lady–of–greenwood:

The war had been devastating. Valar and Maiar, Elves and Men, taking up arms against the forces of Melkor – Morgoth as the children of Eru had named him – and these powers clashing had torn the realm asunder.

But even all the death and destruction raging around them, it could not compare to what happened when Manwë struck the final blow against his brother, binding him in Angainor, the old chain.

The capture of a Valar as powerful as Melkor – one who was so entwined with Beleriand as he –  echoed across the fabric of the world, creating fissures where none should be, and Eönwë would feel Arda shake beneath his feet.

The remains of the two armies froze as Melkor’s was dragged away, standing still for but a moment before his influence was torn away.

And then, Beleriand buckled one last time…and it broke. The shadows so closely entwined with the land were ripped out, great chasms opening where they had been and lava too hot even for Aulë and his children came to air as the sea rose to swallow what broke away from the rest of Middle-earth.

Eönwë sprang away from a spout of lava, taking to the air but lost hold of the helmet with the Silmarils his Lord had entrusted to him in the progress. Around him Maiar gathered the survivors of their own armies and brought them to safety as Melkor’s creations fled from the battlefield, the helmet lost in the chaos.

He saw Balrogs, trying to reach the molten rock that spilled out over dead earth, swallowed by sudden waters that perhaps even Ulmo could not control. Their large, flaming bodies died in clouds of steam that rose to the skies, mingled with the shadows that had yet to disperse and turned to acrid smoke that burned Eonwë’s lungs like poison.

He ducked down below the cover of steel grey clouds, searching the shifting, breaking, sinking, ground for familiar faces.

He spied the remaining sons of Fëanor disappear beyond the horizon, saw Curumo and Olórin support each other onto backs of eagles as they fled, orcs and wolves who possessed neither magic nor the love of Eru sink into lava or drown in icy waves. Where the flood came from suddenly he could not tell but it washed away the stench of evil and the blood of Ancalagon as it began to flood into ruined Angband.

He could feel Yavanna’s powers flow into the root of every tree and flower, coaxing them to support Beleriand long enough for the Host of the West to retreat but even her powers were not enough against the force tearing the already dying land apart.

A flash of red caught his attention out of the corner of his eye and he swerved, dodging around a slab of rock that shot into the air to sink like a damaged ship, and his gaze fell upon–

“Mairon,” he breathed. His former friend had fought his way through the fleeing masses and now knelt over his Master’s discarded helm. How he had found it was a mystery he had no mind to solve so Eönwë beat his wings and sped towards him. His feet touched ground just as a terrible cry wrenched itself from Mairon’s throat. The broken voice pierced through him like ice.

Never had he known Mairon to be anything but completely controlled, no matter the circumstances. Even when Manwë had questioned him about possible traitors among the Maiar he had been calm and collected, no shred of emotion he did not want revealed forthcoming.

But now, his armour gone, his hair loose and eyes brimming with tears, Eönwë looked at his friend and, for the first time, saw a stranger.

“Mairon,” he whispered carefully, casting a quick look around them. Lava and sea were closing in rapidly, two mighty waves ready to clash where they now stood. “We have to go.” Mairon ignored him or was unable to hear him.

“We cannot remain here!” Eonwë tried, louder this time. “I will drag you away if I must!“

Once again, Mairon did not react. Instead, he sank low, his head falling to his knees. His shoulders shook, the helmet with the Silmarils forgotten in the dirt beside him.

Eönwë looked around again – the two waves were too close already – and quickly came to a conclusion.

He unfolded his wings and took off. With one great swoop he wound his arm around Mairon’s waist and snatched the helmet up before rising high, high into the burning smoke as below them elements crashed and mingled, pulling the remains of Beleriand down with them.

Mairon was limp in his hold, unmoving as a corpse, and Eönwë sighed as he carried him away to the new and jagged coast of Middle-earth.

There he set Mairon down, watched as his friend fell to his knees and did not rise. He looked so small, vulnerable. It crushed Eonwë’s heart.

He looked down at the helmet still held in his other hand and plucked a feather from his wing, using the sharp point to pry the Silmarils out of their sockets.

As soon as he was done Mairon lunged at him, a clumsy movement very unlike his usual grace, taking the helmet and hugging it close to his chest.

For a moment, there was silence, the only sound the steady pling of tears hitting black steel.

Eönwë sighed. “I’m sorry.” Mairon sobbed once and fell silent again, not speaking. “I wasn’t aware he meant this much to you.”

Mairon snorted, half incredulous and half disgusted, yet he did not raise his head to look at Eonwë. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?” he said, a rough edge to his voice. The tears had stopped. “Since your Master will kill him.”

Eönwë closed his eyes for a moment, sighing through his nose. “I know.”

Mairon hugged the helmet closer to him still, his shoulder hunched. “What happens now?”

“Lord Manwë did not say,” Eönwë answered. “The goal was to…defeat Melkor and his armies.” He paused. “You are defeated.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” Eönwë would have been relieved to hear his friend’s clever tongue return, had it not been for the bitter, hollow tone of his voice. Eönwë took a breath to reply something when Mairon’s voice interrupted him, so small he almost missed them. “If I surrender here, what would become of me?”

Before Eönwë could reply he felt an insistent tugging upon the bond he shared with his Master. Manwë’s gentle worry and calming light flooded his mind, accompanied by a question of his whereabouts. Eönwë replied the same way, told him quickly of what had happened and asked the same question Mairon had.

Dimly, he could feel Mairon attempting something similar, reaching across the bond towards his own Master. Whatever the answer was, it made him crumble further over the helmet.

“They order you back,” Eönwë relayed Manwë’s words. “You shall receive your punishment alongside your Master.”

Mairon nodded slowly. “I see,” he said tonelessly. “So I am to be killed as well?”

Eönwë recoiled in shock. “No!” he exclaimed. “My Lord would not do such a thing! You will be punished but you will receive a second chance, free of his influence. I am sure of it.”

Mairon finally raised his head to fix eyes like golden flame on him, though their glow was muted with grief. “Can you promise that?” he asked. “Can you, a lowly Maia, promise the Valar will be merciful?”

For a long moment, no words came to Eonwë. He could not, he knew, promise such a thing. It was not in his power to promise forgiveness or pardons, only to follow the Valar’s orders. He had not to power to reassure Mairon of anything.

Mairon, it seemed, already knew the answer for he chuckled without mirth and slowly pushed to his feet. He was unsteady, the strength of his fire sapped away by the knowledge of what awaited his Master. “Then I shall graciously refuse your offer.” He spat out the last word like a nasty curse.

“But,” Eönwë said, taking a step towards his former friend, “you were ordered to return, Mairon. You cannot refuse a direct order!”

Mairon rolled his eyes and gnawed on his lower lip, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “True,” he said. “But I am not. My orders say that I must live. And so I shall.”

“But Lord Manwë–”

“I do not care in any way what your Lord Manwë has to say!” Mairon barked, his eyes flashing. “I only take orders from one Vala and his orders are clear. I cannot return with you.”

Mairon…” Eönwë tried reaching out for one trembling shoulder but Mairon snatched his wrist, searing Eonwë’s skin with the intensity of the fire coursing through his veins. The contrast between Mairon’s pale and Eonwë’s warm rosewood tones was jarring, like a visual representation of the difference between them. Once upon a time they had joked about their differences, now it shook Eönwë to his core.

“I will not crawl back to them, I will not be humiliated by them, I will remain alive and free just as Melkor wished for me and nothing you say or do will change my mind,” Mairon hissed, his fingers a vice Eönwë could not break.

“Who are you?” Eönwë breathed, feeling the sting to his heart more keenly than his burning flesh. “You are not the Mairon I once knew.”

Mairon paused, a sneer pulling at his lips. “The Mairon you knew was never real,” he said. “I am the true Mairon, free of your inane desire for superficial peace. I am no longer a slave to your precious Valar, I belong only to myself and my Lord. And you took him from me.” His voice fell dangerously low, bottomless rage and hatred in his eyes, a note of madness in his words.

Eönwë could not help his tears now, his voice lost between emotions. When his wrist was abruptly released he stumbled back, Silmarils clutched in his hands hard enough he could feel every cut Fëanor had ever made upon them.

“Do not look for me,” Mairon said, suddenly calm. “All you will find is your death.” And then, in a flash of flame and shadows, he was gone.

Eönwë could not tell how long he stood there, unmoving, before Manwë’s voice calling him home broke through the ringing in his ears. When he returned, judgement had already been passed.

Melkor was no more.

---

“Live on, my love, and never forget that out of all the treasures I possessed, you were the greatest.”

The words were a hollow comfort, echoing through his mind like the drums on the battlefield, beating against the inside of his skull until he thought he would go mad. Or perhaps he already had, it was hard to tell.

He lay curled up on his side, the helmet clutched to his chest, on the floor of a cave he had found in the mountains. Mairon did not know how long he had been here, with his eyes closed, holding onto the bright thread of Melkor in his mind until it felt as if it was all there was. His wounds did not matter, his needs were unimportant, the war they had lost forgotten.

He could no longer hear Melkor’s voice, the Valar’s powers weakening their bond so far it was hard to even find Melkor on the other end, but his presence was still there.

Until it wasn’t.

When he finally felt the bond break, a final burst of warmth and affection his only warning, his mind did the same.

The Maia Mairon truly died that night, and Sauron rose up to replace him.