Memories are Haunted Places by Sleepless_Malice

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

Memories are Haunted Places

*

 

‘Just before the new melody began amidst the storm, strong and powerful, so unlike the first, I perceived his thoughts, saw his true intentions. Even then, Eönwë, he wasn’t alone in the uproar. Faintly, a rippling of gentle sounds flittered through the timeless void, so silently they nearly went unnoticed amongst the sounds of war my brother caused, when all else went silent. When in triumph he succeeded, and Illúvatar’s halls shook in tremor, in secrecy a spirit’s heart leaped in delight, as its own thoughts were already striving for something far greater than was ever meant for him. Why do I speak now of it, you may ask, why did I never before? And you are right to ask me so. From the beginning of the world, I was forbidden to speak, to meddle with whatever chaos the violent uproar may cause. All things woven into the music are meant to come to pass, even those bringing harm to the world in all its delicacy. For better or for worse it must be so. Do not assume I do not know how much you suffered when the Maia’s soul was corrupted; when he was lost to the world we cherish. Do not assume I did not perceive your thoughts then, and that I do not perceive them now.

The quest you shall lead will rise and fall with your valor.

You must not be deceived.

You must not be dissuaded from your cause by false pleas and whispered words.

Not even you can save him from the folly, Eönwë. No one can.’

 

*

 

When gentle waves sway the ship he stands upon, carrying them towards the distant shores, his lord’s words echo in his ears, not for the first time. Of whom he spoke in the last part, Eönwë thinks he has a fair idea of, a reunion he has dreaded for so long.   

Before ought else was made, they seemed to exist as one in the timeless void, a space which slowly began to fill with sounds: trumpets, and harps, and mingling voices, fair and heavenly. Before life came to the earth they now call their own, they were friends, united in heart and spirit; they were equals, floating through the infinite clouds without the graceful bodies which are now their home. Joy still fills Eönwë when he thinks about this time – of clouds caressing his bodiless form; of streaks of light falling from the sky in colors he never saw before; of laughter and merriment. A deep friendship between them persisted in those early days when trees first sprang to life and the soil beneath their bare feet blossomed, and their eyes were filled with wonder upon the change of the earth. Lesser spirits than they stared at them in awe, as they too stared at those of higher rank whenever they saw the dance of the mighty Ainur amidst the drifting clouds.

In the beginning, they were inseparable. He had thought they would always be.

Now, with the wind caught in his hair, and his mind distracted, he can still hear Mairon Aulendil’s laughter – soft, and humorous, with a hint of mischief tarnishing the innocence; the mischief Eönwë had loved so much.

When eventually they were called upon, assigned to serve lords they didn’t choose themselves, they accepted their fate gladly, as their lords were selected in regard to their specific talents. Where Eönwë’s strength lay in diplomacy and self-reflection, Mairon was gifted with cunning craftsmanship, creating the most beautiful items Eönwë ever saw. At first, nothing changed between them, and often Eönwë was seen in Aulë’s halls, admiring the delicate jewelry his friend had created. To Eönwë, Mairon had always appeared content, happy even under the Vala’s tutorship, and from Aulë he learned many things.

Later, after Mairon Aulendil’s hasty flight from these lands, Eönwë wondered often if things would have turned out differently had they not been separated. If he could have saved Mairon from the allure of the darkness.

Bright sunshine reflects off Eönwë’s armor, intricate golden plates with sparkling sapphires set upon the breastplate; the gems, set into delicate fastenings, represent the eyes of the great eagle embossed upon the shining metal, the sigil of his mighty lord. Above his head, the banner of the Lords of the West flutters in the breeze, a blinding white with golden embellishments stitched onto the fabric.

He is glorious to look at in his power and beauty, he has been told on more than one occasion. When he boarded the ship at the shore that is already so far away, stares of awe and hushed whispers had bade him farewell. Stern and regal he is in appearance, as he has to be, and tall and proud he stands, even now when nobody watches, his body steeled from persistent training before they set sail. His lord said he must be a beacon of light amidst the arising darkness.

Sometime during his musings a lesser Maia must have come to stand beside him, because it is this Maia’s voice, sounding strange to his ears, which brings him back to the present. “What are you thinking about?” the spirit asks aloud.

“The past,” Eönwë replies, which earns him a quizzical look from the spirit.

“I wasn’t speaking.” The Maia rubs his chin. “Nor was anybody else.”

Not again, Eönwë thinks, throwing a pebble into the endless blue laid out before him. There is only one left who takes great delight in mimicking the voices of others, one he knows well indeed. It is not so long ago, when last this behavior caused severe trouble amongst the Ainur. “Ossë, are you bored again?” he asks, looking down over the railing into the gushing waves.

Amidst the blue, the surface begins to part, and soon after, turquoise eyes and blue lips greet him. “My humble apologies for disturbing your peaceful dreams,” says Ossë in mock sincerity. “My lord forbade me to cause even the slightest uproar of the sea. Instead, I am condemned to give you safe passage for so many days I have lost count already. So yes, boredom may be an accurate description.”

Eönwë shakes his head. “What a tedious task you have been assigned to. Allowing your kin to reach the distant shores in safety must be incredibly boring in comparison to what you do usually.” His tone is humorous, his spirits lifted – it has been a while since they last spoke properly (although ‘properly’ is a little different for Ossë in comparison to others, with the exception of Ulmo. Both claim they are so unlike each other, when indeed they are not).

“Indeed,” Ossë replies, jumping after the sharks he trained himself, much to Ulmo’s dismay. “My lord’s wrath for disobedience must not be taken lightly.”

Upon this, Eönwë laughs, wondering of the punishment Ulmo had spoken to Ossë, who has now disappeared into the foamy crest of a wave. It was no easy task to discipline the rebellious Maia with ordinary threats.  “Strange creature,” he mutters to himself before he turns around and leaves the deck.

 

*

Great is their triumph when at last Thangorodrim crashes into ruin and ash, and with it the enemies that dwell within; Melkor’s fell beasts and minions and those held captive in the darkest pits of Angband, those who couldn’t be saved. To their surprise, as they found out later, many captives survived the uproar of the earth and were successfully freed from the dungeons under the watchful gaze of the soaring eagles.

Amidst the cracking stones, in the deepest dark of Angband, at last Eönwë finds him, burnt and bleeding, his face distorted with agony. His mouth, however, isn’t idle – silent pleas and hushed confessions tumble from Melkor’s ashen lips in desperation. His lord’s prophecy is coming true at last, and he is glad when Tulkas takes care of Melkor, chaining him with the irons he has worn before. What truly startles Eönwë, though, is that Melkor is alone.

Despite his renowned persistence, exhaustion begins to take its toll; his shoulders ache under the weight of the armor he wears, and his head swims. There is no time for such sentiment, and so Eönwë forces himself upright again – his task is not yet fulfilled.

Much later he finds the one he’s been looking for; it amazes him that still, after all these years, he can sense his presence fully, even faintly recognize and read his emotions – otherwise, he would never found him. Mairon is unharmed and startled when Eönwë drags him out of his hiding place by the shoulders. His friend of old is disguised in a fair form, even more beautiful than Eönwë remembers him to be. He wears black silk and his smooth golden hair falls around his shoulders. What startles Eönwë most are Mairon’s eyes. A bluish-grey he thinks they were when last they saw each other; now he looks into eyes of glowing amber. It’s a surreal sight, an illusion, a lie, he tells himself, just as the gentle words tumbling from Mairon’s lips are. Despite the innocence he dons, in all the cruel deeds of Melkor, Mairon had a part. This Eönwë knows well from the dreadful sights he saw on Vairë’s tapestry.

At night, the encampment becomes a great gathering of elvish merriment to celebrate their long-awaited victory, save Eönwë’s tent. Whilst cheerful noises hum through the night air, a far less pleasant task awaits him. For quite a while he avoids the obligation. O, how he wishes somebody else would do it, when he knows well that there is no other.

“You know that it is not within my power to pardon you,” begins Eönwë with a sharp intake of breath, standing before his kneeling friend of old in all his might. Until now he hasn’t found the time to exchange his armor, now tarnished with dirt and dried blood, and his golden hair is sullied with bodily fluids he does not even dare to think about. “At the Máhanaxar, my lord’s judgment shall await you. Henceforth, you are commanded to return to Aman with myself and the rest of our kin.” A tremor shakes Mairon, who is visibly fighting to control himself. Eönwë doesn’t know what answer he actually expects, what answer he can expect from his friend of old after having lived countless years with the Moringotto.

Fey laughter burns in Mairon’s eyes, fear simmering faintly underneath, when at last he looks up from the floor. “O, what sweet lies will you tell me to lure me back to that god-forsaken land, where I am nothing more than a replaceable thrall?” spits Mairon in defiance. Under Melkor, his powers grew and flourished, and now he is afraid to be robbed of them again, that much is clear to Eönwë as Mairon rages on. “A useless vassal locked up in a golden cage I shall become again – a mere servant, a thrall to the mighty lords of the west?” Every word is said in blasphemous mockery, and Eönwë finds himself struggling to keep his composure. “Why is it you who shall command me, why not your lord? Alas! I must have forgotten his infamous reluctance to step down from his ivory throne.”

“You have served your new master well enough, it appears to me,” snaps Eönwë, holding his hands deadly still at his sides to stop them from twitching. “Would you have preferred Tulkas, equipped with biting iron, to find you?”

Upon this harsh remark, Mairon flinches as if struck. “No, no, please,” he whimpers whilst Eönwë’s mental strength begins to waver. It makes his heart ache to see him so vulnerable and defeated, the proud creature reduced to a begging mess, and to sense the pain he suffered for so long makes everything worse.

In an act of folly he later shall not be able to explain, Eönwë bends down, and rubs his hand against Mairon’s cheek. “Long enough you suffered, long enough you hid yourself from your brethren. Your place is in Aman, among your kin.”

A faint smile hushes across Mairon’s face, as eventually he answers: “Yes.”  

When night settles, and the world is clad in darkness, with no laughter and merriment disrupting the tranquility, a shadow escapes the encampment of the host of the West unseen. The next morning, Eönwë awakes in misery, knowing he has been deceived by yet another lie from his old friend’s lips.

The world that once was does not exist anymore when the victorious host leaves the shores of that land still unknown to them. Cities have been burnt to ash, lands laid asunder by the havoc of the great battle. The three Silmarils, Fëanáro’s cursed creations, have been given back to the elements at last.  

Standing on the deck of the departing ship, his gaze wanders towards the distant horizon where his lord’s judgment is awaiting him. ‘Not even you can save him from the folly, Eönwë. No one can.’

The words dissolve in the wind. “I cannot save him, no. But I could have brought him home.”

 

*

The years in Aman pass in serene indifference, with Tilion relentlessly chasing Arien across the sky. The judgment he faces when he set foot on his homeland again is not what he had expected, perhaps even hoped for. The consequences are less severe, almost understanding. Why that was, he still does not know.

Hadn’t he failed the quest, his lord, the world itself?

Hadn’t he failed to erase the everlasting darkness?

Against the guilt that plagues him so, those words of understanding do not help at all. Sometimes, when he is alone, he catches himself wishing for a proper punishment to distract him, to wipe the disturbing thoughts from his troubled mind.

 

*

The sun stands at its highest when Olórin comes before him. The sunlight is bright upon Eönwë’s hair, almost erasing the faint halo which glows above his head. The light is reflected by the impressive golden jewels that adorn his throat, and his arms, blinking and dazzling whenever he moves.

With an idle gesture of his hand he invites Olórin towards where he sits. “Come forth,” he says in sympathy, having forgotten not the discourse between Olórin and Manwë earlier that day. Quizzically, he looks at the Istar, his eyes searching for something that isn’t there anymore. Where once silver hair, soft and silken, cascaded down Olórin’s shoulders, now brazen grey sits, scratchy and uninviting like the fur of a giant beast; once smooth skin is now covered by grey hair, too, something Eönwë never saw there before. Hushed whispers of lesser spirits were often heard praising Olórin’s beauty. A beauty now erased. He is a shadow of his former self, an old man. An ordinary peasant, Eönwë catches himself thinking. Why the Valar decided to alter their appearances, Eönwë does not know; to question his lord’s decision is not his place.

He overheard parts of Manwë’s conversation with the Maia before duty led him away. What help can Eönwë be when he failed so terribly upon the task appointed to him?

“Why did you come?” Eönwë asks, even though he already knows the answer.

Olórin fumbles with his hands. “To speak about the one – you, of all, knows best.”

How much insight Olórin has into their former friendship, Eönwë does not know, because during the time when they both were assigned to Manwë, he did not speak often about Mairon. So he begins to retell their story from the start, feeling Olórin’s curious gaze upon his skin. “We were friends once, long before Melkor lured him out of Aulë’s sacred halls, long before the world was made. Brethren in spirit, in mind and soul we were, so alike it was said to be unwise. Then, just when I thought nothing could ever cause a rift between us, he was lost to me, and I was too blind to see it, Olórin.” A sigh falls from Eönwë’s lips as he tries to recollect himself, his voice shaking when he speaks on. “Too proud, too blind, too occupied with being the perfect herald – the worst of friends. In secrecy, still laboring in Aulë’s halls, he strived for creations of his own, and powers greater than were ever meant for him. Perhaps, I could have intervened if I only had seen, perhaps I could have prevented the inevitable, Olórin. Not a day passes when I do not ask myself if I could have saved him.”

Solemnly, Olórin nods. “I fear him.”

Eönwë nods in agreement. “And you are wise to do so. To underestimate his cunning mind is dangerous, after his corruption possibly more so than ever. Mairon is a wild creature, untamable, just as the mighty wolf he disguised himself as in later years. When I had the chance to chain him, I did not.” Hurt rips across Eönwë’s face when the realization ensnares his mind. If he had acted otherwise, the corrupted Maia would roam the earth no more, would cause no more distress to the world. “My sincere apologies for placing this burden upon you. Against my lord’s warning I believed something good was left in him; against my better judgement I trusted him, wishing for what has been long lost.”

The Istar rubs his long beard before he speaks, his voice filled with kindness. “We all were deceived.”

For many years, Olórin learned pity and patience from Nienna, mastering it to perfection until eventually he was released from her tutorship. To Eönwë, however, it is of little help. No matter how much time passes, how much reassurance he receives, guilt plagues him day and night. “Olórin, I knew him, know him still. When I set foot upon the distant shore, my lord’s words of warning rang in my ears. When I stood before him, I was swayed, and dissuaded by a strange descent of pity, blinded by my wish to see him once more as he truly is, as he was when nothing else existed.” Eönwë shakes his head in defeat. No word, no gesture will ever cease the pain which consumes him slowly. “Do what I could not,” at last he bids Olórin. “Never trust him, always fear him. Never let him ensnare you, not with words or idle gifts. Destroy him.”

“How shall I when so many others have failed?” Olórin’s wrinkled face is miserable. “When the words of those who suffered from his cruelties still shake me from my dreams? On many occasions I accompanied the lady Nienna to her brother’s hall, and believe me, what I saw and heard is beyond the imaginable. Sometimes, it was even said that Mairon’s deeds were more gruesome than Melkor’s own.” Uncontrolled tears stream down Olórin’s cheeks as he elaborates on what he saw.

Eönwë is at loss of what to say. From his lord, he knows glimpses of what Mairon is capable of; vile deeds, sick and disturbing, and from Vairë’s elaborate stitches he knows even more. Without thinking, he wraps his arms around the weeping Maia, pulling him close until their foreheads touch in a gentle gesture. Still, he doesn’t know how to reply, so he snatches the words Manwë said before. “It is your fear of him that makes you wise, Olórin; your wisdom shall guide you, and your pity will save you.”

 

*

Before the departure, Olórin spends many days at Eönwë’s side, learning whatever he can from him of Mairon. For Eönwë, who suffers still, it isn’t always an easy task to recall the past, joyful and filled with merriment, when the present is shadowed by guilt. But for the sake of all, as redemption, he tells Olórin everything he knows.

When the five Istari, emissaries of the Valar to assist the men in their helpless cause against the remains of the darkness, board the wooden ship, Eönwë stands beside his lord at the quay, saying his good-bye in silence. They are wrapped in entirely unspectacular grey cloaks, clad in the bodies of ordinary men to prevent troubles with the superstitious nature of the Second kindred, as eventually Manwë explained to him. When his gaze lands upon Curumo, the Maia who worked together with Mairon in Aulë’s halls, the one who wasn’t infrequently filled with envy, an ill feeling Eönwë cannot explain seems to overcome him. He remains silent, blaming his internal troubles for it. It is Olórin in whom he places all his hopes for the Istari’s forlorn quest. “If they will not succeed, no one will, and the world is lost.”

“They will,” says Ilmarë, his sister in heart and spirit; his friend, his ally. She takes his hand into her own. “He will.”

*

 

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Chapter End Notes

Many thanks to my avid beta reader, yavaenna, who did a wonderful job.

This said, I would also express my eternal gratitude to woodlandcrowns and tinuvicls for their willingness to discuss the plot of this story with me <3