Chasing Mirages by Russandol

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Choice

Eönwë stands again before Manwë, and a doom is spoken (aka “all you ever wanted to tell Manwë and Námo to their faces but never dared to.”) This story finally reaches the end... for now.

A diamond-encrusted gold medal goes to elfscribe, who betaed this chapter twice in full and many other times in portions, because I tweaked and tweaked and kept tweaking. Thank you so much, my dear. You’ve made it all possible.

Thank you also to the bunch of assorted reptilians at the Lizard Council who encouraged me, offered great advice and feedback, and gorged on nits over the two years it’s taken me to travel this journey.

 

This chapter fits the following B2MeM 2012 prompt:

Controversial Topics - B7: Nothing is evil in the beginning...

 

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38. Choice

 

Mairon’s swinging moods had almost driven me to distraction by the time the colourless walls of our prison vanished and we were escorted under heavy guard to the Máhanaxar. The thrones of the Valar cast long shadows in the golden light after dawn, painting the marble floor at my feet with bold purple stripes. Eärendil’s ship gleamed in the West. I was able to sense that eleven days had passed since my trip to Ithilien.

Three figures walked up to stand on the raised stone edge of the Circle: Olórin in his fana, Elrond, and Glorfindel. The faces of my two incarnate friends were grave, their eyes circled by shadows. Had they slept at all since I spoke my farewell?

I put my hand to my chest in salute and was relieved and joyful to see them all return my greeting and dip their heads to show their support.

Manwë appeared before us, and Námo on his right. The ominous sight of Angainor in Vefántur’s hands made both Mairon and me quail. When Mairon stirred within me, the tangible nature of my fana brought my pebble jest even closer to reality.

I bowed, and waited to be addressed.

‘Eönwë,’ spoke Manwë, not in ósanwë but aloud, for the benefit of the Eruhíni, ‘we are giving you the opportunity to justify your actions, but not until you hand Sauron over to us. He must face his fate.’

‘The Void is not his fate, my Lord Manwë, but merely the doom Námo Fëantur has spoken for him,’ I replied. ‘I do not trust the Doomsman’s judgement, or the justice that endorsed it.’

‘How dare you speak of justice? You have committed a crime,’ bellowed Vefántur. ‘You have obscenely forced yourself on an unwilling Maia who remains trapped by your power. None have carried out such a despicable deed in the past except for Moringotto. Only those who love unguardedly can share their beings in that way.’

‘I have not forced myself on him. And even if I had, what possible sense of duty or care do you have for Mairon after condemning him to the Everlasting Darkness?’

‘He yielded to you willingly?’ asked Manwë, incredulous. ‘Even after your victory and destruction of the Ring?’

‘Yes, I did. Any grievance you have is against me.’ Mairon had no audible voice, but his ósanwë was clear; judging by their startled faces, Elrond and Glorfindel’s perception was not veiled by their hröar.

With a wary glance at the Lord of Mandos, I said, ‘I shall release him if you, my Lord Manwë, give your word that he will be allowed to remain here at my side, safe and unharmed, and that his doom is at least suspended until you hear us out.’

I knew a silent conversation was taking place between the Valar as Námo’s mien grew darker.

‘You have my word, Eönwë,’ spoke Manwë at last, ‘as Eru is my witness.’

As on cue, Angainor fell to the stone floor with a clatter.

I loosened our unconscious bond and Mairon slithered out of my shape with a shrill tingle of sparks. All of a sudden I felt both unencumbered and lonely, as though he had removed a part of me. His diminished power would struggle to sustain his own fana, so he appeared at my side as the same dull cloud I had met in Ithilien.

‘I am relieved we no longer have to deal with an aberrant act of violence, Eönwë, but you must still explain why you obstructed Námo’s duty at the Moritarnon,’ said Manwë. ‘Did Sauron pledge to atone, spurred into contrition at the sight of the Darkness?’

‘I am here. I will answer your questions myself, if they merit a response,’ said Mairon without disguising his irritation. ‘You wish me to speak of contrition and atonement? Very well. Once, long ago, I thought I had found a balance, and contentment living amidst the peoples of a fair land. To make amends for my prior wrongdoing, I toiled at their side, striving for peace and prosperity. Without provocation on my part, you had my lover slain and the whole realm razed to the ground. Countless men, women, and children were enthralled, tormented, raped, even burnt alive if they refused to renounce their simple, untainted beliefs, or slain by sword and fire.’ Mairon kept changing hue and shape in his anger. ‘Were you suitably contrite for the tragedy you wrought in the name of Eru? Is that not the blackest of blasphemies?’

The Valar resembled marble statues, beautiful but silent and stern; it was no mean feat to render Námo speechless.

Elrond’s gasp was loud. Glorfindel leant towards him to murmur some words in his ear but stopped when Mairon continued.

‘Yet now you sit in judgement over me for crimes not unlike yours. My guilt has been declared, my doom pronounced, and any words of remorse I may speak will be discarded as insincere.’

‘You accuse us unfairly, Sauron. We would indeed listen to genuine repentance,’ answered Manwë.

Mairon swayed and wriggled, first randomly, then shaping himself into a sequence of convoluted patterns, to curb his anger and order his thoughts. 

‘Indeed I do regret,’ he began, and halted abruptly. When I reached out to encourage him, a tendril of his thoughts wrapped itself around mine, as though to draw strength. Then it withdrew. ‘But if there is blame and contrition to be apportioned, they do not belong to me in their entirety. No doubt you too must repent of retreating to your blissful refuge and forsaking Endórë and her peoples to my evil doings.’

‘Mairon, stop!’ I urged, dismayed.

Undeterred, he continued. ‘Only when the Númenórean king dared step on your hallowed land did you smite his kingdom, sinking it under the Sea. Even if I were to believe that this atrocity was the work of the All-father himself, as you have proclaimed, was it not your negligence, your inaction that provoked this disproportionate cataclysm? Equally, was it not through the toil and sacrifice of others, and not yours, that I am here now?’

In the silence that followed, he concluded. ‘You have forfeited your right to judge me on matters concerning the Hither Shores. Therefore, why should I declare my repentance to you? I will not grovel at your unworthy feet.’

I froze in place, fearful of what his accusation would portend.

‘How dare you? ’ roared Námo. ‘What of the peoples you enslaved, or those who perished on both sides of the wars you spurred? Ilúvatar was invoked to remove the corruption you seeded when inciting the Children to worship the Darkness.’

‘Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, Nurufantur,’ replied Mairon. ‘Your brother planted dreams, no doubt at your command, to spur intolerance and fanatic zeal for cults established by Melkor, as your tools to conquer peoples and drive armies. I merely followed your example. Have you paid penance for this ingenuity or do you believe yourself exempt from guilt by virtue of your alleged fulfilment of the Music?’

The warbling of a bird in the distance was the only sound heard during the icy pause that followed.

‘We have reached a stalemate,’ said Manwë. ‘Clemency requires your full repentance and a petition for pardon, Sauron.’

‘I shall not plead to you, Súlimo. If I sought justice it would be from Eru himself, and I would have you and your Doomsman stand accused next to me.’

The Elder King frowned. A glance at the terrible scowl on Námo’s face made me fear for our chances of escaping the Void. There could be no mercy for us.

Elrond took a step forward.

‘My lords,’ he said, ‘may I speak?’

‘You may, Eärendillion,’ answered Manwë. ‘After your most... persuasive arguments, Glorfindel and you have been allowed to stand witness and represent those whom Sauron has grieved most deeply. Now we shall welcome your opinion in this matter.’

If Elrond was annoyed at the condescending tone, he disguised it well as he walked to stand at my side.

‘I stand witness to Lord Eönwë’s tireless toil over the ages to fight evil at my side, and to his suffering, borne in silence to keep his oath to you. We are all grateful to him for bringing our foe to justice,’ he said. ‘Should we not allow the fate of the defeated leader to be spoken by his victor, as the long-honoured rules of war dictate? What is the penalty that Lord Eönwë demands for Sauron? I trust his judgement, and so should you!’

He had never seemed wiser or more lordly. I was overcome by pride and gratitude.

‘There is a major flaw in your reasoning, Elrond,’ said Námo. ‘Eönwë was once seduced by Sauron. His latest interference proves that he never broke free from that thraldom, as Sauron was never free of Moringotto.’

I had always wondered what Glorfindel would have looked like when facing the Valarauco. Now, as he stepped forth with wrath glittering in his eyes, I knew.

‘That is a vile comparison on both counts, my Lord Námo,’ he thundered. ‘You can neither attribute Sauron’s relapse into evil to his former master when we have just heard words suggesting that it is you, indeed, who may be responsible, nor dismiss Eönwë’s fairness or loyalty with a sweep of your hand only because you banished him as bait for Sauron.’

Previous pauses had been warm in comparison to the frigid silence that stretched unbearably after these words. Glorfindel broke it at last by taking a deep breath before addressing the Elder King.

‘My lord Elrond is wise,’ he said. ‘Justice will be best served if Sauron submits to the penalty decreed by Lord Eönwë, his conqueror.’

Mairon stirred unhappily, but did not object.

‘And if Eönwë’s ruling proves to be unacceptable?’ asked Námo.

‘Then we are back to where we are now stalled, and nothing will have been lost,’ said Glorfindel.

Another short pause followed, during which a heated debate was surely taking place between the Aratar.

‘You may speak, Eönwë,’ said Manwë after a lengthy interval. ‘We shall consider your words, though we may reject your proposal.’

I bowed courteously before addressing the Valar.

‘Casting Mairon into the Void would plunge him back under the dominion of his former master. Refusing him mercy and redemption is a cruelty that would surpass Moringotto’s. Mairon can find healing, you cannot deny he did once, but only while his mind is free to be channelled into labouring and building, not wandering in idle despair or nurturing his hatred in the vile company of the one who corrupted him.’

‘He forfeited healing and redemption by refusing Manwë’s summons two ages ago,’ countered Námo, grim and terrible in his contempt. ‘Have you forgotten how Melkor feigned repentance, offering to repair the hurts he had made, only to strike again? Nay, Eönwë, such a costly error shall never be made again. There can be no freedom for Sauron, not even under strict guard in the most distant region of Ilmen. Angainor and Mandos await him until Ambar-metta if the Elder King grants his mercy, regardless of what you may advocate now.’

Manwë gave a nod of agreement. Doubt nipped at me sharply, but when I sensed Mairon’s knots of anxiety at my side, I touched his mind in reassurance. Then I braced myself for the moment that would define our future, granting us either an end or a beginning.

‘Imprisonment under those terms seems little better than the Void,’ I said, fixing my gaze on Manwë. ‘There may be a third option.’

 

 

Aman, Year 1 of the Seventh Age of Arda

The first part of Mairon’s sentence ends today.

Like Moringotto before him, he has spent three entire ages of the world locked in the fastness of Mandos; almost an eternity of torment, for that is what being bound by Angainor is to those of our kind.

Claiming the need for a harsh penance, in all likelihood at Námo’s behest, Manwë denied me the right to stay at Mairon’s side or to visit him. These were his conditions for curtailing his term of imprisonment and allowing him to walk into exile under my guardianship at its end, as I had demanded.

Mairon accepted my ruling and gave himself up to the Doomsman. Olórin held me back while my defeated foe, once my beloved, struggled to maintain a shaky, translucent fana so that a triumphant Námo could bind him with the links of Aulë’s chain.

As Vefántur’s servants took Mairon away, his terrified shudder brushed my thoughts.

O Eru, what had I done? Crazed with self-loathing, I shed my raiment and fled the Ezellôchâr.

Ever since, for over sixty yéni of Arda, I have dived from star to star all the way to the most remote, darkest ends of Eä, where the ancient echoes of the Music chime faint but purest, and around them I have sung my grief. As a naked, speeding stream, I have chased Light to thus warp Time to a fraction of that unbearably lengthy wait, as seen by those bound to Ambar.

Several times, when solitude began to claw at my sanity, I sought the welcoming arms and the smiles of the few who still name me their friend. I have found a small measure of peace and solace in watching their lives unfold, no longer under shadow.

In contrast, there has been no respite for Mairon; he has not been spared a single day of his punishment.

Today he will be freed from Mandos, but exiled from Arda until the breaking of the world when, if the Doomsman’s prophecy is to be believed, Sauron shall fight the Last Battle beside his old master, against me.

I do not believe that.

Mairon is banished, not to the Void but beyond the Circles of the World. Perhaps he must step through the same portal that the fëar of the Atani cross to meet their mysterious fate. Manwë will not say, despite my pleas. The Star-kindler has softened, but only to give a warning about the perilous path beyond, a maze of infinite threads traversing Eä and maybe Time itself, whose workings none of the Valar can command.

I pray this route will not be barred to us Ainur, or Mairon must remain imprisoned until the end of Time. Manwë will not relent, wary of allowing the former disciple of his fallen brother any freedom in his domain.

As I approach the jet doors of Mandos, my courage wavers. I am afraid of what I will find.

 

~ o ~

 

Mairon’s diaphanous fana flickers and trembles under the crushing weight of Angainor. Head bowed, he kneels at the feet of the great black chair where the Doomsman sits, grim and terrible, towering over his domain.

‘Mairon!’ I cry, aghast. The cold stone walls mock me with their echoes, but he does not even lift his head to look at me.

I force myself to turn my attention to his gaoler.

‘The time has come, Námo,’ I say, impervious to his glare. ‘Set him free!’

‘Why would you take this wretch with you, Eönwë?’ replies the Doomsman. ‘Why disrupt his solitary reflection now, when at last he has accepted the heinous nature of his crimes and spoken true repentance?’

‘The Elder King agreed, even if you did not,’ I say. I had almost forgotten how deeply I abhor Vefántur.

‘Very well,’ sneers Námo. ‘After all, my task is done.’ His contemptuous gaze shifts to Mairon. ‘As a token of the extent of your reform, let your new master hear your words of contrition, Sauron.’

‘Ever craving the pleasure of mortifying me before an audience, Vefántur,’ says Mairon, his voice brittle. ‘I tire of this game of yours.’

Námo narrows his eyes. A blast of power chastises the prisoner, who winces, huddling into an even smaller shape.

‘Enough!’ I roar, appalled. ‘Let us leave this place of dread, Mairon!’

‘What is there for me elsewhere, my Lord Eönwë?’ he says, with a chilling indifference. ‘I will either face Ilúvatar’s repudiation or toil as your shadow, no better than a pitiful thrall until the ages wither away.’ I am about to refute his words when he continues. ‘If I must endure thraldom, let it be here, without pretence. My crimes have earned me darkness, isolation, and the burden of chains. Beyond that, Námo makes no promises that can turn to disappointment; I possess no privileges that can be snatched away at a whim. I need only be concerned with the choice between compliance and punishment.’ Mairon laughs bitterly. ‘In my current life, I control everything that is important. Not so in the one you offer.’

His reluctance is like a slap. Its sting makes me furious, but not at him; he is only the victim of Námo’s insidious, merciless work to crumble his spirit.

Mairon is afraid. I know that fear, the fear of surrendering all; once I knelt to him in wavering faith, my heart in my throat. Willingly yielding control has never come easily to Mairon, not even now, when all he can relinquish, disturbingly, is his right to defiance. I must spur him with something else.

‘Know that from me you shall have neither pity nor thraldom, Mairon, and I will toil at your side if that is what we must do,’ I say. ‘The Annatar I once knew would have rather faced the thrill of an uncertain fate than embrace the bars of his cage. He would have thrived at the challenge of leaping off a cliff on wings of his own making.’

Mairon shrinks and frets against Aulë’s heavy chain. ‘I am no longer he,’ he replies. ‘I erred, I have paid. Do you wish to shatter the little peace I have gained by tempting me to reach out to a dream again?’

A jumbled sequence of scenes flickers from Mairon’s mind into my own: the One Ring gleaming on an anvil; Námo looming tall over him; Celebrimbor struck down on the steps of the House of the Mírdain; Eä as we Ainur perceived it for the first time, bright as a Silmaril in the emptiness; the Nazgûl bowing to him; Ost-in-Edhil glowing in the light of sunset. Then I behold myself in his thoughts: slapping him in outrage; in the armour of Kiinlúum about to ride to war; naked and wide-eyed on my knees; my face in the throes of ecstasy shifting into a mask of grime, bruises and blood.

Then it all vanishes into the gloom of Mandos.

‘I became a shadow of the master I loathed, while my arrogance whispered to me about a greater destiny, to be called Lord of Endórë. How laughable my ambitions seem now!’ When he stirs, anxious, Angainor clinks. ‘Leave me, Eönwë. I am unworthy of your concern, or of the freedom you offer.’

‘They are both yours, Mairon. I will be glad if you accept them.’

The pause stretches between us, without bringing the response I hope for. How can I convince him? ‘Once, you taught me to submit to you, to surrender my need to control in order to find freedom. Now I ask you to do the same. Will you not trust me over Námo?’

For a long time he is silent while the Lord of Mandos watches us, inscrutable, unable to listen to our ósanwë.

‘Long ago, you showed me compassion and, as a result, were banished,’ says Mairon. ‘Then you loved me, but I betrayed you. We were enemies; you defeated me. In victory you were gracious and became my defender before the Valar, and as a judge you were lenient. Now you owe me nothing, yet you return for me. Why?’

‘I promised.’

Straining against his bonds, Mairon looks up at last. In his eyes, wonder, or maybe gratitude, chases fear away.

‘I am humbled.’ He pauses; a faint glow awakes within his dullness. ‘Our association has proved to be hazardous, at best. You are either brave or foolish.’

I am relieved to glimpse his old irony. ‘Which one, Mairon?’

‘We shall have to find out,’ he answers, no longer to me alone. ‘I shall come.’

Námo’s wrathful aura crackles loudly in his vast stone hall. At my word, he loosens Angainor and Mairon leaps forth, free.

 

~ o ~

 

Now Mairon and I hover above the dark foam-crested waves of Ekkaia, before the wall of fog that hides our path.

‘It is time,’ I say.

He does not reply. Next to me, he paints endless patterns of light, faint but beautiful.

Behind us on the grey beach of Mornien below the Halls of Waiting, a small crowd has gathered: Arafinwë, Celebrían and her twin sons, Laergil, and a few others whose presence is unexpected but not less welcome, like Findaráto, Gil-galad and Legolas of Eryn Galen. Lintavailë and his companion trace wide spirals over the low cliffs hugging the shore.  

At the water's edge, closest to us, stand Elrond and Glorfindel. Their hair streams wildly in the gusts of the west wind and their eyes are brimming with tears, even though they can no longer see me. Olórin touches my mind with good wishes and even a hint of jealousy, before moving to appear in his raiment next to my incarnate friends. Speaking my farewells to them has been bitter; their loyalty and love have sustained me through the ages and our parting now will last until Eä is unmade, perhaps beyond. Elrond has given me messages which he hopes I may be able to deliver.

A host of Maiar surrounds us to prevent Mairon’s escape. We can only go forward, through the shifting cloud which pulses gently, beckoning to us.

I wonder what awaits us beyond this door. I do not believe this to be the end, but a chance of a beginning, a gift not to be feared. But even if there is nothing but emptiness, or a seemingly impassable maze, Mairon and I shall face it together.

Though the days of our bliss are long gone, I am bound to Mairon by a love that not even his foulest crimes have destroyed; it now lies buried deep under thick, maybe impenetrable layers of regret, resentment, and mistrust. Yet I sense that he hopes and while he does, I do too.

‘Shall we?’ says Mairon, twirling his stream of dull light around mine. Thrilled at his unexpected gesture of friendliness, I share his excitement.

If I had a hröa, I would smile as we hurtle forward blindly, together, gliding fast over the waves we can no longer see, ever West. The moist, shimmering cloud embraces us on our journey. Much later, when doubt begins to gnaw at the edges of our hope, we discern lights and shadows. Colours and shapes. The thinning veil is parting before us.

‘Behold our mirage, Eönwë,’ cries Mairon in awe.

Time still is; so is Eä.

So are we, until the final chord of the Music is played.

 

 

THE END

 

 

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Notes:

 

[1] Nurufantur (Quenya) an earlier title or surname for the Lord of Mandos, meaning “lord of Death-cloud”

[2] Ekkaia (Quenya) the Outer Ocean

[3] Mornien (also Hastovánen) - one of Tolkien’s choices for the name of the beach on the shores of Ekkaia from where it was said mortal fëar travelled from the Halls of Waiting to their final fate beyond the Circles of the World in the black ship Mornie. (“The Lost Tales”, History of Middle Earth I)