Chapter Text
Chapter 1:
“The Fallen Star”
“I saw a star slide down the sky,
Blinding the north as it went by,
Too burning and too quick to hold,[...]”
“And then forever to be gone.”
~by Sara Teasdale
“And over Middle-earth he passed
and heard at last the weeping sore
of women and of elven-maids[...]”
~by J R. R. Tolkien
“Seagulls are companion birds; they do not travel alone.” Her voice was muffled against his silver robes. Clinging to him with a desperate strength, Elwing all but bound his arms, preventing him from moving.
It mattered little that they were watched by the Powers. Eärendil shot them an apologetic glance and tried to loosen her grip, her fingers were more like claws on him.
“Star of my life, you will squeeze me to death,” he chuckled, but none seemed to share his humor. Ilmarë if he recalled her name right, regarded him unblinking. There was something uncanny in her gaze. Still, as immortals they had time, though time was precisely what drove him here, and what he had in abundance now only turned his thoughts to those waiting for him far away.
“You must let me go.”
But she clung all the more fiercely. He was on the edge of pushing her away when he felt her sob against his chest and at once his anger melted. He sighed and kissed her black curls, smelling of salt and sea.
“Elwing, my star—” he tried again, more gently. “I must go.”
Her sobbing slowly quieted, her grip loosened a bit. She lifted her face and his heart faltered. He was still angry, rightfully, but those eyes, so blue, reminded him why he stood here at all. Two other lives bore those same eyes, and if Eru showed mercy, they were in a safer place now, where none shall harm them.
Yet as she gazed at him, her focus strayed to the silver circlet on his brow, and the jewel it held. Her breathing grew shallow, her stare went blank. The Silmaril’s fire devoured her eyes. Her hand left his waist, rising, trembling, reaching for the gem—to feel it, to claim it, as her father once had. The Doom was upon her. He kissed her quickly and fiercely, breaking the spell. The last thing he desired was for the Ainur to see his wife possessed by that cursed jewel.
She blinked, gasped, and turned her face away in shame.
“Eärendil…” Her voice was barely a whisper, her hands trembled and her brow beaded with sweat. “I—I—” Words failed her. Nothing could change their fate. Still, she wished he might see her grief and her misery—that he might listen, as he once had when she chose immortality against his heart’s desire. But perhaps, she thought, she had stolen enough from him already.
And he saw it all. “Star of my life, you will not lose me. There is a quest I must fulfill, and then I will return to you.” He took her small, shaking hand into his calloused one and kissed it.
On Taniquetil, where all winds meet and the stars hang closer, where melodies too great for mortals to bear sang in the air, his voice sounded stronger, greater, as if he belonged not to the sea he loved but to the firmament.
She gave no answer. So he kissed her lips in farewell, and when he turned toward Ilmarë, still watching them, Elwing caught his hand one last time.
“Why do I feel there will always be another quest?” she whispered. “Another journey? And I, as before, will forever await you, once in the wooden city, now in this ivory tower, looking and praying, never knowing whether to weave a wreath… or a welcoming bouquet?”
This time she met his gaze, carefully avoiding the jewel’s light. It was difficult, for when the Valar named him Gil-Estel, they did not only mean it metaphorically. Eärendil was a star. Even his hands, roughened by salt and labor, nothing like the grace of the Eldar, were warm as starlight itself. But they did not burn her.
Sometimes he wished they would. Sometimes he wished he burned as did the light of Silmaril on his brow. But he was as cold as the jewel’s shell itself.
“We cannot deny our fate—”
“Or the thrill of adventure.”
The bitterness in her voice startled even Ilmarë, who did not mask her surprise. He grimaced. Words pressed on his tongue, but he would not turn their quarrel into a spectacle. Enough had been spoken. Elwing realized it too and she refrained, it shocked him a little, his wife was not of those who gave up easily, but he was glad.
“I am sorry.” She hugged herself, her fingers finding the necklace of pearls he had given her at their wedding in an old, nervous habit. “We have lost so much. I do not wish to lose you too. And—” she faltered, lowering her voice, though knowing the Ainur would hear regardless, “I have this foreboding that I shall not see you again.”
When their eyes met, he knew she spoke the truth. It ought to have frightened him, but she had always said such words whenever he sailed. She was granddaughter of Lúthien Tinúviel—but aside from her grandmother's grandeur, she had not inherited her forbearance, nor her power.
Nor her sense of duty as a mother. He shook the thought away, ashamed.
He brushed her shoulders gently, as he always did. “I will return to you. You have my word.” But the words brought her no comfort.
She drew a shuddering breath. “Eärendil, promise me, promise on your father and mother, that you will not leave me alone again. Promise me, you will return to me. Promise me.”
He blinked, taken aback, then cast a quick glance at Ilmarë. She did not intervene.
“I promise you, on the name of my father and my mother, that when this is done I will sail back, and you shall see me blazing like a comet. Then we shall be reunited.” And the promise, whispered into her hair, was binding.
At that, she nodded and at last released him. He lingered, gazing at her a moment longer. Then he turned toward his ship, waiting for the Ainur.
He took his captain’s hat—a gift from his mortal crew, set with a peacock feather from far lands of east, and lifted it to the silver circlet on his brow. For a moment he would have placed it on his head, as in days long past, but his hand faltered, and with a quiet sigh he refrained.
Ilmarë still watched. He dipped to her out of courtesy. She was… different. All of them were. Yet she was less terrible than when first he beheld her beside the throne of Elbereth Gilthoniel. On the Lady of Stars he could not even look on, for the brilliance of her light eclipsed the Silmaril itself and he feared to be blinded. So whenever Varda spoke, he fixed his gaze on her handmaiden’s face.
Like all Ainur she seemed in the likeness of the Eldar, Vanyar more precisely, though taller—twice his height—with hair like the night sky, drifting as though moved by no wind. In her face burned a light akin to his own, yet older, more alien, and in her eyes lay the power of something not wholly of this world. He shuddered to meet them.
“Art thou ready?” she asked. Her lips did not match her words. He wondered if her guise was but courtesy.
He clenched his hat, glanced once more at Elwing, then at the ship, which was his no longer, for all its timbers and sails had been remade, and the oars stripped away. How he would steer it alone, he could not fathom. Vingilot, though a small cutter, had once required four strong, resilient men.
At last, after long silence, he said:
“As I could ever be.”
***
“Thou wilt sail above Vesta, in the part of Ilmen. Yet be mindful, for at whiles thy ship may brush the borders of Kúma, though never Kúma itself.” Ilmarë repeated her words with measured calm.
After Eärendil boarded the vessel and looked about him, he found that aside from its altered design little seemed changed. But when he touched the railing, his heart tightened. The Powers had told him he would become a star, but they had never explained how.
A pang of grief struck him as his hand lingered upon the helm, which was Falathar’s duty once. He swallowed the knot in his throat.
“I do not know how to steer a ship in… the sky. Vingilot was made for water.”
For a moment her cold gaze softened, the mask of ageless stillness cracked. “I shall guide thee. It is my Lady’s command that I lead thee in the heavens, that thou may learn. Thy charge may seem solitude, but know this: we are many, and when thou wilt, thou may sing, and we shall answer.”
“You mean—other Maiar?”
Her eyes blinked, a fraction out of rhythm, and her form settled closer to the likeness of an Elf. “Yes.”
“The ship—thou need not fear. It will hearken to thee.” Her hand touched his shoulder, and he drew a sharp breath at the searing warmth of her form. “It is bound to thee. Steer it with thy thought. Feel it; its weight, its sails, its strength.”
Obediently, he closed his eyes. Her voice was like a lighthouse in the storm, guiding him. Tentatively, he reached out with his thoughts and there he felt the ship entirely: every plank, every nail and the woven fineness of the sails. At his will, they tightened, and the helm moved. He felt wind in his hair, then the wind ceased. He opened his eyes, and Valinor fell away beneath him.
Leaning over the starboard side, he gasped. Before him sailed the Moon. It was no mere orb but a colossal vessel wrought of silver, its sails that resembled the flower petals were torn from some battle, though someone hastily tried to mend them, its deck glimmering with argent light. At its heart a great silver flower blazed, feeding radiance into the sails. On the prow, when Vingilot drew near, power swirled and took shape: a tall huntsman with bow and arrow, smiling rakishly, were fading back into spirit-form.
“That was Tilion,” Ilmarë said, her voice echoing faintly in his mind as she joined him. She stared at Tilion in displeasure. “Yet thy people name him Ithil, the Moon. And there—” She pointed, and Eärendil flinched as fiery brilliance seared his sight. “Arien. Anar, the Sun.” For the first time, wonder softened her tone, almost like human, as she gazed on the blazing radiance, almost lovingly.
While he could look at Tirion, on Arien he had to squint his eyes. Her vessel was a brilliant and luminous ship, and he could not discern the deck nor the sails. Too much light and fire. It blended the shapes into a luminous ball, forcing him to look away.
“Thou may encounter them, yet seldom will thy paths cross, for thy road lies higher still.”
Eärendil opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came. He panicked, waving his hand. Ilmarë frowned.
“Thou canst not speak with thy tongue here. There is no air for thee.”
When he realized her words were echoing in his mind rather than spoken aloud, his panic only grew. Yet Ilmarë gave no sign of probing his thoughts; instead, she pressed on him a wave of tranquility, it was neither subtle nor gentle. Once he wrestled his mind back under control, he forced himself to mirror her way of speech.
“Then how do I breathe?”
She tilted her head in that uncanny way and pointed to the circlet on his brow.
“Of course—the Silmaril.”
“Forget not: thou must never part from it whilst thou sailest here, nor abandon this vessel. In it the Lords and Ladies have set their might, that thou may guard Ilmen and the Doors. All thou hast need of, thy ship will grant.”
If she meant to comfort him, her attempt failed. Striving to look away from the yawning blackness he was sworn to guard, he fixed his gaze on Arda below.
The world laid like a disc of sea and land, its waters spilling into void. He watched Anar retreat, its fire dimming at the world’s edge.
“I wonder if they will see me,” he mused and caught himself.
“Thou art Gil-Estel. That is the point.” Her chill returned, her voice in his mind edged like glass.
He shrugged, turning to the ship’s wheel to steady himself. It was cold here, dreadfully cold. The Silmaril shone, yet it did not warm him. Alone, adrift in a realm he could not understand; was this to be his life? He loved the sea, the song of waves, the breath of salt air. Here there was no song, no spray, no wind. Stars glittered nearer, yet still far away, and the silence was terrible.
He missed his family.
The chain at his neck pressed heavily on him, and he grasped it as though it could anchor him to life. Ilmarë’s eyes lingered, as if words trembled on her lips but were left unsaid.
At last she spoke. “Thou must know—it is no small honour to bear the Star of Hope. Thy fate shall shape countless lives, and bring light to those who wander in darkness.”
“I am glad,” he replied. The bitterness beneath his words was thinly veiled, and she flinched as though struck. “When shall we join Lord Eönwë—?”
“Thou art unhappy.” She pointed out the obvious, he was starting to get used to their oddiness. All that knowledge and yet they behave not so different from his young sons. His sons…
He faced her. He did not wish to raise his voice, he never had. His temper was slow, and seldom had any roused him to anger. So instead of lashing out, he drew a deep breath, reminding himself why he bore this burden.
“I am, my lady,” he said at last.
“Why?”
“Because all the Children of Arda shall behold my light of hope, yet I may not.” He touched the circlet upon his brow. “I do not see hope in the jewel that brought more wrong than good. Wretched with blood, stolen from its rightful master…” He refrained, seeing her frowning. “Thus I cannot find beauty, nor reverence, in my duty.”
“But thou wilt aid thousands. Thy work is the greatest ever set to one of the Children. Thy sacrifice, and thy wife’s, shall be remembered until the last day of Arda and beyond.”
“But not by my family,” he answered quietly.
“I do not understand.”
He turned to her. To his surprise, her face was sincere, she truly did not understand.
“My lady, is it true that the Ainur have no families?” After a moment he added. “Aside from my wife’s family.”
She was silent for a while, pondering. “We name ourselves sisters and brothers in general. Those born of the same thought of the All-Father are closest to what thou would call kindred. And the bonds of our espousals are stronger even than thine—for they are a part of our very selves. Yet—” For a moment her radiance dimmed. “Not all such bonds endure in harmony. We do take spouses, but once only, and for eternity.”
“Do you have children?”
“Children?” She blinked, startled.
“As I had-have…” His voice faltered. He could not bring the words to his lips. “As Elves or Men, or Dwarves have: mother and daughter, father and son. As Queen Melian had.”
“Melyanna was an exception. Even though her daughter was not accounted among us -the Ainur that is, but first as one of the Eldar, and later as mortal Men. For she bore her child only after she had taken Elven form, setting aside her gifts and her voice.” If he thought he detected disdain for Lúthien in her tone, she concealed it perfectly. “The closest bond to such is that between Lady Yavanna and her children and Lord Aulë and his children,” she continued slowly. Even as she spoke, she perceived it was not what he truly asked. At last she admitted, “No. We have not.”
He bowed his head. “Then you can’t understand me. Nor any father who’s failed to protect his family. Because truthfully if I’d been given the choice again, knowing what happened to them, whether to sail here or stay behind, I would have handed the jewel to the sons of Fëanor and found another way to reach Valinor. Gladly. If only it could have spared my family.”
The horror in her eyes struck him, but he had expected no less. She did not answer. Perhaps she pondered; perhaps she judged. But he knew she would never comprehend him.
Once more he looked down on Arda. Then, with slow hands, he drew off his mariner’s hat and cast it away, watching as it drifted and tumbled through the void. At last he laid his hands on the helm.
“I am ready, my lady,” he said, when the quiet grew too heavy to bear. “We may join Lord Eönwë.”
***
The air was thick with sulphur when at last they descended. Tilion had pursued them playfully across the heavens, until Ilmarë fixed him with a single, frozen stare. The air around her crackled with a sharp electricity, and Eärendil guessed the two were speaking through osanwë. The Vingilot no longer felt so strange beneath his hand; he was far more steady at her helm than when they had first set forth. True to Ilmarë’s word, he had begun to grow accustomed to the stillness of the heights and the bright stars. He did not even cry out when Elbereth Gilthoniel herself lifted them in her palm and set them on their course toward Beleriand, though he closed his eyes in awe when vast, starry fingers closed about his deck.
At last they came to the world below. When the air rushed against his golden hair, he drank it greedily, drawing breath as though he had been drowning. Tears sprang to his eyes at the sight of birds wheeling and clouds drifting across the horizon. Turning, he beheld Ilmarë rise from the Vingilot burning like a star. To his shock she was as a comet, her form all fire and brilliance. Terror filled him that she would set the ship ablaze.
“Lady Ilmarë!” He rushed to her, abandoning the helm, and the Vingilot bucked wildly in sympathy with his panic.
Her Elven guise was gone, yet her voice reached him. “Peace, Gil-Estel, peace. I shall not tarry any longer, already we have spent too long in the sky. I must rejoin my kin. Beleriand is not for me, my fire and my light would harm it. Thou must carry onward. Behold, Eönwë comes to meet thee.”
Even as she spoke, the cry of mighty eagles rang above. He gripped the ropes, steadying himself, as vast wings blotted the sky. Great Eagles, broad as his ship, wheeled about him in formation. Among them flew others in shapes half-Elven, half-divine—Maiar of the Elder King, their spirits were clad in winged forms: some bore a single pair, others two.
Maiar of Manwë, his mother had named them once, in the tongue of the Quendi. The Heralds of Valinor, she had spoken with reverence.
Angels, his father corrected her, when they sat in the Halls of Memory in Gondolin.
And truly, Eönwë was as the statues had pictured him. Eärendil had glimpsed him once in Valinor, where he seemed but as an Elf; now he was unveiled, and like unto a god. His form towered, just shy of the Elder King’s likeness. Three pairs of vast wings shone with white and gold; where ears might have been, pinions folded close, forming a helm of feathers. Above his brow burned a circlet of light. In his hand he bore a long sword, ablaze with celestial fire. His armor gleamed with molten gold, and when the Silmaril’s light fell on it, even the shadows recoiled. His countenance was fair as a young High King of the Eldar, though his hair was not cloudlike but the golden hue of ripe wheat, akin to Eärendil’s own.
When he descended, the Vingilot quaked beneath his weight. His wings unfurled in majesty, and Eärendil stood transfixed, pierced by the Herald’s steady gaze. Eönwë inclined his head toward Ilmarë in wordless honor, and again that strange shiver of recognition passed through Eärendil.
“Eärendil the Mariner,” spoke Eönwë, and his voice rolled like thunder over the sea.
Ilmarë turned to him one final time. “Farewell, Eärendil son of Tuor and Idril. Let the light of the Silmaril be thy guide.” Then she rose, comet-like, until she vanished into the firmament. And though his eyes could follow her no longer, her voice lingered:
“I understand thee more than thou canst imagine.”
He gazed into the heavens where she was lost, until the sudden stillness was broken by the cries of eagles. Heavy steps brought him back, and he turned to behold the Herald of Valinor, commanding his winged brethren with a sweep of hand and pinion.
“Lord Eönwë,” Eärendil said, placing his hand on his chest and bowing half-deep, as was the custom among Noldor and Sindar alike. “I am at your disposal, and so is my ship.”
“Good. We are to engage in battle soon.” Eönwë turned to him, and the sheer weight of his presence pressed against Eärendil until he nearly faltered. Ilmarë tempered her might, but Eönwë’s power poured from him unbridled, like a storm made flesh. Without pause, he set forth the matter.
“Our ground forces have held their own thus far, pressing the Enemy’s strongholds with relentless blows.” With a sweep of his wings he gestured below, as though expecting Eärendil to see the hosts like ants on the earth. “Yet the Enemy has released his wrath from the skies. Dragons.”
At that word Eärendil shuddered. He had heard of such creatures only in song and tale.
“Already your armies have brought them down?” he asked, his voice was strained. “So quickly? Forgive me, but can even the Vanyar travel—”
But one look from Eönwë stopped him.
“We have waited forty years for thee, Eärendil,” the Herald said gravely. “Forty years hast thou sailed the heavens.” Then he turned back to the matter without faltering.
The words struck him harder than any blow.
Eärendil’s breath caught. Forty years? To him it had been but yesterday, when he first departed with Ilmarë into the void. His hand went to his medallion, clutching it tight.
Forty years…
He swayed where he stood. His chest seized; for an instant the light of the Silmaril on his brow felt like a cruel weight, burning into him the truth.
Eönwë’s voice pressed on, unrelenting. “Although our hosts may slay most of them, the Enemy wove into these beasts a portion of Aulë’s craft. They are of a concerning height and power. One above all—Ancalagon—remains a peril none may ignore. By council, we shall strike with the aerial attack above Angband. While our armies pin the foe below, we shall meet him aloft.”
Eärendil barely heard him. His mind reeled, dragged down by grief. My family is ash, or strangers to me now. My sons grew up, and I was not there. They might be older than me, have families, their own children… Elwing—
His vision blurred, and for a moment he nearly broke. He could have sunk to his knees, screamed against the cruelty of it. But the cry never left his throat. Slowly, he dragged the grief back inside and locked it fast. He was Gil-Estel—the Mariner, the Hope of the West.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse but steadied by a burning anger. “Concerning height?” He forced a thin smile, bitter as iron. “How great can he be, if even thou and Thorondor’s flight dare not bring him down?”
Eönwë’s wings unfurled in reply, their span reaching nearly from one end of the deck to the other. He gave no words.
And then the Vingilot shuddered, plunging through thick smoke. The night was gone; they descended lower into the air, where the clash of armies raged on the ground. Orcs swarmed like vermin, and cries rose from Men and Eldar alike. Eärendil’s hand went to his sword, his bow clutched tight.
Then a roar split the world. He reeled, clapping his hands over his ears, yet still the sound shook his bones. It was as though the storm itself had bellowed, magnified beyond measure. The Vingilot trembled beneath it. A second roar came, deeper, and Eärendil’s hearing vanished into ringing silence.
Eönwë wrapped him round with his wings, shielding him from the onslaught.
“That big,” the Herald said grimly.
Eärendil lifted his gaze—
—and gasped.
There he loomed: the monster vast as mountains, wings stretched across the three peaks of Thangorodrim. Fire spilled from his maw like the eruption of a volcano, drowning the Host of the West in ruin. Even at their height Eärendil felt the heat sear his skin. Below, the land itself blackened and broke under his assault.
“Can it fly?” he shouted over the ringing in his ears, though he scarcely heard his own voice.
He did not have to wait for an answer.
The dragon turned, its vast head twisting toward the eagles. With a roar that shook stone and marrow alike, it heaved its bulk aloft. Its wings thundered, casting gales down the mountainside; its talons tore great scars through the peaks as it dragged itself skyward. Fire spewed from its jaws, but the flames were caught and torn aside by a sudden wind as Thorondor called upon Manwë. The beast bellowed again, maddened.
“Eärendil!” Eönwë cried, standing upon the railing as if the air itself bore his weight. His wings flared wide, golden and white, and the Vingilot quivered beneath him. “Draw him back to Thangorodrim! He will follow the Silmaril. Then I shall join thee. But do not engage alone, wait for me!”
“Yes, lord!” Eärendil shouted, steadying his breath. In the next instant, the Herald of Valinor leapt, plummeting like a bolt of light into the fray below.
Eärendil seized the helm, turning the prow toward the dark colossus. The dragon rained fire upon the Host of the West, scattering their ranks. His heart thundered in his chest; instinctively his hand rose to the medallion, and he began to pray. It was half-song, half-breath against the storm:
“A Elbereth Gilthoniel,
silivren penna míriel
o menel aglar elenath—”
As the words left his lips, the Silmaril on his brow blazed forth, brilliant as a star. The light cut through smoke and shadow, striking Ancalagon’s eye. The dragon reeled, then shrieked, a roar that made the mariner tremble, when it had beheld the holy light. In that instant its rage fixed on him, and it surged upward.
The Vingilot darted forward, swift as an arrow through the dark, the wyrm’s cry hot on his stern. Fire gouted after him; Eärendil pulled hard at the tiller, and the ship rolled. Flame licked the sails, scorching their edges, and the rigging smoldered with sparks. Smoke choked his lungs, but he pressed on.
“Na-chaered palan-díriel,
o galadhremmin ennorath—”
The dragon lunged, jaws snapping where the ship had been a heartbeat before. Its wingbeats sent gales that made the mast groan and the deck tremble. Still the Vingilot climbed, the Silmaril flaring brighter with every word of the hymn, drawing the monster inexorably higher.
“Fanuilos, le linnathon
nef aear, sí nef aearon—”
The hymn rose from him like defiance, as though each word was a blade against the dark. The Vingilot soared, the peaks of Thangorodrim dwindling beneath, until they were high above Morgoth’s fortress. Ancalagon pursued, vast wings eclipsing the stars, his throat burning with fire like the heart of a mountain.
The shadow loomed vast and all-consuming, blotting out the firmament. The air burned in his lungs; each breath seared his throat, thick with sulphur and ash. He coughed, staggering, clutching the rail as the Vingilot shuddered beneath the weight of fire. With terror, he saw it; the blaze of the Silmaril dimming, threads of its radiance bleeding away into the vast shadow that pressed about him.
Unlight, someone in his conscious whispered. Push back, Human!
What?
Beneath him, from the depths of the battle, there came a roar. For an instant he thought it the dragon’s—but no. A deeper note reverberated through stone and sky alike, a power older, more terrible. One of the Valar cried out on the field of war.
Eärendil scarcely marked the world beyond his foe. His blood, his grief, his fury drowned all else. The shadow before him, the blazing eyes fixed upon him, this was his enemy. Let all the hosts of heaven and earth clash below; here in the black skies above Thangorodrim, the battle was his and his alone.
In one world, he would have surged above the dragon, piercing its eye while Eönwë struck to turn its wrath aside. In one world, he would have halted the Host of the North. But it was not this world.
Rather than flee, he seized the tiller and wrenched the Vingilot about. The ship wheeled through the choking dark, and its prow leveled toward the monstrous shadow that filled the sky. Eärendil drew his sword, its edge catching fire from the Silmaril, and he cried aloud—a raw, burning shout that split the heavens to meet the dragon’s thunderous roar.
EÄRENDIL.
The beast faltered, hunger and fury warring within its molten gaze. Its vast body trembled, and then—like claws tearing into his mind—its voice coiled through his thought:
THOU BEAREST WHAT IS MINE. RELINQUISH IT… AND THOU MIGHT YET SEE TOMORROW.
The malice of Morgoth pressed on him. His grip on the hilt bit into his flesh. His teeth ground until blood filled his mouth.
“Morgoth,” he spat, the word aflame with wrath.
And in that single name he poured all he bore: his grief for his children lost, his fury at the Powers who had abandoned him, his love for Elwing, his longing for his kin, his undying hatred for the Enemy of the World. All of it blazed within him, until his very chest seemed a furnace of fire.
With a cry that tore the firmament, he hurled Vingilot forward, sword ablaze in the Silmaril’s searing light.
“Atar!”
He froze.
Slowly, he turned, his heart lurching, and there on the deck stood Elros, bright-eyed and smiling, clutching the little wooden sword he had carved for him on his third nameday. Yet he was no longer a child: tall, radiant, garbed as a warrior, his raiment marked with the emblems of the House of Fëanor, a silver star blazing on his breast.
Behind him stood Elrond, a book cradled close, there was wisdom in his eyes; but when he lifted his gaze, the smile he gave was the same sweet one that had once warmed his heart in the havens of Sirion.
For a heartbeat the storm hushed. Smoke, fire, and the dragon’s roar fell away, it was only he and his sons, no one else. They stood before him, whole and unscarred, calling him as once they had beneath in Sirion.
“Atar!”
No, he knew. It was a lie. A cruel trick. His sons…. Elwing had left them to die.
“Why did you choose the Silmaril over us?”
No! I love you more. That is not true. It is a lie, a vile lie! I love you more—look! I would tear the jewel from myself!
Eärendil, do not! The Herald’s voice thundered in his mind.
But his grief had consumed him long ago. He roared in defiance, the Silmaril blazing like a sun in his hand, and he reached to tear it from his brow. Behind him the dragon bellowed, its roar shaking the sky. He turned, sword raised, but too late.
The beast descended in fury. Its claws rent the deck, and Eärendil was flung to the planks. Fire consumed sail and timber. The radiance of Vingilot, wrought by the Valar, faltered the instant Ancalagon’s shadow fell across it.
***
“Yield, Ozombâûco—yield!” Eönwë’s voice thundered across the field, and the sword in his hands blazed like an executioner’s axe, its edge suffused with the cold fire of Varda, his former Mistress. Once struck, even he - Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, would be cast naked of form, driven shrieking back into Mandos’ Halls.
His answer was terrible, ragged and wheezing laughter. Laid prone at the Herald’s feet, the chain he had meant to bind Eönwë snarled about his own limbs, yet still he mocked the mirth of ruin on his lips. With a snap of his jaw, he spat black tar across the Herald’s feet.
“Then thou leavest me no choice.”
The sword rose, light gathering on it, a sun prepared to fall on its prey. Gothmog writhed, snapping like a wolf, claws raking at the Herald’s greaves. But Eönwë was stronger. His strength was of the first flame, and he bore the Balrog down. Inch by inch, the sword descended until its point hovered a hair’s breadth from the fiend’s searing fana.
Gothmog’s eyes smoldered, and he laughed still, as though he would meet death laughing.
And then, the blade halted.
Eönwë’s eyes lifted, wide, stricken. From the heavens above, a roar sundered the firmament.
Eärendil—do not!
The cry rang in his mind, but the Herald could not look away. He saw in horror as Ancalagon the Black tore Vingilot asunder, wings blotting out the light as fire fell.
That heartbeat of distraction was enough.
With a snarl, Gothmog surged upward. His ruined wings lashed, his claw found the chain wrought by Mairon and the Master. In a single stroke he cast it about Eönwë, and the links, burning with their maker’s malice, snapped shut upon the Herald’s wrists.
Eönwë roared and fought back. His sword tore gashes in Gothmog’s hide, ripping leather and rock, spilling embers from the Balrog’s flesh. He clawed with his free hand, rending burning skin from his foe. But the chain coiled tighter, alive with fell will, and when the clasp locked upon his fana, doom was sealed.
And Gothmog laughed.
***
High upon Taniquetil, the clouds broke, and all across Aman and Middle-earth eyes were lifted to behold it: the Gil-Estel, the Mariner’s light, falling from the heavens like a burning star.
On his balcony stood Manwë, and as Eärendil plummeted, so too did the Elder King’s heart fall within him. His gaze, that was keen as the eagle’s, faltered when it beheld the ruin of Vingilot.
The sky dimmed. The winds hushed. Beside him Varda came, her mantle flowing like nightfall. She gathered Manwë into her arms, and her eyes flashed with the fire of her stars as she looked on the wreck below.
“No,” he whispered into her robe, voice breaking like the wind in hollow canyons. And on the heights of the Pelóri, tears of the Elder King mingled with the rain, falling first on the mountain, then to the sea.
Then his grief grew to wrath, and his voice thundered, echoing from peak to peak:
“NO!” He yelled, when his Herald fell.
***
Olórin watched as Míriel hung the newest tapestry in the long hall. At first, his gaze followed the threads of glory: the great victories of the Host of the West, the shining valour of Ingwion and Arafinwë woven in light. He paused, struck with unease, when he beheld the Vanyar-king cutting down a chieftain of Men who had sworn to Morgoth. It was told as triumph, but Olórin’s heart was troubled. The Children were never meant to slay one another, no matter whom they served. And as his lady wept with those now entering the Halls, so too did he grieve at the slaughter hidden beneath the splendour.
He moved along the wall, and the next tapestry caught him still. The remaining sons of Fëanor were depicted. The younger cradled his elder, arm outstretched, pointing toward the sky. Olórin frowned. What did he point at? The weaving gave no answer. The image was unfinished.
Then suddenly—
The tapestry stirred. The threads quivered, seized by Vairë’s unseen hand. For a breath, the loom itself seemed to hesitate, caught between fates.
And then the pattern began to shift.
Olórin’s breath caught. A cold dread ran through him.
He turned and ran to his lady.
***
Tulkas Astaldo crouched through gore and flame, through ash and ruin. Nothing could halt him. He laughed when the Úmaiar leapt on him; he laughed when he caught a wolf’s jaws in his hands and dashed the creature into the earth.
He ducked as the whistle of a familiar shaft sang past his ear, it was Oromë’s arrow, radiant with the light of Varda’s stars. It struck and the radiation and shock it created forced their enemies to flee. None dared to stand when the two strode side by side.
Then came the roar. Fire descended like a storm, searing his fana. This time he did not duck. He laughed even as flame scorched him, and he laughed again when the dragon, failing to char his form, wheeled away to pursue Vingilot.
His eyes fixed on Angband. He could feel Morgoth’s essence there, thick and foul, slinking in his pit like a coward he was. His hand brushed the Anganoir buried at his belt, and he strode toward Thangorodrim. All the Enemy’s servants fled before him.
All save one.
A hiss. He scarcely turned his head. Not worth his notice. But then the wolf sprang, twisting, and its form shuddered into a bat-winged vampire. Snarling, Tulkas turned at last. He would drag this traitor back to his former master, screaming, and teach him the meaning of scorn.
But then a cry tore the heavens. He looked up and saw Eärendil, locked in a desperate battle with Ancalagon.
It was not meant to be so.
He moved to rise beyond his guise, but pain flared sudden and sharp. Fire scorched his arm, and with each heartbeat it deepened, a wound that gaped wider, refusing to heal. Black ichor poured like tar from the rift in his flesh. His laughter choked into silence.
Staggering, he fell to his knees.
That was the pain?
Above him loomed the wolf once more, the Black Sword grinning in its jaws.
***
“Brother! Háno!” Maglor’s voice strained to rise above the shrieking of orcs and the clash of steel. His blade carved a path through the press, spraying black blood, but the din swallowed his cries. Ahead, Maedhros fought at the forefront, their dwindling soldiers forming a fragile wall around him.
Too near they had come to the roots of Thangorodrim. Each time they sought retreat, Morgoth’s dragons descended, hemming them in with flame and wing. And when Ancalagon fell from the heights, his fire shattered the last of their host. Now only a ragged handful endured.
“Maglor!” Maedhros’s voice was hoarse, and ragged, reached him through the tumult, but Maglor could not find him. An orc lunged; Maglor spun aside, pirouetting, his blade flashing once across its spine and again through its gut. The beast toppled shrieking.
“My lord!” a soldier called, grappling with a hulking ogre. Maglor leapt to aid him, but before he reached, another tide of flame fell from the heavens. Heat engulfed him. He saw the Halls, heard the song—
—and then a hand seized his own. Hard, scarred, clad in gold and leather. Maedhros.
They met each other’s eyes for a fleeting instant. Then they ran, side by side. A warg sprang, snapping Maedhros’s crimson cloak and tearing it to tatters; Maglor whirled and hewed the beast down in a single stroke.
“Retreat!” Maedhros shouted, though no answer came. He looked back once—and saw nothing but ruin. Their company was gone.
Then a roar split the sky.
Maglor’s head snapped upward. A vast shadow cleaved the air. It was Ancalagon the Black, and before him, a glimmering starship plunging, fire was trailing from its sails.
“Háno!” Maglor screamed.
Maedhros turned, following his brother’s gaze. For a moment he stood still, pale and stricken.
“No…” he whispered, voice breaking.
But the dragon and Vingilot fell ever nearer, too close, too fast. With a cry Maedhros wrenched Maglor’s arm, dragging his stunned brother away as the heavens themselves seemed to collapse on them.
***
Behind Gil-galad, in the refuge of Balar, were the civilians: mothers clutching children, the wounded, the weary, all who could not bear arms. It was for them that he fought—for forty long years he had stood as their shield. Hard years, made harsher still by the pride of the Noldor, when even they quarreled over command. Many times misunderstanding had nearly cost them all. And yet, when at last Lord Eönwë came with Crown Prince Ingwion and High King Arafinwë, proclaiming that this day would see the end of the war, Gil-galad had breathed, for the first time in long memory, a sigh of relief.
He ducked as a stray arrow hissed by, then rose in time to see the orc who fell dead in the dirt. His gaze lifted toward the high walls—and there, on a balcony of the fortress, stood young Elrond and Elros. He frowned. He had forbidden them from coming near the fighting. He opened his mouth to shout—
The earth heaved beneath his feet. A thunderous shudder tore through the stone. The sky seemed to convulse and collapse. Gil-galad was thrown to the ground.
A cry - was it Elrond’s voice?—rang behind him.
Gil-galad turned. His eyes widened, but in that instant he did not see the orc who leveled his bow at him. The whistle of the arrow came too late. He flinched, bracing for the blow.
Instead, he heard a groan, and a weight crashed into him. He stumbled, tumbled to the ground beneath it. His sight filled with a mane of golden hair, gleaming even in the firelit gloom.
“Haru?” he gasped.
But Arafinwë did not answer him. The High King’s eyes were fixed upward, wide with horror, on the burning star that fell from the heavens.
***
Far beneath the battlefield, deep under Thangorodrim, in the nethermost Hall of Angband, the Great Foe stirred. Slowly, with dreadful anticipation, he rose from his subterranean throne and slouched toward the black terrace above the Iron Gate.
Above him, a blazing comet tore the heavens. When it struck the earth, the ground convulsed, mountains groaned, the plates of Arda moved. The ground split, and fire poured upward in searing torrents of molten stone.
A great cry rose on every side. Allies and enemies alike faltered. Servants, slaves, and soldiers froze where they stood. Even the Valaraukar ceased their roaring, even the dragons folded their wings and landed, staring in awe as the skies wept and the earth split beneath the falling of Eärendil.
The battlefield was still. No sword clashed, no beast bellowed, the world was still and silent.
But in the deep, the Enemy smiled.
And his laughter broke the silence.
***
“My lady, please—open the doors!”
She stood on the terrace of her Ivory Tower, barefoot, clothed only in a thin white linen that offered no shield against the night’s chill. Her cheeks were wet with tears, but she did not brush them away. Her maid’s desperate cries echoed behind the locked door, yet Elwing did not stir.
Her eyes fixed on the horizon, she climbed onto the carved marble railing. The stone was cold beneath her soles; the wind tangled her hair and bit at her skin.
A heavy fist struck the door. “My lady, open this instant!” her guard bellowed. “Open or we break it down!”
Elwing dared a glance below. The waves shattered themselves against jagged rocks, white foam flashing in the gloom. The sea lay farther beneath her than she remembered.
She drew in a long breath, steadying the tremor in her chest. And when the earth itself seemed to shudder with a distant roar, she leapt.
And like the blazing comet burning across the darkened skies, Elwing fell.
At the end of her journey into the arms of her husband.
***
And Eärendil, Gil-Estel, brightest of the Edain, the Mariner, fell, blazing like a comet, down into the world below.