Blog dedicated to the week long fandom event about Eönwë, Herald of Manwë and Chief of the Maiar. Running from 12th to 18th August RULES | FAQ | PROMPTS
AN: So I promised to compile this a while ago and finally got to it. Enjoy!
Today's topic: A possible etymology and Valarin version for Eönwë (idea dump)
𓅛 The meaning of the name "Eönwë" is unfortunately unknown. The only thing we know for certain is the suffix "-wë", as it also occurs in many other names, which means simply person, being or individual. Fun fact: While it's generally masculine, it's not exclusively so, the main example being Elenwë.
𓅛 Before receiving the name Eönwë, he was known as Fionwë. For Fionwë we do have a meaning: "Fion" is glossed as hawk and/or haste, which I'm sure has many of you thinking "oh yeah that fits" right now and I agree.
𓅛 So we find ourselves in a bit of a weird spot where we have an old name that fits and gives us an idea what it could have been about and a new name without a clear meaning. I have a few ideas how to solve this, but please keep in mind that I'm not trying to do completely accurate and squeaky clean linguistics here, I'll be sticking to ideas and headcanons while trying to do my best to find something that makes at least a bit of sense. Alright? Alright.
𓅛 According to War of the Jewels, Eönwë's name was apparently adapted from Valarin (which, given how close the known Valarin names are to their Quenyan counterparts and how Quenya even borrows some names from Valarin, is not surprising). Therefore, my first idea was that perhaps the meaning of Fionwë ("hawk-person", "haste-person") still applies, but whatever the Valarin word it comes from is just slightly different (has an e instead of an i). Someone would then have to come up the Valarin word in question (and it won't be me, at least for now >:D).
𓅛 My second idea was that "fion" and "-wë" are just two elements of the name, with an additional third element conveyed in the "e". There are various things you could "shove" in there, but one idea I'm currently liking is that it's tied to "ea" (existing, being) or "ëala" (being, spirit (non-incarnate), the general term for Ainurin souls). This would correspond with my headcanon that Eönwë was the first Maia to be born/created and the meaning would be "haste/hawk spirit being" (loosely translating).
𓅛 Another alternative I found during my research is "ëa"/"ëaren" (eagle) which could also be cool, though I suppose in that case it'd be better to read "fion" as haste rather than hawk because having two bird species in one name would be a bit weird. The meaning would then be "hasty eagle person" (again, translating somewhat loosely).
𓅛 Funnily enough, I found coming up with an idea what Eönwë's Valarin name could be easier than putting all of the above together. Since we know so little about Valarin, this will once again be guesswork and ideas.
𓅛 Conveniently, we have half of his name thanks to Manwë -> Mānawenūz, if we take it that "-wenūz" is the general Valarin version of "-wë" (and not an isolated instance of this particular name being that way).
𓅛 If we then see how "man-" simply becomes "mana-" and observe the trend of Valarin words having additional syllables with vowels compared to their Quenyan counterparts, such as:
ayanūz -> Ainu
iniðil -> indil (lily)
An easy solution would then be Eōnowenūz.
(I have admittedly not yet dared to take all the words above that I suggested could be part of his etymology, attempt to translate them all into Valarin and see if everything would still fit (more or less), but if I'm really bored one day I might.)
So yeah, these are just some ideas and stuff I dug up, please don't take it as absolute fact or gospel and I hope it was interesting or at least entertaining to see me flail around trying to make sense of that poor man's name. Feel free to let this inspire you and make use of my findings, just be a dear and give me a cute little shout out if you do :)
A/n 1: Since today is freeform, I have opted to use a little Medieval AU emoji game.
A/n 2: For those who want to know more about my Medieval AU read here.
Themes: Soft | NSFT
Warnings: Kissing | Mild violence (blink and you might miss it)
Minors DNI
💋A knight's kiss with Eönwë/Gothmog, Eönwë/Manwë or Eönwë/Arien
Eönwë/Gothmog : The great feast held in honor of Melkor’s anointing as Crown Prince ends.
Eönwë and Gothmog go off to the gardens to sit on the grass and watch the stars while many others walk or stumble to their own bedchambers.
Most consider them to be a most unusual pairing. Eönwë is a true-born lord from a proud and ancient noble family. Gothmog, on the other hand, is lowborn, with no father to claim him for their own. In addition, Eönwë is the Lord Commander of the King’s army and a knight without peer, and Gothmog is a mere foot soldier who prefers brute strength to finesse.
And these things do not matter to Eönwë, for he does not care for birth or wealth or position. Gothmog loves him, and that is enough for him. And when they kiss, it is beneath the stars, with the wind sweeping through their hair. Eönwë does what comes naturally to him: he willingly yields when they kiss, allowing Gothmog to take a firmer hand as always. It is another thing many consider most peculiar: a great knight willingly submitting to one of inferior birth, and yet, it is what Eönwë desires and what he receives.
They kiss, and they kiss. Eönwë savors the wine and the spices he finds clinging to his companion’s lips and the sweetness of the marchpane roses they all had. Then he pulls away, desiring more than just a kiss.
“Let us return to our chambers,” he says, his smile a mirror image of Gothmog’s own. “This night is far from over, my love.”
Eönwë/Manwë : The prince never thought he would receive the affections of such an illustrious warrior.
And yet, he finds himself the recipient of much of the Lord Commander's affections. They dance during the feast to celebrate the end of a successful royal hunt, and they talk and they laugh. The others are also dancing, and there is much music, and wine, and laughter. Eönwë pays no heed to any of it. He is too drunk on the magic of the night to care about what the others are doing.
And, he knew, of course, that there could be more to this night. So much more.
“Come with me, my prince,” he says, leading Manwë away from the others. “There should be more to this night than feasting and dancing.”
They walk, and they walk, and then they come upon a little grove of trees bathed in starlight. They walk on, not stopping until they reach the very center of the grove. It is a beautiful sight: the cloudless sky, the stately trees, the dappled light, and the bashful prince who smiles expectantly. Eönwë seizes the moment and leans in, his mood high.
It was all he thought it would be and so much more. He gathers the prince in his arms as they kiss, relishing the warmth that flows into his mouth. He kisses the prince until they are both feverish and breathless, and then he kisses him until he feels, more than hears, the soft moan.
“Your tent or mine, my prince?” He asks.
Eönwë/Arien : He is at his investiture at Starfall, where he is anointed as an Honorary Knight of the Grove.
It is a great honor, one the Lady of Greengrove does not bestow lightly. And the one presiding over the ceremony in the place of that great lady is none other than his own beloved herself.
Eönwë kneels on a wide velvet cushion, trembling despite the warmth from nearby lit hearths. He remembers the cause for such an honor. Nevertheless, he tries his best not to dwell on it. Arien is safe and well, and that is enough for him.
The tip of a splendid sword forged especially for the occasion briefly comes to rest on his right shoulder and then his left. Then it is over, for the priest has already performed the anointing.
“Arise, Lord Eönwë, Knight of the Grove!” Arien cries, and gives the sword for another to take. It would be formally presented to Eönwë later, during the investiture feast. “And tell me, what boon does my savior desire of me?”
“A kiss from the one I love,” Eönwë says bashfully, then he rises. “That is all I ask.”
Arien smiles and says, “A gift I shall give freely, and with a glad heart.”
Eönwë smiles also. He frames her face with his hands and kisses her sweetly, sending a welcome shiver down her spine.
🎀Seeking a favor with the same ships
Eönwë/Gothmog: It is his first joust of the tourney. Eönwë digs his heels into his steed and urges it toward the gallery.
Many had gathered to watch. The low-born keep to one side, shouting and cheering as the one the minstrels call “Swordsman of the Dawn” rides past them. The high-born kept to the other side, shouting and cheering for him with equal vigor.
Eönwë tilts his head at them and smiles, but his eyes do not see those shouting his name and cheering him on. His gaze seeks but one person and one person only.
“My lord,” Eönwë says. He reins his horse to a stop before the lower seats, where the foot soldiers sit. “Victory throughout the tourney would be assured if I am given the honor of your favor.”
Gothmog rises, flushing from cheek to throat. “I have no ribbon to give you, my lord,” he says, “or a priceless trinket. All I can offer you is this.”
He removes the copper pin he wears upon his cloak and offers it to the Lord Commander. Eönwë leans down and accepts it with gratitude.
“I shall keep it safe, my love,” he murmurs, bringing Gothmog’s hand to his lips.
Eönwë/Manwë : The sun was shining, and the sky was uncommonly clear. It was most suited for a joust and the one that would be spoken of for many a turn of the moon.
Lord Tulkas charges atop his black steed. Eönwë charges atop his grey and white. The throng roars, and upon the royal balcony, gold coins and priceless jewels are discreetly slipped into velvet hats and silk purses. Some believe Eönwë would emerge the victor. Others believe Tulkas would emerge victorious, for he was the older and the stronger of the two.
The warriors' horses tear up the rain-softened earth as they race to the center, and then their lances collide, cracking and splintering as they smash against heavy-plated armor.
Tulkas is unhorsed. He falls onto his back with a loud clangor, and the crowd gasps and cheers. But he is unharmed and is soon helped to his feet by a squire. Eönwë, satisfied that all is well with him, rides up to the balcony.
“My prince!” He cries. “If you would do me the honor of allowing me to wear your favor upon my person!”
Manwë appears and smiles. “Here it is, my lord,” he says, throwing down a square of richly embroidered silk to the warrior. “May you have much fortune for the remainder of the tourney.”
Eönwë catches it, winks playfully at the prince, and then rides back to the far end of the field.
Eönwë/Arien : It is the first time he sees her.
She is seated on the balcony, listening to the ladies she serves. Her eyes gleam like finely polished amber in the sun, and her hair reminds him of molten gold. Eönwë urges his steed forward, as he wishes to know more of her.
“Fair and gracious lady,” he says. “You have captivated me with your beauty. Pray what is your name?”
“You are a bold one, my lord,” the lady says, rising from her seat. “But you shall have my name if it please you. I am the Lady Arien.”
“Maiden of the sun,” Eönwë replies, beaming. “Tis a most fitting name, I think, for you indeed look as radiant as the sun. Tell me, my lady. Would you think me impertinent if I asked for your favor?”
Arien smiles. “Not in the least, my lord, for I have heard much of you, and I know you are a man of honor. Here. You may have this.”
She loosens a ribbon from the end of her long braid and throws it down to him. Eönwë catches it with ease and brings it to his lips. “I shall treasure this token always,” he says.
🕊️ Synopsis: Eönwë taught to protect. But he couldn’t do it himself.
🕊️ Warnings: character death, english is not my first language+i didn’t read it even once after finishing so sorry for any typos/grammatical errors/etc🙏
Eönwë hated the war. He hated his position of a leader of Host of the Valar, but he never even considered leaving it. He hated being a swordsman, but he couldn’t stop himself from honing his skill. He had to be the best to protect Aman, Arda, the Valar, the Eruhini, Ilmarë. Everyone.
When he was first given a chance to have an apprentice, he refused. The elf that wanted Eönwë to teach him was too young, too unprepared, plus having an apprentice means forming some kind of relationships, closer than he is comfortable with. He didn’t want to. He did train eldar and Maiar occasionally, polishing their skills like his own sword, always the sharpest in Manwë’s armoury, but no one saw him twice.
But there was that vanya. Laireno. Another starry-eyed boy, who dreamt of being a knight. Who didn’t? Elven youth loved romanticised stories about mighty just warriors clad in shining armour, who fought evil Morgoth’s beasts and saved those in need of protection. Eönwë could never understand that obsession with violence. Why dream of facing monsters when you live in this heavenly place?
Eönwë had fought those creatures. He only wished for peace.
What caught the herald’s attention when he looked at that little elf, who had never seen any evil of this world? That wasn’t his idolising adoration for Eönwë. The Maia knew he was a role model for many, and he did his best to live up to those expectations.
Laireno didn’t love Eönwë. He loved the knight that Eönwë was. The skills and knowledge Eönwë could teach him. The path of a warrior Eönwë could open for him. Eönwë just knew it and never thought differently.
When Eönwë asked Laireno why he wanted to fight, the elf said he wanted to become a knight. Many had said. “Why do you want to become a knight?” “To protect.”
And that was it. Eönwë sensed mercifulness in him. Not the violent need to kill enemies. A wish to protect the loved ones, the peace. Truly, he wasn’t the only one to say it, but not everyone said it in the first place.
Oh those big starry eyes, that sweet enthusiasm, that innocent excitement. That was exactly what pained Eönwë to see. Laireno didn’t know the horrors of a real battle, hadn’t seen the terror of destruction. The upcoming war would break him. And by teaching him the secrets of sword fighting Eönwë would be the one to let it happen.
Oh, Laireno, dear Laireno, your name means poet. Do not touch the sword, take a pen, do not hold a sharp blade, but use a sharp word.
Eönwë couldn’t say no to this elf. He couldn’t bring himself to shatter his dream.
He reminded Eönwë of himself, of his past self, of the kind and naive Maia he was long ago, before the destruction of the Lamps. And now he would do anything to protect Laireno. No one was there to protect Eönwë, when he needed.
Oh how terrible he failed.
Eönwë stared at little lifeless body, devastated, murdered, just like the gentle soul before him. A boy that will come home on the shield instead of holding it proudly.
Eönwë sank down on his knees, afraid to touch, afraid to even look, but unable to turn away.
It was him who killed Laireno.
He couldn’t protect. He wasn’t strong enough to kill Laireno’s hopes, but weak enough to kill him. A dead dream would be the lesser evil.
Eönwë leaned down and kissed Laireno’s eyes, the eyes that never shine again.
Was he happy when he got to fight in a real war, protecting real people?
Eönwë kissed Laireno’s pale cheek, the cheeks that never be rosy with love and courage again.
Did he feel like a real knight, when Eönwë sent him to the battle? Oh, he died like one, his beloved little squire.
Eönwë kissed Laireno’s white lips, the lips that never smile again. Maybe, he did want it. At least, Eönwë didn’t have time to break the boys heart.
“You were the best knight ever stepped in Arda, owlet.” Eönwë whispered, pressing his forehead against Laireno’s. “I am so sorry i couldn’t protect you.”
When he pulled away, a tear glistened in the corner of the elf’s eye, as if he cried himself. Eönwë stood up.
AN: Another headcanon post for today. Thank you to @ruiniel, @a-world-of-whimsy-5 and @tar-thelien for additional suggestions!
Today's topic: Eönwë and the Noldor (some of them)
𓅛 Out of thousands of Maiar, many of them unknown to the Children of Ilúvatar, Eönwë is among the most widely known and recognized. While he may not have appeared in Middle-earth for a long time, he was present in the War of Wrath, stayed on Númenor for a while and his duties as the Elder King's herald resulted in Valinor's Elven inhabitants to get well acquainted with him.
𓅛 While Eönwë has most of his day to day dealings with the Vanyar due to their proximity to and friendship with Manwë and Varda and in later ages retains a certain fondness for the people of Númenor, he has always felt some sort of kinship with the Noldor in particular, even more so than other Elven people at times.
𓅛 Now, Eönwë is not a craftsman and his talents lie in the art of battle, as gentle at heart as he may be and despite any secret wishes he could be different that he might harbor deep down. Yet even when peace still reigned in Valinor, he sensed the same fierce bravery and resilience within the hearts of many Noldor that one would find in fellow warrior spirit among the Ainur and he respects and admires such traits, whether they be used for good or for ill.
Fingolfin & Finarfin
𓅛 It was for these reasons that Eönwë felt immediate kinship with the younger sons of Finwë whenever he met them during his visits at their father's palace. Fëanor he had often seen as well, but as he grew older he was pretty much always busy with his projects elsewhere and later with his own family.
𓅛 Especially close and cordial was Eönwë's relationship with Finarfin. While always friendly with almost everyone he meets, Eönwë had never presumed to be a friend of the Eldar, thinking that he might intrude on their affairs and overstep their boundaries if he approached them like he would a fellow Maia, but Finarfin was particularly determined to prove him wrong.
𓅛 Sometimes alone, sometimes together with Fingolfin, the youngest prince never missed a chance to approach him, having developed a special interest in birds and bird-like Maiar. Fingolfin's interest was, once the childish fascination with all things new and exciting had passed, of a more political nature, but he too found Eönwë's company enjoyable.
𓅛 When Melkor started sowing seeds of unrest among the Noldor, however, this also affected the princes' relationship with Eönwë. While they hadn't come to distrust him or think of him as a hostile agent of the Valar feigning friendship, there was something on the mind of Fingolfin in particular: The fact that Eönwë had been hailed as a hero of past battles among the Ainur and that he had to possess knowledge of weapons and war that he had never shared with the Eldar, not even his friends.
𓅛 Supported by Finarfin, Fingolfin eventually confronted him about it. Eönwë had already been fearing that they would and, after a bit of poking and prodding, told them about the battles he had fought and the reason why he never spoke of his deeds or taught much of his art: While his skill was renowned and respected, he found no pride in acts of violence and killing and feared that his teachings and involvement would only enable more conflict.
𓅛 Yet the two princes argued against this, saying that he knew well from his past how some conflicts were inevitable and they as well as their family and their people would be left defenseless if anything happened, especially since he himself had told them that the Ainur are forbidden from using force against the Children. Though unhappily so, Eönwë saw the wisdom in their words and agreed to teach them - but in return they had to promise to only ever raise their swords against the forces of evil and never against their kin.
𓅛 This Fingolfin and Finarfin did promise and so began their relationship as training partners. After feeling guilty initially - thinking he was going behind his lord's back, though technically Manwë had never forbidden such activities specifically - Eönwë soon came to enjoy these sessions because he was taking action and helping people he likes and wants to be safe. He was also proud of their progress.
𓅛 Everything was fine and Eönwë felt closer to two of his dearest companions than ever... until the rebellion of the Noldor. Being bound by the laws of the Ainur, he couldn't intervene on behalf of either side and had to watch his worst fears come true.
𓅛 To say Eönwë was relieved when Finarfin returned would be an understatement, though their joy was dampened by the fact that Fingolfin and all of his and Finarfin's children had left. Eönwë did his best to assist and support Finarfin during the tumultuous times that followed, but publicly and privately (Eärwen was not exactly happy either, but that is a story for another time).
𓅛 While saddened by some of the deeds of the Noldor, Fingolfin retained Eönwë's respect and fondness for his heroism in Beleriand, particularly his duel against Melkor. It was a magnificent showcase of how far he had come and Eönwë couldn't help feeling just a tiny bit of pride that one of his incarnate companions and training partners had held his own against a Vala for longer than anyone had expected.
𓅛 Going to war with Finarfin at the end of the First Age was bittersweet for Eönwë. It was comforting to fight together with one of his closest friends, but he also thought he was selfish for feeling this way and was worried that Finarfin would die or get hurt. Eönwë considers it a great blessing that they were able to make the journey home together as well.
Fingon
𓅛 With Fingon Eönwë didn't have too many dealings directly while he still dwelt in Valinor, something he later found regrettable.
𓅛 He occasionally spoke to him during social events or as part of his duties, sensing his valiant spirit and finding himself fond of Fingolfin's house in general. Fingon also joined his father for training sometimes, which Eönwë allowed, knowing that Fingolfin and Finarfin would pass on their knowledge to their children anyway (a logical conclusion that they had also never denied).
𓅛 Fingon's daring rescue of Maedhros was what garnered him great favor and renown within the household of Manwë in particular, from the Elder King himself to his Maiar, Eönwë being no exception. He admired not only the bravery of the act itself, but also the diplomatic benefits and how it aided in achieving more of a union among the Finwëan houses and the Noldor as a whole.
𓅛 Eönwë, alongside his lord and his fellow Maiar, mourned the last stand and death of Fingon.
𓅛 It may be that Fingon was on Eönwë's mind when he attempted to make peace with Mairon after the War of Wrath, only to quickly find that he wouldn't achieve what Fingon had.
Celegorm
𓅛 Taking the shape of raptors, Eönwë is also a hunter and sometimes joins Oromë's Maiar for their hunts. It's the only activity that allows him to chase and attack a target without having to worry about seriously injuring or killing someone by accident, as he has to when training others or engaging in mock duels.
𓅛 Eönwë had occasionally played with Fëanor's ferocious children when they were young and they enjoyed climbing all over him, pretending he was a big monster to slay and receiving shiny, fluffy feathers as a prize from him.
𓅛 Thus he and Celegorm were already acquainted and fairly friendly with one another once Celegorm started joining Oromë's hunts as well and it didn't take long until a sort of tacit understanding grew between them: They were both looking for an outlet for their darker and more dangerous impulses. And Eönwë, even if he worried about it sometimes, would never judge someone for sharing this trait of his.
𓅛 What he did end up judging Celegorm for was his treatment of Beren and Lúthien, since Eönwë has ever cautioned his Elven friends and companions to exercise restraint with any sort of violence and deems any sort of coercive behavior against a lady to be very wrong, especially after having witnessed Melkor harassing Varda and Arien (more or less successfully, but still).
Maedhros & Maglor
𓅛 Like Celegorm, Eönwë had known Maedhros and Maglor from an early age and his interactions with them were friendly, especially since they tended to be a little less unruly than their brothers (in this case meaning less likely to pluck the poor herald or walk all over him in the literal sense).
𓅛 While Maedhros got more involved in Noldorin politics as he grew older and Eönwë began to value him as a calming, rational presence, contrasted by the sometimes explosive temperament of his father, Maglor devoted most of his time to his craft. This led him to the halls of Ilmarin many times, performing songs and taking part in theatrical performances that impressed even the less literary inclined Maiar.
𓅛 Eönwë missed the various members of Finwë's house that left for Middle-earth, having come to appreciate their different personalities.
𓅛 In the aftermath of the rebellion and shortly before the War of Wrath, Eönwë had a few interactions with Nerdanel who asked him to look for her remaining sons and made him promise to at least try to bring them home to her. Eönwë agreed to this, saying he couldn't promise to be successful, but that he would try his best for her sake.
𓅛 At the end of the War of Wrath, Maedhros' and Maglor's demand to have the Silmarils returned to them came as no surprise. Even so, Eönwë genuinely and fervently hoped they would heed his words - as they had done in the past and might have done in another situation - and not go for the jewels, as he knew exactly what the outcome would be and wanted to prevent any more death and sorrow caused by the Silmarils; this is also why he didn't pursue Maedhros and Maglor when they stole them from him, the other main reason being his promise to Nerdanel.
𓅛 It was at this point, however, that Eönwë resigned himself to the fact that there was nothing he could do to help them anymore and that they had made their choice, leaving them to their fates.
𓅛 Eönwë found himself left with the devastating task of informing Nerdanel about the various fates of her sons and that he had, in fact, not managed to bring any of them home to her. However, I like to think he revealed to her that Maglor was still alive (if she didn't already know herself) and promised her that he will one day return to Middle-earth to look for him again.
𓅛 I'm planning to touch on this in an upcoming Eönwë-centric fic, but the plan so far is that Maglor declines at first and eventually, after the Third Age concludes, expresses a desire to return to Valinor, come what may, though he feels like he has no place on any of the ships. Eönwë then takes him home, taking the shape of an eagle and letting him ride on his back.
Summary: Eönwë find a companion for himself when he calls upon one of the many pleasure houses of Lórien.
Minors DNI | 18+
The Gardens of Lórien were uncommonly vast, filled with a great wealth of flowering bushes and vines, yew and cedar, juniper and oak, and pines that exuded soothing odors. Its many pools were dark and deep; stars sparkled within their depths, and great scores of fireflies flittered about their borders, glittering like gold in the dusk.
Eönwë did not halt to admire the beauty that lay before him. He drew his cloak closer to him and continued down the path he tread, for the Maia did not come to seek out the peace the Gardens provided all those who came upon them. He came to seek out the indulgences it offered instead.
There were many to be found, hidden within the manses Lord Irmo himself devised for all those seeking freedom from both loneliness and the constraints of acceptable conduct. For Eönwë, it was an escape from restraint and duty—duty to his king, duty to Valinor. All through his long life, he had served other beings and other causes without complaint. Now, for a brief while at least, he wished to free himself from the yolk of duty and serve his own desires. And his desires were many.
“Hail and well met.” The Maia who greeted him upon entrance into the House of Cedar was garbed in sheer wisps of lavender and blue. He was one of the many attendants who willingly offered themselves to please and service those who called upon them. And they could never be harmed; Irmo did not take kindly to any being who mistreated those who served him in any manner. “Do you desire a mask, my lord? A libation to ease your comfort?”
“A mask would do very well indeed,” Eönwë replied. The other Maia knew who he truly was, for he came to the House of Cedar once before, after having heard of its many amusements. But he had no cause to fear. The Maiar who served in the pleasure houses never revealed the identities of those who came to them for any matter. “And a cup of something light and fragrant would serve for now.”
The Maia guided him to a secluded, dimly lit room filled with masks and veils of all shapes and hues and helped him remove his cloak. “You may choose any of these,” he said, arranging the cloak neatly on a little hook driven into the wall, “and then you may join the others. I shall bring you something to drink while you are in the hearth hall.”
“My thanks.” Eönwë was grateful to be free of his cloak. He felt strange also, for his earthly form was smaller in stature and without wings, and the light in his eyes was dulled to mimic the paler light found in the eyes of the elves. Still, he made peace with the lack in all, for this was the form he chose himself when he decided to call upon the House of Cedar. He did not wish the other visitors to discover who he truly was.
The hearth hall was already full when Eönwë entered it. Many an elf and Ainu were seated upon wide pillowed benches, or they had gathered beneath gilded lamps in groups of twos and threes, their voices faint against the finger drums that were beating out a slow, spellbinding rhythm. Many had gone to great lengths to conceal who they were. Others, on the other hand, did not hide a single aspect of themselves. Some were eating and drinking and laughing, and others were engaged in more intimate pursuits. Eönwë reached up to touch his mask. Golden roses and golden leaves adorned a field of white lacquer, and his lips were left exposed. The herald of Manwë did not mind this; the mask was to serve as an adornment, for, after all, his form was not his true form.
“Your libation.” The Maia who attended to him before came forth with a tray full of delicate glass goblets. Eönwë accepted one and took a sip. It was Miruvórë, fragrant as the flowers in the Gardens themselves and as golden as the dews that fell from the leaves of Laurelin. He sighed with pleasure.
“A fine choice,” he said, raising his goblet. The Maia bowed his head and took his leave.
Eönwë walked among the others, sipping at his Miruvórë and speaking quietly with those who stopped to have a word with him. He was patient and respectful as always, and he kept an ever-watchful eye on those who were present. Someone was bound to capture his particular attention before long.
And that did indeed happen, while he paused to admire a troupe of tumblers twisting and contorting their bodies to form various shapes. A lord was seated in the shadows behind them, his body concealed beneath the folds of a thick velvet cloak, and his face hidden beneath a heavy hood. All that was truly visible of him were his hands and his boots. Eönwë went to him, and made himself known.
“Hail and well met, my lord,” Eönwë said. He bowed. “Might I be so bold to ask as to why you are here, hiding in the shadows?”
The lord startled. Then he remembered his courtesies, and he said, “Hail and well met, my lord. This is the first time I have come upon such a place.” He lifted his gaze to better look at the one who approached him, revealing an ornate mask that shielded most of his countenance save for his nose and lips. “And I fear both the discovery and the ridicule that would surely follow if my presence here became known. That is why you have found me like this, hiding in the darkness.”
The lord did not have to reveal his identity, for Eönwë already perceived it, having recognized the deep, lilting voice and the eyes that gleamed like beaten bronze fresh from the forge. He was prince Arakáno, the youngest son of the Noldorin prince Nolofinwë. And he was here in this pleasure house, seeking diversions of his own, no doubt.
“I know who you are, my prince,” the herald whispered, “and I give you my word not to reveal it. Perhaps, if you desire it, that is, we could go somewhere quieter and amuse ourselves. That is why you are here, yes? To seek diversions with a willing companion?”
Arakáno startled again. Then he composed himself when Eönwë smiled warmly. There was much kindness in his eyes, and it set the prince at ease.
“That is what I desire, yes,” he said, rising. His great stature was further proof of his identity, but that meant little here. There were others like him, and the one who stood before him was taller than even he. “And it is also why I came here, my lord. Where I live, it is hard to find a willing companion outside of the bonds of marriage. And there are certain expectations placed upon me, much like my brothers and my sister. It can be most stifling at times.”
“I understand that all too well,” Eönwë returned. He drained the last of the Miruvórë and gave the empty goblet for an attendant passing by to take. “But nothing further will take place if we stay as we are, talking between ourselves. Wait here a moment. I will procure a chamber for us both.”
The chamber that was given to Eönwë in the end was large and airy and lit by only a few candles. The roof was made of a web of gold beaten to the thinness of delicate thread, and the floors and the walls were made of thick cedar beams; each had been polished and darkened to a fine finish. There was a little table in one corner, laden with food and drink and other delicacies. A chest of drawers stood next to one wall, and beside it lay a wide and inviting featherbed covered with silken sheets. Eönwë crossed over to the table first. He picked a gold bowl and offered what it held to the prince.
“Something to sweeten the tongue,” he said, “and inflame one’s passions. Take one, my prince. No harm will come from it.”
Arakáno came to him and took one of the sweetmeats for himself. It was indeed sweet against his tongue, and it stirred his blood, making him feel warm and feverish and lustful. Then it melted into nothingness, but the fires it kindled within remained. The prince flushed profusely, uncertain if he was to make his new desires known.
“Do you wish to go further?” Eönwë said. He took a sweetmeat also, closing his eyes in delight when he felt what bloomed to life after it was consumed.
Arakáno was still uncertain, and it showed in his eyes. Eönwë set the bowl down and went to him. He reached for him in two quick strides, and he took his hand into his own. It was finely formed and strong, and it trembled against his. Then he bent his head and pressed his lips against the inside of the prince’s wrist before wetting it with his tongue. The prince moaned softly and shivered.
“Yes?” Eönwë asked.
Arakáno was now certain, having grasped onto something that passed for courage. “Please.”
Eönwë gathered him into his arms, and he kissed him. Then he undid the clasp of the prince’s cloak, savouring the sigh of gratitude that followed when it slipped off the elf’s shoulders and pooled around his feet. Then they kissed, and they kissed. Eönwë grew bolder. He caressed the prince’s arms, his back, and his sides. His lips found the crook of the prince’s neck, and he tasted the salt that still lingered there. Arakáno threw his head back and moaned again. He clutched desperately at his companion’s shoulders and then stroked his hair; so overwhelmed was he by his own passions. They had grown even stronger, and in ways he could never truly describe.
“More,” he all but sobbed. “I desire more, my lord.”
The Maia did not have to be told more. “Lay down there my prince,” he said, and he drew away to disrobe himself. “And give of yourself to me. I will tend to the rest.”
Arakáno’s eyes widened when Eönwë undressed himself. Even in the form of an elf, the Maia was uncommonly fair to look upon. His eyes were bright and clear and fierce, and his hands held much strength. The prince felt the proof of this strength himself when they held each other and kissed. And he would be his. For a few brief hours, this lord, whoever he was, would be his.
“Lie down, my prince,” Eönwë repeated softly.
Arakáno willingly obeyed. He climbed onto the featherbed without further prompting. Eönwë followed him, his hands reaching out to loosen the laces of the prince’s boots, the sash of his robes. They soon formed a growing pile of raiment that had been thrown unceremoniously onto the wooden floor. The mask, however, remained. Eönwë thought the prince looked quite lovely with it. Then he paused for a moment to better admire the elf in his unclothed form.
“You are beautiful,” the Maia confessed. He leaned down to kiss the prince, and to renew their embraces.
🕊️Characters: Eönwë x male elf OC (whose lore i will probably drop in the tags)
🕊️Synopsis: Eönwë’s young apprentice wants to heal him after the sword training
🕊️Warnings: implied self-harm, bc eönwë’s a lil depressed, english is not my first language, 700+ drabble that turned out to be 1k+ drabble.
🕊️someday it will be on ao3
His sleeves were rolled up slightly above the elbow. The tunic was loose enough, though when Eönwë raised his sword to strike his muscles still strained the linen cloth. Dear Eru.
“Look, how I’m holding it.” Eönwë repeated the move once again,more slowly. “You don’t cut straight, tilt it slightly.”
Laireno nodded, trying to memorise everything from how his arms move to the expression on his face. Eönwë stopped and stuck the blade in the ground and folded his hands on the pommel.
“Now you.”
Laireno breathed out, took his sword and tried to repeat everything his mentor was doing. Eönwë watched silently, until he suddenly interrupted the elda in the middle of a move. Laireno froze obediently, frowning slightly from strain.
Eönwë walked behind the elf’s back and placed his hand on the elf’s forearm, just short of the elbow. Laireno understood the unspoken order and unbent his arm until Eönwë stopped him. And something was still bothering him, so he also corrected the direction of the sword, bending the elf’s hand. The linen sleeve crept up Eönwë‘s arm, following the movement, revealing a bandage hidden beneath.
“Your hands are shaking.” The Maia noticed. “Are you tired?”
Laireno shook his head desperately.
“No, Sir, just trying not to move.”
“Do tell me, if you are, and we will take a break or finish for today, alright? I don’t want you to overtire yourself.”
“Okay.”
Eönwë returned to where he was standing and told him to repeat the whole thing from the beginning. Laireno did. He tried really hard, wanting to impress his mentor. He had listened closely, he had watched carefully, he could repeat this movement that Eönwë was coprrectingfor the second time already.
“That’s it.” Eönwë finally commanded. “You need to rest.”
Laireno lowered his sword and looked at the Maia with hope in his eyes.
“Did I do it? Was it good?”
Eönwë almost smiled.
“Yes. You did very well.”
Laireno beamed, and then Eönwë couldn’t hold back a small smile. A strange, incorrect smile, but still a smile. It was never right on Eönwë‘s face. He always frowned for some reason, sometimes even lowering the corners of his lips instead of raising them like everyone. Like he wasn’t truly happy. But Laireno was, every time he saw his mentor smile.
Eönwë leaned on his sword stuck in the ground, staring off into the distance. Silent and pensive. Laireno couldn’t take his eyes off him, a small, but a very strong intrusive thought not leaving his head, a question he was dying to ask. He paced back and forth, tugging at the hem of his clothes, gathering his courage. Finally, he couldn’t hold it any longer and strode determinedly over to his mentor. Eönwë immediately turned his head to the elf, shifting all his attention from his thoughts to his young apprentice. Laireno lost a half of his former confidence, but didn’t give up.
“Sir Eönwë, do you-” He lowered his gaze, unable to hold eye contact with the Maia. “Are you-”
“Don’t be afraid, I don’t peck, I don’t bite.” The herald said softly, encouraging the elf to continue.
Laireno took a deep breath.
“Are you injured?” He blurted out, his eyes still locked on the grass. “I saw a bandage on your arm, and I thought- I was worried-”
His fuse faded and he fell silent, waiting for an answer. Eönwë did not speak a word as well. Laireno raised his head and met his mentor’s detached, almost defensive gaze. He hadn’t expected such a question. Maybe didn’t even want it. Laireno regretted asking it.
“I- Yes.” Eönwë said slowly. “Yes, you could say that.”
He straightened, and Laireno had to raise his head higher.
“You don’t have to worry about me.” Eönwë said a little softer.
He jerked his sword out of the ground, stepped aside and leaned his back on a tree, wincing a little as the bark scratched the tender skin between his wings. That don’t make Laireno stop worrying, not even a little, the exact opposite had happened.
He ran up to his mentor with an almost teary look.
“I’m sorry, please, I didn’t want to disturb you, I didn’t mean- I just- Y-you might be in pain, and i’m stressing you with this training, I don’t want you to feel bad-“ Laireno stuttered. “I just- I wanted to help, but you probably don’t need help, you’re a Maia, you can heal yourself, and-“
“Hush, owlet.” Laireno stopped talking and stared up at Eönwë with his big star-like eyes. “It’s alright. You haven’t hurt me nor stressed me out in any way. On the contrary, I appreciate you care so much.”
Laireno sighed.
“But… You can cure it, right?” He asked hopefully.
“It’s-“ Eönwë turned away. “It’s not a wound I can heal.”
Realising he had said more than he should, he added immediately.
“Though it will heal soon, don’t worry.”
“Please,” Laireno pleaded and got down on one knee, taking Eönwë‘s hand in his. “Please, let me help you.”
“Laireno, I beg you, get up.” the herald whispered in a faltering voice, looking a little shocked.
The elf shook his head desperately. Unfortnately for his mentor, he was stubborn and determined.
“I know how to do it, I learnt so I could do it at war…” Laireno stopped and squeezes Eönwë‘s hand. “I want to heal you.”
The Maia knelt with a heavy sigh, to look his apprentice in the eyes.
“Laireno, sweet Laireno” Eönwë‘s voice was gentle and sad. “You really don’t have to do this.”
“But I want to.”
Eönwë sighed and relented. He was unable to refuse, unable to look in those shining eyes he couldn’t bear to see unhappy.
“Fine.”
He released his hand from the grip of Laireno’s warm palms carefully and rolled his sleeve up reluctantly. The elda sat at his mentor’s side immediately and touched the bandage with trembling fingers. He was visibly nervous.
Eönwë was sitting with his head lowered as the young elf untied his bandage. Layer by layer, there were not many. Noe Laireno could see four red stripes, very contrasting on the Maria’s unearthly pale skin. Today’s sword practise had disturbed the scratches that had barely closed up.
Laireno’s gaze shifted involuntarily to his mentor’s hands. His nails were cut unusually short. Laireno didn’t ask anything, aware of Eönwë‘s unwillingness to talk, but he couldn’t keep himself from stroking the skin an inch above the top cut. Eönwë frowned, his head hanging even lower.
The elda cupped the herald’s arm with his palms, feeling how tense the muscles under his hands are.
“Relax, please.” Laireno said with a look of a serious healer.
Eönwë took a glance at his apprentice. It was very obvious the elf was taking this extremely seriously. His lips were pressed in a thin line, his blond eyebrows drawn together, his eyes focused on the wound in front of him. It was…endearing.
Eönwë turned away again, relaxing as much as he could.
Laireno took a deep breath, closed his eyes and started humming something slow. The scratches began to heal. Eönwë felt a slight tingle in his skin, but didn’t move and even held his breath.
Soon the humming stopped, and the warmth of Laireno’s hands left Eönwë‘s shoulder. There were just thin whitish lines where the cuts had been.
“That’s it.” Laireno said quietly, folding his hands on his laps like a good student.
“Who taught you that?”
“Estë’s Maia, Sir. She said that if i want to be a knight, I should be able to heal as good as I fight, because…” he begun to tug on his shirt again. “Because, a knight must help those he care about, know how to save the, and-“
The elf fell silent again, unable to fight his embarrassment. hen he looked at Eönwë pleadingly and whispered “Please, don’t do it again.”
𓅛 Characters: Fionwë (Eönwë) & Manwë
𓅛 Synopsis: The Elder King holds his little son.
𓅛 Warnings: /
𓅛 Drabble
The tiny hatchling in his hands looked like one of his birds, yet this one was Fionwë, his and Varda's son.
Manwë caressed his fluffy down, smiling as he listened to melodious little chirps. This Ainu was still too young to change or discard his form, his spirit cradled within the avian shape he had been born in until it could spread his wings and fly with his kin in the Unseen Realm as well.
He was curious to see what Fionwë would look like one day. But whatever form he chose, surely he would be beautiful like his mother.
Summary: Fionwë receives some much needed advice from his father’s herald, Nornorë.
“Who comes calling at this hour?” Nornorë said. It was the hour of mingling, when the pale silver of Silpion blended with the vivid gold of Lindeloksë. It was also the herald’s time of peace, where he rested atop a wide featherbed. And that peace was disturbed by a soft knock on copper doors.
“It is myself, my lord,” Prince Fionwë said. “May I enter?”
“You may, my prince,” Nornorë returned. He rose, slipped on a robe that had been laid out by the side of the bed, and moved to an arched window that had been opened to the wider world beyond it. The prince would join him here, he knew, for the lights of the hour of mingling were what he loved to look at the most.
The prince entered the chamber not long after and greeted Nornorë with a short but respectful bow. “My lord,” he said.
“My prince,” Nornorë replied with a deep and respectful tilt of the head. “Come, and sit beside me.”
“My thanks.”
Nornorë studied the prince discretely. Fionwë was taller than most and possessed aspects that had been hewn by a craftsman’s skilled hands—sharp and clearly defined, and without flaw. His cobalt eyes were filled with much kindness; they also betrayed his age. Despite his long years, the prince was still a fledgling next to many of his kindred. Nevertheless, he held himself with a sense of regal dignity, a gift he received from both his mother and his father. Nornorë smiled.
“Did the mingling of the lights call to you, my prince?” He asked, making himself at ease on a cushion upon the window seat.
“Indeed, my lord.” Fionwë sat by Nornorë’s side. He looked out the window. Valmar was bathed in silver and gold. Its golden roofs and silver walls glittered in the mingling lights, and the many trees in its many gardens were gilded. “Twas the first thing I set my eyes on, after my lord father and my lady mother brought me here. I pray that I will never tire of such beauty.”
“It is a most breathtaking vision, to be sure,” Nornorë observed, “though I hear ‘tis not the only beauty that has caught your particular attention.”
The son of Manwë and Varda flushed profusely. “So you know, my lord, of the Lady Urwendi.”
“Indeed. I have seen how your eyes follow her, my prince. And I have seen how the lady’s eyes follow you. Pray tell me, why have you not yet approached her?”
“Duties, my lord. Hers and mine both. And foresight.”
“Foresight?” Nornorë asked, intrigued.
“Aye. Foresight.” Fionwë regarded the city once again. He sighed, overcome with much sorrow. “I perceive Urwendi and I will be parted for a long, long while. Perhaps, I fear, she and I may be parted until the breaking of the world. It would be unwise, yes, to love when there is no hope of it flourishing even further?”
“Perhaps,” Nornorë allowed, “but it would be even more unwise, I think, to simply deny love a chance to even take root.”
The prince pondered his words. “Do you believe I would rue never approaching the lady?”
“I do, yes.” Nornorë stood and crossed over to a little table laden with food and drink, his bare feet making no sound over the smooth, marble floor. He poured a measure of a light, fragrant draught for the prince, and another for himself. “You say you and Lady Urwendi will be parted. But you do not say when. Has your foresight warned you of the appointed hour of your parting also?”
“It has not,” Fionwë said. He accepted the goblet that was pressed into his hand, and took a sip. The draught was as clear as spring water, and sweet as the ripest berries. “Only that we will be parted. What must I do, my lord? Should I still go to her and make my intentions known?”
“I believe you should,” Nornorë counseled him. “Your parting, when it comes to pass, will no doubt be bitter, but the memories of your moments with her will remain sweet and evergreen. Go to her, my prince. Speak to her. Let her know of your intentions toward her.”
The herald’s words filled him with a sense of hope, but there was another matter Fionwë had to consider. He took another sip and said, “The lady could still refuse me, even if she desires me. What if I approach her, my lord, and her reply is nay?”
It was a matter Nornorë had already perceived, and he was more than prepared with his answer. “Then you will suffer the pain of her rejection, and you will mourn all that could have been. After, you will find peace in knowing you did all that you could,” he said, and he sat beside the prince, his goblet in hand. “And perhaps, if you so desire it, that is, you could allow another into your heart. But you must first make the attempt. Make that attempt, my prince. You know that within your heart of hearts that you will find no peace until you do.”
“I will,” Fionwë said, having felt the first bloom of courage. Nornorë was correct when he observed that the prince would know no peace until he spoke of his true feelings, and his words of encouragement were what Fionwë needed to hear to take that much-needed first step. “I will approach Lady Urwendi, and I will speak to her of my intentions toward her. And if she refuses, I will learn to find peace in the knowledge I did all that I could. Thank you, my lord, for your words of counsel. It is most appreciated.”
Warning: War of Wrath shenanigans. Dubious moral. Dubious consensual blowjob (?)
Available on ao3
The rain has been pouring without respite for the past days as the Host settled into an uneasy victory. Too many have they lost to fully celebrate, the damp chilling bones and morales as the Elves build a makeshift camp that sprawls like a lazy snake over the broken hill. Tension still rides high as names are called, provisions numbered. Eönwë has been in council all morning, King Arafinwë and their generals debating the logistics of the following weeks.
Beleriand is a ruin, cracks where foul fumes and liquid fires belch, streams muddy and wild forcing new paths amongst gentle slopes and collapsed cliffs. The Beleriand Elves are weary of centuries of war and colonialism and do not welcome the Amanyar as heroes. Angband needs to be cleansed and many of Morgoth's forces are still roaming the ruined landscape.
Eönwë shivers as he tracks back to his own tent, nodding at a few soldiers. His boots sink deep in the mud and his wings hang heavy on his back, but the turmoil in his guts is the worst. He doesn't even let his surprise show when upon opening the flaps of what stands as modest, fast put up together, private quarters for the High Commander of the army of the West and finds Mairon sitting on a chair looking at him with cold resigned eyes.
Both say nothing.
Eönwë has been dreading meeting him on the battlefield yet the Lieutenant had been noticeably absent from all battles, leaving only a trail of sorcery in the shadows of his absence.
Four days ago, Eönwë had dragged Morgoth himself out of the fortress, repugnant and weakened as the Vala had then been, a pitiful mockery of what he should have been, Morgoth had wasted his last words hurling insults and taunting Eönwë.
Four days was all it took for Mairon to ressurface.
Eönwë sighs. Sharp and tired.
"It has been a long time."
What does one say to one who has caused so much suffering, one you used to count as your closest companion. Mairon looks at him then nods once. His hair is long and hangs past his waist, blond, almost ashen. His eyes are dark. His features, sharp and pale. If it is not for the fire burning within him, Eönwë would have thought him a different being.
"What do you want Mairon?" He asks when silence has stretched beyond what is acceptable.
The other Maia looks down at his hands then, demurely folded over his lap. This way Mairon looks anything but the picture of a war criminal and murderer. The truth still sits uneasy in Eönwë’s heart. The Mairon he knows– knew, is a precious memory he has forced himself to keep alive in the secrecy of his mind.
"I am here for your mercy." Demanding and a tad haughty. His voice is higher than it used to be.
"Why should I give it?" It's a rhetorical question. Eönwë is a war commander, has killed thousands in the last four decades, is still trying to deal with this reality and Morgoth's taunts have not helped. Of course he will give Mairon, the mercy of another chance.
But this, this is Eönwë the Maia, the former friend and companion's wish. His Lord has sent him on a mission and that is to free the Elves of Middle Earth of evil and the Maia sitting quietly, wearing a muted dark blue robe in a pretense of repentance, counts as such evil.
Enhanced by Morgoth's immense native power, Mairon has gifts none of their order in Aman owns. Mairon gives him a placid smile. Fake and strained.
"I will not dignify this with an answer. But you and I know you will not discard me."
Eönwë takes the slight with a flinch. Hurt, he strides to the other side of the tent, keeping the Maia on the periphery of his vision, then lets out a sharp sigh. Mairon if anything is the one who discarded them, him.
"You left on your own accord."
"I did."
Eönwë shakes his head.
"And now your master is no more and you shall have me thinking your coming back to me is genuine?"
He is surprised at the steel in his words. Perhaps war has taken more than a toll on his ëala. Perhaps it also has turned Eönwë into a new creature. Mairon remains quiet for a few moments, head tilted as he seems to ponder his next words. At last he says,
"Where should I hope to go then, if not where it all began?" This place is no more, Eönwë thinks angrily, suddenly and his shoves the thought, loud and pained, embroidered with the vivid images of the dying Trees, toward Mairon's mind, walled up as it is. The corner of the Úmaia's eyes tighten, the only physical evidence that he is well aware of Eönwë's despair.
"I am sorry for the Trees."
This more than anything is what angers Eönwë.
"You have lost the right to feel sorry for destruction, Sauron."
This brings a flare of life upon Mairon's pale skin, an ugly shade of red, splotched on his cheeks as he bares his teeth.
"Do not call me that."
Silence, frigid and icy, falls between them. Eönwë's sword hangs heavy from his waist and he wants to remove his boots. He feels exhaustion pressing behind eyelids, pressure building at the base of his skull. At times, wearing a fana is a burden.
He is about to ask what Mairon intends to do but the other Maia is rising to his feet. Despite the charisma he still exudes in this form, Eönwë remains taller than him, a good head above. Mairon's body is slim, waist narrow and deceitful in his perceived weakness, but tension has coiled around his shoulders as he takes one step toward Eönwë, stares at him with dull eyes then does something that makes all the air leaving Eönwë's lungs.
Kneeling in front of him, head hunched to the floor, Mairon asks forgiveness. Or tries to. His words are carefully picked to not put the blame on his shoulders and he avoids mentioning his regrets of joining Morgoth in the first place. Eönwë isn't sure he wants to hear this anyway for he knows it to be a lie. Mairon is cunning, and ambitious and unapologetic.
He will never regret his choice of allegiance. Still, the vision he gifts Eönwë, in this moment sends tingles to the tips of wings.
"You and I used to be friends." He adds quietly. It's an euphemism. They used to be closer.
"I have lost the war, and I am not delusional on what it means for my future."
Mercy.
Oh.
Eönwë blinks then. A flicker of understanding, for speaking with Mairon has always been like solving riddles and jumping ahead of conversations.
"I will not harm you, nor chain you." He carefully announces and intently stares as Mairon relaxes by a barely perceived degree.
"Will you forgive me then?"
Eönwë shuffles, uncomfortable.
"I will offer you a chance to seek atonement." He replies instead.
Mairon seems clearly displeased but he nods demurely, and gracefully stands up. They are closer now than they've been in long centuries, there are pale freckles splattered on Mairon's nose and his eyelashes are a tone darker than his hair.
Eönwë can see the flames burning behind the listless eyes, the fire that Mairon has never been able to tame down. The lips are the same. As soon as the thought has entered his mind, he feels disgusted with himself. Eönwë commands his legs to move, to put some distance with Mairon, and yet he remains there, counting every breath and exhales between them until he is sure that he has committed to memory that new face, strange yet oddly familiar in the way of Ainur.
"I'm sorry." Mairon whispers and Eönwë bites his own tongue.
He wants to believe it, he wants so many things. And none of them are worthy of his duties. He knows Mairon is possibly manipulating him when the other male reaches for him and applies cold lips against his own.
He doesn't want that kiss.
He should not be kissing him, but Mairon's grasp is strong and unrelenting as he slides a sinful tongue between lips and all but devours Eönwë's hopes and tiny breathy moans.
Stop it, he urges himself. Stop it, he repeats over and over again as Mairon presses his lithe body against his own, grinding hips that make bright sparks burst behind his closed eyelids.
Eönwë doesn't even remember closing his eyes and he tries to remain still, unresponsive, hoping against hope that Mairon will cease before he does something he will regret. One hand has snaked between their bodies and Eönwë gasps out loud when it palms his erection, hardening against his will.
From there it is a whirlwind of motions and Mairon is back on his knees, freeing Eönwë from the tightness of his breeches, erection hard and flushed against his stomach. What is happening, he thinks dazed as he watches with glazed over eyes as Mairon makes a show of licking his lips before running his tongue over the flushed head of his cock.
Eönwë whimpers, in pain and helplessness against base desire, against long buried feelings, against everything he stands for because it has been so, so long since he last has been touched this way. Stop it. He thinks again, weakly, shivering. Mairon has taken him whole in his mouth, swirling his tongue in a way that makes Eönwë's knees in danger of giving up.
It is a sudden nose outside of the tent that breaks the spell and calls him back to reality. Suddenly he pushes Mairon away, taking a second to mourn the absence of his mouth before awkwardly lacing back his breeches.
"Don't." He chokes, angry at both of them. Hurt and heartbroken.
Mairon's face is unreadable until a sly smile stretches his lips.
"Are you sure?"
Eönwë closes his eyes, shoves every ounce of improper feelings back in the far corner of his mind and squares his shoulders.
"I have given you my assent for atonement. Mairon. I am not Morgoth that I will demand to abase yourself to prove yourself."
Fury blooms on Mairon's face, followed by what looks to be hurt and Eönwë does not have time to ponder the reason when Mairon goes back on his feet and dust his robes.
"You know nothing." He hisses.
Eönwë doesn't like the sliver of satisfaction he feels at Mairon's pain.
"Maybe not, but I will not allow this behaviour. Go back with us to Valinor and ask Lord Manwë’s forgiveness, for I cannot grant you his blessing."
Something shutters behind Mairon's eyes and Eönwë has a bad omen. The Maia bows once more, wipes his still glistening lips and coldly tells Eönwë he will think about it.
Eönwë doesn't allow himself to weep when days later, Mairon has once more vanished into the wilds.
Warnings: none except english is my second language Mairon feeling his work is not perfect enough and Eonwe giving him platonic hugs. It is not love if you're not loving your lovely friends.
It's been few hours, maybe it was the whole day. Mairon again failed another project and because of that Mairon been mumbling a list of reasons why it failed. The project wasn't a total failure, it just Mairon is perfectionist.
"You're being hard on yourself, friend" Eonwe chimes in "I saw no fault with your locket."
Mairon paid no attention to Eonwe, and kept muttering his incompetence as he walked around the workshop.
Eonwe shook his head and bent down to pick up the rest of Mairon's work, gathering it in a handkerchief and putting it in his pocket.
Gently, he placed one hand on Mairon's shoulder and the other tenderly stroked his hair.
Mairon's breath hitches, It's been so long since anyone has shown him affection. He turns in Eonwe's embrace, leaning into his shoulder and breathing his scent, Eonwe smelt like autumn breeze early in the morning.
"hush now my blazing storm" Eonwe's voice thick with emotion "everything will be alright" he started swaying his body while Mairon was trapped inside his embrace.
The simple hug turned to a silly dance with the two maia laughing until their faces turned red and their stomachs started to hurt, with a final twirl they fell on the floor gasping for air.
"Remember that I will always see your work as perfect as the two lamps" Eonwe declared with his right hand on his heart.
Mairon hummed and lifted himself off the ground, offering his hand to Eonwe who accepted it without hesitation.
"how about we go to lord Irmo's dominion?" Mairon suggested while he was patting his clothes removing any dust.
"as long as lord Namo is invited" Eonwe wrapped his arm around Mairon's arm and pulled him outside, the bright light reflecting off their skin making it glisten, they walked towards the gardens laughing at the faces lord Namo will give Melkor every time he sees him.
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