Ëonwë by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

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Eönwë

   Caras, the esquire of Eönwë, carefully rubbed the herbal oil into Eönwë's back. The War of Wrath had been long, and the fall from the dying horse had torn a muscle in Eönwë's lower back, which Caras had been tending for months. He could feel Eönwë trying not to wince. The rain, the interminable rain, sounded on the pavilion roof like fleeing orcs. The damp wood hissed in the brazier, the damp torches steamed and sputtered ; Caras longed for Valinor. 

  Eönwë lifted a hand and Caras paused. "Some wine , please, Caras, this endless rain is sending a chill through my bones."

   Caras washed his hands and poured a goblet of the smoky local wine, which had a subtle scent of autumn. While he thought everything else in this desolate Middle-Earth was pitiful in contrast to Valinor, he had to admit that the colder climate did produce a worthy grape. 

   Eönwë leaned on one elbow and took the silver goblet. He looked thoughtful for a moment then raised his glass to the West and drank. 

 
   Blinding light filled the pavilion. Caras threw up his arms. Eönwë put down the goblet and sprang to his feet in one flowing motion. Screams and shouts came through the canvas, and the blinding light cast sharp black shadows which wheeled past their shocked eyes. 

    "The Silmarils!" shouted Eönwë, and grabbed his robe. He slid his shoulders, still oily, into the long blue robe and strode for the entrance, shouting "STOP ! WAIT !" . Caras wondered if Eönwë really thought the thief would listen and obey...

   Outside the pavilion he understood. A dozen archers stood poised to fire at the escaping thieves, and Eönwë's raised hand and hurried command was all that held their arrows in check. Eönwë was speaking to the archers, but Caras did not hear him.

   Across the pitted mud of the path stood the largest pavilion, in which the Silmarils had been guarded. The guards themselves lay dead across the entrance, their blood set dancing in the puddles by the falling drops of rain. Caras swayed, his knees lost their solidity, he clutched Eönwë's robe, and Eönwë turned to Caras' greying face, then followed his eyes. One of the fallen guards was Caras' lifelong friend Thalion. His throat was cut.

   Eönwë put a steadying hand on Caras' shoulder and gazed after the fleeing sons of Fëanor. The light filled the landscape, a pale reminder of the Trees, and set the shadows of the masts of the fleet moving across the water, swift as galloping horses. Eönwë felt his eyes fill with tears. After all the battles, all the carnage and horror, to have the Silmarils taken like this, outside his own door, seemed somehow the worst thing of all.

   He wondered if he too was affected by the allure of the Silmarils, then decided that since he had let them go, he had passed the test. 

   The Fëanorians had rounded the headland and ridden under the trees, the light of the Silmarils shining upwards through the leaves, like a falling star slowly fading into the deep.

   Eönwë turned back to Caras. His face had a frozen, dead look that worried Eönwë.

   "Come inside Caras, come and sit down and I'll pour you some miruvor." He led the dazed esquire to a seat, opened the flask and poured two small measures. Caras' hand shook as he drank, but as the liquor warmed him, his face and body relaxed. 

  Suddenly he sprang to his feet

  "CURSE THOSE FËANORIANS, ERU ! CURSE THEM !" he screamed.

   Eönwë shook his head "Have no fear, Caras, they have cursed themselves by this day's deed, and they will regret it forever."

 

 

 

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Chapter End Notes

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