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Eönwë came from a gentle thought. It had barely been articulated before it was shaped into his soul and self. It might have been a reply to something. A reminder? An echo of something grander? No one could know for certain save for the mind that had made him. Eönwë never thought to ask. He knew his place and was well pleased.
Before there was world, or light, or breath, there was Ilúvatar. From him came the Ainur. Eönwë was one in that great host, and he resided in Ilúvatar’s vast hall, sheltered from the void that surrounded it.
When Eönwë moved, he knew that the others moved too and were close. He knew their names, knew them as he knew his own. They beat in him like a heart, Manwë, Melkor, Varda, Ilmarë. He delighted in them, knowing that they too had come from the thoughts of Ilúvatar. Through them, he sensed more of his father than he could have grasped on his own. It was a mighty gift. He hoped that he repaid it in kind.
Eönwë listened as his immeasurable father spoke, describing themes of music. It seemed to him that some small fragments of what his father described called out to him by name. He had greater contentment then for, surrounded as he was by siblings beyond count, he was known and had a task. He was a listener in a vast audience, in the hall beyond which was void and silence.
When they were invited to sing, to be makers and not only listeners, Eönwë expressed what he could of the themes. He delighted to hear one near to him, Manwë, whose voice was clear and strong. Eönwë echoed it at times. How better to hear those parts again? How could his part in the theme not include them?
Others listened and sang too, and more came together in time, weaving their voices together until all Eönwë knew was sound and the sense of his siblings as they drifted and found others more like themselves.
Then came the call once more, and the speech of him who had given life to all. Then was spoken a theme of surpassing brilliance and wonder, full of the memory of the imperishable flame that had been with him at his beginning. Called to do his best work, Eönwë sang his theme and took the themes of others into it. He felt his creator’s pleasure in the music that they wrought together.
For a time, all was beauty and peace. When a voice near to him strayed, beginning a melody wholly new, it shook Eönwë at his core. It was strange, not as his father had spoken. It met the music around it and joined it not. It even began to strive against it, not as notes in harmony, but as noise, with neither elevating nor adding to the other. Melkor was making it, he realized, and others were joining him.
Eönwë tried to make his brother’s contribution more welcome, to bend around it, to harmonize with this noise and bring it back into alignment, but Melkor shifted it away at each effort.
Ever Eönwë was drawn back to the clear voice that sang its theme so wondrously. Amidst the jangling sea of sounds, Eönwë followed the song of Manwë back to his own part. If his had notes from the off melody, from the strains that had been the ruin of all, it was a contrast Eönwë found too delightful to forget.
His father rose. He lifted a mighty hand and directed Eönwë and all those around him. Together, they sang a theme to vie with the noisemakers’. It was different, informed by the discord and driven by it to new heights, better showing the glory of their father and his works. It was bliss after the discord that had preceded it.
The noise rose, growing stronger, sharper and some were struck silent at the destruction it wrought on what was so fair. Eönwë found, amidst the turmoil, the bright pure sound of Manwë who he’d followed before. He turned himself to the echoing of his song, no longer referencing it but repeating it in full to strive against the shrieking horror.
Ilúvatar raised his other hand and it pulled Eönwë back to purpose. He searched himself and found his part in the slow consuming march of the last theme. Now he and his siblings succeeded, taking the best of that which had been formed to work woe and making it new and glorious though it remained sorrowful.
The noise narrowed and grew louder but it was only a counterpoint now, only part of the song.
Still, the striving of theme against noise was fierce, and it shook the walls that were the edges of Eönwë’s world. His father raised his hands and such a chord sounded as to silence all things by its power.
He spoke to them, and then he led them, frightened and awed, into the void. There he showed to them a world that they had designed unknowingly; a vision shaped by their music. Eönwë’s first sight was Arda, its history unfolding before him. He loved it.
Born of a gentle thought, the ferocity of his love for this thing, this world, was a shock to him. The Children of Ilúvatar were revealed and the whole of Eönwë bent towards them. What part would he play in the making of their dwelling? How could he possibly be of use to them, the precious creations of his father, designed by Ilúvatar alone? How could he protect them from the tumult and the discord of his brother?
With his family, he praised the waters of the world, but part of him looked already on iron and stone. He began to contemplate them, not as Aulë did, not for the love of making or things made, but for other, more subtle purposes. He loved Melkor and those he’d led astray but, if they were determined to drown out sense with raucous hate, he’d have to show them something that could not be ignored.
The vision vanished. Darkness was within and surrounding Eönwë, but soon his father spoke the word, and suddenly the world was.
Their labors began at once. At once the strife with Melkor too began; the setting of his fires, the staking of his claim, and its rejection. Called to the aid of Manwë, Eönwë entered a world undone. All of history, written and unwritten, lay before him; a shapeless beginning. The thought of the coming labors bent his new-formed back and he longed at once for the father he’d left behind, beyond the circles of the world. Melkor withdrew when challenged, but despair poisoned the air in his wake.
A clear voice called out, “Blessed are we, given this gift by our father who gave us being. We have arrived here and must make solid that which we sang before Him.”
Manwë had spoken. Eönwë followed the voice and came to stand before his king, his lord. He spoke next the words that were Manwë’s, passed to his heart at their meeting, or seeded there during the music and now revealed to him.
“Blessed are we, charged with the creation of beauty and security for the Children to come, and for ourselves, who have seen and long to see again the product of our great minstrelsy.”
The rightness of this act filled him, and Eönwë kneeled before Manwë on the new-made ground.
“I will be your messenger,” he said.
Manwë inclined his head, and he smiled. His messenger had spoken. No further confirmation could be needed.
The forms of maiar, like those of the Valar, are to them as clothing is to the Children. When Eönwë entered the world and stood for the first time against Melkor and his like, he gave little thought to the form in which he’d clothed himself. Having settled on a vocation and with time, he thought, before the next test of wills, he set about choosing a form.
In his heart lived images from the vision of the world to be, and from them and his tasks, he drew inspiration. His hair was the color of sand under sun. His eyes he made golden like the dawn. His skin combined the two. It was a memory of sand as well, but closer to the sea, darkened by the water but touched by the rising light. The skin around his eyes was speckled, like the plumage of some birds, like the night sky.
As he fought the fires of Melkor, Eönwë shaped for himself vast wings, each feather a dark brown but lighter at the tips, as if dipped in gold. They caught the light as he crossed the burning wastes and the firelight made them shine until he himself seemed draped in sparks.
It was a time before time, before the trees and the sun and moon which would separate nights from days. There was only the war. There was making and ruin and making again. Eönwë flew before his lord, his wings a banner, his voice a warning, a plea: the world must be prepared. The time of the Children would come. Their king bid them come home, to those who longed to love them and were loath to do them harm.
The servants of Melkor heeded him not. At first, he grappled with them, the Valaraukar, who set ablaze all that they could. He sought to take them on with only hand and wing. He found that he could not subdue them quickly enough to prevent their marring of the works of his brothers and sisters, and so went to fields where the fire burned hottest, nurtured by Aulë and those who worked under his guidance for use in his craft.
“Lord Brother, if I am to guard your grand work against the ravages of the lost ones, I will need weapons of great power,” he said, bowing low. “Will you make me such tools?”
“King’s herald,” Aulë said warmly, “and yes, my brother, but which of my brothers asks this of me? Does Eönwë speak, or Manwë?”
Eönwë was taken aback by that.
“I would not seek to oppose my lord. He is wise, and most loved by our father it is said, and he has guided me, as you have guided Mairon and Curumo and so many others,” Eönwë said in a rush. “I wish to tell them, the lost ones, the noisemakers, that this world will not belong to them, as my lord told them.”
“Be at ease,” Aulë said. He set down his tools and walked to where Eönwë stood, his wings moving restlessly as he prepared to fly. “Two may be in accord and not be the same person. Two may have the same end and yet disagree, and neither need be evil or corrupt. You serve well, Herald, but do not forget that Eönwë was made a whole and separate creation from Manwë. He may have a different purpose before the end. I will make your tools for war; arrows fletched with your own feathers, a bow, a sword so light that you will not feel it as you fly. I will gift these things to Eönwë, for you have asked for them, and not for Manwë who wishes most for peace. Take care that you remember: when you use them, the message you bear is your own, and the consequences will be yours as well.”
And so, when next he joined the battle, the messenger found himself divided. He spoke with the voice of his king, but when he fought, it was only Eönwë. Clumsy and new, he found himself as bewildered as he had been in the most difficult parts of the music. He bested his foes, but just barely. When he left the battle, when he and his siblings had driven the demons of terror back to wherever they hid, he went alone to some quiet place apart, and he trained until the time came to fight again.
Through the uncountable expanse of time that followed, Eönwë found new contentment in his routine. He used his battles to guide his training. When he brought his new skills to bear against his foes, they showed him his weaknesses. They gave him more to learn.
His king came to him between battles, watching as Eönwë drilled the same motion or series of motions again and again.
“It’s like a dance,” Manwë said.
Eönwë brought his sword down in a smooth arc and beat his wings, taking to the air to do the strike at a different angle
“It’s like a dance, but you would leave the world rather than dance with me,” Eönwë replied.
“I’ve no need to fight my herald, and no desire to play at war,” Manwë confirmed.
“To play at war may shorten it,” Eönwë said. “If this endures, I fear for the Children.”
“I fear for many and much. All things remain uncertain. Continue your dance, Brother. It is fair, if perilous.”
“It is fair, if perilous, like the hope you wield and the forgiveness you offer,” he replied. Feeling his king’s next words, he spoke them in Manwë’s stead. “May it all prove his instrument in the making of greater music. May all things echo his glory.”
Manwë nodded, smiling softly, but he spoke again, “You would be a fine advisor if you weren’t so intent on echoing me to myself.”
“To my self, honored brother. I am content to be your student, and a dancer, for as long as needed.” He said, spinning to attack an imagined opponent.
“If it is only as long as needed, I will fear for one less,” Manwë said mildly. Then he walked away leaving Eönwë to continue his training.
Later, the Valar were again locked in battle. The bow of Eönwë was bent again and again, taking what advantage he could as none of Melkor’s forces flew. Still, it seemed Melkor would have victory, for his power was great and sharply wielded. He had dominion over much of the earth and was not hindered by love or desire for peace.
Suddenly, out of the west came a boom of laughter. Others followed and the sound grew till all of Arda rang with it as a mighty spirit joined the battle on the side of Manwë. Melkor fled then, into the outer darkness and his forces withdrew, fleeing the wrath of Tulkas.
Eönwë was drawn to his king and stood behind him. He stood beside Ilmarë, the chief of the maiar and handmaiden of Varda. They greeted their brother who’d come when he was most needed. Even as they did, Eönwë found his eyes wandering over the world as he had known it.
Fire was the only light in the young world. War had ravaged the land, but it was beautiful in a way. It could never be a home to the Children, but he vowed to keep a memory of it. A memory could not harm them.
A new urge shook Eönwë from his reverie. He looked to Manwë, who’d turned to face him.
“Go forth,” Manwë directed him. “Go to the lands Melkor once claimed and tell those who served him what you have seen. The work begins now, and we would have their company and the products of their labor. We offer them the chance to make right much that they have marred.”
Aulë stepped forth, having come at the sound of laughter and bringing with him several of the Maiar who often worked with him.
“You’ve been long in battle,” Aulë said, “and his servants may prove a challenge. Mairon, will you go with him? To tend his weapons and teach those as you find willing to learn? Fair are you in word and in deed, a fine accompaniment to a messenger.”
“I will go,” Mairon replied. The being that stepped forward had light hair and an amiable face. His eyes were dark, compelling.
The two set off at once. They walked and flew over the wide, burning expanse. They met few, for many seemed to have fled with Melkor, but to those such as they found, Eönwë gave the words of Manwë. His brother stood at his side and offered lessons in craft or shaped tools for them.
Eönwë tried but could not recall Mairon’s part in the music. Seeing his charm and his precision, Eönwë felt it must have been good, not sweet perhaps, but righteous. He thought perhaps he’d focused too much on his own music and that of Manwë and others nearer to him. How else could such a part be lost to him now?
Eönwë did not draw his sword until they stopped for a time, and there was space to practice.
Mairon watched from nearby, sharpening and mending some of Eönwë’s arrows.
“You speak with his voice, and you deliver his edicts more often than you say words of your own,” Mairon mused. “Can you tell me how that came to be so? Will your lord let you spell out the terms of your… shall we say indenture?”
“He is my king. I love him and am honored to serve him. Together, we will all make much that is fair and good. We will glorify our father by doing so. He trusts me to carry his banner as he leads us in this effort, and to speak his heart to his people,” Eönwë said. “If love is an indenture, it is mutual. Is not yours with Aulë?”
“He has two great loves. He has no need of me, nor do I desire the cast-off scraps of his regard. He teaches me; that is our bond. With his skills, I will carve order from the chaos and waste around us,” Mairon replied. “Tell me, this mutual love, can it truly be mutual if all anyone sees in you is him?”
“He sees something else,” Eönwë replied. “He is wise, as is Aulë, who reminds me to see it too. We are blessed. Spar with me?”
Something like desire flashed in Mairon’s face, but he shook his head, and the matter was set aside.
Still, doubt began to grow in Eönwë. He knew that he was more, he hadn’t lied, but he was most himself when he trained and fought. What place did he have in a peaceful world? What could he offer the Children of Ilúvatar that his king could or would not?
There was an uneasy peace between the travelers that remained until they parted ways and rejoined their respective lords. Once back among the others, the work of putting out fires and shaping the world that they’d seen in the vision took precedence.
It was a good time. There was laughter and song, and such beauty and wonder as to make all the strife before seem like a bad dream. The great lamps were made and raised, and colors only imagined before burst forth as life began on Arda.
It was the first spring, the first and longest day, as Illuin and Ormal shined steadily, their light touching nearly all of the wide flat expanse. The twilight beneath the trees was empty of all save the promise of things to come, but so sweet was that promise that the Valar found that they could wait contentedly.
They made their first home on the island of Almarin amidst a lake so vast that its tides and waves were as the sea. Eönwë dwelt with Manwë, Varda, and with Ilmarë in clean, white halls without roofs to block the light.
He desired at first to put away sword and bow, but found that he loved the dance, and so his skill at arms continued to grow. He loved the world they were building, and he could inhabit it fully now, unburdened by war. It was bliss so nearly complete that he could almost forget those they were meant to share it with.
Ilmarë came to Eönwë on Almarin’s shore not long after they’d settled there. Looking on him with kind eyes, she asked to join in his dance, and he accepted, for she was the most powerful of their order, and he knew he could not harm her.
For long hours in the changeless light, Eönwë moved with sword, spear, and bow, and laughing Ilmarë evaded his strikes, as fluid and swift-moving as a wind among stars. When they tired of their game they fell down into the shallow water and laughed openly in their delight.
Eönwë resolved to thank Aulë again, for this was a joy wholly his own, a great if temporary work, and done through the weapons he’d made. When you use them, the message you bear is your own, Aulë had said, and it was glorious truth.
There was feasting soon after, and the wedding of Tulkas to Nessa. She danced on the green grass and it was the most lovely sight that the young world had known.
They did not see the shadow creeping in.
Not with fire did the destruction begin this time, but with foul waters, darkness, and rot. As it grew and spread, they realized that their foe had returned. They sought him in the deep and dark places, those furthest from the lamplight.
Eönwë flew as fast and far as he could, noting absently the beasts and other moving creatures that had begun to fill the forests. He searched for Melkor, sharp eyes scanning the wide, flat expanse of the world, other senses seeking the power that radiated out from him at all times.
A groan of straining metal and a change in the light made him turn in the air. He’d found Melkor, but too late. Eönwë watched in horror as with a great cracking noise, Illuin’s pillar was shattered, sending shards keen and thick as trees flying like spears. The lamp fell, breaking on the face of the earth and sending its contents roaring through the air and across the green hills and valleys, burning all they touched.
Ormal followed, and by the light of many fires, Eönwë saw the roiling tumult as lands cracked and seas steamed and boiled. The world threatened to become, again, a wasteland.
Eönwë drew his sword and set to work, fighting Melkor’s forces as the strongest among the Powers vied with land and sea, straining to bring all to some kind of stability.
They had been fooled, lead away from the light so that Melkor could act to the ruin of all. Their home was gone, as though it had never been. The shore where he’d laughed with Ilmarë was broken and drowned.
Eönwë went far and fought long. He chased foul beasts and servants to dark places and fought until they gave up their forms and fled or bled out on the cold ground. For the first time, when the urge came to rejoin his king, he ignored it. He forsook all oaths of fealty, and all urges save one.
He wrote his regret and the agony of his loss onto the skin of his foes. In his rage and sorrow, these- his own messages- grew in importance and he had no ear for Manwë. So much more satisfying were the answering cries in the dark. They were like unto the shrieks and howls of Melkor’s discord, in the blackness before the world. Hearing the cries, he could imagine himself back there. He could defy time and space and return to his place beside his father; singing with his loved ones, and confused at the notion that anyone would oppose Ilúvatar’s will. The crack of bones beneath his sword, echoing the sound of the shattering pillars, brought him ever back to the broken world and its turmoil. He raged on, seeking the screams that could return him to the void, if only for moments.
Somewhere above, on the surface, lands were shaped and cities were built. The trees, Laurelin and Telperion, were planted on hallowed ground and grew. The world moved forward, but Eönwë did not. He stayed unaware and beneath until no foe of Manwë and the Valar would dare come thence to challenge him, for all who found that darksome cave died or fled in agony.
Then even his wrath abandoned him, and he found himself alone. He remembered all that he had done. He knew shame.
Covered in ash and things more horrible, when Eönwë finally walked up out of the deeps he thought at first to fly to the outer darkness. Perhaps his father would find him there and free him from his bond to the world. It seemed as likely that he would order him back into the caves where he could trouble no one and fade mercifully from memory.
He felt as though great distances separated him from everything he’d known. If the use of his weapons was all that made him who he was, then better to be the mindless copy that Mairon had thought him. What he’d done had not been a dance, or fair in any sense. He’d rejoined the music and he’d shrieked along with his foes, this time with no thought to compassion and no hope for harmony. He’d done that in his own name, and so his name felt stained.
He felt a strange sympathy for those who followed Melkor. The blind darkness of wrath had been easier.
A warmth on the western wind drew him out of his dark musings. He felt the call of Manwë in his spirit and, hesitant, he took to the air.
Breaking up above the trees he looked afar and saw a glow in the distance. There was light in the world again. He flew towards it and fresh winds cleared the ash from his wings. Rain washed the remaining filth away, and yet still he landed by the wide sea. He washed himself and the weapons he bore till all seemed pure as the day when they’d been formed.
Eönwë crossed the sea with as little speed as flight would allow. He marveled at the Calacirya, the pass of light, and flew through it, landing at the base of a hill. On it was the source of the light, the two beautiful trees. They grew tall and strong.
Manwë was there, and Varda, Aulë, and Ilmarë.
He knelt before them, his wings splayed down onto the dirt.
“I have no right to be here,” he told them. “Yet I am called, and I come. I have failed as a messenger, as a brother, and a friend, I understand if those roles are lost to me now. I will sing what part is left to me and wish for no more.”
“You were well made,” Aulë said, “made separate from Manwë and made for more than violence. I never meant for you to build yourself with tools for war, only to be responsible for what you did with them. Have I failed you?”
“I failed. The fault is mine. How could you have known what I would hear in your words when I did not know myself?” Eönwë said. “I did not know myself.”
He felt the words of Manwë rising in his throat. They hurt, a sudden, unexpected light after so much darkness. He gasped and turned to his king, “You would have a messenger who gave himself to the noise at the first true test?”
“I would have my messenger, who has returned where others have fallen into darkness. You have learned much. You can lead them back to the light.” Manwë said. His voice was warm. The forgiveness in his gaze took much of the weight from Eönwë’s heart.
“Lead them back to the light,” he repeated and he knew that he'd heard it before. It had been there, in the music, his fall - but also his lesson, and his purpose. “Of course. I am your messenger”.
Varda came forth and touched the skin around his eyes, cupping his cheek and sweeping a soft thumb across the lighter specks. She guided him to his feet.
“May these stars of yours remind you of your calling, More-than-Herald. Lead well,” she said and stepped away, allowing her handmaid to come forward.
Ilmarë took his hands in hers and kissed his brow, welcoming him back to the fold and consoling him after all that had been lost.
Eönwë bowed his head and squeezed her hands in thanks, falling in line beside her as their lord and lady moved forward, pleased to show him their new home.
Taniquetil, the elves would later name the high home of Manwë, Varda, and the maiar that served them. Eönwë marveled to see it. It was a palace of white stone draped around the top of the tallest of the mountains that ringed Aman. As before, the upper levels were open beneath the starry sky.
In the corridors of that vast mansion, Ilmarë whispered to him about the doings of their kind, particularly the betrayal of Mairon, who had left them and gone to join Melkor in his fortress.
Eönwe said little in reply. He thought of the lack of love between Aulë and those who served him. Mairon had found a teacher that suited him better.
Long years brought news of the awakening of the firstborn, and Eönwë was struck anew by his love for them, by his desire to meet the ones who’d been designed by Ilúvatar.
When the first of them came to Aman with stories of dark murderers in the forest and horrible things in deep places Eönwë, dismayed, thought it best to watch them from a distance. He’d been little more than a dark thing in deep places for a long, uncounted, time, and though he knew that he would never go back, he could not forget. He had not wielded a bow or blade since his return.
There was no need. Oromë and Tulkas could be their champions. Eönwë had a different role, and he would not cast it aside again. He followed his King and spoke only as herald. His own thoughts he kept to himself for many of the years that followed.
For many of the years of the trees, Eönwë would walk among the elves unclothed in flesh except when he came as Herald and messenger. Eager to observe, he had no words of his own to offer them, just a silent delight, a hopefulness, and a gentleness of thought that lingered with those he’d sat near for long after he’d moved away.
His love for them grew and, when some began to make and practice with weapons, at first he thought he might have words for them at last. He could be careful and perhaps chance to dance with them. He could improve their form and show them skills that he’d learned in his ages of battle.
Almost before the thought formed, there was bloodshed in Aman, the wanton murder of the trees, and the darkening of Valinor. Eönwë sat in his rooms in the palace at Taniquetil as the sun rose and set for the first time, and longer, mastering his rage and his grief. Murder and exile; the disgust he felt threatened to choke him. The shock and waste were nigh to unbearable.
In silence, he struggled with the idea that such violence and betrayal could come from the Children, who’d been made as Ilùvatar had designed. He tried to reconcile the father that he knew with the wrath and noise that seemed present in Melkor, the most powerful of the offspring of his father's thought, and in Fëanor, among the most gifted of the Children, and in himself.
Frustrated and exhausted, he wept, but he stayed his hand. He harmed nothing in his anguish.
At last, Manwë came to him. Manwë bid Eönwë take his up sword. Leading him to a hidden valley at the base of the great mountain, Manwë took up a sword of his own.
“What are you doing?” Eönwë asked, startled into speech.
“My herald must trust himself, and so I find I have a reason to play at war,” Manwë told him. He raised the sword and swung it. Eönwe parried the swing and then copied it before taking to the air and preparing for a new strike.
For hours until the sun set and the stars appeared they continued: a statement from Manwë, an echo that twisted into a reply from Eönwë.
This was not the practice he’d done before or the play of his time with Ilmarë. It was further still from the discord and slaughter in the deep places, in the burning dark after Arda’s spring.
It was good. An almost academic musing on the meeting of blades, it was free of blood, and waste, and pain. It was like a dance.
Their sparring was fine and challenging but no longer Eönwë's greatest joy. It was weighted now, as bittersweet as the memory of the world ablaze before its shaping. The ring of sword against sword could not speak for Eönwë as it had before.
With an easy move, Eönwë disarmed his king. he lay both swords at Manwë’s mighty feet. Eönwë knew what he needed and before he could open his mouth or heart to ask, Ilmarë appeared at his side, a golden trumpet in her hands.
“I remembered,” she said, “from the music we made. Use this in joy, my friend.”
He smiled softly and was comforted. Even in his silence, he’d been known. He had a place and a task.
Eönwë took up the instrument carefully. He played a single note, and it was beautiful. He played another and found that it hung in the air by some magic, and he built chords and melodies that spilled out to touch the hearts of all those waiting in the deathless realm. Into them, he poured his grief, his confusion, and his faith that truth existed beyond his limited understanding. His father was still good. The Children still had Eönwë’s love.
Eönwë could wield his weapons and not be lost. he could speak his heart through song. He could speak.
So it was, that when Eärendil came to Valinor he was met by the great voice of Eönwë, and his fellow mariners were sent home by the same. They marveled for few even of the elves had ever seen the king’s herald, and as he led them back to the waves, he whispered tales of that which they’d not been permitted to see, gladdening their hearts.
So it was that the trumpets of Eönwë carried the challenge of the host of the West and his hands took the Silmarils from the iron crown, then a collar about the foul neck of Morgoth. They did not burn him, for no darkness stained his enduring soul.
And so it was that Sauron, who had been Mairon when last they’d met, bent before Eönwë and renounced his evil deeds.
Perhaps the words of Manwë might have moved him to do more; none can know, save Ilúvatar, what would have happened had Eönwë waited or gone to his king to acquire a more powerful speech. Eönwë never asked, knowing better than to question the designs of his father.
“Out of my own darkness I was called and I went. I found love I had not dared to seek, and acceptance that I did not feel I deserved,” he told him. “I call you now. Come back to the light and to the judgment of those who taught and cared for you of old. Come home. Come willingly, and with the knowledge that love may seem an indenture, but it would be mutual and without shame.”
Eönwë turned from him and rejoined the Children of Ilúvatar beside the shore. He talked with them, teaching them much of what he had learned in his endless years. He spoke to them gladly with his own words and in his own form.
When the time came, he led some home to the West, and he was thankful even as he left Sauron behind. There was so much time and life left in the world. It would all come to the glory of their father, Manwë would say. Eönwe, his herald and messenger, would agree with the whole of his being.