They sat, seven of them, outside a hastily erected tent. Six contemplated each other thoughtfully, but the seventh looked towards the night sky, eyes only for the stars. Sooty hair cascaded down his shoulders unconfined, and some strands poured over his creamy face and into his stormy eyes; but this he did not mind. He only stared at the stars in his strange fixation.
"Brothers," he questioned suddenly, breaking the silence. Six heads turned towards him, although this he did not acknowledge in any way, shape, or form. "Should this turn out to be fatal for one – or more of us, could we look upon the stars and remember?" The eldest cocked an eyebrow. This brother of his, of all of them, was not prone to flights of fancy, nor had he ever been. But still, he thought, this was a worthy sentiment. It had crossed his own mind a few times, though it was not good to dwell on such thoughts. He tucked another strand of russet hair behind one pointed ear.
"Aye," he said finally, "I at least would remember this night now... All seven of us gathered for the first time in years, and once again on the cusp of war." None quite knew what to say to that. Another Elf, with hair dark as midnight, shrugged.
"I would remember pesky little brothers and over protective elder ones, foolish, all." His deep grey eyes glinted and a mocking smirk took his features. This was natural behavior for him, so no one commented on his sharp words. The blond rolled his bluish eyes, shrugging even though his slender hands were occupied in giving his hair a through finger-combing.
"I shall remember nothing but pride in our family when each of us did something grand, even by the standards of the other Elves," he paused, fingers dropping to his lap. "Aye, I will remember."
"Aye, we will remember... Remember how close we are today... How rarely we have been for centuries... And how we hope to continue this into the future," added two more Elves, alternating between their speech fluently, although it sounded like just one. For these two were twins, but with hair like the eldest and eyes that shone the color of agate, despite the lack of light where they were sitting. There was silence until the last of the seven spoke, his voice soft, yet ringing in its clarity.
"Aye. I will remember seeing my six brothers assembled here and being both thankful that they can share this moment with me, and hopeful that we can all stay together for future evenings together." He nodded, unbound raven hair falling before his face and flashing indigo in the dwindling light of the fire. His eyes, the same color as most of his brothers', were shuttered from the world.
The first to speak did not say anything more, but was searching the star-field above.
"You realize," he stated at last, "that such stars as that one-" he pointed at the sky above his head, "are overlooked in favor of the brighter ones. Mayhap if we were put our faith in such a star... What say you?"
"I will," came the chorus; and with that the spell was broken, and each of the seven brothers turned their attention to other things. The star itself was soon forgotten.
When the middle three brothers of the seven perished in quick succession, the remaining four comforted each other, the the elder two promised, just to themselves, to protect the younger. In this, however, they failed, as the twins died in the Sack of the haven Sirion, both on blades that both thought fought alongside them. The eldest brother's fury at this knew no bounds, and the traitors perished by his hand. Then Lady Elwing, wife to the absent Lord of Sirion, stepped off the high cliff into the sea, holding the jewel that the brothers had come for, and she was turned into a seagull and glided away, leaving the brothers with only each other and the knowledge that after the loss of five of their brothers for the cause, they had failed to collect the Silmarils.
Elwing's twin sons, however, stayed in her home the entire time, and these were the youngest of the few survivors of the Sack of Sirion. The younger brother threw his all into taking care of them and earning their trust during the morning, day, and evening, but during the night was despondent, lying down on his bed and staring sightlessly at the ceiling with alarmingly closed eyes. He never sang now, even when he used to take so much delight in using his voice for which he was named. But even that was now sad and flat.
The elder brother, remained only faintly warm to the twins, his energy being used late at night watching over his brother from the other bed. He had moved himself to sleep in the same room as his younger brother out of worry. And despite the natural curiosity of the twins, neither found out just why the brothers acted the way they did, the younger warm and bright but the elder aloof. In fact, to the twins' knowledge, nothing was amiss between them.
"Makalaurë... Come see this," bade the one called Maitimo, swinging his long hair away from his face and binding it in a loose braid. The motionless Elf did not stir at his brother's voice and gave no indication he had heard until he spoke.
"Come see what?" Maitimo fought the urge to shiver at that toneless voice that sounded nothing like his brother. Indeed, his brother had acquired his mother-name because of his voice – 'forging gold', it meant. He walked across the woven rug quietly and rested his hand on the foot board of the bed.
"I have something to show you," he said in that same soft voice, as if he was talking to something that could break, should he speak too loudly. In truth, some distant part of his mind fearing just that – his brother would seize up and shatter, leaving him all alone.
"May I rest, Maitimo? I am much wearied." Maitimo rested his forehead in the palm of his left, and only, hand. The smooth stump of his right wrist went from smoothing blankets to rest on his hip. He waited for some minutes, to get no further answer.
"Kanafinwë, come!" he insisted, louder, more authoritative. The use of Makalaurë's father-name indicated a command from the head of his House. Finally, the younger Elf pulled himself off the bed and started towards the door. There was no need for him to be dressed, for he lay in his clothes.
Makalaurë was very unchanged physically. He still had silvery grey eyes, though they were now hollow and empty, and a fair face, but there were deep shadows beneath his eyes for those who cared to look, and his skin transparent and eerie. His frame, once slender and willowy, now too much so to be comforting. He showed little surprise when Maitimo clasped his arm in a firm grip and all but wrenched him out to the room and down the hallway, and Makalaurë struggled to bring his feet under him.
Maitimo did not stop until they were on the front doorstep of the home that the four of them shared. He pointed upwards, to something suspended in the clear air above his head.
"Look," he whispered, tone far quieter. Sure enough, the other looked, and beaming down at him was the unmistakable white light of the priceless Silmaril they had failed to collect not three weeks past. And not far away from it at all was another star, seemingly the only one daring to come near to its brilliance. The pale yellow light looked even more faded then it already was when compared to the Silmaril.
"Our falling star," Makalaurë replied, startled, and some of the rich tone returned to his voice. "Atarinkë chose it." And without another word he broke Maitimo's grip and sat on the doorstep, staring at the star, unblinking. Maitimo nodded, a distinctive softness washing over his grim features, and stepped back inside. Makalaurë's low hum echoed down the hallway after him.
"Maedhros?" queried a small voice. Maitimo looked down at the mention of his Sindarin name, and tilted his head at the Half-Elfling that gazed up at him apprehensively.
"Why are you up, little one? Did I wake you?" he asked with a mildly quizzical look. The child skillfully avoided the question with one of his own.
"Why is Maglor so? I do not know the problem, but... He wears heavy robes to cover his body – is it not growing thinner- and I can feel his ribs when I hug him. He more and more often needs to be called away from day-dreaming... And just now you needed to drag him with you," the elder twin railed, ticking off on his fingers the things he noticed about Maglor. Maglor was Makalaurë's Sindarin name, of course, and both the brother's Sindarin names were evident in the one sided conversation as the Half-Elfling counted to ten, dropped his fingers and repeated the process once again, stopping at twenty. Maitimo offered a watery smile and gestured to the oaken door silently with his hand. The twin looked at his hand, and followed his gaze quickly, to see identical grey eyes peer at him from a mat of tangled dark hair. "Oh? Of course," said the one in the hall quickly, "come in, take a seat."
Maitimo slid into the room, pausing with a low growl as his hair tangled in the doorknob. He gave a quick, angry pull, and the band that held his braid together slid off, allowing the russet tresses to fall free, only lightly crimped. The twins sat together upon their bed, which they slept in together every night. The elder Elf, however, dropped into a cross-legged position on the floor.
"The stars," he began simply, and noted with a tinge of amusement that they sat bolt upright. "I saw one star in particular this night; one that means much to us... The last time we saw that star... We numbered seven." Understanding dawned in the elder, Elrond's eyes, but the younger, Elros, remained confused.
"The last time that you saw that star was the eve ere your brothers perished," said Elrond under his breath. Maitimo nodded, his insides icing over despite the centuries he had had to grieve them; and with the loss of the twins so fresh, it pained him yet again. "And now your other brothers... They died under the very same star, did they not..?" Elrond murmured these words even quieter. Neither Elros nor Maitimo asked how he knew. The younger twin moved after a lull in conversation, slipping off the bed and wrapping his slender arms about Maitimo's broad shoulders despite the fear the elder brother normally invoked in him.
"It must be terrible for you... I cannot imagine losing El, never mind five of him." Maitimo almost shrugged him off, but then thought better of it.
His head bowed forwards slightly as he thought about those he had lost: Tyelkormo, who would be up at hours that all of his brothers found insane. He had found great fun in allowing one of his older brothers to wake up to his wide blue eyes hovering close enough to their face that their noses tapped together. How he delighted in the yelps this caused, and would dart out of the door before he could be yanked back by his blond tresses. - Carnistir, Dark in not only hair and eyes, but in mind and mood also. His caustic remarks succeeded in angering one of those around him every time. Unfortunately for him, a pocket-knife was never at his hand quick enough to parry the sharp things thrown at him by his younger brother. Atarinkë, to whom those sharp things would belong to, forged them himself. He took pride in being the most even-tempered of the brothers, the least likely to loose composure. He did tend to 'drop' knives in Carnistir's direction, though. Maitimo had suggested he have better pockets. And then, the youngest – the twins who both went by the name Ambarussa. In reality, the mother-name of the younger was Ambarto, but he had dropped it in favor of his twin's name when they first arrived here. The younger Ambarussa still carried a burn down his right arm from when their father had set the ships aflame. He had been on one, and had just barely escaped. The image of the youngest of them dashing out of the ship, his hair ablaze, was etched into their memories – all of their memories. The elder between the twins was a more analytical figure, while the younger used to be his complete opposite. After the fire, the two were disturbingly alike - both thoughtful and with a darker sense of humor then was comfortable. Ah, how he missed them. Missed their playful banter, missed having to forcibly pry Tyelkormo off Carnistir until he fell over with his brother sitting on him, and Carnistir laughing at them both.
"Maglor feels my sorrow tenfold. He was closer to them all then I ever was," he paused briefly. "Come, and be silent." He stood, his left arm going around to cradle Elros, who was still hanging off his neck. Elrond quickly grabbed hold of the sleeve of his robes, nearly jogging to keep up with the pace Maitimo set as he retraced his path down the hall.
Makalaurë was still sitting on the doorstep, but his humming had generated into a soft, mournful tune in his usual honeyed voice. Maitimo smiled fondly at him; and today that smile included the twins. He readjusted Elros in his arm and sat next to his brother, beckoning the elder twin into the other arm so he held both. He made sure the fabric of his own robes shielded them from the chill wind of the late night.
Four pairs of eyes gazed into the stars. First the Silmaril of Elwing captured their attention and their reverence, then the Fallen Star so chosen in weak jest by Atarinkë. And then mournfully named by Makalaurë, when Atarinkë's death had long passed.
Fallen Star indeed, Maitimo thought, Star of the Fallen.
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There you have it! My latest angsty/sappy/fluffy(?) vignette, Fallen Star. This plot bunny hit me over the head at four-thirty in the morning, and kept hopping. Typed this up nice and quickly. .
I DO NOT own The Silmarillion. Nah, you know who does, hopefully. Not me, but Professor Tolkien and his descendants. Okaie?
Read and Review, 'cause every review counts!
Thunder Pichu (TP)