Disclaimer: Per usual, I don't own Tolkien's world...

Chapter 2: Hindsight

Two months earlier

"Fifty soldiers? Don't you think that's a little overkill Nelyo? After all the announcement decreed both sides will bring no more than ten guards a piece," Makalaurë looked over Nelyo's shoulder as the later wrote out a letter to Morgoth for his brother to carry.

"I trust Morgoth as far as I can throw him," Nelyo responded, returning the quill to the ink jar and sealing the letter, "If I could, I would be sending you with a whole army, but I need most of the soldiers here to help fortify the camp. Fifty is all I can spare at the moment."

"The part I'm not sure about is why I'm I going and not you. You're the better negotiator," Makalaurë voice was full of uncertainly. He trusted Nelyo's judgement and felt honored that his brother thought his was suitable for this task, but something felt wrong about the whole situation.

"Because I'm needed here and you're the only one I trust not to start another all-out war," Nelyo told him without looking up from the map he had pulled out and spread in front of him.

"What about Tyelko or Moryo? You don't need them here, per say. One of them could come with me," Makalaurë pressed. Tyelko had a much more imposing physique than Makalaurë's willowy frame. Years out in nature had made Tyelko muscular and strong as well as a shrewd judge of situations. Moryo, too, was a logical choice as he drove a hard bargain and didn't back down from an argument, no matter his opponent. But Nelyo didn't trust either of to attempt peaceful negotiations, not so soon after their father's death.

"I'd rather send him our terms of surrender. You're going Laurë alone, that's final," Nelyo responded. The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Nelyo finally looked up at his younger brother. The minstrel was pacing restlessly like a caged animal, his expressive face twisted in a look of deep contemplation and frustration. After a few moments, Makalaurë finally noticed his brother staring at him.

"You don't think...I just…I have a bad feeling," he stammered, looking frustrated with his inability to articulate what he was feeling, a novel experience for one who's craft revolved around words. Locking eyes with his brother, Nelyo could see the conflict swirling in Makalaurë's grey eyes.

"Me too, but this may be our only chance to get back the Silmarils," Nelyo admitted.

"Are they really worth all of this Nelyo?"

"Atto though so."

"Screw what Atto thought. Think about it Nelyo, their just jewels. Are they really worth all this blood?"

"Yes, they are worth every last drop of blood spent on achieving them. How can you think other wise? Even Ambarto would have agreed that they are worth it," Nelyo shot back without thinking, fist pounding on the table to emphasize his point. He was frustrated with his younger brother. Why on Eä couldn't Makalaurë see how important the Silmarils were? Their father had sacrificed everything for them. Nelyo was pulled out of his frustration when the air in the tent shifted at the mention of Ambarto. Makalaurë had stiffened at the low blow, his jaw clenched as an angry flush crept into his pale cheeks.

At Losgar, Ambarto and a few others had remained on the boats. Their plan had been to sail back to Aman the next day. Pityo had been on shore at the time, as he was unable to sleep on the ships due to the rocking motion, but he planed to join his brother after he had slept. Fate showed her cruel hand before their plan could work. Later that night, Fëanor, in a fit of anger at his eldest son's suggestion to send the boats back, had ordered the ships to be torched. No one but Pityo knew that his twin lay asleep on the boat.

When Pityo woken up screaming and racing frantically towards the beach, Makalaurë had paused and turned to their youngest brother. He had stopped Pityo from racing down to the ships, thinking he merely upset. However, as he listened to Pityo's frantic begging, he realized what was wrong. Shoving Pityo into Nelyo's arms, he had dashed back to the boats. However he had been too late, Ambarto had burned to death before he had reached the boats. Despite everyone's protests, Makalaurë still blamed himself for the death of their brother.

Nelyo realized what he had said too late and desperately tried to backpedal.

"Laurë, I didn't mean-"

"No, it's fine, I'll go!" Makalaurë threw his hands up in frustration, glaring at the oldest Fëanorion, "No need to resort to emotional blackmail."

Nelyo resisted the urge to hug his brother, know it would likely antagonize Makalaurë even more. Makalaurë donned his cloak with more violence then necessary, pulling it on with angry jerks. He snatched the letter from Nelyo's desk without looking at his brother.

"I just hope you're right Nelyo or we're all doomed," Makalaurë growled with a dark scowl that rivaled Moryo's as he left the tent. Nelyo watched the flap swish close after him.

"I hope so too, Laurë, I hope so too," Nelyo murmured, raking a hand through his red hair. He turned back to the map and tried to put the whole thing out of his mind.

Quenyan names:
Nelyo/Nelyafinwë/Maitimo = Maedhros
Makalaurë/Laurë/Kano/Kanafinwë = Maglor
Tyelko/Tyelkormo/Turkafinwë = Celegorm
Carnister/Moryo/Morifinwë = Caranthir
Curvo = Curufin
Pityo/Pitafinwë = Amras
Ambarto=Amrod