Name Index:
Pityafinwë = Amrod, his father-name
Telufinwë = Amras, his father-name

Chapter 3:
The Debate

"I do not trust it!"

Maitimo sighed, running a hand roughly over his eyes. "So you have said, Carnistir."

They had returned to the Noldohossë, all of whom had gathered and temporarily settled in the fissure of the mountains that Makalaurë had somehow managed to direct them to. Maitimo had been quick to praise his brother along with Yánadur and Sornion in somehow successfully coordinating the Elves into the mountain pass when so little time had been available to do it. The mountains stood fairly high in height, though laughably short when measured alongside the towering peaks visible in the East or the snowcapped heights of the Pelóri, nevermind Oiolossë. But regardless of their height, the mountain range still stretched a league wide at its narrowest point, which was the Ehtelë Sirion Pass that they now trekked, and it could easily take two days to traverse and descend into the land basin westward. And so the Noldohossë that consisted of hundreds of people settled in the fissure located two hours of hiking inward from the east ingress of the pass.

They had discovered the fissure when first crossing the mountains to hunt the Orcs who fled after the failure of Moringotto's assault. During the ten days the battle had lasted, Fëanáro had looked upon the fissure and its proximity to the springs of Ehtelë Sirion with a flash of insight and deemed it a good place of rest when making the harrying journey across the mountains. Meager supplies had been gradually transferred to the fissure and concealed, primarily for the comforts of slumber and utensils to prepare game hunted in the vicinity. Though minuscule when compared to the entirety of the mountains, the fissure was still vast in retrospect. It was as though the mountains upon their formation had neglected to grow new summits and ridges in this area and was left imperfect with a considerable gap at half the height of the crests. A gap wide enough as to not feel suffocated by the walls of woodland mountains on either side and long enough that the area was able to provide substantial resting grounds for a host of people as large as they. The fissure was not big enough to house them all, but dozens of pockets opened up into the cliffs and crags, and crowds of Noldor divided themselves among those vales that were judged safe.

And so here they were, bidden to rest and regain their strength and wits. Armor was removed and cleaned, hunters sent out while others made their way to the springs of Ehtelë Sirion to fetch water, campfires were lit, and makeshift beddings were fashioned from the fallen ferns. And the many Elves waited, whether for food to be prepared or for exhaustion to force their bodies into slumber, some setting themselves up with even the littlest or inane of tasks if it meant their minds would be kept distracted.

Meanwhile, Maitimo reflected sourly, he and those he summoned were far from any opportunity to obtain rest. He had removed those he called to council to one of the pockets situated higher up in the mountain range. The forested crags protected them from the buffeting of wind, fortunately, but there was little else of benefit in this particular vale save for privacy. Present were his six brothers, along with Commanders Vëantur, Yánadur, and Sornion. Captain Aráto stood at the entrance of the rock-strewn grove and Master Fionildo, head of the healers among the Noldohossë, stood inconspicuously to the side with a mild look of discomfort upon his worn face, his eyes shifting uneasily from one Elf to another as though sensing his particular presence was not necessarily required. But he uttered no protest, even if he did look like he wanted to curl up inside his cloak.

Maitimo had bidden all of them to doff their armor so that they might have a reprieve from the cumbersome weight after days of wearing it. No one disarmed himself, however, for even the Master Healer bore a dirk on his hip, no matter the clear reluctance in his face to do so. They took their ease, or what ease they were able to obtain in light of the discussion, sitting or standing at a lean against random boulders of varying heights. Maitimo was observing the eleven Elves in silence, his face unreadable as his fingers absently fiddled with a sprig of a snag of roots that had grown sideways between two rocks.

"Moringotto plays us for a fool," Curufinwë bit out with a dark scowl, long fingers idly drumming on the hilt of his sword, a habit that Maitimo knew he had inherited from their father that they both did when anxious but attempting to veil it behind a mask of indignation or indifference. "By the very words of that Orc person, Moringotto knows well what has befallen the Noldor with the loss of our king, so why stop to concede defeat when he has the momentum we just lost?"

"I agree," Makalaurë added. He was frowning, arms crossed rigidly in front of him and his face shadowed by a tacit anguish that would just not dissipate. His dark gaze was cast down, staring at nothing in particular but clouded over with whatever thoughts were running through his head. "He speaks of Noldorin obstinacy, but if there is anything we have learned of Moringotto amid his presence in Valinor, it is that he has a persistency of his own in obtaining whatever wants by whatever means it takes." His eyes cleared as he looked up, gaze swiveling from one to another as he arched a brow. "This may be no exception."

"By what you told us, he sounded very precise in his wording," Yánadur said. "If what he says is true, he seems more concerned with us dishonoring his terms and leaving upon being given a Silmaril than actually surrendering one at all."

Sornion grunted, shooting Yánadur a flat look. "That may be, Commander, but how can we believe anything he says?"

"We cannot. Thus the problem."

Tyelkormo lifted a gloved hand to garner attention from where he leaned against a cluster of rocks. "What if he actually does speak the truth?"

The resounding silence and incredulous stares that followed spoke volumes, and Tyelkormo lifted both hands as though warding off an impending blow, and ten of them. "I know to assume that sounds absurd, and I would be the first one to say so, but what if he indeed believes himself to be defeated?"

Carnistir's scowl darkened. "Why would he? As has been emphasized since journeying here, Moringotto has gained the upper hand."

"Did he?" Tyelkormo countered. "Or do we merely believe he did?"

Another silence followed, though this one was less profound and more resigned as a collective sigh seemed to come from the twelve Noldor. Vëantur was the first to stir, circling his fingers against his temple as though staving off a headache. "Though my heart cries against it, I understand what you say." He passed a somber stare over everyone. "If we disregard today, our good fortune has been fairly high, all things considered. And I do not think we have acknowledged just how fortunate we have been. Moringotto assailed us, yes, but though we suffered some casualties, we massacred his hordes. And the Host is safe."

No one could deny that and there were grudging looks of acceptance all around, some even looking darkly pleased. Maitimo knew as well as the rest of them that Vëantur was very correct. Upon departing from Losgar, they had marched through Hísilómë unmolested, charting the new lands with a vigilant and meticulous amount of detail, par Fëanáro's orders. It was a land unknown to them and one that had to be learned quickly, from the smallest source of water to the most distant locations for curative herbs and plants. Passing through that arduous cleft of waterfalls and what they afterwards dubbed the Ando-i-Noldor, they had at first traveled abroad, unknowing of where to go, before being confronted by Moriquendi from the low hills northward, and by them directed to travel to the land named after those Elves; Mithrim. Despite the fervent focus on Moringotto, Fëanáro had emphasized the need of being able to live off the land and to fortify a stable encampment. And so their first weeks in Endórë were spent cataloguing and mapping. So much mapping. And then settling alongside the Lake, the greatest source of water nearby from which sprouted four rivers. It was an ideal location for an encampment, if any, and their focus had been centered on readying a possible home in the Grey Fields north of the Lake.

And so when Moringotto's assault came from over the mountains, they had been caught wholly unprepared, their camp not even finished, and the horde of Orcs sent had been impossibly massive. But despite being outnumbered and taken unawares, their victory had been swift and triumphant. So much so that the Orcs had fled from them, from their long and terrible swords, from the anger they fed on and no less from the fell wrath of Fëanáro, and had been driven in terror back across the mountains. Maitimo had not been the only one quick to give chase. All of them had. Maitimo could still remember the hot adrenaline that raced madly through his veins. Ten days that battle under the stars had lasted, and so great had their conquest been of the Enemy's horde that only a bare few hundred Orcs remained of the thousands upon thousands that had been sent out.

It had only been this day, Maitimo reflected desolately, the eleventh day, when it had all fallen apart.

But in light of the recent battling, he was beginning to understand why Vëantur agreed with Tyelkormo. Why would Moringotto not believe himself defeated when not even half a tithe of those he sent to assail them managed to survive it? As Vëantur reminded, it was not some hard-won battle, but a true massacre. It had almost been too easy.

Sornion was slowly nodding, but skepticism still shadowed his face as he lifted an eyebrow. "Mayhap Moringotto really does not know why we retreat back into the mountains. That we flee to regroup. That we flee because King Fëanáro is dead." The words rang in the silence. Maitimo willed himself to go inwardly still. It had only been mere hours since they lost their father and king and too much was happening too fast. But Sornion clearly and, by the distressed expression he now wore, personally recognized the effect of his words and he gave a fatigued shake of his head. "We stand huddled in this fissure for many reasons, but primarily because we have no notion at all how to defeat or merely hinder those…those…." He gestured uncertainly with his hands, brow furrowing.

"Valaraukar." Everyone turned to look at Yánadur at the mutter, expressions ranging from intrigued to confused. Yánadur raised an eyebrow at suddenly finding himself the center of attention and gave a dismissive shrug. "It is fitting enough. I know not what the Moriquendi call them, or would call them if they have yet to encounter such dark creatures. The stems are derived from etymons of the tongue of the first Quendi, when such descriptions were evidently applicable." He looked at Maitimo, eyes narrowing in thought. "Though Fëanáro took no more active part in our linguistic lore after his remake of the Sarati, he knew more than any other of Valarin and could probably speak it I wager, though he shared none of his knowledge of it with me, nor any other Lambengolmo." Maitimo was nodding before he even finished, along with quite a few of his brothers, and Yánadur waved away the digression. "I say this because I am sure the Valar have their own term for such fiery monstrosities, but your father was well learnt in even the earliest tales of Valinor relayed to us from even before we Awoke. I remember we would sit for hours discussing it, Rúmil's memory occasionally encouraging our conversations, but some of the darker tales that we often believed were mayhap embellished entailed the very meaning of the term I dub those…things." He paused for a moment before shaking his head, an irritable set to his jaw as his lip faintly curled. "My command of Mithrimin truly is poor right now, I confess, and I cannot yet determine what they may be in this tongue."

Maitimo frowned, taking Yánadur's words into consideration and trying to recall those very exchanges of discourse his father had held with Rúmil that he had listened to on occasion, either out of boredom or the genuine inquisitive vein for knowledge in his blood. He tried to recall the less spoken, darker details they had seldom spoken of, of what his grandparents had ever described about the less pleasant aspect of Cuiviénen, for surely they would have recognized the components of a word such as valaraukar when that first tongue of the Quendi was the first they had known. But then, his grandparents had spoken little of the darker side of their first home, at least to Maitimo.

Both the twins wore identically disturbed expressions from where they stood shoulder to shoulder. They glanced at each other, sharing some unspoken communication and simultaneously swinging their gazes back to Yánadur. "You truly equate those beasts of flame to Maiar?"

Yánadur appeared less certain at the question. "Their like was described in even the most ancient tales of the World with that name, before we were even placed in it. Existing in the time of the Wars of the Valar, what else could those beasts be?"

"The discussion of what name we should call them by is for later," Curufinwë rebuked a tad impatiently. "For nevertheless, those Valaraukar fled from us when we reached the king." He looked around at them all and drummed his fingers. "They fled from us just as the Orcs had. Surely that must mean something." He shot the last at Maitimo, but Maitimo merely met his insistent gaze and said nothing.

"But how do we know they fled in truth and Moringotto had not simply summoned them back?" Carnistir suggested. "Methinks we learned from that Orc-speaker that Moringotto is just as capable as his Brethren of communicating directly with his Maiar without any Elf being the wiser."

Another spell of silence followed that and every expression seemed more dismal at the insinuation.

"Who is playing whom?" Makalaurë distractedly voiced, his eyes glazed over again at some inward trail of thought. "We can hardly deny that this Orc-speaker was a Maia, so how many more has he at his beck and call?" His eyes cleared and grew unfathomably bright as he turned his attention once again on the others, though primarily Maitimo. His eyebrows puckered as he gave a slight shake of his head. "We came to Endórë in full expectation and will to face Moringotto, Maitimo. Though the reality of the Orcs surprised us as much as horrified us all, we anticipated to battle against Moringotto, not a host of Maiar as well. And if Moringotto indeed works to deceive us into believing that these Valaraukar fled from us, then this parley is a trap at its finest."

"Is it possible Moringotto believes we might do them damage?" Aráto suggested tentatively, speaking for the first time, though doubt at his own words was plain in his face. "Though he fell to their blows, King Fëanáro held out for a long time against them when knowing naught of how to combat them. Mayhap he dealt them a fell blow in the time he held his own against them, and he might have for all we know. It is true we know nothing of these Valaraukar, but if those creatures are another dastardly creation of Moringotto's…." He trailed off, gesturing towards Tyelkormo. "As Prince Tyelkormo said, we massacred the first creatures he sent our way. Though I may be wrong, Moringotto still greatly underestimated us."

"And so he would negotiate with us." Makalaurë sighed, his lips thinning into a tight line. "Know we even where this appointed place to meet is?"

"Sixteen leagues northeast from the base of the mountains, he said," Vëantur supplied, and then he made a face. "He called it Thango-gorodrim," he murmured, stumbling over the strange pronunciation.

"Undoubtedly of the Moriquendi language," Yánadur added musingly.

Vëantur turned a curious look on him. "What does it mean?"

Yánadur shrugged. "I know not enough Mithrimin to guess, though nothing pleasant probably." Vëantur snorted and Yánadur shot him a grim smile. "Something with mountains, however. Orod is a word of theirs for mountains, not so dissimilar from ours."

"Then he must have meant those three peaks." Tyelkormo narrowed his eyes in contemplation. "Those are the only other mountains visible from here."

Almost as one, all the Noldor collectively turned to look northeast where, between two apices of the mountains that housed them, they could plainly see the tiny silhouette of those three great towers, seeming to pierce up into the low-riding gales.

"Wonderful," Carnistir grunted, though just what he was so disgruntled about Maitimo could not even begin to guess.

Makalaurë looked at Maitimo, a delicate eyebrow raised in question. "What say you, brother? This whole discussion you have been quiet."

There was an anticipated silence as all turned to him, every gaze expectant, and Maitimo felt a flare of exasperation at the unspoken assertion that he had all the answers. But he suppressed it, knowing it was an unworthy and unfair thought. He gathered his wits, turning an introspective glance on each of them and crossing his arms over his chest as he lightly pursed his lips. "Let us for a moment accept the chance that this is truly a sincere parley. When in that supposition, I believe Yánadur is correct in his assessment of Moringotto's message. It sounds like the ultimate goal is to end our battle with him and that the surrendering of a Silmaril is nothing but a means to appease us. In all ends, it is clear that he chiefly wants us to leave and never return unto his demesne. Well," he went on stonily, a fell light entering his eyes, "the war he bids us forfeit will happen anyway. We vowed to reclaim all three of our king's Jewels, not just one, and I have a far bitterer craving to battle Moringotto now all the more, for now stealing from our people two kings." There were vigorous nods all around, a whole swarm of extreme emotions charging the air between them, and Maitimo looked at them in grim satisfaction. "No matter his terms, war will come, and I will without hesitation go to dishonor every one of his terms before bowing to what he wants."

"Then why go if we are to war with him no matter what?" Carnistir contested after a moment. "Why when Moringotto's only purpose for it is to end our war?"

Maitimo returned his quarrelsome gaze with a somewhat resigned one of his own, though no less resolved. "Because what if he does actually intend to surrender a Silmaril?" he said, his reluctance to heed such a desperate idea obvious in his voice. But the level of resolve in Maitimo's eyes outweighed such doubt and Carnistir uttered no protestation. No one did, or mayhap no one had the courage to. "Despite that we would have it otherwise, Moringotto has laid a crossroad before us. Doubt me not, dear brother, or any of you," he emphasized. "My heart is far more willing and ready to believe that this parley is just another elaborately set ruse and the mouth of his Orc-speaker relaying another deliberately crafted speech to make me believe he is being honest. Moringotto was able to deceive even the Valar, for all that they are of his ilk, and thus the extent of his wiles upon us Elves cannot be underestimated." A grim set to his mouth, Maitimo's eyes grew darker, his voice becoming quieter. "But if there exists the smallest chance that Moringotto speaks the truth," he went on gravely, "however vile it may be to say it, we cannot afford to bypass this opportunity to reclaim a Silmaril, even if it be only one Silmaril indeed."

No one spoke. It seemed no one had anything to say. Or, Maitimo revised, no one had the mettle to say it, judging by the many looks of dismal indecision wreathing their faces. But none of them seemed ready to refute what he said, at least not so quickly. Maitimo met Makalaurë's hesitant gaze and was almost startled by the dreary light he saw in it that Makalaurë did not bother to hide. But before he could open his mouth to question what so unmistakably haunted his brother's mind, Sornion was breaking the heavy silence.

"Moringotto's deceptions in Valinor have long been dismantled," he put out thoughtfully, eyes cast down with a frown. He seemed pensive as he gnawed on the inside of his cheek. "He knows we now know the true blackness of his heart, for all the fairness he cloaked it in. Mayhap he knows it to now be folly in trying to deceive us as he once did, already knowing that we would not trust it."

"You believe Moringotto?" Carnistir cried in disbelief.

"I believe what Prince Maitimo is saying," he clarified a tad forcefully, his eyes snapping over to Carnistir with a defensive glare. But then he relented, gesturing in chagrin. "For all the assessing we do, I know not which of the two paths to trust, if either can even be trusted. But I will do as I am bidden, whatever my princes decide."

Carnistir opened his mouth and closed it, jaw clenched. He cast his eyes down with a frown, looking at nothing in particular, and he shifted on his feet with a harsh sigh. "I still do not trust it," he bit out.

Maitimo sighed. "So you keep saying." He turned to his Second. "What is known about the land of the place appointed?"

Sornion winced, lips pursed in displeasure. "That area has yet to be scouted, Highness. King Fëanáro bade me and the scouts of the Nelyahossë to begin assessing those lands and charting them eight days ago when we first crossed the mountains. But…." He trailed off, a look of discomfort ghosting across his face as he gestured uncertainly, but Maitimo nodded. Their battle and subsequent chase of Moringotto's horde had only just ended today and every sword of the Nelyahossë had been needed. There had been no opportunity until now to even begin their mapping of the lands that lay between them and where Moringotto dwelled. "It is unknown territory right now," Sornion went on. "Any answer I can provide on what those lands sixteen leagues out will entail will be based only on the steppes we have already traveled."

"Another bad thing," Carnistir said darkly. "Aye, being equidistant for this exchange is fair if this is an actual parley, but we would be walking into a place we know nothing about when he surely knows everything about it!"

"Maitimo?" This time it was the other twin who spoke, looking just as doubtful as they both had for this whole meeting. "If we do this, do you truly mean to let those Orcs go?" Pityafinwë asked. "We stand with Carnistir that Moringotto forfeited any right to speak of an honorable covenant."

Maitimo raised an eyebrow. "As I said, war will happen anyway and Moringotto will know it. If this covenant is true and he brings only a score of witnesses as promised, I will bring two."

Everyone looked at him nonplussed, some exchanging discreet glances. "Why two?" Curufinwë asked.

Maitimo turned to him and gave an indifferent roll of his shoulders. "As I also said, I care not for honoring his terms, for I believe we all would deem he deserves no such courtesy. If Moringotto really does surrender a Silmaril, I will take it and still slay all those he sent to deliver it." The reaction to this was far more positive, even if darkly so, and Maitimo could see by changes in their demeanor just how appealing his proposal sounded to them.

"Then bring three score warriors instead of two," Vëantur recommended, and another bout of questioning silence followed. "Why not? Better to overwhelm them as Moringotto attempted to do with us rather than risk the life of one Noldo for the sake of subtlety."

Maitimo thought on that and gave a single nod, regarding Vëantur with approval. "Then sixty shall march with me. It is more than enough to overwhelm their twenty."

"They will see us," Yánadur warned. "See that we brought far more than is proper."

"Mayhap not," Maitimo demurred. He gestured up towards the sky with his hand. "By whatever ill-wrought design he conceived, Moringotto has cast a cover of darkness even beyond where we stand, and so thick are these gales that not even starlight can prevail. Well, he wants the dark, so let us use it to our advantage. If we can march to the appointed place with no torch or any source of light, they surely will not see us until we are upon them completely. Not even starlight will be present for our armor to reflect."

"But if they do carry a Silmaril," Tyelkormo interjected, "they will withhold it come the moment they realize you brought more than a score of Noldor."

Maitimo opened his mouth but hesitated. He was right.

"If we are quick to slay them, mayhap that possibility will be squandered," Sornion suggested. "We already know we can outrun the average Orc. These last ten days of chasing them down have proven that. Their escort would not be able to flee back to Moringotto with the Jewel even if they tried, so long as we are quick enough with our swords."

"But what if it is not Orcs you face?" Carnistir threw out hotly. "I care not what that Orc-speaking-Maia or whatever he is promised. A score, sure. But what if it is a score of Valaraukar he sends instead of Orcs?"

Despite the dark temper, Maitimo still nodded in concession to what he said. "That will be one advantage we do have. The steppes are a flat land and so dead of life that I wager we will not see even one tree. We should be able to see about a league out before reaching them, and thus we will be able to see whether Moringotto had sent more than the score of Orcs he promised. Likewise," he added with a bitter, crooked grin, "those Valaraukar are not particularly subtle. They walk with a living fire and if even one Valarauko comes with Moringotto's embassy, he will be as visible in the distance as a lone star would be in the sky."

Though the words had been meant to appease him, and Maitimo was confident that they had, Carnistir continued to stare at him with his jaw set, his bright eyes hard and unyielding, and Maitimo was once again reminded of how this particular brother of his had especially inherited their father's arsenal of steely glares. "And what will you do?" he finally asked, his voice stiff.

The upturning of the corners of his mouth was more genuine this time. "Return here," he assured calmly. "I have no intention of marching to my death, or leading any of the Elves who accompany me to theirs. If we see from afar that Moringotto sent more than he pledged, let alone any Valaraukar, then this parley is a trap in truth and no Silmaril at all will be among them to surrender."

"And if it is a trap, you will return hither at once?" Carnistir stressed.

Maitimo just stopped from rolling his eyes. "Yes, Carnistir. What else would I do? As Sornion said, we can outrun them, even with the weight of our armor. And at the sight of one more Orc than a score, let alone one Valarauko, we will turn and run as swiftly as we can back to the mountains."

Makalaurë shot a quizzical look at him. "What if they follow?"

Maitimo hesitated. "That would be a problem, to put it mildly." Carnistir was not the only one who scoffed and Maitimo gestured helplessly, a small sigh of resignation passing his lips. "Unless any of you has wise words to counsel me on that, I fear the possibility of another attack being launched on our encampment is inevitable. If we go and flee and they follow, we will be battling again. If we stay and let Moringotto construe our absence as a further declaration of war, he will send more hordes and we will be battling again. If this is a parley in truth and we go and reclaim the Silmaril, then he has no actual intention of sending the score of Orcs or any amount of Orcs after us."

Makalaurë gave him a sardonic glare. "You just said we will slay the twenty Orcs anyway."

Maitimo nodded. "And thus we will be battling again, for Moringotto will then know that we have no intention of retreating from the war we declared on him before even leaving Tirion. No matter what we do with this parley, the war will go on. It is just a matter of fully fortifying our encampment quickly enough first, and hopefully this might grant us more time to do that. We need to be capable of living in these foreign lands."

No one voiced disagreement with that, nor to his insistence of encouraging war with Moringotto, but Maitimo knew their minds pretty well by now. Though no one had sworn the Oath he and his brothers had taken upon themselves twice over, every Elf, nér and nís, held the raw memory of Finwë close to their hearts. And the slaying of Fëanáro only exacerbated the very grievance they had flown from Valinor for. Defied the Valar for. One did not just retreat like a cowered puppy when provided all the more reason to roar. Moringotto was the fool if he thought they would forget or, Valar forbid, forgive all that quickly.

"Who will go?" asked Yánadur. "I know you will, Maitimo, but who will you have with you?"

"Commander Sornion." The Elf looked at him and Maitimo nodded. "You will come. After this council is adjourned, go with Vëantur and Yánadur and choose among you from the three Companies forty Elves of the sword to accompany us." Sornion inclined his head to him just as Aráto lifted an enquiring hand. Maitimo nodded to him.

"I ask of you to take some of the King's Guard with you, my prince," he nearly beseeched. "Myself included. Let us fulfill the duty we were set with."

Maitimo considered that, staring unwaveringly at the Captain for a long moment. "I will allow twelve to come for my protection, including yourself." Aráto was visibly relieved and he bowed in understanding of the order. Maitimo looked at Sornion. "Account for that in who you select. I still want no more than sixty." Maitimo turned to his second brother. "Tyelkormo, confer with your Captains to select the other twenty from the Pilindossë and Ehtyari. I ask not for archer units but those you believe best suited for this embassy of ours, particularly those of a capable shot in the dark. Those going will need to have skill in fighting without the aid of light."

Tyelkormo nodded. "I go with you, then?" he asked, shifting to straighten from his stance as if to go prepare himself.

"No," Maitimo said firmly. "None of you will go with me." An incredulous silence met the words from all six of them, but Maitimo forewent breaking it.

"Why not?" Curufinwë finally demanded.

Maitimo met them all with an unyielding stare he made sure was worthy of his father. "As has been emphasized," he explained in a composed voice that belied the fire in his eyes, "this whole venture is a risk and one I deem not worth more than one of us taking."

That statement was definitely not well received. Thankfully, however, Aráto spoke up before he had six enraged voices yelling at him, though Aráto appeared to be just as disagreeable as his brothers.

"Why must you go at all, Highness? Pray send another as your voice. If Moringotto does seek to trap us, you are not the one to be trapped, my liege. So many would readily go in your stead."

"Heed him! For he speaks wisely," Tyelkormo nearly shouted. He glared at Maitimo, his expression stormily dark. "I know this contradicts what I earlier said of the Enemy's message, but you, Maitimo, are the next ideal person to kill. He stole the life of King Finwë, he stole the life of our father, and you are next in the line!"

"Third Finwë," Curufinwë ominously muttered, his eyes just as dark.

"Because," Maitimo went on unflustered, his eyes deliberately moving away from Tyelkormo to Aráto instead, "I will not send another in my stead to fulfill what I swore to do. And neither you nor any of those others you refer to stood in that courtyard in Tirion alongside me."

"There are six others who swore the same damn Oath, you fool!" Carnistir shouted furiously.

"Calm yourself, Carnistir!" Makalaurë warned.

"After he has this idiocy knocked from his head!" Carnistir turned a baleful glare on the lot of them. "I know not how any of you can stand idly by when he is set to march off to a very likely death!"

The silence that followed was awkward and uncomfortable, half looking at Carnistir in amazement at his outburst and the other half unmistakably agreeing with him but unwilling to say it out loud.

"Carnistir," Maitimo said softly, and he met his brother with a quelling stare for a long moment until the fire of Carnistir's temper visibly dissipated, though it only did by a little. "You either hold your tongue and be quiet or leave."

There was another pregnant pause, the air taut with tension as the two continued to hold the other's gaze. No one spoke, even as Carnistir's hands clenched and unclenched the roots he was leaning against, the tendons of his fingers and knuckles straining against his skin. But then Carnistir lowered his eyes, his eyebrows drawing even deeper together, and without another word he turned on his heel and quickly left the grove.

Maitimo sighed as he watched him go, glancing at his other brothers and seeing looks of equal dismay on their faces as they stared after where Carnistir had disappeared around the bend. "Let him go," he said wearily. He looked around at the other Elves, meeting each of their uncertain gazes. "Unless any of you have further counsel, we need to move posthaste. During our leave, I want the Noldohossë to return to the Lake and for the Host to be apprised of all that has happened since we set after Moringotto's horde, chiefly of the king's demise." He finally looked towards Fionildo who nearly blended into the rocks he stood near for all the notice he had drawn to himself amid the gathering. "Master Fionildo, I know you most probably deemed your presence here unnecessary, but based on the conditions you heard, are the warriors who I require ready for such a journey?"

Fionildo nodded without hesitation. "There have been plenty of wounds these past ten days, some of them severe, but if you discount those with wounds that would hinder them to walk sixteen leagues, let alone fight, there are many who stand able. All I recommend is that you allow them to obtain a night's rest undisturbed." He looked Maitimo up and down. "Yourself as well, Highness."

Maitimo cast a knowing look at Fionildo, a ghost of a smile touching his lips that swiftly disappeared as he turned to the three Commanders. "Decide on those who will accompany us and bid them sleep immediately. If they have difficulty, mayhap the healers can provide a draught to aid them. If we set out tomorrow we should make it well within the five days allotted."

"If I may suggest, Highness," Fionildo interrupted. "Take one healer with you. Even during the journey to the appointed place, an accident may happen."

Maitimo nodded. "Whoever you recommend. To all of you, summon all the Captains to meet in an hour. We need to brief them of all that is to soon happen." He turned to meet each of their stares one more time. "Go now, all of you, unless you have more to speak. Makalaurë, please await me by that spring just south of here."

One by one they departed the grove, his brothers moving more stiffly. He could not really blame them. To his surprise, however, Yánadur remained, having not even shifted from where he stood. Maitimo waited until the others disappeared around the bend, and then waited a while longer to ensure they were out of hearing range before turning an enquiring look on the old Elf. His eyebrows hiked up in question.

"What is it?"

"I know your mind is set, Maitimo, but should I not go with you?" There was a disconsolate gleam in his dark eyes and he could not quite conceal the desperate note in his voice. "I presume Makalaurë will be your regent as you were your father's, but under his command Vëantur can lead. I will not deny believing him to be a better leader than I for this host of warriors. He served two Ages as Finwë's Captain whereas I am but a scholar, and he is best suited to remain here if only one Commander were to remain. Allow me to accompany you."

Maitimo sighed, bowing his head. It was difficult to look into eyes he knew so well that were presently staring at him with a sadness and near desperation that were so raw. "Yánadur, you need to lock away your heart right now, as I am doing," he said jadedly, and he could not resist stepping closer to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. The muscles were tense beneath his fingers and he briefly kneaded them. "Do not do this to me. Please. You are one of the few not of our blood who mourn my father as seldom few can, and though I know you feel it keenly, you cannot allow it to now dictate your decisions. You know that," he stressed.

Yánadur shut his eyes tight, his face cringing in an effort to suppress the choked up sounds that were trying to emerge from his throat. He clenched his jaw, releasing a shuddering sigh, and appeared to rein in the sudden onslaught of grief provoked by Maitimo's words. And though it made the sting of his own heart burn even more, Maitimo felt comforted in the face of such sorrow. Yánadur had been a friend of his father's since before he himself was born. Even after his father had ended any further activity in linguistic evolution for instead other passions, among them raising a family, his involvement with the Loremasters of Tongues had still been great, and Yánadur had been a frequent guest to their home. A faint smile softened Maitimo's expression as he recalled sitting beneath the dining table, nodding off until falling asleep against his father's legs as the two of them droned on about one language or another, a structure within another structure, components and monosyllabic stems and proverbial dictums, all things to positively bore a child. And all the while Fëanáro had absently run his long fingers through his russet hair, probably amused by the short attention span of his firstborn. But always had Yánadur been a steadfast companion to his father's House, unto even developing a fond friendship with the sons of his friend. A fondness, Maitimo construed, that was now being acted on when it should not be.

"I know you, Yánadur," he said kindly. "You desire to come for the friendship you had with my father, and I daresay even out of some self-appointed obligation to look after me. It would not be the first time." Yánadur's expression did not change, but he was listening, however reluctantly. Maitimo squeezed his shoulder. "Please, do not pay heed to your heart right now. I ask you to stay with my brother not because you command the Tatyahossë, but because you are one of the few of us able to converse with the Mithrim and Lord Neldoron on a comprehensible level." He gave Yánadur a significant look. "You know I am correct, my friend. You and Yáravalto are the only Lambengolmor among the Host with the intellect demanded to overcome the barrier of our speech with these Moriquendi. And we need to be able to learn these peoples' strange language."

A sad smile twitched along Yánadur's lips. "Another reason I grieve your father now being gone. Aside from Yáravalto and me, your father, Curufinwë and you had the best grasp on this language." He lightly scoffed, giving a small shake of his head as he glanced away. "Fëanáro was learning Mithrimin faster than I could ever hope to."

"But you understand why I ask you to stay, do you not? Yes, we are all making an effort to learn even the most rudimentary Mithrimin, but you and Yáravalto are now the most capable of communication due to your knowledge of Quenderin. Yes, I may speak it well enough myself, but it is no passion of mine as it is for you. Makalaurë will need you as a Commander, but presently you are invaluable as a translator."

Yánadur furrowed his brow, peering at him in suspicion. "You speak as though you are not returning."

Maitimo gave him a crooked grin, though it was without any humor. "I have every intention of returning as quickly as we may. But you know of the ill fortune that will find us as it wills. You watched my father breathe his last. Should I somehow fall, even by accident, Makalaurë will need your support. Even after we return, with a Silmaril or not, we have to begin designing contingency plans. Truly, we should have started to do so the moment we stepped upon the shores of Losgar," he added somewhat bitterly.

Yánadur nodded in chagrin. "I cannot deny that," he grumbled. "But be you careful, Maitimo. We cannot easily predict anything anymore."

Maitimo nodded also and then cocked his head towards the entrance of the grove. "Go now. I need to speak with Makalaurë."

Yánadur bowed his head and with a fond pat to the hand on his shoulder he departed. Maitimo followed, turning south once clear of the bend and he walked a short distance on an incline, weaving through and sometimes climbing over the trees roughened by the harsh winds, half of which seemed to forget which way they were meant to grow and sprouted sideways from the walls of rock.

He arrived at the spring, more a trickle of water really, for it fell in a clear tranquil slide over a tumble of stones and small boulders, singing as beautifully as the Valar-wrought fountains had in Eldamas. It was, Maitimo absently reflected, one smidgen of evidence that there truly was beauty of the highest kind in even the most unsuspecting places in this forsaken land. It was comforting, at least because it instilled some sense of normalcy in all this chaos. Though, he added in exasperation, such water trickling over stones would be even more beautiful if there were starlight to shine in it.

Makalaurë was sitting on a massive root of one of those confused trees, staring pensively at the miniscule waterfall. He looked up when Maitimo came in sight.

"I am sorry for Carnistir," he said, turning back to the spring water.

Maitimo waved the apology away. "Do not be. He begins to unravel and I cannot blame him." He approached Makalaurë until he stood nearby, following his gaze to the water. "We need to talk."

Ando-i-Noldor: "Gate of the Noldor" Quenya rendition of Sindarin Annon-in-Gelydh
Endórë: Beleriand/Ennor
Valaraukar: Balrogs
Lambengolmo(r): Loremaster(s) of Tongues, an official title
Orod (pl. eryd): Sindarin for "mountain(s)" with Quenya cognate oron (pl. oronti) comparatively
Nelyafinwë: lit. "Third-Finwë"
Quenderin: name of the ancient Elven-speech, derived by the Noldor from the original word 'Quendian'