Here is a story that I posted over on AO3. I haven't posted for a while over here, so ya go!
Translations at the end.
Chapter 1: Angle of Death
A deep sense of foreboding had been growing in the back of Nelyo's mind. The carrion crows gathering in the distance did nothing to ease his worry. Morgoth had sent a message saying that he was will to treat with the sons of Fëanor, hinting that he might even be willing to surrender one or more of the Silmarils. After much debate, Nelyo had sent Makalaurë to treat with Morgoth. That was nearly five weeks ago. Five long weeks without any word back about how negotiations were going. The worst case scenario, Makalaurë should have been back nearly a full week ago or at least sent a messenger.
Finally, Nelyo felt that he had waited long enough without hearing any word back. He sent a few foot soldiers to go and get a report of the negotiations. He sent out ten soldiers.
A week later only two returned. Nelyo watched from his tent flap as one was taken straight to the healers. The other slowly made his way to Nelyo's office to give a report. When he finally arrived, the soldier lingered in the doorway, hesitant to enter the room. Nelyo could see that his clothing was travel stained, covered in mud and blood. He looked exhausted, swaying slightly as he fought to remain upright.
"Report. What does my brother say?" Nelyo's tone was sharp with concern. The soldier shifted from one foot to the other before answering.
"I…he… he didn't saying anything?" the soldier gulped before hastily adding, "Your highness."
"What do you mean?" Nelyo narrowed his eyes dangerously. He desperately pushed down the cold panic he felt clutching at his heart.
"The whole thing was a massacre. Morgoth must have brought a massive army. All of the Elves were slaughtered, we found no survivors," the soldier cringed as Nelyo swiftly strode over to where he stood.
"Are you sure they were all slain? What about my brother? Did you find my brother's body?" Nelyo clung to the hope that maybe Makalaurë had escaped.
"No, the bodies were too mangled and decayed to tell one from another. We scoured the whole area. The only things we found was this," the soldier proffered a small star pendant on a slender chain. Nelyo recognized it immediately. Fëanor had made each of his sons a matching pendant when they were born inscribed with their name. Makalaurë always wore his, never taking it off for any reason. With shaking hands Nelyo took the pendant and turned it over.
The metal was covered in grime and dried blood, but it was impossible to miss the fact that 'Kanafinwë Makalaurë' was inscribed on the back in an ornate script. Nelyo shook his head in denial. Makalaurë couldn't be dead, there had to be some other explanation. Maybe he had dropped it?
"Where did you get this?" Nelyo asked as his hand shot out and grabbed the front of the soldier's tunic.
"Halath found it in a pile of bodies," the soldier squeaked, his voice an octave higher in fear.
"And my brother?" Nelyo shook the soldier slightly, not caring that he was terrifying the poor scout.
"Most likely one of those bodies," the soldier responded, "but like I said before they were too mangled and decayed to tell where one ended and another started, let alone identify the individuals."
The soldier's tunic slipped from Nelyo's numb grip as he stumbled backwards. His anger slowly melted into shock and grief. His sweet, kind younger brother was dead and it was all his fault. Grief hit Nelyo fully, driving him to his knees. It was so soon after his father's death. It should never have come to this. They should all be back in Valanor, their innocents still intact, safe and alive with their parents. Not stranded here in a strange land, slowly whittled down one by one as they chased after an enemy that, if Nelyo was honest with himself, they could never realistically defeat.
He was barely aware of the scout as the soldier murmured his condolences before fleeing the room.
How long Nelyo knelt there on the unforgiving cold floor, he didn't know. The metal edge of the pendant cut into his palm from his death grip. He watched with sick satisfaction as his own blood coated the grime on the pendant. Pain for pain; blood for blood. His brother was dead; dead because he was so set on their father's Oath. He was so engulfed by his grief and guilt, he didn't notice the flap open again sometime later. Strong hands gripped his shoulder, shaking him slightly.
"Nelyo? Are you ok? You've been shut away in here for hours. You're starting to worry the others," the voice belonging to the hands asked. Nelyo blinked and looked up into the concerned, careworn face of Pityo. The youngest Fëanorion was soaking wet. It was only then that Nelyo realized that it was pouring rain outside. The grim weather reflected Nelyo's mood perfectly.
"I sent him to his death," was all Nelyo could choke out, head dropping again.
"Sent who to his death? Hey, Nelyo, no, look at me. Sent who to his death?"
"Laurë," at his brother's name, the tears that he had so desperately held back came flooding out. Nelyo collapsed forward into Pityo's arms.
Quenyan names:
Nelyo/Nelyafinwë/Maitimo = Maedhros
Makaluarë/Kano/Kanafinwë = Maglor
Tyelko/Teylkormo/Turkafinwë = Celegorm
Carnister/Moryo/Morifinwë = Caranthir
Curvo = Curufin
Pito/Pitafinwë = Amras
