a blissful state by Noldotári

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blissful state

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"Eönwë," Ilmarë calls. "You do not look well."

Whether these words mean to bring comfort or to be a judgment, Eönwë does not know. There are many things he now finds strange or tiring about Ilmarë—things that he, before, thought to respect and appreciate.

Eönwë still respects her. Still appreciates her dry tone and straightforward nature; but it is not what he needs, not when his every moment is filled with heavy memories and aching, painful longing.

She strides to him in elegant, graceful steps, and Eönwë bows his head. He's feeling naked, strangely vulnerable without his usual corporeal form; he hates it, hates how he wishes to slip back into the familiar comfort of his body, to feel the stretch of his wings and the touch of wind upon his skin, to curl his palms into rough, battle-worn fists.

Ilmarë considers him. "You can confide in me; you know I have never yet betrayed your trust."

Trust, Eönwë thinks again. Trust! If only she did not take trust as another one of her duties; if only she did not deem him another soul in need of relief; if only she knew that his trust was confided in someone who guarded his back numerous times, whom he held through countless sleepless nights, who's strand of golden hair was tucked safely away in his nest! But she was not him; she was not Arafinwë, no matter how much did Eönwë wish for it to be so—her love was of different kind; distant mercy and soft pity, uplifting grace and straightforward justice.

Eönwë thought, bitterly, that having tasted love of the Eldar - having tasted reckless devotion, fierce protection, trust strong as steel - he was not ready to return to the ways of old.

"You are silent again," Ilmarë notes, "and your mind is closed from me.” She thinks, then says: “Forgive me, if I ever hurt you in any way."

He purses his lips, and looks away. "You have not, and I am sorry. I am simply—it is just—am still too raw, and pain of the past years still lives within me; I do not wish to open it to anyone, lest my grief makes me say things I will later regret. I am sorry, my Lady," he says, and dares not to meet her gaze. "I truly am."

Ilmarë is silent beside him, and Eönwë feels his heart turn in the worst of ways. It was never meant to come to this. They were meant to be one whole, a perfect mirror of their Lord and Lady: Maia of Varda and Maia of Manwë, counselling other Ainur in wisdom and harmony.

He is hardly a shell of his past self, now. Or maybe - having left the comforts of Taniquetil, having shared the struggle of war with the Eldar and Edain, having watched them fight and persist and die—maybe he grew into something more than he was before; grew into something that no longer fit. He does not know.

He feels he no longer knows a thing.

"Mânawenûz should not have returned you to your duties so soon," Ilmarë finally says. "I am sorry for what you went through. I do not blame you for your grief, or for your anger; you can always confide in me, and I will not judge you."

"Will you?" Eönwë asks, quietly. Ilmarë tilts her head.

"Have I ever?"

"I do not know," Eönwë admits, and looks away. "I do not think I know anything anymore."

Ilmarë watches him closely. Then, she nods.

"So it is not me who you need," she concludes. "Alright, then. I forgot to tell you what I came here for in the first place, before I grew worried for your mind and spirit: there is a feast down in Valimar. I thought you would like to know."

"Feast?" Eönwë asks, bewildered. "I doubt it is feasts I miss."

Ilmarë sighs. "Of course, you don't. Though I still think you should be there; I have heard you could find some familiar faces between the countless Vanyar."

Eönwë watches her for some time, turning her words inside his head.

"Will the Ñoldóran attend?" he asks carefully. Ilmarë nods slightly.

"He and his wife heeded Prince Ingwion's invitation yesterday," she says, as if it's nothing, as if Eönwë doesn't suddenly want to forsake it all and fly to his friend - companion - partner - as soon as he can. "You and he seem to have grown—close, during your departure. I thought you would appreciate the information."

"I do," Eönwë says, and hopes his voice does not waver, does not betray emotion. "Thank you."

"Of course," she replies, and Eönwë feels her kind smile. "Anytime."

She turns away, and in a blink of an eye, she is gone. Eönwë looks at the place she just stood; then, he turns to the balcony, and hesitates for a second.

He slips into his body, and finally breathes, and spreads his wings.

It is freeing, to finally feel. The world is sharper, brighter, louder, and he sees, smells, hears; the familiar rush of adrenaline makes him soar, and the cold yet kind touch of the wind makes him sing, laugh, revel in euphoria. He missed this. Eru, how he missed this.

The lands behind him are a sight to behold. The land is green, bathing in sunlight, peaceful and thriving, beautiful, beautiful-

The land in his memories is dark, broken, ruined by war. The air smells of funeral fires, and the battlefields stink of rotten flesh, and-

He takes a breath and banishes the memories from his mind. His wings are spread wide, carrying him over the blessed realm of Valinor, and he closes his eyes in the kind touch of Sun.

It is not time to remember. The present is all there is; it is not time to choke on the sudden memories of the past.

The original euphoria that comes with being something physical, something tangible, something feeling wears out, and Eönwë is left with tender wind whispering into his ear and with a pleasant warmth of Arien's light around him. He takes a breath; another; another; then, he catches an air tide, and lets it carry him.

The city of Valimar grows nearer, and with it the phantom dingle of bells and a faint smell of roses and lilies. Eönwë soars above the golden buildings, and the sound of music and laughter wakes nostalgia in his chest; Valimar is as familiar as Ilmarin, and its smell, its sound, its people fill Eönwë with painful longing and tender hope. He draws closer to the festival, melding his feelings into reluctant anticipation and quiet happiness that comes with the thought of reuniting with his friend - partner - companion after so long; he smiles to himself, and flies higher.

It is not a feast, not quite yet. Though the preparations are a festivity themselves; the sound of cheerful singing rises to the sky, and there is a tingle of joyous anticipation in the air. Some of the Vanyar cheer, spotting Eönwë in the sky; he laughs and twists, making the Sun dance between his feathers, then falls down, and soars up again; he heads to the palace, and though he knows he would be welcomed there by Ingwë and his family, it is not quite the King of the Vanyar he wishes to see.

Valimar is breath-taking. Eönwë had missed it.

The palace of Ingwë is a thing of exceptional beauty; a relic of a time long gone, though time matters not in Aman. It is surrounded by ever blooming gardens, with birds of paradise singing and mingling in the crowns of trees; thousands of invisible bells tingle in a subtle merry melody on the kind wind; fountains and streams roll in the secret depths of it. Eönwë lands. His feet touch the ground, wings fold behind his back; he ruffles his feathers, and inhales the fresh air.

It is quiet. Gravel cracks beneath his steps; the palace welcomes him with doors open wide and the familiar elegant interior, holy in its gold. It is as unchanged as the rest of Valimar.

Quite sudden, Eönwë is aware of his ruffled feathers, simply braided hair and fairly bland attire. The feeling itches on his skin.

"Eönwë, friend!"

Ingwë is striding to him, a living vision of liquid gold; his arms are opened wide, smile painted on his face. The King embraces him, and Eönwë tenses, his wings curling closer to his body, and -

"Father!" another voice, and it is Ingwion. His eyes are wrinkling with worry as he looks at Eönwë. The hands around Eönwë are gone.

Eönwë falters.

Suddenly, he is very aware that the only one to touch him so in the past fifty—or more—years, was Finarfin; the only one whom he held in his arms like this; the only one whom he trusted enough to allow such closure, and -

It is foolish. He smiles at Ingwë.

"We have not expected you," the King of Vanyar shakes his hands, smiling. "You left Olwë's dwellings with such haste! We have been worrying."

"I wanted to see to my King as soon as I could," Eönwë answers simply. Ingwë turns around. They start moving to the depths of the palace.

The conversation flies smoothly. At some point, Ingwion laughs. Ingwion always laughs, sometimes brightly and honestly, when Finarfin makes a teasing remark, sometimes sharp and brief, when someone jokes, darkly, during the briefing in the command tent, sometimes mad and cackling, sword in his hand, eyes flaming and lips crooked in a dangerous grin-

But that is the past, Eönwë reminds himself as Ingwë continues asking him about Ilmarë, and Manwë, and Varda; that is the past, and Aman is the land outside the time.

Still, Ingwion's eyes are not as bright and clear as they were just half a century ago. His face has changed from the last time Eönwë saw him: it bears no scars, no markings of Ingwion's encounter with one of Morgoth's most ruthless dragons - a tale rivalling that of Fingon and Glaurung.

Many tales witnessed in the past five decades rival that of Fingon and Glaurung.

Eönwë tears his gaze away. His body still bears the marks and scars he earned on their campaign. He has not had the courage to mend them away, nor to hide them under illusion like Ingwion did.

One day, he thinks. Ingwion's smile falters just for a second.

"I am glad you have finally decided to pay us a visit, friend," Ingwë says, and Eönwë nods. "I have to ask, however: what brings you here? Memory of our companionship, or something besides that?"

"I have a good idea what must have brought the Herald here," Ingwion answers instead, shooting Eönwë a playful glance. Eönwë glares at him. "Or, rather, who. Have you come to see my valiant cousin, Eönwë?"

"I came to join your festivities," Eönwë retorts, and his wings twitch with annoyance. "Arafinwë's presence is merely a coincidence."

"I heard many tales of Ñoldóran and his… Angel," Ingwë muses. "Or so they call you; I am not sure if Ainur can belong to someone, especially to an Incarnate, and, unless you want to clarify-"

"I am my own," Eönwë retorts, slightly more harshly than intended to. He is his own, and no one rules him; besides, it is not about belonging, not quite how Ingwë thinks. "I belong to myself, and to no one else."

"Eönwë does not mind," Ingwion quips, eyes sparkling with mischief. "He never denied the title."

Ingwë glares at his son. "Be as it was, yes: Finwion arrived to join us yesterday. And he was with his wife! I was certain I would never see the two together again. Would you like a drink, Eönwë? We have uncorked some fine wine for the occasion."

"Later, maybe," Eönwë answers. "I am sure you must be busy. I would hate to be a nuisance."

Before Ingwë can say something else, Ingwion grabs Eönwë by his elbow - a gesture which sends unpleasant shivers up Eönwë's spine - and tsks his tongue. "See, Father! Even the Herald thinks we should get back to work. Will you truly disobey the divine counsel? I am sure Arafinwë will be more than happy to keep our guest entertained. Come, Eönwë. I will show you where he is."

"Your rooms have been kept tidy for you, you may retire to them any time!" Ingwë only manages to shout before Ingwion hurries the Maia away from the hall.

"Thank goodness," the prince breathes once they are out of reach, and sighs. "I am sorry if you wished to talk some more to my father, but there are things more important."

Before Eönwë can react, Ingwion puts his hands on Eönwë's shoulders; then, he takes a breath and wraps the Maia in a hug.

This time, Eönwë does not tense or pull back. Carefully, he puts his hands around the Vanya, and brings his wings to wrap around him.

He missed Ingwion—Ingwion, who laughed and fought and grieved by his side in Beleriand; his warmth in Eönwë's hands does not bring discomfort, only an odd sense of nostalgia. Ingwion hums approvingly.

"Thank you," he mutters finally, still not letting go. "I missed you, friend."

Reluctantly, Eönwë pulls back. "I am sorry I did not visit earlier. I returned from Númenor only recently; Manwë needed me at Taniquetil. I would not even know you held a feast if it was not for Ilmarë."

"We should thank her, then. Eru sees that I have missed you," Ingwion smiles, and squeezes Eönwë's shoulders; then, he turns around, and walks to where the hall is leading outside. "I will second my father's offer. I have a bottle of wine in my room, still waiting to be open; I wanted to drink it with Arafinwë, but he was too tired from the road yesterday, so I would not be opposed to share it with you. Ten years! So little, and yet too much still. What do you say?"

Eönwë looks at Ingwion, who answers with a bright grin. His heart yearns for Arafinwë - the mere thought of further separation is unbearable; yet Ingwion - his friend, his brother in arms, looks at him with a barely hidden plea, and it does not take much for Eönwë to give in.

"Very well," he says, and smiles. "I cannot refuse your offer." Then, reluctantly: "I missed you, too."

Ingwion throws his head back, and laughs. "Eönwë! I was worried you will refuse me in favour of meeting with my cousin as soon as possible. Come, then! Heavens, I have so much to tell you - please, this way, you could not have forgotten this dwelling so easily, could you? And do not worry - I will send someone to inform Arafinwë of your coming; I am sure he longs to see you as much as I did."

Eönwë smiles. Hearing Ingwion's voice is relaxing; his laughter is familiar, and he knows Eönwë as a palm of his hand.

That is another person Eönwë confides in—Ingwion, son of Ingwe, the golden prince of the Eldar. The thought warms Eönwë's heart.

Ingwion's chambers Eönwë knows as his own—so many times did he find in them refuge from balls and ceremonies. They have not changed much. The room Ingwion leads him in - his own small kitchen - is well-lit. The rays of Arien spill inside through a stained glass window, light and shadows breaking and mingling. One wall is entirely covered with pot plants and dark, well-groomed ivy. A vast of paintings of different sizes in intricate frames hang from another wall - a collection Ingwion painted himself; Eönwë spots a few works among the ones he knows as his own hand.

He waits while Ingwion manages the wine, cuts down the cheese, washes the grapes; then, the prince winks, and they head to another room. It is less lit and filled with many different books, scrolls and parchments. The rug under Eönwë's feet is soft, and probably as old as the palace itself; it is in deep crimson and black colours.

Ingwion places the wine and the plate on the tea table, fills the glasses, sits on a chair. Eönwë sits, too. He notes, with a sense of unusual gladness, that the chairs are weathered by time; here the fabric is faded; here are a few threads that broke free.

Ingwion mostly manages his rooms himself. He has not changed these chairs ever since the Darkening.

Ingwion notices his stare and smiles, leaning back. "I had to clean these a few weeks ago, they were starting to become unrecognizable. Father wanted me to give them out to a master; alas, I was too afraid a master would take one look and dismantle them completely. There is no respect for the reign of time and the stains that come with it here in Valimar! A shame; in truth, I find withering that comes with every passing year rather charming."

Eönwë brings his glass to his lips. The wine is sweet, and does not burn his throat; this, too, had he missed during his long time in Beleriand first and in Númenor next. The drinks of Edain and Beleriandrim were bitter and burning. Eönwë never got quite used to them; Finarfin, strangely, did.

The wine tastes of sweet vanyarin grapes - it spills into drops of warmth and sunlight on Eönwë's tongue. He can down a barrel of this, he thinks, and not have enough.

Ingwion is looking at him, quiet too. Eönwë would be content to remain like this for a while, in a pleasant silence and a friend's company; that and the wine makes him relax, lean back into his chair, bring the glass up to catch the rays of sun in the red liquid.

"I am glad you have not thrown this chair away," he admits. "I have missed it, and this room."

"How could I?" Ingwion laughs. The sound is clear and bright, as the ringing of a summer stream. "It is yours - I would have hardly thrown it away without your permission. I must admit, though - I was tempted to move it out of the room; it looked out of place without you in it."

"Well, I am at your service now," Eönwë says, and smiles. "Though truly, you could not have been so lonely as to have no visitors here aside myself."

"Time, my friend," Ingwion frowns as a shadow passes his face, "means people go as naturally as they come." He sighs. "I was quite lonely here."

Eönwë should have known; he purses his lips, chiding himself for being so short-sided. He himself helped to bury four of Ingwion's friends, one by one. Another he had to bury himself; Ingwion was screaming in pain under the steady hands of medics, burns on his face too great to make him even aware of his companion's passing.

Eönwë's eyes dart to the prince. "Surely not all are gone," he says, rather more sharply than intended. "Surely not all are; and those who are - surely they will not be gone for long."

Ingwion mulls his wine. "No one has returned, yet," he says quietly. "Not faithful Calcamo, nor dear Antaron, nor brilliant Ornélë. Their fëar still linger in Halls - as they should, I am sure; it has not been long, and their deaths were not easy. Still - it has been quite lonely, without them. Everyone else has left. Some moved out of Valimar, some went to Lórien and have not yet rested enough. Regarding people I knew before - well, they hardly were acquaintances with me, being rather satisfied with what I presented to courts and ballrooms; a golden prince, a charming icon. Who am I to blame them? I myself had enjoyed being a prince a lot more than I should have - I am vain like that, Eönwë; it came to bite me in the neck, as I see now. The old mask hardly fits. Tailoring a new one," Ingwion takes a breath, and his face fails - "well. I do not think I am able to do that. Not now."

"Have you been to Lórien, Ingwion?" Eönwë asks, and hopes the worry in his voice does not show too much. "Do not take offence; but I think it might be good for you."

Ingwion sighs. "Always you have to fret, Ornorë. But yes, I have been there, for a month or so after our host returned. Not at once, of course; it has been a true headache, dear friend - there were so many people to settle and navigate. Me and Arafinwë have not been able to rest quite for a while. We are still not quite done with that; ships keep arriving from Middle-Earth, and though many settle in Tol Eressea, many still wish to dwell in these lands."

"So I have heard, though not in much detail," Eönwë frowns. "I have not yet had the time to assess the current climate—besides, Manwë returned me to my duties almost immediately. I am often very busy." Eönwë takes a sip of his wine, and sighs. "Much is happening with the world that we do not quite know how to fix. The breaking of Beleriand was disastrous beyond comprehension."

Ingwion shudders, and averts his eyes. They fall into silence.

Eönwë still remembers it - the Breaking; rivers changing their flows and new ones springing from beneath, their waters strong and terrible; fire bursting from the cracks in the ground; land shaking with guttural moans, giving up to the torment of its past years. The way back to the shore, where Cirdan and the Teleri wrought the ships that would carry the Eldar west, was perilous and tense; Finarfin’s frame never once relaxed as he led his people and those who joined him through what once was Beleriand.

"We could not have helped it," Ingwion says. His face is pale. "It has been dying long before we stepped on its shore."

"But we have tried," Eönwë answers dully.

"Eru, we have tried," Ingwion agrees, and sighs.

Eönwë thinks back to the grey days of war. The wine, which tasted so sweet mere minutes ago, turns bitter on his tongue.

The golden bliss of Valinor always dulls in comparison to the memories of ruined, broken Beleriand. The memories of pain and suffering always outweigh the fleeing happiness, no matter how genuine it is; the flashes of past always come when they least expect it. He is tired of it, Eönwë thinks. He wishes the memories would go away; dissolve as words written on the water.

But the Ainur are beings of memory, made to create and preserve and to never forget - and there was beauty among the ruin, no matter how desperate it might have seemed. There was loyalty, and bravery, and unity; there was Finarfin, tall and proud and stubborn, his acts calculated and carried out flawlessly—there was Finarfin, who entered Eönwë's heart and refused to leave—Finarfin, whom Eönwë missed above all else whenever he looked westwards from the shores of Númenor, his absence a dull ache in Eönwë's chest.

"Enough about the past," Eönwë says. "Enough! There is too much in the memory."

"There is too much in the present, too," Ingwion answers, and shrugs. "What use is in avoiding either? This place is stuck in time - or, rather, time is stuck in here; what withers is healed or replaced, what changes is forced back into its old state - and the holes that cannot be filled are hidden and masked, covered in gold and deafened by the chime of bells. I have no choice but to relive the memories and face the grief that no one understands—no, grief that many understand, but few show. I envy the Noldor and the Teleri time to time—they learned loss and change in a bitter, but needed way; the Vanyar had no such opportunity. This place smells of honey and flowers so much, and for what? To hide the reek of bodies, buried now under the sea? We sing hymns, but write no laments. Each day I see my old armour and weapons, hanged on a wall, a mere decoration to please the eye; each day I pass it, and see stains of blood that ate so deep into metal they could not be cleaned nor hidden. How many of us suffer the same? Do you know how many have faded, Eönwë, once they returned to the realm of bliss which knew no death - do you know how many there are of those who fell asleep in Irmo's gardens, and have not yet woken up?"

Ingwion is pale. His hands are trembling. Eönwë looks at his face; Ingwion's lips twitch, hand coming to rub at the scars, hidden by an intricate spell - a single tear rolls down his cheek.

"I don't know what to do," Ingwion breathes finally, voice a shaking whisper. "I don't know what to do."

Eönwë, not for the first time in the past years, feels helpless.

He does what he knows the best. Opens his mind, reaches to Ingwion's; wraps it around his thoughts as a blanket of soft light; stands up and tugs hid friend into an embrace.

Ingwion trembles. He does not pull back.

"Thank you," he half-sobs, half-whispers. "Thank you. I talked too much. I should not be allowed to talk much. I - I ruined your mood, did I not? I am sorry."

"Stop," Eönwë cuts softly. "You ruined nothing."

"I—I should return. Father is looking for me already, I think. I—we have to get the damn festival going, and Father dislikes when I talk about it so dismissively, but I am just—so tired. Each year, the same thing, the same flowers, the same music. Each year, I—sorry, sorry, I am sorry, Eönwë. At least you will be there. Something to look forward. Arafinwë will be there, too, I—Eru, I should not have kept you from seeing him. Valar, I am sorry. I am sorry."

"Quit it. There is nothing to be sorry for."

Ingwion stays in his embrace a minute more. Then, he pulls back.

"You should look for Arafinwë," he says quietly, and wipes his face quickly. "I will tell you who to ask. Let's go."

 

All too soon, Ingwion is gone. Eönwë is left alone in the endless golden maze, with nothing but loose directions to guide him. The Ñoldóran is not in his room, the maid Eönwë asks answers; he and the Swan-Maiden have left to walk through the gardens, and have not yet returned. Surely, she can arrange for Eönwë to wait in the antechamber - The Noldo will not object, especially if it is the business that cannot wait until the end of festivities, and that the Herald himself had to come down to discuss them...

Eönwë dismisses her, feeling rather annoyed.

Business! Herald! Ñoldóran! His being revolts at the words; grows disgusted with the idea. The Herald cannot come down for the sake of pure sentimentality, the Ñoldóran cannot expect to be left outside the state matters; the King and his Angel cannot exist outside the battlefield—for is it not scandalous, for them to remain close when the danger is gone? No, the King became Ñoldóran, the Angel became Herald; clad in gold, polite and distant - there was no space for ruthless, reckless devotion in blissful lands of Valinor.

A strange grief tugs at Eönwë's heart—a grief for something lost that he did not know he possessed. How much simpler was it among the wrath and ruin of Beleriand! How much simpler it was, to love, when all that mattered was here and now, when each day could have been final, when the only hope was a steady hand and faithful steel...

Having exited the palace, he looks up to the sky and breathes in the fresh air. The garden smells, faintly, of apples and roses. There is a sound of running water nearby.

Eönwë knows these gardens as well as he knows Valimar, or the patterns of light in the air, or his own soul.

He walks under the branches. If he continues for a few minutes more, the walkway will lead him to a pond with a waterfall. There, trees of wild roses grow, shedding their petals on the pond's surface, and the air smells of flowers, pleasantly damp and cold on his skin; there, Arien's light breaks and dances in the depths of the water, and birds whose songs still hold the echo of Melian's teachings nestle in bushes and branches.

There, he stops, and stands still, comprehending the beauty of nature—both captured and wild.

The place is beautiful. It might be one of Eönwë's most favoured spots to be at when visiting Ingwë. It is close to the palace so Eönwë could return any time, yet it is never crowded; almost always Eönwë is here alone. He claimed this spot for himself, in the depth of his heart. The shy rose-trees, the bubbling of water, the greenery of the grass—it is his, in the way Ingwion is his, or Arafinwë is his; it does not belong to him, but he keeps it for himself nonetheless.

He stands at the bank of the pond, taking in the sight surrounding him.

A shadow passes his face. Arafinwë, he thinks, is still nowhere to be seen. He is tempted to reach out to Finarfin's mind; to feel their thoughts intertwined as they were in the years of war, but... it feels out of place—borderline intrusive. Eönwë knows he will succeed if he tries. He decides not to.

He shifts his wings, suddenly feeling very lonely.

The water blisters in the pool, interrupted by the soft breath of wind and bright fins of fish beneath its surface. Eönwë breathes. It is well; everything is well. He only has to wait some more before he sees his partner again. This evening, when the festivities start, Finarfin will be there—and maybe Eönwë will not be able to touch him, not just yet, but—he will see him, see his face, greet him with a soft smile.

But then—will Finarfin smile back, when their eyes meet? It has been years—does Finarfin still need him, is Finarfin even—

The thought creeps up his spine like a venomous serpent. Eönwë shakes it off.

It has only been ten years. Finarfin spent half a century on Eönwë's side; half a century guarding his back, sharing late meals, sleeping under his wing. When they parted, Eönwë remembered the phantom touch of the other for long after—remembered his tired eyes each time the night fell, each time he raised his head to watch the stars.

I will not ask you to stay, Finarfin said; I will but ask you to finish your task swiftly, and come to me again.

Eönwë promised to return, then. Tilted Finarfin's face and kissed it, soft and gentle; did not let go of him that night, but did not wake him up to say a final goodbye either. That morning, Finarfin's golden hair was spilled over the pillows, brow furrowed and face solemn in his sleep; Eönwë brushed his lips against his cheek, then rose and left the room.

Later that day, when he was already far away from Finarfin's ship, he felt the other wake up—then, felt a terrible loneliness overcome his partner. Eönwë replied with a soothing touch, and hoped it would be enough. They kept in touch like this for some time—the feeling, the answer, the distress, the comfort—until Finarfin reached Valinor, and his presence in Eönwë's heart faded.

The sun touches Eönwë's cheek, caressing it softly, as if bringing him back to life. The water bubbles, and soft wind ruffles the pool's surface. A bird lands on a branch before him, a simple brown sparrow; it tilts its head and chirps.

Someone is approaching, it thrills, and jumps on another branch. Someone is approaching!

Eönwë sighs. He should return to the palace; ask Ingwë if he needs any help with the preparations.

Someone is approaching, the bird insists. You cannot run!

"I am not running, little one," he retorts, slightly amused. "I will be useful there, is all I am saying."

They are here! Too late to run, the sparrow announces, satisfied. Eönwë's ears perk up. He turns his head to see the intruders, and—

His breath catches in his throat.

Finarfin stands still in the middle of the pathway, looking at Eönwë with wide eyes. The water rises from where the waterfall disrupts it, particles of it shining and glimmering in the sun, making Eönwë think Finarfin is but a mirage; but there he is, tangible and solid and real, and Eönwë—

"The Herald himself!" springs a surprised voice, and Eönwë blinks, forcing himself to tear his gaze off Finarfin's face. He was so captivated by his partner's image, he did not notice the woman at his side, her arm locked with Finarfin's; she is not much shorter than the King, and in her silver hair and curious tilt of a head Eönwë recognizes Eärwen, the Swan-Maiden, his partner's wife; he feels his mouth dry as his eyes are drawn back to Finarfin, who still does not move. Eärwen looks at him with curious eyes. "Truly, many unexpected people can be met in the midst of King Ingwë's garden."

Eönwë takes a breath, then bows politely, moving his wings behind his back. "Lady Eärwen. I have heard much of you."

Eärwen's voice is bright as ringing of water, or as dance of sunlight. "And much is told in Tirion of the Herald! The tales of your valour surpass anyone. It is an honour to meet you eye to eye."

Eönwë smiles. "I am sure most of those are exaggerated."

"My husband was a witness to many," Eärwen waves her hand and looks at Finarfin, whose ears perk up. He meets Eönwë's eyes. "He never pointed out any inconsistencies."

Eönwë can tell the exact moment Finarfin comes back to himself. His jaw sets, back straightens, eyes set on Eönwë. Eönwë almost wants to laugh at the familiarity of it: Finarfin's anger he long learned to recognize, and long learned not to fear it—learned to soothe his grieves, to cup his face and kiss away the furrows from his brow.

But Finarfin is still too far away, still not in Eönwë's embrace. The King jerks his chin.

"The minstrels are allowed to get away with poetic liberties," he says. "It is not well-mannered to correct them. It is a great surprise to meet you, Eönwë."

I came as soon as I heard, Eönwë wants to say. I came as soon as I knew I could see you again. "I arrived not long ago," he says instead. "I was told the Ñoldóran and his wife were not in their rooms, so I headed out to the gardens. I am glad to see you again, Arafinwë."

Finarfin looks him in the eyes; his face does not betray emotion, but Eönwë knows how to look past the facade that Finarfin puts on.

Eärwen touches her husband's arm, and they walk forward, coming closer to Eönwë. Still not close enough, Eönwë thinks, looking at Finarfin, still not quite there—he needs to pull Finarfin close, needs to feel his heartbeat and a startled laugh. But Finarfin is cold and unmoving, his arm still in Eärwen's, and Eönwë can but incline his head.

"We have heard rumours of your arrival," Eärwen says. "My brother wrote to me—he was surprised you were in such a hurry. Did your duties on Taniquetil truly demand your attention so?"

Why did you not come earlier, Eönwë hears, looking into Finarfin's eyes. Why did you wait for so long?

"Yes," he answers. "Manwë needed me. I lingered with the Edain far too long—I had to return as soon as possible. Besides," he wavers, "I have been too weary for any formal events. I still am, I think; Irmo insisted many times I visit his gardens, but there is too much to do still. I cannot be absent for any longer. I shall return to Ilmarin on the morrow."

Finarfin purses his lips, and Eönwë shifts his wings behind his back; he hopes he looks sorry enough Finarfin will notice.

"On the morrow!" Eärwen exclaims, sounding surprised; Eönwë shifts his attention to her once again. "That is very soon indeed. Surely the Elder King would not object if you stay for a day more? Arda shall not break without your presence."

She looks pointedly at Finarfin at those words, and Finarfin scoffs. Eärwen rolls her eyes. "My husband is just as stubborn about his work. I can hardly get him to rest; we are here only because I managed to convince him it would be useful for the diplomatic relationships—he would be head deep into his paperwork otherwise."

"Ah," Eönwë says, and smiles. "I see that did not change. Does he still bring paperwork to his bed?"

Finarfin glares. Eärwen’s eyes spark as she looks at her husband.

"I tried to make him stop, but he is stubborn. I had to come to terms with it. He gets ink stains on the sheets fairly regularly."

Finarfin scoffs, and looks away. "Someone has to take their job seriously."

"Of course," Eärwen says fondly, and looks again at Eönwë. "I am afraid I cannot keep your company much longer. I am still weary from our road from Tirion—I would like to retire back to my rooms. Me and Arafinwë were just heading back—would you like to join us there, perhaps? There is still plenty of time before the evening."

Before Eönwë can answer anything, Finarfin shakes his head. "You told me you wanted to get some sleep. You should get it before the feast starts. Come—we will walk you to the next turn, the palace is not far from there; I and Eönwë will wander the gardens some more, and—I will join you later."

"I like the sound of it," Eärwen says, and raises her hand; Eönwë takes it without thinking much, moving to Eärwen's side, and she smiles radiantly. "Unless the Herald has other places to be?"

Eönwë's throat, for some reason, is dry—Eärwen's hand is small and delicate, and the touch feels... alien, unknown—but also not unwelcome. He shifts his feathers.

"No," he says. "No, I don't think so." And then, he smiles.

"Excellent," Eärwen smiles back, and flashes a grin to Finarfin; the King's face is still worn and distant, but Eönwë does not miss the fondness in his gaze. Their eyes meet.

Eönwë realizes he might have been looking for too long.

They walk slowly. Eärwen's voice is bright as she leads them smoothly through conversation; she is warmth, rays of sunshine, laughter condensed and purified; he is already fond of her, Eönwë realizes—already her voice has a place in his heart, already the shining mirth of her eyes claimed a piece of his memory. Finarfin walks on her other side, humming time to time and throwing a word here or there. His voice is just as Eönwë remembers, but—wearier; Eönwë does not miss the way he leans towards his wife, the way his eyes linger on her face—does not miss the way Finarfin purses his lip and tenses his grip slightly on her arm, as if holding onto her for stability. Eönwë might be looking too much at him, in all fairness. He itches to touch, to hold, to comfort—but Finarfin is still not close enough; Eärwen is still in between them.

Finarfin looks at him, takes a shallow breath, looks away. A chaffinch lands on a branch, tilting its head; Finarfin's eyes linger at it. His features soften just a bit.

The turn at which Eärwen will leave them is not so far away, the Maia realizes. Eärwen fell silent; Eönwë thinks he ought to say something, but the silence is filled with chirping of birds and whispering of leaves, and he does not want to break it.

"It is beautiful," Finarfin says, suddenly. "I used to spend some time with my parents here, when I was younger. My mother used to visit Valimar fairly regularly—it was a sort of pilgrimage, I think—we would come here and stay for a few days, and then join the Vanyar in their journey to Taniquetil. Sometimes Father came with us—he would always take us to the place he and Mother met. Lalwendë used to come with us the most, though she claimed to dislike the occasion. I don't think the Vanyar have a habit of pilgrimaging anymore, though. I did not hear about it in a long time, at least."

"Some do," Eönwë answers. He knows what Finarfin is talking about: hundreds of the Eldar going upon the feet of Taniquetil, singing and cheering all the way, setting their camp, celebrating summer and earth—truly, long was the last time Eönwë heard their voices and came down to join them. Ilmarë used to adorn his wings with blooming blossoms and little children weaved flower crowns and placed it upon his head—how many of them are still alive? How many perished under his command in Beleriand?

He takes a breath. "Some do," he repeats. "Not nearly as much as used to, and there are no celebrations held at the feet of Taniquetil—it is more of a pleasant way to spend time, without much symbolism attached. The place where Finwë and Indis met is still unchanged, and well-cared for. Ingwë gave to carve a statue of them there." He wavers for a second, then adds: "You can still visit, if you would like."

A grimace passes Finarfin's face. He looks away.

Eärwen takes her hand off Eönwë's and stops. "Well, here we are! I will depart from you now. Is it safe to assume I will see you again this evening, Lord? I have enjoyed your company a great deal."

"Yes," Eönwë says without thinking—"Yes." Then, smiling: "And—call me Eönwë."

Eärwen grins at him, then turns around. Less than a minute after, she is gone, having only waved a goodbye before taking her turn. For a few seconds, Eönwë looks her way.

A cold breeze brushes his chin. He takes a sharp breath.

"Let's go," Finarfin orders sharply, and Eönwë has no choice but to follow him.

Finarfin's steps are sharp and quick as he navigates through the trees and bushes, leading them away from where any spying eye could spot them. Eönwë does not see his face, but he can imagine Finarfin's expression barely holding itself composed, can spot his white knuckles. He risks drawing blood from his skin with the way his nails dig into his palms, Eönwë thinks, and reaches to take Finarfin's hand into his—but Finarfin escapes his touch narrowly, his footsteps only quickening. Faster, faster, Eönwë's mind chants, faster so I can finally touch you, finally look into your eyes.

The place Finarfin leads him to is familiar to Eönwë. It is hidden and secluded, a pond with an old withered fountain in the middle of it, fish within it swimming near the surface and flexing their fins, orange and white and red; trees murmur in the high, and birds-of-paradise call for their mates in the branches.

Finarfin stops abruptly and turns around. Eönwë freezes in his place.

Finarfin is beautiful. Golden hair is held loosely by an intricate circlet, spilling down his shoulders. His face is pale, breath quickened, eyes open wide—Eönwë almost feels the beat of his pulse; his hands are adorned with many rings, his dark green robes flowing.

Finarfin opens his mouth as if to say something. Eönwë does not wait for it. He strides towards Finarfin in a few wide steps, and—

"Where have you been?" Finarfin cries, and falls against his chest. His voice is strangled and choked—he grips Eönwë's robes as tears roll down his face, as Eönwë's hands come about his waist, pulling him tighter, closer, wrapping him in the soft feathers of Eönwë's wings— "Where have you been? I waited for you, I waited for so long, Eönwë—Eönwë!"

I am sorry, Eönwë wants to say, but no words come out of his mouth, no sound leaves his lungs—he holds Finarfin tightly, too tightly as he sobs into his chest, as he shakes violently, staining Eönwë's tunic with tears. I am sorry, I am sorry—

"Every day," Finarfin whispers—"Every day I thought of you, of your touch, of your voice—every day I searched for you and could not find you, and then—you—"

"I am here," Eönwë says, a bit too hastily, a bit too desperately; "I am here, Arafinwë, I—I am sorry, I am sorry I did not come see you right away, I—"

"I missed you."

"I missed you too," Eönwë breathes. "I thought of you whenever I looked to the skies, whenever I looked westwards, I—forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," Finarfin whispers. He tilts his head so it lays on Eönwë's chest. Eönwë comes to thread his fingers through the golden hair of his lover; drops his head, touching their foreheads. Finarfin closes his eyes. "There is nothing of your fault, nothing I should hold against you."

"I am here. I am here and you are in my arms, and I am not letting you go." Eönwë pulls him closer, as if to prove his words. "All be damned; I am not letting you go. Not as long as I can. Not as long as you would let me."

"As if I will ever pull away," Finarfin says. His voice still shakes with emotion. "As if I will ever leave your arms."

They stand like that for long minutes. Finarfin's weight in Eönwë's hold is comforting, his warmth familiar, his breath real — Eönwë buries his face into Finarfin's shoulder, the action as familiar as it was a decade ago. Finarfin is silent, but still trembling. Eönwë rubs soothing circles into his back, humming lowly.

"You get tired of standing for so long," Eönwë murmurs after some time, still not moving. "Your feet are trembling."

"I am fine," Finarfin whispers. "I am fine."

But Eönwë is already pulling away the slightest amount, measuring Finarfin with a look; he cups his face, tilts it up. There are scars on Finarfin's brow, old and familiar. Eönwë hesitates, uncertain.

"May I," he whispers, eyes searching Finarfin's own almost desperately. It feels surreal, asking permission for something that has before been as easy as breath; it feels not right, claiming something that he is not sure belongs to him anymore. Finarfin's pupils widen. He nods once; his breath catches in his throat.

Eönwë bends down, cupping his face with both hands. He presses a soft kiss to the scar on Finarfin's forehead, then the one marking his brow. He trails his hand down Finarfin's arm, tilts it so the palm faces upwards; there is a mark from where Finarfin's hand has been shot through, and Eönwë kisses it, too. He knows Finarfin bears much more scars on his skin; he knows he has to stop, but—

Finarfin's eyes are wide, breath uneven, cheeks flushed. Eönwë marvels at his face again, so ancient yet so young; his lips are parted slightly, and Eönwë looks at Finarfin again, searching.

Finarfin's breath hitches. His grip on Eönwë's arm tightens.

"You may," he whispers, "you may."

Eönwë bows down, and kisses him.

The trees above whisper, undisturbed, and the birds-of-paradise call for their mates; the wind, easy and fresh, hurries up to the sky, meeting the clouds. Down in Valimar, the air smells of roses, and the quiet chime of bells is ever-present—down in Valimar, near an abandoned, yet somehow preserved fountain Eönwë lets his guard down, and allows his mind to rest.

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Chapter End Notes

thank you for reading, and i hope you enjoyed! comments are appreciated :)