Disclaimer: I do not own Arda nor its history.
Ch 4: The verdict
It was harder to ride with one hand than Makalaurë though it was going to be. With his only remaining hand on the reigns, he was unable to reach any weapon. He need not have feared though, he was not attacked as he rode. He was sore too. His muscles ached and burned from the unaccustomed activity. Late in the second day, he ran out of supplies. He pushed on as his stomach rumbled angrily. He knew what direction Doriath was, but he didn't necessarily know how far it was.
Three days of hard riding and Makalaurë was beginning to wonder why he had taken this task upon himself. He quickly shook his head every time those thoughts re-appeared. His brothers had other things to worry about and duties to preform, he was dispensable. He finally reached the boarders of Doraith and the Girdle of Melian. He went to ride on, but his horse whinnied and shied away, sidestepping in an uneasy dance.
Makalaurë had been worried that this would happen. He had heard stories of the magic that encircled Doraith and that it prevented most from entering. He slowly slide out of the saddle, legs and back stiff from riding, and patted his steed's neck. She whickered at his gentle touch, nuzzling his neck. Makalaurë took a deep breath before turning the horse. When she was pointed back in the general direction that they had come from, Makalaurë slapped her rump, setting her into a run. He watched her disappear into the trees before turning back to the border of Doriath. As he walked on, he felt a resistant force pushing back on him. He struggled forward doggedly, determined not to give up, not when he had come this far.
Suddenly the resistant band that had been constricting his moments snapped. Makalaurë stumbled forward, nearly face-planting in the dirt as he panted with exertion. He blinked the forest looked much the same as it had. Nothing gave any indication of the magic the held foreigners out. Makalauë rose and continued slowly on. However he had never been much of a forester. By morning the next day, Makalaurë knew that he was hopelessly lost, as well as hungry and tired. So when a group of Elves clad in grey and carrying large, powerful looking bows in addition to wicked looking swords materialized out of the shadows like grim forest specters, he quickly surrendered.
One of the Elves stepped forward, the leader Makalaurë presumed, and barked some in a language Makalaurë didn't understand. It was then that Makalaurë discovered the first big, unforeseen flaw in his plan: he didn't understand a word of Sindarin. He had never interacted with the Moriquendi or the Sindar, so he never need the language. He bit his lip and shook his head in hopes of communicating that he didn't understand. Elves exchanged a look of exasperation before gesturing for Makalaurë to follow them. He did so without needing a prod in the back from a sword, though he got a rather forceful one anyway.
They marched over a small rise to a glen where several horses were grazing. Once they reached the horses, they gestured for Makalaurë to hold out his wrists. He complied, secretly savoring their confusion when they went to bind his wrists and discovered that he had only one hand. It was clear that they had never met an Elf with such physical deformities. After much hurried discussion, they finally decided to bind his remaining hand to the leader's own wrist. They then methodically stripped him of any weapons he had been carrying. Convinced that Makalaurë had to be carrying more weapons than the singular knife he had stolen from Tyelko, they even searched his sling and shoulder brace. Their careless motions made Makalaurë grimace. Finally satisfied that their prisoner bore no more weapons or instruments of destruction, they made him ride double on one of their mounts.
As they rode toward Menegroth, Makalaurë had a chance to truly look them over. The main thing that stood out to him was that their eyes were strange. Makalaurë had never met anyone who did not have the glow of the two trees reflected in their eyes. Other than that, they looked no different than the Eldar from Aman, save for the fact that their fëar didn't shine quiet as brightly. The next few days moved by at a slow pace as each day followed the same routine. Wake early, be fed a simple meal, ride hard until it was dark, slide off the horse and fall into an uneasy sleep. Makaluarë was relieved when they finally arrived at Menegroth. Though he had heard stories of the city from others, his jaw dropped anyway. The underground city was magnificent, it's architecture totally unlike anything he had ever seen.
Makalaurë was marched to a splendid room. Stepping inside, he saw the rulers of Doraith seated at the far end. Makalaurë swallowed his nervousness as best he could as he was escorted into their presence. From what it looked like, Thingol was taller than even Neylo and Turukáno. Sitting on enthroned on his dais next to his Maia wife, Makalaurë though he looked splendid enough to be one of the Valar.
Thingol looked down at Makalaurë. His face was carefully blank, his emotions carefully concealed.
"Pedo!" Thingol's voice was deep and reverberated in the cavernous room. Despite having no idea what Thingol had said, Makalaurë could sense the power and authority that the voice carried. It reminded him of his grandfather Finwë's voice. Makalaurë shook his head in response. Thingol sighed in frustration when he realized that Makalaurë didn't speak Sindarin.
"Speak! What errand hath thee? Didst I not command that thee and thy people were not to enter my realm, unless by my leave?" Thingol questioned, this time in heavily accented, overly formal Quenya. Unable to respond even in his mother tongue, Makalaurë's face reddened a bit and his hand drifted up to his neck, his slender fingers brushing the ugly scar that ran down the front of his throat. Understanding and surprise flashed across both Thingol's and Melian's faces, though Thingol's expression was mingled with disgust.
"Are the Sons of Fëanor so cowardly that they sacrifice a muted thrall in a paltry attempt at diplomacy?" Thingol looked decidedly unimpressed. Makalaurë bristled at the taunt. Grabbing out his small notebook and a stick of charcoal, he angry wrote:
'I, too, am a Son of Fëanor. Furthermore, my brothers did not sent me, they don't even know that I am here.'
He thrust the book out. One of his guards took it over to the king and queen of Doriath. They both looked it over, puzzled by the writing. Makalaurë realized with a sinking heart that just as he didn't understand Sindarin, the rulers of Doriath could not read Tengwar. Thingol spoke to one of the other guards. The Elf bowed and hurried out of the room. He was back in a few moments followed by two Elves Makalaurë was not expecting to see: Arantis and Angaráto. While he was relieved to see a familiar face, neither of his cousins looked particularly happy to see him. Makalaurë's small book was presented to the other Noldor.
Makalaurë's cousins read his note. Completely ignoring their cousin, Arantis and Angaráto turned to answer Thingol. Their answers grew more and more heated. The guards were tense, hands on their weapons. There much shouting and gesturing of hands. Though the whole conversation was in Sindarin, Makalaurë was under the distinct impression he was the subject and that it wasn't a good thing. After several tense minutes, Angaráto made a frustrated gesture and went to leave the room. Thingol barked something and Makalaurë's guards rush over to stop Angaráto.
In the rush, one of them roughly jostled Makalaurë's maimed arm, knocking the already loosened brace out of place and forcing his shoulder to twist into an even more unnatural position than it normally hung at. Hot agony coursed from deep in his upper chest and collar bone all the way down to his missing fingertips. Makalaurë clutched his arm to his chest and fell to his knees with a choked sob as stars danced before his eyes. He remained kneeling on the floor for several long minutes willing himself not to scream and blinking tears from his eyes. When his sight finally cleared and the pain subsided to a more manageable level, he realized with embarrassment that the whole crowd had gone silent and was staring at him.
Still shaking with pain, a less than graceful Makalaurë staggered to his feet, swaying slightly as he stood. An uncharacteristic gesture show of worry, Angaráto steadied him with a firm hand on his good shoulder.
"Are you alright Makalaurë?" He asked, piercing blue eyes giving him a through examination. Whatever he found disquieted him. Makalaurë gave a one sided shrug. He didn't feel great, but had felt worse before.
"What ill fate befell him?" Thingol asked, directing his question at the Arafinwëons though his eyes never left Makalaurë. Arantis and Angaráto both looked uncomfortable. Thingol's question was answered by a very different voice.
"He was captured and tortured by Melkor," Melian responded, speaking for the first time. Her voice was quieter than Thingol's but was no less powerful.
"Can you not see how deep his pain is graven in his body?" She continued, "Have you missed where Melkor's shadow still clings to his fëa?"
Makalaurë dropped his eyes to the floor in shame as those present considered her words. Finally Thingol spoke again.
"Throw him in the dungeons while I consider what his fate shall be," the King of Doraith commanded.
At the proclamation, Makalaurë looked up in horror. He had just enough time to send a pleading look to his cousins before he was forced out of the throne room.
Quenyan names:
Nelyo/Nelyafinwë/Maitimo = Maedhros
Makalaurë/Laurë/Kano/Kanafinwë = Maglor
Tyelko/Tyelkormo/Turkafinwë = Celegorm
Carnister/Moryo/Morifinwë = Caranthir
Curvo = Curufin
Pityo/Pitafinwë = Amras
Arantis = Galadriel
Angaráto = Angrod
Fëa(r) = spirit(s)
Pedo = Speak (Imperative) (Sindarin)
