When his brother had closed the tent's entrance behind him, Makalaurë stumbled back to the table. He had expected this to happen, his brothers calling him a coward and a traitor. Others had called him those things before, but that did not make this easier to bear.

He had been careful to be alone when meeting the foul creatures that brought the conditions of release for Maitimo. The responsibility was his and he would make his choice alone. There was no need for his brothers to get involved. At least they would not have to live with the feelings of guilt. They could simply blame him. He would carry the weight of that decision alone.

He grasped a piece of paper and sunk down on his chair.

Maitimo, why did you go?

In a useless attempt to calm himself he started writing down the thoughts that were tumbling through his head.

Maitimo, why did you go? You knew this was not going to end well. We warned you. We told you. But you would not listen, going to the enemy, almost presenting yourself. Some days I think I know why you did it. That you knew all too well that you had no chance. On those days I know what you were looking for. I will not tell our brothers – they do not need to know.

Ah, now I am your regent. I, the bard, the one father always mockingly called songbird. It is not Curufinwë who speaks when he calls me weak. It sounds like an echo from the past. No matter how I tried to prove myself during our training, no matter how I almost bested you when we learned to use our swords, how I was stronger than Tyelko, how I played my part that cursed day in the havens, always I was weak and soft in his eyes. What would he have said if he had seen me now? Holding his own circlet of fire in my hands, doubting to put it on my head, but commanding our troops regardless, telling them that we will not go on an expedition to find you. For I will not.

I would if I was alone, if I was free of responsibility, believe me, I would. But now, with the weight of the care for our people on my shoulders, for our other remaining brothers, I will not. Their terms I rejected, their requests for negotiations I refused.

I will not set out on a foolish quest I cannot win, that will get more killed. I will not come and rescue you, my brother, whom I know might not even want to be rescued.

You thought I did not see the look in your eyes, the day we burnt the ships? You thought you hid your grief, knowing your best friend was left at the other side? I know of grief, brother, I know of leaving dear ones behind. I could see it, even though the others did not.

We chose brother, long ago, far away it seems now, but we chose this uncertain life, these perilous paths, this unknown land. And when we did so, we accepted the consequences, you as well as I. So I will not come for you, no matter how much my heart weeps deep inside me.

The voice, that served me so well in music, now does her duty in commanding. And they listen brother, yes they do, even ever-wayward Carnistir, even ever-disputing Curufinwë, they listen.

And they as well will not come for you. They do not understand my reasons as you would, but they obey.

Loosing you, my brother, dearer to me than any other, is breaking me, but I have to hold myself together, myself and our people, I have no choice.

He threw his pen on the table, his mind lost in thoughts. He could not let anyone read this, but did not want to toss it into the fire either. Checking if it was dry, he tucked the letter away in the small book that he kept ever close to him. It was embroidered with his own emblem, the Feanorian star in shades of blue and green. As his fingers traced the pattern, he sighed. Yes. He knew what he had left behind.

His mind wandered back to happier days, when he had lived in a house close to their father's and would receive his brothers there.

Carnistir and Tyelko most often drifted towards his place, when Fëanáro lost his temper again on one of their many childhood pranks. He had wiped away their tears and cared for scraped knees, but usually all he had to do was quietly listen to what they had to say and wait until they had calmed down. When they grew up, they still came to tell him what was bothering them. Sometimes they would simply listen while he worked on his music, until they had calmed sufficiently to face their father again.

Ambarussa were infrequent guests, if he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he hardly knew them. He had left the house long before they were born and their close bond meant that they distanced themselves somewhat from their elder brothers. Curu too was born after he had left, but he usually got dragged along by Tyelko. Although now he wondered if that really had been the case. He had always been a willful little elf that would cunningly plot and scheme the mischief that caused their father's ire to rise. Somehow Curu always escaped his wrath though, with his two brothers willfully shouldering the blame...

Makalaurë shook his head at the memories. Their parent's house had always been alive with laughter, shouting and the sound of a hammer on an anvil. There was no silence to be found in Fëanáro's home, even if its owner was elsewhere and he had fled it as soon as he possibly could.

Maitimo was usually the one that replaced their father when he was once again unreachable in his forge or away to attend court in Tirion. He helped their mother running the household, made sure that all practical matters were arranged. He could silence his younger siblings with one threatening glance before they would trespass the borders of civilization when present at a banquet or feast. He had found it important that they behaved and as they were slightly afraid of his anger too, they did.

The young ones never knew that Maitimo had wanted to flee the house as much as he had, but was held back by his sense of duty, by the burden of being the eldest.

Often, late at night, on the days when Findekano was far away in Tirion and Maitimo could not bear the noise in his home any longer, he would come strolling down the hill. He would enter the bard's house by the back door and as Maka laid down his harp and shoved his music sheets aside, they opened a bottle of wine and would talk on whatever crossed their minds. They would talk of the latest new forging techniques developed by Fëanáro, of the progress of Curu learning their father's trade or of how Tyelko had succeeded in training another horse that had been deemed untamable by all. There were many discussions on the challenges of their younger brothers' upbringing as their father and mother seemed to care less and less every day, leaving most of that task to Maitimo. It was the only time that they dared voice their fears about their parents. They both could see how they were each going their own ways and became more and more estranged from each other. But most often, they would speak of the political news that came from Tirion via their cousins visiting, of the dynamics at their grandfather's court, the decisions taken and their consequences and how the world as they knew it was changing. On some days his gentle lady would join them, but mostly she would continue her own work and leave her husband alone to talk with his brother, for she cared little about these things and was even more absorbed by her music then he was. Inevitably these evenings would end sitting outside, watching the soft light of Telperion while he would softly sing, his brother silently listening until he finally found some peace.

Tears ran over his cheeks. So much he had lost these years and never would those moments return. His wife was safely beyond his reach, far away. Safe for the curse that had been caused by his words and deeds. He should not think of her as his wife anymore, he knew, the moment he had sundered their bond, returned his ring, she had become free again. And he prayed that she would be able to build her life anew without him, that she would take care of the one piece of his soul that was still walking in Aman, his little boy. That had been his choice, and even though it was still hard to bear the consequences, he knew it had been the right one.

Turning his thoughts back to the present, he told himself once more that he would never have been able to stop Maitimo going to the parley, that there was nothing he could have done, that this had been his brother's choice, as he had made his own once.

In that moment, alone in his tent, he swore to himself that he would not break. He had to take his responsibility as his brother's regent. He would strengthen his will once more, be the King their people needed. He had to focus on building their base camp for now to grow their might. Build a safe haven, enable his people to recover and grow, so that one day they could take their revenge. He could wait, he could be patient, but war there would be, that he vowed.

***note***

I am aware that there is no such thing as divorce with the elves, and that the oath of marriage was almost as strong as the one that the Feanorians took, but in this case, I imagine that even if the vow could not be really broken, Maglor intended to give his wife the opportunity to not be associated with him anymore, and free her of any obligation towards his family.