Metamorphoses by Sleepless_Malice

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Chapter 2 - World of Glass

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Chapter 02 – World of Glass

Eönwë

*

Deep scratches adorned the Maia’s mind, which slowly had been carved into his soul since the day he was made, when the world still lingered in slumber beneath a starless night.

At first, he had been content with what he had – they all had been. How should they not, when they hadn’t known a glimpse of what else existed? Time, however, began to change both the world itself and their nature. Spirits they were, graced with powers to help those superior to their own to shape the world. More and more Eönwë’s curiosity grew amidst the darkness that surrounded them and rather quickly he had learned how far he could venture with his mind free like the birds. With knowledge, his ambitions and desires had sparked, whilst others had been content with what they had. 

When he now thought about his early days, he had foolishly forsaken the rules he at that time never knew in pursuit of his own happiness. Later, he would say it had been freedom he had tasted, without fear or punishment. The golden age, at the beginning of all things, with no laws he had to obey and no judges to face, so he wished to remember this time. So had he thought at least – a mistake, certainly, one he hadn’t even been aware of.

Soon he had found himself standing at a crossroads, the choices – or what he thought they were – laid out before him. He had made his choice – for better or for worse he sometimes still didn’t know (deep inside he well knew, too often he had seen of what was yet to come woven in the tapestries, but a relentless beast persistently lived on in his chest).

Everything he had done had left its mark on him; over many years Eönwë’s soul had become an endless labyrinth, shaped by love and betrayal, by fierce loyalty that more than once had made him suffer for faults not his own.

He had survived it all – but what for?

Some did not understand when he spoke of love, of trust and friendship, quirking their eyebrows in wondrous amazement, though he did so rarely.

Eönwë was no stranger to love. Before the world had been made he had burnt so brightly that it had nearly seared his wings, but knowledge of their journeys had paled over the years, and now only rumors existed – fairytales nobody dared to believe.

Wearily, Eönwë sighed.

'You were not made to love’ – the words had been so cruelly spoken, accompanied by the threat to exile him from the world that should be his home until all would fade. So lost he felt then, so agonizingly alone as if his other half was missing, the one who had enthralled him so.

His earliest story had been a tale of betrayal and doubts, of corruption and manipulation, how an irresistible love had invaded his soul. It was not that he hadn’t known at the beginning of days – his foolish hope had been to alter what he could never change. Although Eönwë knew, it had been for the better, the memories never failed to sadden him. Through clouds and mountains he had flown, dived into the endless vastness of the ocean. Before the world had been made, their shades had wandered in the darkness, aimless but not desolate. They had once been free, unmastered, devoid of shackles around their feet to hinder them from flying, no burden lying heavily on his shoulders, holding him to the ground.

He had been offered the world – another kind of life.

He had declined, already seeing the greater parts of all.

In sake of honor – and most likely his own survival, he had resisted the temptation of burning brighter than any other would ever dare.

Upon the memory, delight began to flare inside him. A little part of him still remembered how once his soul had felt and for a brief moment he allowed it, lingered upon what was lost forever. The lust that had glimmered in their souls, the sound of triumph, the laughter of defiance. 

Condemned the wrong, and had yet the wrong pursued?

For thousands of years he had been most loyal and faithful towards his superior, had endured hardship, and had fought many a battle for survival and glory that hadn’t even been his own.

And yet, not even bravery and skill had brought him everlasting glory, no reward for all he had done. Throughout all the years the grief of what he had forsaken had persisted, and more often than not, Eönwë wondered how it had not turned into wrath and contempt, skillfully veiling the hurt from anyone who dared to look.

What for?

‘You were not made to love.’ When once he had even apologized for the affection he had harbored for another of his kind, now the words sat bitter with him.

How cruel was it to leave him the beautiful illusion of choice, when he had had none, except to be confined to the eternal darkness until the world was remade.

Obey or starve!

The thoughts spurred the Maia’s defiance – they always did.

Wasn’t he more than a puppet on idle string?

Like a beaten dog he had knelt at his master’s feet, pleading for mercy and reconciliation. Oh what a fool he had been! And yet, not even that had brought him what he truly had craved for so long. Respect among those he loathed in his arrogance – yes, but not more, nothing else. No matter, if Eönwë was his favorite, beloved more than any other in his service; no matter how gently he treated him, luring him into safety with kind words alone – a rift had come between them, slowly but steadily.

It was no secret that monsters lurked among their own, disguised as fair creatures, their intent hidden by gentle smiles.

So it was with all the races. So was it with his own.

They reigned supreme above all else – fleeting spirits, beasts and elves alike – their wisdom so great that it was threatening in its beauty. No matter how much the Elder King encouraged and instructed him, resentment simmered in Eönwë’s soul.

Once, so long that Eönwë barely remembered it, he had been happy as a bodiless spirit before aught else was made – free to pursue his own happiness, when now he seemed to live a life that wasn’t his own. Dull duties without a noble quest, giving him too much time at hand, which he was confined to spend in loneliness. Instead of wings, manacles graced his arms.

It wasn’t fair! Yet there was no law that gods must be fair. [*]

The lies fed to him were an agony, even if they were transparent to Eönwë’s cunning mind, because beyond his own knowledge sometimes he saw, caught glimpses and flickers of thoughts that were not meant for him to see.

 

*

Deeply lost in thoughts, Eönwë sat on a low bench beneath the shadowing trees, hidden from view by the blinding white statues that lined the paths towards Manwë’s lofty halls when his gaze fell onto Ingwion. It wasn’t an unusual sight.

‘Surely, the elf had come to speak with his father – where else should he find him?’ Disdainfully Eönwë snorted. His king lived what he had been forbidden – love and happiness, the feeling of golden arms wrapped around his body. If only he could hate Manwë’s dalliance with Ingwë, but he couldn’t – at least not entirely, so strangely alluring the odd pair was.

More than once he had caught himself leering at them, wishing for what he couldn’t have. From time to time he even imagined entirely different things, most often late at night when the world around him was quiet.

Right now the Maia thought of something else entirely. Much to his surprise, Ingwion had adapted to the new situation fairly well, much better than most had thought he would. Or hadn’t he, and all was nothing more than fair disguise? For many moments, Eönwë simply watched him sweeping on bare feet across the marble until Ingwion halted, looking up into the clouds.

‘What does he think?’ Eönwë wondered, until the cloud moved on and bathed the elf in sunlight.

The Maia gasped; the golden light, reflected from the elf’s hair assaulted his senses. He blinked his eyes blinking to avoid the overwhelming beauty of the one he had seen so often before. Yet it felt as if he saw him for the first time, in an entirely different light. Mouth still agape, Eönwë rose and stood still like the marble statues, as if he awoke from eternal haze. Well – it wasn’t entirely correct as from time to time Eönwë had admired Ingwion occasionally before. So long ago, at the peak of his loneliness, he had even tried to befriend him, to no avail as Ingwion did not cherish his company. Why, the Maia could never understand.

Caught in a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions, somewhere deep inside of him, a long forgotten desire began to stir. That it was wrong to leer at the innocent elf who simply went about his daily life, Eönwë knew well, but he had suppressed everything that wasn’t duty for too long already.

The son of his King’s consort. Eönwë couldn’t hide the malicious smile that already had formed on his lips.

Oh what a masterpiece of cunning deceit.

But how? The frigid elf had never shown the slightest interest in him – or, to the best of his knowledge in any other at all. Heir to a golden throne, without a wife and heir, though other noble sons had so many children that his celibacy hardly mattered.

Eönwë knew he played with fire once again, as bold in vanity he wished to soar.

What he planned went against all laws that were imposed upon those of his kind. Eönwë had sworn to never use his ability to manipulate the minds of those that were like children to them. He had vowed to remain faithful to his lord for all years yet to come.

Oh but he was! A bitter laugh tumbled from his lips. What greater bond there was than what had intrigued his mind: a family affair. Or was it not so?

No, he shouldn’t proceed – Eönwë knew well. But then? Ingwion was so strangely intriguing in his beautiful innocence. And all the more: who should ever know? Who should care, when all were so occupied with watching the world drown in peril with idle eyes whilst feasting on forbidden fruit?

‘Or was it the final act of the play the gods loved to watch?’ Briefly Eönwë’s mind lingered at this thought. The moment when they flew too high for their liking, embolden by the desire and ambition for more, with a snip of their hands the wings were gone? Why would someone interpret ambitions as hubris, Eönwë could never understand. Was ambition such a bad trait for those who had been shaped with a very specific purpose in mind? 

As so often happened, the Maia lost himself in his internal monologue, and when next he looked, Ingwion was gone, leaving an empty feeling behind. Yet their meeting left him a much to think of, and that the Maia did. A chain reaction of thoughts exploded in his mind, hollow and shrieking, each serving as fueling energy as his plan progressed. Thrilling and frightening, a masterful wielder of his cunning mind – a challenge to the gods, if naught else.

He would sooner burn than fade away again, no matter what the consequences were.

*

At first it had been a fleeting thing, but all too soon, Ingwion had become the radiant beacon in the midst of Eönwë’s darkness, blinding him with his enthralling innocence. Like a magnet he was drawn to him, gravitating to him as if he was the center of his narrow world. There was no cure to sate the desire to soar higher again, to relish in the divinity he once had felt; to relish in the sky, to feel his skin – that now actually was skin – burning.

Eönwë was no stranger to obsession. Apart from his arrogance it was the gravest flaw of all.

Day after day, no matter where the elf went, he kept returning to him, admiring him, watching him from the shadows as he was graced with invisibility to the common eye. Ingwion’s golden skin was so flawless, so divine: oh how soft it must feel beneath his fingertips? A caught glimpse of him was enough to spark Eönwë’s euphoria, to make his heart thunder so hard that his formless body hurt.

Interest was all fine and well, strange as it may be for a Maia to leer around the First Born, but an unhealthy obsession was a different matter entirely, something Eönwë already wasn’t able to comprehend. Pure adoration and love for this being it was what drove him, he told himself, though it was all too evidently manifested what truly it was. Like nothing else, Eönwë wished to possess him, to make him his, as he had never desired to possess somebody else. It was the peak of wrongness, and deep inside the Maia knew it well.

But then …

What must he be such a temptation in his flimsy robes, revealing such a gentle curve of his behind? Oh how much he wished to run his hands along the sensual body, yet he dared not to – not yet at least.

Slowly, over the course of many months, Eönwë’s interests began to change. When at first his interest in the elf had been born entirely out of spite, of an almost malicious defiance towards Manwë, it now was more sincere. In fact, he was infuriated and intrigued by the creature who was so unlike himself. At night, when all was silent, Eönwë sought comfort in the music of his flute, thinking of the one who was so far away to him. Oh so tenderly his fingers would caress him – if he but only knew.

Hot rage and wincing pain filled Eönwë whenever Ingwion spoke with somebody else, no matter who it was – the fact that he was indifferent to Eönwë whilst others were graced with his charming smiles made the Maia’s blood boil: why them – why not me? Little splinters of jealousy sprang into life, so intense that the Maia’s stomach churned. 

That perhaps he simply should try to court him for a start never did occur to him in his frantic longing.

No matter where Ingwion went – through winding hallways in his father’s palace, along the forest roads, the shores, the havens, the Maia followed. Except upon Taniquetil, where Eönwë did not dare to meddle in his affairs even in his recklessness, frightened to have his true intentions revealed.

At night he dreamt: of tempest, of arousal kindled by his lover’s sparkling eyes, of ropes and raging storms, of skin against skin amidst the finest silks.

No glimpse Eönwë caught of him, no scent he smelled, no word he heard ever seemed to be enough when he wished to sink down into sweetest oblivion with Ingwion tightly clutched to his chest.

What harm would come to sink into his thoughts and slumber, to stir them into the right direction when the elf was too blind to see? Just a little innocent brush against his mind to stir his dreams into the right direction?

Eönwë wasn’t indifferent to temptation in all his ardor, when chance permitted it and he felt safe enough. It was only a small touch – nothing important, Eönwë told himself when for the first time he ventured into Ingwion’s quarters when all was quiet. Oh how peaceful he looked in his slumber. A strange happiness surged within him when his faint scent reached Eönwë’s nose and he could not withstand the urge to brush his fingers against his face.

Tiny bolts of lightning sparked at his fingertips when for the first time, he touched the elf in his slumber. Every little doubt he had harbored in the past now sprang alive anew, every painful regret was so evident, that despite the magic of the moment, pain of what he had lost soared within him. It mattered not, as there was so much more.

Eönwë knew for all eternity he was lost to the elf.

 

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Chapter End Notes

[*] inspired by: “There is no law that gods must be fair, Achilles,” Chiron said. Madeline Miller - The Song of Achilles

[General Inspiration] – Well, where to even start here? It’s so many things that inspired this fic - Or: how many hidden hints did you catch already? :D

Many things in this work are heavily inspired by Greek Mythology and the Hellenistic period, with Ovid's Metamorphoses having been a major inspiration, as well as Pablo Neruda's works. I will offer some more specific explanations chapter-wise if anybody should be interested.

So yes, Eönwë of this chapter shows many similarities to Icarus, in his dreams, in his desires – in everything he cannot have but wants do pursue, but dares not. Both are tragic figures...