resisted the urge to lift one eyelid and see the colour beneath, fearing he would find a washed-out ochre where molten gold should have shone. On the too-pale skin had dried faint traces of makeup —long runnels of kohl, fallen from the eyes like tears, and a shadow of red upon the blued, half-parted lips.
Eönwë brushed the cold cheek with a distant air, studying the face stilled by death. A long, soaked black robe concealed the rest of the body and the harm it had endured, embroidered with golden patterns and fastened by a forged belt. It was a work of marvelous craft, and Eönwë doubted not that Mairon had wrought it himself —he recognized the familiar motifs: concentric circles engraved in gold, and the intricate, perfectly symmetrical arabesques; the same that had adorned Eönwë’s own armor long ago… armor he still kept in secret in his chambers in the palace of Manwë, cherished as relics of an age long past.
He gently took Mairon’s hand, pressing the fingers scraped beneath the rings. It was icy. Strange it was to feel the skin of a Maia of fire grown so cold, like ash long quenched… Strange indeed, after once holding that body living and warm, radiant, burning, close against him.
He sighed.
“You slipped away, did you not?” he murmured.
He lifted his gaze from the lifeless form. It was but an empty shell, forsaken by the spirit that had once dwelt within; Mairon had abandoned his fana and fled. To cast aside one’s bodily form was perilous and painful for the Ainur, and long it took to gather again the strength to clothe themselves in flesh… But Mairon had all the time of the world. He had allies in the East, in Middle-Earth; he had his fortress. In time he would renew himself and weave evil once more, bending the hearts of Men to his will, as he had done here in Númenor.
“You shall not escape judgement, Mairon,” the herald said, a little more loudly, his gaze fixed upon the western horizon like a warning.
And yet he had been so, so near to redemption. Eönwë would never forget those moments: Mairon bowing his head, his copper curls falling to the ground, kneeling in the herald’s tent after the siege of Angband and the downfall of Morgoth.
“I ask the forgiveness of the Valar,” he had said, with that same melodious voice. “I repent of the deeds I have done.”
He could have returned to Valinor, to their home, where the Valar would have granted the pardon he sought. For they would have forgiven him —of this Eönwë was certain. Punished he would have been, yes, for his crimes were great; yet the punishment would not have endured until the end of days. He was but a Maia ensnared by promises of dominion, servant of a darker power that had twisted him. Manwë would have been merciful, and Aulë, his former master, would have spoken in his favor… And during those few days when Mairon had remained in the camp, awaiting the return to Valinor, Eönwë had let himself dream that soon things would be as they once were, that they would reclaim the fair life they had known in Almaren.
But Mairon had fled —even then. The ghost of a kiss left upon his lips, warm as a forge fire; and then nothing. And now, three thousand years later, Eönwë found him again, or rather found his discarded raiment: the husk of a spirit freed from all flesh, once more able to pursue his dark designs without a backward glance.
The herald could not bring himself to leave the body here. This had been Mairon’s chosen shape, the first he had ever worn: slightly different then —his hair tightly braided, no makeup, no jewels, no adornment save on rare feast-days when he left his forge… Yet ever beautiful, ever precise. And though it was now but a soulless figment, to Eönwë it remained a form he had known and cherished, a face that bore the memory of glances and smiles once given to him. So, half-cursing himself, knowing well the Valar would not look kindly on such an act, he rose once more, lifting the lifeless form of Mairon into his arms.
“Perhaps someone in the Halls of Mandos will have use for this,” he murmured.
Turning westward, he took wing and soared into the fading light, leaving behind the drowned ruins of Númenor and the remnants of the ruin wrought by Mairon himself.