Name Index:
Turko = Celegorm, abbr. of his father-name Turkafinwë
Carnistir = Caranthir, his mother-name
Ambarussa = Amrod and Amras, their mother-name
Nelyafinwë = Maedhros, his father-name

Chapter 2:
The Enemy's Terms

Maitimo thought about the situation for only a moment.

In the tense silence that followed Tyelkormo's report, Maitimo wasted none of the precious time they had left and decisively began relaying his orders. In short time, he had runners weaving through the Noldohossë with all haste, though with less grace than his brother had managed, carrying his summons to the Commanders of the Companies and to his brothers. He also sent a runner to the rearguard to fetch the unit that had spotted these three Orcs. While waiting he turned to Tyelkormo, who had remained a silent sentinel the whole time, and gestured for him to follow. Together they hiked their way to an outcrop in the mountains not too far away. It was difficult to traverse the slope, the unstable ground making them slip and the multitude of Noldor were still moving to filter through the Pass' mouth did not help. Those Elves always deferred to them, but it remained difficult nonetheless, both coming close to spraining an ankle more than once.

But they made it to the crag and breathed deeply when coming to a standstill along its edge. They were not elevated above the host of warriors to their right, but they were removed well enough as to not hinder said Elves' progress. The King's Guard had followed them and now took up positions along the mountainside while Aráto, their Captain, stood at the ready a respectful distance away, but still near enough should Maitimo summon him. He regarded the Noldo dispassionately as the Captain took up his position. Maitimo could only imagine what must surely be plaguing him at the death of Fëanáro, the one person he was bidden to guard the life of. Since their flight across the lands, Aráto had refused to allow Maitimo to leave his line of sight even for a moment. And the rest of the King's Guard numbering two dozen had been just as adamant in their diligence to protect the Heir of their fallen Noldóran, as though such extra vigilance that bordered on the obsessive was some self-penance they were paying for failing in their sole duty to their king.

Maitimo would have to speak to them about that, he realized. But for now he allowed them to indulge in their guilt. This new fervency of theirs did not hurt, in any case, even if it was born of shame. If it fueled their concentration on protecting him and his brothers and gave them some sense of purpose, he would let them be for now.

"What will we do, Nelyo?" The quiet murmur caught his attention and Maitimo turned to Tyelkormo in mild surprise at the bleakness of his voice. But then Tyelkormo looked at him and Maitimo could see the despair and beginnings of panic swimming in his bright eyes, his fair face haunted. He was starting to unravel, Maitimo realized. His little brother, so steadfast and booming with might, was looking at him with an expression that Maitimo had not seen since that catastrophic night in Formenos before they flew from it with all haste for Valmar. Plagued by the inaction of waiting on this crag, Tyelkormo's mind was given no distraction, no order to focus on, and now the reality of all that had happened was catching up to him. Or so he assumed.

"What will we do?" he asked again, his lips barely moving with the whisper and Maitimo clasped his shoulder, silent at first. He looked Tyelkormo up and down, observing how he stood there; unmoving, hair being tossed carelessly in the wind, broad shoulders back and hand on the pommel of his sword. But Maitimo knew that the confident posture was nothing but a front for the sake of those warriors who might look at them and he briefly felt a swell of pride for Tyelkormo, even as he felt his heart ache at the remorse all too plain in his face.

"Do not fail me now, Turko," he murmured just as quietly. "I will plague your mind with a thousand and one tasks if need be, but do not fail our sire now."

Tyelkormo stared at him for a long moment, giving a stiff nod before looking away, and Maitimo watched as his brother donned a cold face. He could practically sense the struggle coursing through his brother to subdue all the inner turmoil.

Maitimo said nothing, opting instead to watch the hundreds of Noldor that continued to move but were now being made to slow at the inevitable clogging that came with trying to squeeze through the mouth of the pass. Maitimo could faintly hear the fresh spring water of the Ehtelë Sirion just further south from their position and, unless they shifted north, there was no other place to lead his people except back the way they came. This was the only viable pass of the mountains for leagues in either direction according to the Mithrim, and Maitimo hoped with desperate might that the Enemy was, in fact, truly not approaching them.

He nearly voiced his concerns to Tyelkormo but was grateful to see those he summoned begin to arrive and, bidding them to wait just a while longer, he helped those who had been further along the host to climb atop the crag. Littered with moss and wild sprouts of weeds, the outcropping was crowded with all of them gathered there, but not so much that any were in danger of falling off its ledge. Vëantur of the Minyahossë, Yánadur of the Tatyahossë and Sornion of the Nelyahossë. Tyelkormo had High-command of the Pilindossë and Ehtyari and so represented them, though one Captain from each was present. Maitimo looked among the faces of his six brothers and the Commanders of the five Companies before looking beyond them to one of his Guard.

"Captain Aráto, come forth!" he called to the Elf. He may as well be privy to their impending discussion.

Aráto came and Maitimo quickly apprised them of the Enemy's move and held up a hand to forestall the questions he could see poised on their lips. He turned to the archer unit and saw them imperceptibly straighten under his sharp regard. "You saw only three?"

"Aye, Prince Maitimo," said the one who identified himself as Alcarion, who also appeared slightly nervous to be standing in the midst of so many highly ranked Noldor, if the way his eyes flitted quickly between them all was any indication. Neither he nor Coromindo were arrayed in armor, but resilient leathers hardened by heat. Both were dark-haired and bore a short sword at their hips, though only Coromindo carried a shield, along with a sturdy spear that was pitted into the ground next to his foot, the broad spearhead glinting coldly in the night. Alcarion carried a great yew-bow, though less great than Tyelkormo's own bow fashioned from tauriyavani of Oromë's Halls, and though the Noldo held it at the ready by his side, no arrow was nocked. "Only three. We took position furthest along the rear and only sighted them amid a breaking of starlight through the clouds. Had Coromindo not been looking in their direction when came the brief light we would have missed them completely. Whether the Enemy hides in their wake we could not discern, for we both looked far beyond the three but could see none of Moringotto's horde. We shared the thought to scout abroad but sought out Prince Tyelkormo first."

"I was apprised by Curufinwë and went to look myself while Tyelkormo sought you out," Carnistir added before Maitimo could reply. "By all appearances, Moringotto seems to have withdrawn his horde. If the Enemy chases us as they have been across the steppes, it is by some dark wizardry they are now veiled from us."

Maitimo was quiet, frowning in contemplation, though inwardly he was as bewildered as the rest of them appeared to be. He turned to Makalaurë. "Why believe you this to be an act of surrendering?"

Makalaurë frowned, giving a halfhearted shrug with a slight sigh. "Whether they mean to surrender or not, I cannot guess. But only three of them?" he said doubtfully, a tad incredulous. "Bearing a banner, or what sounds like a banner, and remaining out of the reach of our arrows. What else could it be?"

"The idea of the Enemy surrendering at this time is preposterous," Vëantur interjected somewhat hotly, and his dark eyes were bitter. "They have the upper hand and they know it. Their triumph over us is ripe for the taking, so much so that we are fleeing from the sound of the Orcs' cadence, and now they throw it away? Preposterous, I say."

"Yet, what else may it be, Commander?" Curufinwë challenged, though not impolitely. His eyes were shining bright with consideration, and the smooth intonation of his voice bespoke of his mind spinning away with theories and possible conclusions based on the limited knowledge they had. That look of passive yet fierce concentration on his face was so uncannily familiar that Maitimo could not deny how much it hurt to have to now look at his face that mirrored that of their father's so unerringly. "I agree that it is foolish to believe they surrender, for their victory is indeed nigh if they would but take it and trap us in the mountains. But I also agree with Makalaurë in naming this move of the Enemy to be suspicious." He looked to Maitimo, eyebrows slightly drawn together. "I know not what to make of this, my lord brother. For all it looks to be surrender, the Orcs would not – could not be so stupid, and certainly not Moringotto."

"Do they mean to offer terms, then?" Yánadur suggested, though skeptically. "With the three of them acting as an embassy?"

"They have little room to offer terms to us," Carnistir growled darkly. "Moringotto forfeited any right to such a covenant long ago."

"They are presently the blade at our throats, Carnistir," Makalaurë reminded him somberly. "They can do whatever they want and we could no more stop them than we can remove this wretched cover of darkness from the sky."

"It matters not," Maitimo stated, his tone decisive. "We have no time to waste for a debate over whether to meet them. They number only three and I seek only to learn if this really is some ruse. I will go and hear what they would say if it means they will stop following us. Even though they number three and with weapons sheathed, I would sooner go and slay them myself before allowing them to learn the ways of this mountain pass, let alone lay sight upon the encampment."

"And can we not choose that course anyway?" Tyelkormo asked, absently fingering his bow. "If the Enemy has truly retreated, let us kill those wayward beasts and proceed onward unto the Lake. The sooner we regroup and come together to devise a new plan, the better."

Though no one made their agreement vocal, Maitimo could see many of the others' approval of the suggestion shining bright in their eyes. "It is tempting," he conceded with a humorless grin. "But no. If they truly are an embassy, killing them without provocation will be gladly construed by Moringotto as a further act of war, I wager. I will meet them, but I want the Noldohossë to keep moving. With me will go Vëantur, Tyelkormo, and Curufinwë. Vëantur," he bid, "go and gather twelve warriors trusted for their vigilance. Though the horde of Moringotto looks to be long gone, I will not indulge the illusion if their purpose is to simply lure us in, so be wise in whom you choose. We will congregate at the rear, so go with haste."

Vëantur bowed. "As you command." Then he was off, rushing down the crag and then weaving through the countless warriors who had now been slowed to a near stop, orders falling from his lips that were loud enough to be heard over the thundering wind and clamor of marching Elves.

"Makalaurë." His brother stepped forward and Maitimo clasped his arm as he gestured towards the pass with the other. "Lead the people in my stead until our return. See that every Elf enters the mountains but have them halt at the fissure, the one we took our rest in during the first crossing. But if you hear us blow three times on our trumpets, lead them onwards again to the Lake and do not stop until you arrive. Yánadur and Sornion," he called, turning to the Elves, and the tall Noldor both bowed their heads in acknowledgment. "Go you with Lord Makalaurë and heed his command. No, Sornion," he added as the beginnings of protest entered his Second's face. "I know you would rather be with me, but not for this hour. Go with Makalaurë. It will be difficult for all of our people to pass through the mouth at the speed needed, so conceive of some method among yourselves and the Captains on how to accomplish this. At least so they might move a little faster."

Both Makalaurë and Sornion nodded in understanding, though the latter was visibly reluctant. But Makalaurë was hardly any better. "Though I can ensure little, we will do our best," Makalaurë said with a nod, and he grasped Maitimo's forearm in a brief squeeze before moving to join the two Commanders.

But Yánadur was frowning. "Should I not go with you, my prince? If those Orcs do purpose to talk with you, you will need my aid in the speaking, for I would guess their fluency in the Moriquendi's language to be pitiful at best."

But Maitimo was already shaking his head. "That is their problem, not mine. They come to us and must know we need only draw our arrows against them for them to die. Your command of Mithrimin is greater than mine, true, but should our discourse be impeded by a speech barrier, my own command of Mithrimin is good enough to convey the risk to their heads should they continue following in our wake. Besides," he added with a glance towards his fourth brother, "Curufinwë is going with me, and his knowledge is nigh on par with yours of the Moriquendi tongue, even if none of us is near conversant in it. It is the reason he goes with me." He glanced again at Curufinwë, who was slowly nodding.

"Speaking with them will prove difficult," Curufinwë agreed. "Not the least because their fluency in this speech must be as poor as ours, if not poorer. But mayhap this hindrance will delay whatever their purpose is and grant our people more time to pass into the mountains."

Maitimo lifted an eyebrow. He had not considered that.

"All the more reason to do this, then," Carnistir muttered after a thoughtful silence, crossing his arms. His eyes narrowed as they turned to focus on Maitimo. "Even if nothing comes of this, feigning to treat with them will win back the time we are losing to see our people into the safety of the mountains."

"So it is decided," Maitimo said, and he was glad to see the others who had shown doubt looking more resolute, and there were nods of approval all around. He nodded at Makalaurë and the two remaining Commanders. "Unless you have further counsel, go now." With bows of their own they departed without a word, Makalaurë speaking rapidly to the both of them as the traversed the haphazard mountainside. Maitimo watched them go for a moment before turning to the hunter at heart of his siblings. "Tyelkormo, I want four units to accompany us, at the ready to shoot. Alcarion and Coromindo will be one of them, so be swift and meet me at the rear." Tyelkormo gave a short nod and departed at a run, beckoning the unit and the two Captains to follow.

Maitimo barely spared them a glance. "Ambarussa, Carnistir." He looked into their questioning eyes and could not help but notice how the twins in particular seemed desperate to be given any task. "Take point among the Pilindossë and Ehtyari. I want every Elf inside the mountains and perimeter guards sent out. Look for our coming in an hour. If we do not show take counsel with Makalaurë and send out scouts ahead of you in your search for us."

Carnistir met his gaze with a hard one of his own. "Why would you not show?" he contended harshly.

Maitimo relented, lessening his cold stature as a look of unfathomable grief briefly passed through his eyes, and he reached out with a gentle hand to grip Carnistir's clenched jaw. "I am taking no chances," he said softly. "Not anymore. We can ill afford to. That is all. Besides," he added with a feeble attempt at a smile, "you know Tyelkormo. He would unleash a tempest of rage before letting a hair on my head be touched."

Curufinwë made a face at him. "As would I," he contested.

Maitimo felt a genuine smile upturn the corners of his lips as he nodded. "Him too." Whatever smile was there faded. "This time is crucial to ensure the survival of our people," he impressed under his breath, looking between Carnistir and the twins. "Do not fail me, dearest brothers."

Carnistir's expression was still dark with displeasure, but he grudgingly nodded in acquiescence and Maitimo released his face. "You know we will not, so stay your tongue from such nonsense," he groused, and Maitimo felt a swell of affection at the attitude. Carnistir gestured to the twins and they set off right on his heels, all three bursting into a run once clear of the crag.

Maitimo turned his gaze on the only remaining Elf not of his blood and gestured him forward. "Aráto, gather a handful of your guards and head to the rear, and assign the remaining guards to the protection of my brothers. And should my brothers contest that the guards should be with me, send with them the message of my command. I will hear no protestation. Be quick, now."

The Captain bowed and began issuing his orders, and those of the King's Guard ranged about them hurried from their positions to obey.

Maitimo turned to a silent Curufinwë and met his eyes. He reached out to sweep back strands of glossy hair that had escaped their clasp, though the wind saw that it was tousled even further. "Let us go."

O = O = O

The troop numbering thirty moved across the steppe, nearly gliding from going unhindered of hundreds of other bodies moving with them. And though they moved with haste, their vigilance could not have been higher. The three princes marched at the center, those of the King's Guard encircling them in a loose formation primarily at the forefront. Vëantur walked alongside Aráto ahead of the princes, and the twelve warriors he selected were arranged in a similar formation around the cluster of the King's Guard. Three of the archer units escorted the somewhat feigned delegation, one at the fore and one on either side, while the fourth took point and acted as forward scouts, remaining fifty paces ahead. Despite the utter dark of the night, where not even starlight managed to break through the malevolent gales, no torch or any source of light was borne among them, par Maitimo's orders. It made their traveling across the flat land slower, but Maitimo was adamant not to light their way.

"I will not grant them the courtesy of forewarning them of our coming when they will not do the same," he had said when questioned. "As it is, any light we might bear would hinder our sighting of them until we are within arrow's reach, and we know not if one of them is an archer." And so it was decided.

All the warriors bore sword and shield and though the shields were hefted, the swords remained sheathed, no matter how many hands clearly itched to draw them. A standard-bearer walked alongside Curufinwë to Maitimo's left, the emblem of the House of Fëanáro woven in thread of bright silver upon a banner of deep cobalt, and all were arrayed in armor and helm, though the ornate make of vambraces and breastplates and hauberks were still caked in harsh splatters of Orc-blood from their last battle. The archer units were a different matter. An archer unit consisted of two Elves and though both carried a short sword, it was not their primary weapon. One Elf was an archer from the Pilindossë and the other an accompanying spearman from the Ehtyari. Mutually supporting each other, they proved to be a deadly combination in battling Orcs and other foul beasts they had seen but not yet named, able to cut down large numbers of the Enemy at a distance, then retreat before the Enemy could retaliate, and all the while the spearman defended the archer from attack. It had been a tactic devised by Tyelkormo and the praise their father had dealt him for his ingenuity was still well earned, as far as Maitimo was concerned.

"Princes, the forward unit comes!"

Maitimo looked over the heads of those in front him, narrowing his eyes to peer into the distance and he spotted Alcarion and Coromindo, who Maitimo had chosen as the scouts since they would recognize the form of the Orcs more quickly than the others. The archer and spearman were running towards them and were near indiscernible to the eye, clad in their dark leathers as they were.

Maitimo lifted a hand and the company slowed to a halt, Vëantur and Aráto allowing the unit entrance into the ring of guards. Neither was winded, but their eyes shone with a fell light. They both bowed their heads towards the princes, lightly raising bow and spear in a salute and Alcarion, apparently the spokesman of the two, spoke to Maitimo in a voice loud enough to be heard even by the Elf furthest away.

"It is as we had last seen," he said. "Three Orcs, carrying some foul standard, about two hundred paces ahead now. There is still no sign of the Enemy mayhap being elsewhere."

Maitimo considered that with an absent twisting of his jaw and nodded towards Vëantur. "Stand in formation."

Vëantur returned the nod and left his post, repeating the order in a commanding bellow, though it was rather unnecessary. The Elves were already moving in the prearranged plan. Tyelkormo stood at Maitimo's right and Curufinwë to his left, who had the standard-bearer on his other side. The ring of guards opened up and withdrew until Maitimo stood at the fore and arranged themselves behind and alongside the princes. No weapons were drawn, but every warrior still loosened their sword in its scabbard, even Maitimo. The archers from the four units, however, were a different matter. Two stood on both sides of Maitimo, spaced out along the front row of Noldor, but their arrows were drawn and nocked, though pointed to the ground. The four of them stood at the ready, awaiting Maitimo's command to shoot should he issue it.

Maitimo knew that any person with one eye would say he was unreasonable or overly enthusiastic in the number of Elves he brought with just for meeting with three Orcs when said Orcs could be slayed by only one warrior or two with a quick hand. But Maitimo could not care less. Even though he would grant this embassy leave to speak, these beasts would be fortunate not to die tonight, which he presumed would happen anyway before all was finished. The Orcs generally seemed eager to incite the Elves to fight by whatever means, and after the death of their king, Maitimo knew every Elf behind him was longing to draw his weapon.

This embassy of Orcs soon came into sight and Maitimo frowned as he tried to make out this banner they were evidently bearing. He saw something, some crass device standing in the air, but his attention was soon diverted by the three Orcs and Maitimo absently reflected that these creatures would probably never grow less hideous to the eye.

The Noldor waited in heavy silence as the Orcs drew closer and Maitimo saw that they indeed bore no bow among them, much to his slight relief. The Orc to the left was the standard-bearer, clasping in two iron-shod fists a smooth shaft of what appeared to be a two-tonged fork of compressed iron, stretching a ghastly banner across it, a banner made of a material Maitimo was leery to guess. The other two Orcs walked free, though sword and axe were strapped to their monstrous bodies. He remained silent until they were but a mere dozen paces away and nodded to Vëantur without removing his eyes from them.

The Commander held up a forestalling hand. "Halt!" he called out in his authoritative baritone. Maitimo briefly reflected that he really needed to find and assign a new herald, for his father's own had perished in the battle.

The three beasts stopped and the four archers in the company half-drew their bows in warning, though they kept them lowered. Two of the Orcs growled deep from their barrel chests, but the middle one….Maitimo frowned, his gaze now focusing sharply on the Orc who stood quietly in between the other two.

"Do you feel that?" Curufinwë whispered, and Maitimo knew what he meant, unable to suppress a shiver. But he did not answer, knowing that his brother's murmur had been rhetorical, if anything, for he wagered that not one Noldo in their company did not feel the unsettling pall of some fey wizardry that overcame them. Like some smothering of raw darkness at the close proximity of the Orcs. No, he realized with a growing sense of apprehension. Not all three, just the one who led them in the middle. Disconcerted, Maitimo's brow slightly furrowed, his chest tightening from some dark premonition he was unable to dismiss.

Something was not right.

An uncomfortable silence reigned across the steppe, Orc and Elf staring at each other. It lasted only awhile before the middle Orc lifted his head, his sallow eyes passing leisurely over one Elf to the next until they landed on Maitimo himself.

"Are you Nelyafinwë, Noldóran uncrowned?" he called, his voice grating to the ears.

Maitimo felt his heart stop as a wave of unadulterated shock washed over him, momentarily robbing him of his breath. The Orc had spoken in Quenya. Quenya! Not the fragmented Mithrimin they had expected, but Quenya! Though it was horrible to hear their language be twisted and befouled on the abhorrent tongue of one of Moringotto's abominations, let alone his own name, the words fell from the Orc's lips clearly and with a fluency that bespoke of his confidence in his mastery of the Elven dialect, as though it were his mother tongue as much as it was to the Noldor who were now regarding him with no little apprehension.

How was it he could speak Quenya?

Maitimo was thrown by it. Completely thrown, but he was now more certain than ever that they were talking with no mere Orc of the same ilk as those they had been battling since their crossing into Hísilómë, for all that the beast looked like one. And yet, with the suspicion of deception now firmly taking root in his mind, Maitimo began to grow aware not of the similarities between this Orc and the two flanking him, but of the differences. Imperceptibly there, but so telling.

The Orc-speaker was clad in the same crude armor that looked to have been molded with haste and little care from blackened iron: a breastplate engraved with an insignia he could not make out in the dark, a cruel conical helm and greaves bent of the same material, an unsheathed sword at his hip and feet shod in iron. And the very form of his body was as ghastly to the eyes as any beast of the Enemy.

But that was almost where all the similarities ended.

The Orc was considerably broader and taller than the two accompanying him, standing straight while the other two hunched. Standing unerringly still while the other two shifted on their feet as though fighting against the instinct to lunge for Elven throats. The un-Orcish calmness of his breathing while the other two persisted with their harsh grating of displeasure in near outright growls and snorts. And, Maitimo now recalled, the Orc-speaker had approached them so light of foot with composure unbecoming of any Dark creature while the other two had marched with a disgraceful clamor as all Orcs did. But more than anything, while the two other Orcs practically breathed all the evil to be imbued in a creature, the Orc-speaker radiated some tangible dark necromancy without trying. It was what they had all immediately sensed, what Curufinwë had commented on.

A Maia?

The thought startled him, but he grew more certain of it with every passing moment, though his heart pounded faster at the sudden intuition. Though not accounted as old by wont of the Eldalië, Maitimo knew he himself was aged and far from young, and so long had he lived among the Maiar dwelling in Valinor that he immediately recognized the signature corona of energy and scents that all Maiar seemed to inadvertently walk with, or at least whenever they had clad themselves in the likeness of the Amaneldi. An energy he knew he could pinpoint even if half delirious, even drunk. And though he went without a scent, this Orc-speaker emitted that same energy, only darker. Much darker.

And then there was the fact that the horde of Moringotto had halted and even reversed their chase of the Noldohossë while they had been desperately trying to carry Fëanáro away as he was dying. Though Maitimo had yet to cease wondering since Tyelkormo's report why the Enemy had appeared to withdraw when their victory was so close at hand, he was now forced to consider just how the horde had been ordered to retreat when Moringotto was not even among them. How, unless there had been a Maia among them to receive the order, even if disguised in the form of an Orc? Replicating their corporeal image, yet not even acting like one? To have such a command of Quenya? A Maia, whom Maitimo knew the Valar could fling their thoughts to in the blink of an eye and thus bypass the impediment of distance that Elves had to contend with. All the observations supported the theory, Maitimo finally concluded with a dreary sense of cataclysm. For if this Orc-speaker truly was a Maia…just how many more Maiar did Moringotto command? Did he have more than this one at his beck and call? Every Vala in the West each had a numberless host of his own People. A Vala like them, why would Moringotto have been any different before his Fall?

They had never considered this.

All these thoughts flew through Maitimo's mind in the space of two breaths, but he let not one morsel of them be seen in his face, which he kept impassive and cold as he regarded the supposed Orc.

"You know I am he," he answered. "Speak if it is your purpose."

The Orc-speaker's face was just as unreadable, not even contorted with the anger and hatred that seemed an inherent part of every Orc. "There are three of your sire's get with copper hair and I was bidden by my lord to speak with Nelyafinwë."

"And you are, so speak."

The Orc-speaker did not react, though his granite voice grew more rotten. "To you my Master says: Long fought I against my Brethren ere your Awakening and learnt we all became on when a battle was of victory or of defeat. My design is above petty Noldorin grudge and thus do I tire of your unsought obstinacy. My war is not with you, and this once will I offer terms if it means your departure from my demesne."

Maitimo stared at him. "Really." The tone of his voice conveyed just what he thought of the message.

The Orc-speaker went on as though he had not said the one word. "In spite of every Orc you have slain, I will allow you free passage from the land, and all will go unmolested. Your king has fallen, so go and grieve as is your wont, but be swift in taking your leave. As a token of my sincerity, I will surrender freely one Silmaril, and let that convey the magnitude of my desire to see you gone. Though heed well my warning, Son of Fëanáro, for should you come to the place appointed with the expectancy of receiving two of the Jewels or all three, you will receive none. If it means you will leave my doorstep, I will give you without quarrel only one."

Silence.

In that moment, Maitimo could not have spoken even if he attempted to. As it was, he did not dare look at his brothers on either side of him, or behind to all the other Elves in their company. He did not need to. No one spoke, and the air was charged with the sense of wary anticipation. Maitimo could feel it and so hard now was his heart pounding that it was a wonder no one heard it. The Orc-speaker looked at them with a glimmer of expectancy visible in his diaphanous eyes, as though awaiting a response. Maitimo certainly had a floodgate of words ready to unleash on the Orc-speaker, but in the end he remained silent and bore a face of cold disinterest, knowing he would not, could not, show even a morsel of the thoughts flying through his head. Any response on his part, be it verbally or even the most miniscule shift in his expression, would undoubtedly be reported back to Moringotto. And if this Orc-speaker was truly a Maia, he was more than capable of recalling the smallest detail.

"So ends my Master's words," the Orc-speaker went on after the pregnant pause and Maitimo's own silence. "I am not bidden to return to him an answer, but if to these terms you agree, my Master says he will await you through a servant of his choosing upon a steppe equidistant from Thangorodrim of his Dwelling unto the wall of mountains behind you, at sixteen leagues northeast from here. With the servant will be the Silmaril and in honor of the covenant my Master tells he will send only a score with his servant to bear witness to the exchange on his behalf."

Maitimo raised an eyebrow. "A score of what?"

A ghost of a smirk twisted the Orc-speaker's face, but it disappeared all too quickly. "Only Orcs, Your Highness, though I would it be otherwise. But," he added, the dark undertone of his voice growing, "my Master made it clear unto me that if you break the terms of this parley and do not depart forthwith from his demesne, he will see personally that your war with him becomes war in truth and bears you bitter fruit tenfold."

And much to Maitimo's surprise, the Orc-speaker bowed to Maitimo, though the flippancy and pure mockery of it could not be more obvious. "Five days my Master gives you to arrive at the place appointed. If you do not show, he says he will accept your absence as a declaration of war in full."

And the Orc-speaker turned about not a breath later, walking away, the accompanying pair of Orcs scrambling behind his speedy gate, growling out whatever speech they communicated with. The thirty Noldor stood there unmoving, watching what was now revealed to be an embassy in truth depart without a glance back. The silence was deafening, the words of the message from Moringotto tumbling endlessly in Maitimo's mind until all the words blurred together. And that added with the many crippling shocks and travesties of this day cast Maitimo's whole being into a downward spiral until he did not know what to even think.

"That Orc is a Maia."

Maitimo's eyes snapped over to Curufinwë at the confident declaration, but the softly spoken words seemed to break whatever spell had fallen over the company and the many Noldor began to stir, breaking from formation as they visibly relaxed.

Tyelkormo replied to Curufinwë's statement before Maitimo could, making a wry face at him. "Well spotted," he said cynically, "but I believe we have a greater concern to address."

Maitimo turned his gaze back to the empty plain, watching the Orc embassy grow smaller to his sight as they melded with the darkness. He took a deep breath, clenching his jaw. "You are both correct."

Boldogs: "the name of a kind of creature: the Orc-formed Maiar, only less formidable than the Balrogs./Morgoth had many servants, the oldest and most potent of whom were immortal, belonging indeed in their beginning to the Maiar; and these evil spirits like their Master could take on visible forms. Those whose business it was to direct Orcs often took Orkish shapes, though they were greater and more terrible." [HoME Myths Transformed X.418]

Note on Geography: In regard to lays of the land for this story, Karen Wynn Fonstad's The Atlas of Middle-earth, Revised Edition was consulted for accuracy on geographical minutiae.

Noldohossë: the host (army) of the Noldor
Noldóran: King of the Noldor
Tauriyavani: Osage Orange trees; from Latin madura pomifera; "yellowwood trees and shrubs", "fruit-bearing"; in Quenya tauri- and yavan (pl. yavani)
Mithrimin: Quenya for lit. "language of the Mithrim". Sindar/in is a Quenya word (Sendrim in Sindarin), a word that was only established after the Noldor interacted with the Mithrim and a name the Sindar were dubbed by the Noldor, one that the Sindar did not refer to themselves as.
Hísilómë: Hithlum
Amaneldi: Elves of Aman/Valinor