Homecomings

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AelKennyr Rhiano and Rajani Milton

His boots strike the floor with a sharp, flinty sound as Eonwë crosses the expanse of the room and replaces a sword newly sharpened. Time has stretched into a breathless, endless moment of painful ache, deep loss, and, for the Maia, a waiting. He turns and surveys the home that he has never asked for, but which the Lord of the West provided. He has kept to himself for endless moons, hiding even from the sight of Tilion's vessel, having at last found the endless running tiresome and unproductive. Out in the night, an owl called to the Moon, and the shrill answer of a bat was the reply. With a sigh, he turns toward the door leading to a bedroom and a bed he does not use.

Since she met with Lord Manwe, Ilmarë has spent hours searching for her brother Eonwë. He is not in any of his accustomed posts in the halls of the Lord of the West. At last she thinks to try his home, if it is still where it was the last time she was here. The thought that her brother has somehow broken faith with the Lord of the West outweighs even her worry about the missing Morning Star. But perhaps it is all a misunderstanding. She has missed Eonwë in the time they have been apart. With a heavy heart, Ilmarë finds her brother's dwelling and knocks on the door.

Eonwë stops short at the sound of the knock, blue eyes widening. He turns toward the sound, and hesitates for a moment. Deliberately he does not probe to see who may be waiting without. Does he answer or no?  A look of indecision cross his face, and for a second, the Maia feels this physical body respond as the heart beats faster.  Then he straightens his back, and with the carriage of the Herald he has always but lately been, he crosses to the heavy double doors, carved in the likeness of a tree, and through them to the outer foyer and the doors beyond which waited his guest.

Ilmarë hears a firm tread cross the floor, and then the door is flung open. A tall form stands there, unmistakably her brother, but tense and stormy of countenance as she has never seen him before. She remembers even in the last wars with the Fallen One that Eonwë was bright and proud and eager for battle. Never...worried. "Eonwë?" she ventures.

Ilmarë

There she is; skin the color of midnight sky littered with a thousand stars. Dark tresses that obeyed no rules but to lie as they will about a face both wise and innocent. Her eyes look into his, and for a moment he cannot tear his gaze away.  Ilmare. Ilmare his counterpart among the Maiar, the handmaiden of Varda. Ilmare the sister of his spirit in so many ways. The dark etheral beauty, who knew him better than any other, save the Breath of Arda himself. "Ilmare, " he whispers softly. Then he recovers himself and stands to one side to allow her entrance. "You have returned. I did not," he pauses. "I did not know."

Eonwë is tall and strong as always -- whatever form he might take, that is always the impression he would give -- but he has laid aside his weapons, and he wears simple clothing. Nothing proclaiming him the Herald of Manwë. The house is all carven wood, very beautiful and very Eonwë. "I am only just returned. It is so good to see you!" She opens her arms to offer an embrace. "How are you, brother?"

Eonwe hesitates a moment. Something ... doubt? ... briefly darkens the blue eyes. Then he crosses the distance and wraps his arms around her smaller form. How slight she seems, how delicate, like the thread of cloud behind which the moon at midnight could peek and still Tilion would see all spread below his vessel. Her words, familiar, affectionate, calm at the nervousness at finding, again, being in her presence. "It is good to see you, sister. Please, enter my home as the tender guest you are." At his words the heavy double doors open to allow her to enter from the foyer into the main room, sparsely furnished.

Even at the command of Lord Manwë, Ilmarë does not wish to spy. But now that she sees Eonwë, there is indeed something wrong. It's not obvious, really, no large looming dark cloud, no wraiths of fear in the corners, but to one who knows him well, he looks upset. Tired, perhaps. Eonwë is never tired. Ilmarë smiles up at him. "You keep your house simple as always. It's refreshing -- one isn't used to palaces any more, after so much time in the heavens. Have you been well?"

Blue eyes look down into that familiar face, that smile, and a small smile answers it. "You have been away for a long time, " he says, by way of answer. "I have missed your presence, Ilmare." He raises his gaze and looks about his sparsely furnished room.  There was no reason for more in the way of furnishings. He was not given to receiving guests, not since Ilmare had left. "Please, sister, should we sit as we used to?" he asks, and gestures to a smaller set of wooden doors, which open upon his words. His heart gives a painfully hard thud in this body, and his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. Once they would have talked for many passages of the moon, anything, nothing. Now, words come hard to he who was once the Voice of the Lord of the West.

Ilmarë follows him into the familiar study. The furniture has changed, except--she smiles--the small chair that was her favourite whenever she would come to visit. Purely sentimental, since either of them could be any shape they chose. Yet it reminds her how kind her brother can be. "Thank you," she says simply. "I had forgotten how much I missed sitting with you and discussing the events of the day. I have been gone a long time."

Eonwe watches as she gracefully takes her seat and then follows suit.  Settling himself, he relaxes into the familiarity of the moment. "You have," he says simply, his tongue loosening now. He leans back a little and tilts his head. "I can summon food, if you wish or require." His eyes watch her.  "I.." he pauses and starts again. He who once had words for any situation, now labors for them. "I wondered where you had gone. What was occupying you for so long."

"Perhaps tea? You know, the one that Melian used to like, when she was so interested in Elves. We used to drink that all the time..." She loses herself in nostalgia for a moment, then sobers at his question. "I have been very far away. Have you ever seen them, Eonwë? The stars, I mean. Up close, not from here. I left because...the world had changed. Everything was different after the Reshaping, and the Lady needed eyes and ears out there." She waves her hand as if to encompass all the heaven above them. "And it was so beautiful, so interesting. I forgot, a little, about the Children and our tasks here." She sighs, looking a bit chagrined. "But never about you."

Eonwe stops in the midst of summoning forth the requested tea, a flush of pleasure sweeping through him at her words. "You always heard the music of the stars, so much clearly than the rest of us. But you were, surely, about the business of Lady Varda, as well it would be expected." He starts to say more and stops. He once would have told her of the duties given him by Lord Manwe, but there are no such tasks now. His hours were empty ones, and for a moment, a feeling of loss sweeps over him.

"Yes." She smiles, remembering the deep satisfaction of seeing the Lady Varda again, face to face, the other night. It was as if everything had slotted into place and she could see who she was and where she belonged, all in the moment when her Lady greeted her. Poor Eonwë! To lose that must be terrible. "It's good to be about their business, especially when it accords with our own hearts." She picks up the teapot as it materializes on the table, and pours herself a cup. "Mmm, this is good." Then she looks up at him sharply. "And you, what have you been doing?"

Eonwe suddenly stills at the direct question and stares fixedly at the teapot. "I remembered the way you like your tea," he says softly. He keeps his eyes locked upon the teaset, his jaw working as he frames his words carefully. Leaning forward, he laces his fingers together and wraps them about a knee.  "I have grown rusty with the way of the sword. I have been," he pauses and gives a deep breath, "practicing."

 Ilmarë raises her eyebrows in doubt, but smiles at him over the rim of her cup. "Rusty? You?"

"It can happen," he answer back, and a small smile crosses his face as he ventures to raise his gaze to meet hers.

"Always practicing, always being the very best -- yes, that's you." She takes another sip of tea. "No wonder he chose you to be his Herald. He must have seen that you would never stop doing your best."

Eonwe's eyes widen for just the briefest of moments. He had not expected her remark. Slowly he unlaces his hand and wraps his arms about his stomach. There is an ache here, as though someone has delivered a blow; yet no one has. "That can no longer be said, Ilmare," he says without preamble. "Whatever the Lord of the West once saw in me, I find no favor in his eyes now. I am no longer his Herald."

She knew, and yet she hadn't believed it until she heard it from Eonwë's own mouth. Her shock is unfeigned. "Oh." She sets down her teacup carefully. "Oh, Eonwë." A dozen things come to mind but she can say none of them. She simply looks at him. "It cannot be. You have always been his. Always."

Eonwe draws in another breath and drops his gaze to the table. "Not any longer, Ilmare," He answers, his voice hollow, his face molding into the image of his sadness and his lost. Outside, the lone cry of an animal, calling to the stars, breaks into the silence that falls upon them both. "I have been turned out of his service. I am no one's. I do not know if I am even my own." He raises the blue eyes, always so carefully neutral, now dark with loss. "I no longer know who I am, Ilmare. I  no longer know what to call myself. All because I tried to defend my Lord."

Ilmarë's heart breaks as she watches him crumple in on himself. She remembers Lady Varda's words, that Eonwë is still theirs, and the sadness on Lord Manwë's face. She wants somehow to tell him this, but a few words cannot possibly heal the awful, lost look on Eonwë face. Then she hears his last words. "To defend him?"

Eonwe nods softly. "From the perfidy of the Smith." Slowly his face transforms, and his jaw sets in anger. His eyes, before soft with the loss, now grow hard, and his voice grows in strength, the words clipped. "He chose to disobey the will of Manwe. He chose to disregard the wishes of the Lord of the West. I was sent to him to see what he claimed was scrawled upon the walls of the old prison chambers beneath the halls of Mandos. But he announced he had purged the walls clean, and indeed, naught was there. So either he defied the Will of Lord Manwe, or he was false in his claim from the start." His eyes glitter, like sapphires, as his face grows redder, and more animated. He gestures to punctuate his words. "He insulted me, as though I were not fit to clean his boots. As though I were the lowest of creatures. But most of all, he defied my Lord, and is no different than Melkor himself."

Ilmarë sits back, surprised by the sudden vehemence in Eonwë's words. She thinks she liked him better before. She blinks. Prison chambers in Mandos? "Melkor," she mutters to herself. "The dark lord. And he has taken Earendil--at least, I think he has--" She leans forward, speaking to Eonwë now. "When was this, brother? You say Aulë the Smith has fallen?" Worse news and even worse, she thinks. She shakes her head. "How could such a thing be? It is hard to believe. But you were there..."

Eonwe leans forward, his eye now fasten upon Ilmare's, and his face lights up. "You believe me, truly?" His eyes search her face eagerly." For I tried to warn my Lord, but the word of an Aratar is of greater weight than the word of a simple Maia." His voice becomes softer. "Even one as beloved as I once was."

She nods, slowly. "It is difficult to think that any of the Aratar should turn from our lord. And yet..." A deep sigh. "You have always been true. And I hear nothing but passion and sadness in you now, Eonwë. So very many strange things have happened in these days. I --with my own eyes I have seen Vingilotë lost from the skies. I can believe most anything in such a time."

Eonwe nods. "I remember my Lord most distressed over the disappearance. Long did he cast his mind about but could not perceive its light anywhere in the realm of the Children" He stopped for a moment and leaned forward, putting a hand on the table as he peered intently into the eyes of the Handmaiden of Varda. "I have no reason to report other than what I have witness, Ilmare. And Melkor, too, was one of their number. Look how he turned against Blessed Eru Himself. Nothing would satisfy him save the entire destruction of all the Song of Creation brought into being. Is it so unthinkable that Aule would prove no better? Did he not seek to make unto himself his own Children?"

Ilmarë frowns in thought. "I remember. And I remember the great wars, and that Lord Aulë was ever repairing the breaches made by Melkor. Could it not be...that he has fallen, but not so far? Must it be all or nothing?" Her eyes are doubtful, for she remembers that some of the Valar had argued this same thing about Melkor, long ago -- that he was not *all* evil. "I do believe you, brother. " She sighs, and takes another drink of her tea, now gone cold. "What shall we do? I do not think--I do not think he will cast you out forever, Eonwë. But to make our Lord understand?"

Eonwe leans back and with a voice hollow and brittle says, "But he has, Ilmare. He has sent me from his side when I would but serve him. I would but take arms and defend him." He wraps his arms about his body once more. "I am free to do as I will, but will have I? I always had but one wish, to be ever by Lord Manwe's side, to be steadfast and faithful. Where should Eonwe go, if it cannot be at the side of his Lord?"  He swallows and then, with an effort, carefully builds a mask to hide the depths of the feelings his words portray. "Does Lady Varda have fresh tasks for you?" His tone is neutral, calm, devoid of all passion.

He is so sure he has been abandoned, Ilmarë thinks. But he did not see Lord Manwë's face a few hours ago. She calms her face to match Eonwë's.  "She sends me to seek Earendil, to find what has become of the Morning Star. I fear it will not be an easy task. I must have some time here, to prepare." She leans forward, arms on the table. "Whatever Lord Manwë thinks, Lady Varda still holds you in esteem. She said as much to me when she gave me this mission."

Eonwe looks up, a tiny look of hope in his blue eyes."Said she so to you?"

"In one breath she spoke my name and yours, that we were their servants with their blessing. And I know, I know, Eonwë, that she has not cast me out. I swear to you by the Lady of Light herself."

Eonwe leans forward, his face eager for one bright second. The eyes light with a hopeful joy, and the angles of his face ease into the softer lines that only the Breath of Arda and the Handmaiden of Varda have even seen. Then, just as quickly, the light in his eyes dims and dies away as he leans back and sits, ramrod straight. I cannot dare to hope, he thinks. And I cannot seek Lady Varda against the will of my Lord. Slowly his face  become impassive. "Then, if you are here awhile yet, perhaps we can spend an evening or so as we once did," he says, his voice again, the calm neutral heard in the Hall of Manwe. "But for now, I know you must wish to attend your Lady, and I would not keep you." He stands swiftly. But instead of the movement flowing graceful, as given to the Maiar to do, he bumps the table, causing a disharmonous noise in the wake.

Ilmarë reaches out a hand and steadies the table. Luckily the tea is all gone, and nothing splashes. "I would like that," she says, rising. "Let us promise never to lose touch again. For one thing, I have missed the tea." She grins at him. If I can say aught to the Lady on his behalf, or his Lord, I shall do it, she thinks. Though I must do as I am bid, first. Perhaps I can get advice on the movements of the Dark Lord's servants from my brother; he must know many things that I do not, having been gone.

 Eonwe watches Ilmare reach out for the table, leans over and places a hand atop hers. "Ilmare," he says, his voice low, intense. "If I cannot serve Lord Manwe, it is as I am cast into the void. There is no life for me if I be not allowed by his side. It is not from belief I am better than all other of our kin. It is how I came into being. It is the spark of being that Eru himself instilled in me. If I cannot be in his light, I would I were not in the world of creation at all."

Ilmarë squeezes his hand tightly. "I know," she says softly. "It is the same with me and the Lady. But Eonwë--I think that you serve him now, yet, though he knows it not. Do not despair, not yet." She comes around the table and wraps her arms around his tall form once more. "You will see, brother. I do not think all is lost."

For answer all Eonwe can do is a mute nod. Eonwe wraps his arms around the Handmaiden and gives her a tight hug. A tremor runs through his body in the aftermath of his words. "Be well, Ilmare, sister. I look to when we next speak."

She tightens the hug before letting him go. "And I am here, at least a little while."

Eonwe nods. "At least a little while," he repeats.

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