Name Index:
Káno = Maglor, abbr. of his father-name
Moryo = Caranthir, abbr. of his father-name

Chapter 4:
Not Farewell

Makalaurë did not react to the words, though he did shift over from where he sat on the root after a pause, seeming to make room for Maitimo to join him if he desired. His younger brother continued to stare at the serene fall of water, his quick fingers shredding what appeared to be dead leaves. At least Maitimo hoped the leaves were dead, snatched up from the many that were strewn across the ground and not from a lustrous bough hovering overhead. It was then he noticed that Makalaurë's hands glistened in places, as did his face and neck and hair. He had obviously made use of the time to clean the filth and residual flecks of blood from his skin. He always had been fastidious about being clean, Maitimo reflected with a fond smile.

"Some starlight would be nice," he finally said, and Maitimo's eyebrows canted up slightly. Makalaurë scoffed. "You would think Moringotto became accustomed to such light while in Valinor, and by his persistency in maintaining these gales it is as though even the smallest light now offends him."

"Mayhap it does," Maitimo said lightly as he sat alongside him. A contented sigh fell from his lips at being off his feet. "Mayhap darkness is water to him, by which he can clean off the light like we would with dirt."

A ghost of a smile crossed Makalaurë's face. But it disappeared as he finally turned to look at Maitimo, that glimmer of desolation now shining very prominently in his eyes, making them even brighter. "What happened to him, Nelyo?" he whispered, his voice low and face beginning to crumble. "What happened to Atar? Is this some new cruelty given unto us that we are left not even with a body to bury?" His eyes glistened with unshed tears and Maitimo could see his struggle to keep them from falling. Makalaurë covered his mouth with a stiff hand, hunching forward to lean on his knees. "I know the deeds we have done, that we may yet come to do, but who would have so merciless a heart to deal such a punishment?" His mellifluous voice, always so golden and honeyed, now wavered and grew thick. "Whether the Valar damned him or Ilúvatar forsook him, he was our father. Is it not the right of the sons to bury their father? To honor him for being their father? For giving his unconditional love to them? For teaching them and mentoring them? For raising them up in the way they should go? For holding them when they wept? For making them laugh? For being everything a father should have been?" He looked at Maitimo again, tears escaping from his eyes as, against his will, his shoulders began to shake, ragged sobs being torn from his chest. "Were his wrongs so great that he forfeited his right to be honored just as a father? That he was left to be discarded like ash from a hearth?" He closed his eyes tight, running fingers through his silken tresses to clench at his hair. "Who could be so cold?" The words were nearly unintelligible.

Maitimo relented and gathered him in his arms. Makalaurë went willingly, leaning on him as he had not done since their youth. Maitimo tucked his brother's head under his own and rested his chin on top of his crown, prying the fingers loose from the soft hair and replacing them with his own as he ignored the painful tightening of his own chest and the stubborn swelling of moisture in his eyes. "You listen to me, Káno," he whispered fiercely. "I know you mean to say the Valar every time you question who, but even they honored our father for who he was, despite all the bitterness he had towards them. You knew well Atar's fire, and I think that whatever happened to him on that field proved that fire to be far more real than ever believed. So bright was it and so potent was its burn that the very hröa that housed it could not withstand it. That is what I think. What I will only think. No death of any Elf has ever wrought such an end and I honestly foresee this wonder echoing down through the chronicles of history, whether by Elven tome or Valarin memory."

Makalaurë did not speak, clearly could not, and Maitimo pressed his lips to the dark hair, his own eyes squeezing shut as he tightening his hold on his brother to a near painful grip. "Our father will not go dishonored. I promise," he forced out, jaw clenching as his eyes began to burn. "There is much to live on for in his name for us alone, and among our people they venerate him for leading them unto the freedom of this new land, however fraught with danger it may be. Grieve as you must, Káno, but know he would not want you crippled by his death as he himself was by Anatar Finwë's."

And Maitimo just held him close, running fingers gently along his mass of hair, knowing there was really nothing else he could do. And Makalaurë wept. "Spend as much time this night by this spring as you need, brother, but see yourself composed ere you walk among the Noldohossë once more. They mourn as well and need us strong, for though Atar was an Elf as much as you and I, I reckon no one truly expected death to befall him, of all people, and the shock has still yet to wear off I think. Cold as it may seem, we must put them first and grieve in our own time." He forced his eyes open and looked down at Makalaurë, running his hand up and down where he held him, his chest physically aching at the more and more he grew aware that there was literally nothing he could do. "Take as much solitude as you need. It will only do you harm to keep this contained."

But Makalaurë was shaking his head, pulling himself from Maitimo's embrace to sit up straight once more, bracing himself on his knees as he resolutely closed his eyes and took several deep breaths that came out shuddering. Maitimo watched him and resisted the temptation to offer a further comforting touch, allowing him the time he needed to collect himself. Though he looked far from composed, Makalaurë took a final breath and lifted his head, jaw clenched determinedly. His eyes were reddened, lingering tears yet clinging to long eyelashes, and he ran both hands agitatedly over his face. That with his apparel weathered and hair disheveled and partially wet, he looked a mess. "No," he finally guttered out. "You said we need to talk."

"When you are ready."

He snorted humorlessly. "That will be a long time coming." He leaned back, turning to Maitimo. "Are you truly set on this course, Nelyo?"

"Are you not?"

Makalaurë shook his head dismissively. "You know I stand with you, but I cannot deny my heart is in full agreement with Carnistir's adamancy in not trusting it."

"As is mine." He raised an eyebrow at Makalaurë's resultant appraisal of him. "Why look you so? The only reason any and I disbelieve the sincerity of this parley is because it is Moringotto who offers it."

Makalaurë studied him at that before giving a reluctant nod. "I know, as much as I loathe to say it," he grumbled. "You swear you will turn back come the moment you glimpse even a morsel of evidence that the Orc-speaker lied? You will not engage?"

Maitimo reached out and uplifted his chin with gentle fingers, turning his face until he met Maitimo's eyes. Maitimo regarded him gravely. "Upon the memory of our father, Makalaurë," he said solemnly, "I swear I will bid our embassy to turn and flee upon the first sign of deceit. If even one more Orc shows than the twenty promised, though I will still be tempted to slay them, we will take not a step further. Though if they charge us we will defend ourselves against them, of course. And any Valaraukar, even one, will be seen a league away." The corner of his mouth twitched up in a morose smile. "I do not believe our plan is foolproof, but upon the high chance that this is a ruse, I believe we can evade it, so long as we run fast."

"In theory," Makalaurë argued darkly. "If Moringotto has some new foul creature from his pits that we have yet to see and that can run faster than us, you may be in trouble."

"Thus why I said this is a risk not worth more than one of us taking. But the Commanders and Tyelkormo will select the best to send with me." Maitimo cocked his head. "You know why I ask you to remain, no?"

Makalaurë nodded, not looking too pleased. "The same reason you bid our brothers to remain."

"Yes. And no," he demurred. "It is what I wish to speak with you about."

Makalaurë sighed in chagrin. "I know why, Nelyo. I can barely hold myself together right now. I have tried to conceal it before our people and believe I have, but I would nigh be a liability on this undertaking I deem."

"No, Káno. That is not why." Makalaurë's eyes snapped over to him, both confused and alert, and a wince passed over Maitimo's face as a knot formed in the pit of his stomach. "You are now the regent of our people upon any absence of mine, as I was for Atar. And you need to stay here to lead the Host if I should die amid this exchange for a Silmaril."

Makalaurë glared at him, eyes bright with a fiery light, and he looked but one step away from unraveling all over again. "Do not say that," he gnashed out harshly. "You just finished trying to reassure me that you and those Noldor with you will return, with a Silmaril or not. Speak you no spiel of defeat now."

Maitimo felt a surge of fondness at the vehemence. He held up a placating hand. "I do not," he further reassured. "But after all we have been through, you know as well as I how anything can happen, even accidents most wild to conceive and least likely to occur. After all," he added glibly, "amid this journey to the place appointed, traveling in the utter dark as we will be, I could trip on a rock and break my neck."

A begrudging grin tugged at the corner of Makalaurë's mouth. He reached out and smacked Maitimo's arm. "Do not make light of this."

Maitimo smiled, absently rubbing where he had been hit. The smack had been hard enough to actually hurt. "Sorry." The smile faded into something more grave again. "Atar had this same talk with me before we even left Tirion, Káno," he went on quietly, and he had to shake his head as a bitter smile twisted his lips. "And the Valar know I wanted to shut my ears to just what he was portending, but I will not dishonor him by doing any less. I know they are the last words you would hear from me, but you must prepare yourself for such an eventuality. Valar, I do not even refer to this parley. I may die next week, next month, or years from now. You may as well, or any of our brothers, or anyone else. And in the event of my demise you must prepare yourself." His brow puckered in mild distress at the look on Makalaurë's gentle face. "And not just your heart, Káno. Tyelkormo is proving himself through his command of the Pilindossë and Ehtyari to be very capable of leading a host of warriors as well as he does with his own banner. I deem he is able for that, but he is not ready to take up the mantle of actually ruling the Noldor."

"Nor am I!" he protested, frowning at Maitimo in a mixture of anger and mounting anxiety. "Of all our brothers and cousins, you were the one to sit at Anatar's feet to learn the ways of governing our people, not I."

"That may be, but you are still the next able after me. At least now you are." Maitimo's expression softened as he absently regarded his brother's visage, finding himself running his eyes over every smooth plane of his face, over dark eyes and a worried brow, a strong jaw and high cheekbones, putting to memory every detail of his brother's fair complexion. He found himself doing that too many times since entering Hísilómë. He reached out and swept a few wandering dark strands over Makalaurë's tense shoulder, an affectionate smile touching his lips. "Do not doubt yourself, for you remember all our talks late in the night, no? When Atar had to yell at us to go to sleep, so late we stayed awake? And even after the farewell to our youth, the hours we would spend talking over a carafe of wine, also late into the night, when Atar again yelled at us to go to sleep despite our advanced age?"

Makalaurë nodded, appearing to calm at the deep tranquility Maitimo instilled in his voice. "We spoke of everything," he agreed with a slight huff, a glimmer of humor sparking briefly in his eyes. "Even in Formenos we talked." He pursed his lips, eyes lowering. "We should do it again."

Maitimo nodded. "If only as a distraction. But I shared everything with you, not the least all the lessons Anatar had to teach me. Though I knew I bored you, you heard all I had spoken of what I learned. Even if now you can recall little of it, you have lived in the presence of Anatar and Atar, both of whom took up the mantle of kingship. The ways of leading will come to you, I am sure." He ran his fingers along his brother's temple and Makalaurë did not rebuff the touch. "We will talk of this more when I return. I know it is much to ask, Makalaurë, but if I happen to die in five days or in five years, I just ask you to make yourself ready. Pray do not fail our sire now."

Makalaurë did not speak. He grabbed hold of Maitimo's hand that lingered and held it tight, brushing his lips against the backs of his knuckles before releasing it. He looked at Maitimo, expression grave and eyes apprehensive. "Return you hither, Nelyo," he finally said, his voice low and quiet. "Return whole and swiftly. The death of Atar is still so raw and real, and not only upon me. To lose you to death as well will be one blow too many to withstand without crumbling for the Noldor. We cannot lose you too." He lowered his eyes. "I cannot."

Maitimo again reached out and again forced him to make eye contact. "You know I will do my ultimate best to return, Káno. Believe me when I say that I have no desire to die," he added somewhat sardonically and he was glad to see it pull a quirk from the corner of his brother's mouth. "Besides, with the way Aráto persists with his self-imposed guilt over failing to protect Atar, he would see me caged with a thousand shields before allowing harm to even come my way."

Makalaurë nodded. "We really must speak to him about that. I have seen how he walks since we entered the mountains, and too greatly does it mirror his heart. If we do not put an end to this shame of his it could lead him to being reckless and thus dangerous twice over when he is the Captain of the King's Guard."

"Yes. I appreciate the turning of his mind, for he was a guard of Anatar Finwë, assigned under Vëantur no less. The depth of his devotion to Atar and now to me is understandable, but yes, we must speak with him on this guilt he insists on castigating himself with."

"He is not the only one." Makalaurë cast him a knowing look.

"Do not start," Maitimo warned. He stood before a reply could be given, stretching and appreciating the resultant burn in his sore muscles. He was silent for a moment before reluctantly looking back at Makalaurë, mouth turned down in a frown. "I am sorry for relinquishing this burden to you, Káno. Please believe that. I know I should be there – need to be there to tell the Host, but –"

Makalaurë held up a hand, giving a small shake of his head. "I understand, Nelyo, and I forgive you for it." He paused, glancing away as a look of something that resembled displeasure crossed his face. "Just come home quickly."

Maitimo hummed his agreement. "I will. Now, if you desire, stay here awhile. By Fionildo's orders to obtain a night's rest, we will not depart for some hours yet." He glanced around, a look of chagrin contorting his expression. "I am loath to leave this spring, though. It is such a still night, and just listening to this brook I can feel my fëa calm."

Makalaurë stood as well, brushing down his attire. "I still say starlight is needed."

Maitimo chortled, though it was a pitiful sound. "So it is. Heed the needs of your heart for now, brother, for I will need you in a matter of hours."

"Heed your own advice first."

He gave a halfhearted shrug, turning his eyes away. "Mayhap when all this is said and done. For now, I must." He looked back, a wry grin forcing its way to his lips. "Now, I must go find an ill-tempered brother."

Makalaurë snorted. "Happy hunting."

Maitimo watched him for a moment. Then with both hands he clasped his brother's face and kissed his brow, and he was tall enough that he barely had to lift his chin. The kiss lingered and he looked down into Makalaurë's bright eyes, an unspoken message passing between them. But Maitimo found himself faltering at the look in Makalaurë's eyes, for it was one that bespoke of affection powerful beyond endurance, and he found he could not hold such a potent gaze for long. And so, with a final, subliminal caress of his brother's hair, he left, leaving Makalaurë to his solitude.

After a brief hike back down, he entered the main stretch of the fissure, and he slowed to a stop as his eyes were drawn across the expanse of it. So many Elves sat huddled around their small campfires that littered the fissure as pinpoints of brightness in the dark. So many Elves, and he could see by their silhouettes that many had doffed their armor and dishelmed. And the low hum of quiet conversation traveled across the expanse of the mountain rent. He looked up at the skies, to the gales that seemed thicker and blacker with every new day, and he was overwhelmed with a sudden desperation to glimpse even the light of a single star. Just one.

He found himself inwardly cursing Moringotto all over again.

"Prince Maitimo!"

Maitimo looked to his left to find Vëantur approaching him, weaving through the clusters of Elves, and he nodded his welcome. "What is it?"

Vëantur bowed his head, staying his steps once at an arm's distance. "The Captains are moving to meet as we speak. With your approval, I suggested the pocket next to that aslant tree." He gestured behind him to the other side of the fissure where a tree, one of the larger ones, had apparently decided to grow at an angle where ground met rock. The majority of trees in these mountains seemed to be confused on the way their Lady had intended for them to grow.

Maitimo gave a nod of his head. "It is good enough." Observing Vëantur a moment longer, he tilted his head to the side, looking curiously at the Commander. "Are you well, Vëantur? A shadow haunts your eyes."

Vëantur gave a small shrug. "A shadow has haunted every part of my being since the king's passing. But verily, I am not sanguine with this course of action, my prince, however much I agree with what you said. Though I believe you know this."

Maitimo inclined his head. "Neither am I. But unless you or any other has a better course to counsel me in, this is our only one."

Vëantur was nodding. "I know, Highness. I mean not to say I argue it, only that I do not like it."

"None of us do."

Vëantur looked at Maitimo, his brow puckering, and he opened his mouth but hesitated, closing it again and looking away. Maitimo raised an eyebrow. "Vëantur?"

The dark-haired Elf bit off a small sigh, clearly reluctant to speak. "Why bring with you Sornion?" Before Maitimo could even conjure a response, he held up his hands as though in defense of his words. "I do not disparage his abilities, but I must confess to feeling it unjust to relinquish me unto the Noldohossë returning to the Grey Fields while you go on this venture." He paused, an air of discomfort permeating from him. "It sounds selfish saying it aloud, I know, but it is as though I am being denied to fulfill my duty. Pray understand, my prince," he nearly implored. "I marched from Eldamar under Fëanáro's banner, was assigned to the assurance of his safety when came he to Finwë's Palace. For Fëanáro I felt many things and yet do, much good and some ill, I confess, but I stand just as adamant in my fealty to him to reclaim a Silmaril, even though I swore no oath to do so." He ended on a faltering note, mayhap knowing or certainly knowing his words were close to crossing the boundaries of etiquette.

Maitimo pursed his lips. "I see I must speak to you afterwards as well," he murmured. Vëantur looked at him in bemusement, but Maitimo waved away his unspoken question. "I know you ask not to be transferred, but my decision would still stand if you did. Of the three Commanders you have the most experience in the expertise of guarding, however much most of it was accomplished with no weapons purposed for death. Makalaurë will need you during my absence for that reason, the same reason my father appointed you as head of the Minyahossë. And regarding Sornion, it is justified that he comes. Though you marched under my father, Sornion marched under my banner and he is my Second," he added, referencing the chain of command that had been established upon their Flight, and still yet evolved into something more structured and organized as they settled and instilled what function they could into their maiden society. "Just as you were my father's Second. It is no competition of loyalties, but I reckon Sornion would argue far more vehemently than you if I switched your positions and, I dare say, with the leverage of justification on his side." He spoke the last with a meager, wry smile, looking at Vëantur knowingly.

And Vëantur nodded again, appearing somewhat chastened. "I understand, Highness. Truly, I do. It gladdens me that Aráto goes with you, at least."

"It gladdens him too."

Vëantur shared a look of knowing amusement with Maitimo, offering an apathetic smile, though his broad shoulders were still taut with barely suppressed tension. He lifted his eyes and looked around the heights of the fissure, gaze going to and fro along the steep sides that towered above the campground where many pines grew, some growing in that uncanny manner from where their roots managed to find some foothold in the practically vertical rocks and crevices. And by the speed of his surveillance it was obvious Vëantur had done this many times. "I still dislike this place," he said, making a face. "The Enemy would need only to send a party one or two hundred strong up the walls of the fissure and direct a killing volley of their arrows on those who sit huddled about their fires. Or sleeping, Valar forbid. I stood with Fëanáro in his decision for this place, but even he said that while the fissure houses us, the heights house the fissure. And I still cannot shake the foreboding that unless we make the walls of this fissure impassable, we will suffer for it if Moringotto discovers the purpose we put to this place."

Maitimo gave a tight smile. "Thus why we have several dozen guards keeping vigilant watch on the perimeter as we speak," he mildly rebuked, though there was no recrimination in his voice; he wholly agreed with Vëantur. "Thus also why I suspect my father selected you as his Second." He went to say more, but there was suddenly a tickle in the back of his mind, a subliminal tug on his attention and Maitimo turned his eyes to where the disturbance beckoned him. A few dozen paces away Carnistir was walking through their people, many of whom veered out from his path with not a little alacrity. Maitimo could not blame them since Carnistir still appeared to walk with a storm of emotions brewing around him. Dressed in the muted shades as he was and with a mane of hair as dark as their father's, he nearly blended in with the perpetual nightfall in spite of the flickering light of the scattered campfires, and Maitimo suspected he only managed to spot his brother because of the movements of his swift passage through the still camp. Where he headed Maitimo could not fathom to guess and he turned back to Vëantur, who had followed his gaze and was looking after Carnistir as well.

"Go now. I will be at the briefing before long."

Vëantur bowed and Maitimo sped off in the direction of Carnistir, looking over a sea of heads to try and spy him out. Though a large part of his brain urged him to hasten his steps, he maintained a steady pace as he weaved through the many Noldor, nodding to those bows and salutes he received. But as it was, he lost both sight of Carnistir and any sense of which direction he may have headed, and he had neither the time nor focus to inwardly seek him out. Slowing to a halt, Maitimo glared darkly into space at nothing in particular. With a brief clenching of his jaw, he gave a small shake of his head before turning about and retracing his walk to head to the pocket Vëantur had nominated.

O = O = O

Maitimo let out a ragged sigh as he hunkered down on the ground, relishing in the warmth of the campfire before him. Briefing the Captains and the Seconds of the eight banners had taken the good part of an hour, though Commanders Yánadur, Vëantur and especially Sornion had been vehement in aiding along the rather summarized accounts of all that had unfolded, from the Orc-speaker's message to the course of action they had decided on. Maitimo still felt a wave of unworthiness at their fervent support when there was yet still so much to be apprehensive about. Not that Maitimo pretended otherwise. Oh, no. He had not hesitated to convey just what he thought of Moringotto's offer to parley. Even Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, who had also been present, had spoken well of the plan, however reluctantly. But then again, not one person was without reluctance in not only adhering with the decision, but having to deal with being presented with this convolution of Moringotto's at all. He had sought the counsel of the Captains as well and Maitimo did not know if he felt relieved or disappointed that they had all agreed in the end with his judgment on what to do. He scoffed. Probably because they could think of nothing better.

And now here he was, sitting on the ground and twiddling his thumbs (figuratively), having hastily retreated to a more isolated area of the fissure and kindled a small fire to life. He had found himself suddenly craving solitude, feeling on the verge of madness if he did not obtain some manner of quiet for the thoughts running mercilessly through his head, and they only kept running faster. The ground was hard with its compacted and dried soil, sprigs of grass valiantly trying to grow, and he could feel the chilling cold already seeping into his backside and legs. Wonderful. If he did not soon shift or stand completely, that cold would settle into his muscles and make them cramp, which he certainly did not need when setting out tomorrow.

Maitimo stared into the dancing flames, willing his mind to go still. But after a few moments of doing so, he felt an oppressive weight begin to settle in his chest and it grew heavier as a dark haze equally began to fester in his mind. Staring into the fire, a memory unbidden sprung to the forefront, of Makalaurë valiantly trying not to weep in choking sobs against his chest just a while ago and failing. Of him screaming his name as they knelt alongside the dust of their father's body. Of everyone looking at him, silent and waiting. Of the Captains' gazes of shock and apprehension at Moringotto's offer, and their nodding in agreement as he outlined the course of action they would initiate only mere hours from now.

His heart started to pound.

Maitimo bowed his head with another exhalation of breath and covered his hands over his face, copper strands falling over his shoulders to sweep the coarse ground. And he sagged, hunching over as tremors started to wrack through his body.

Curse it all.

He had no idea how much time passed just sitting there, but when the casual touch to his shoulder came he nearly flew from the ground, his heart galloping. He snapped his head up, startled eyes alighting on both of the twins standing shoulder to shoulder, their own hair gleaming in reds and oranges in reflection of the fire. Both were looking at him in equal parts of worry and sympathy.

It had been Telufinwë who rested a hand on his shoulder, the hand he quickly snatched away and now held aloft tentatively, hesitation clear in his ash grey eyes. "We brought you repast," he said after an awkward pause, clearly uncertain as to whether they should have disturbed him at all.

It was then Maitimo noticed the wooden bowl Pityafinwë carried and, whether it was due to the sight of food or hearing that food was nearby, his stomach suddenly gave a deep rumble. At least that part of him was still normal, he reflected sourly. He sighed, gesturing the twin closer and taking hold of the bowl, nodding his gratitude. Inside were slices and chunks of what looked like meat of a hare or maybe a marmot. Or it could be one of those bighorn sheep they had spotted living up higher in the mountains for all he knew. There were so many new species here they had never seen on the other side of the Sea that Maitimo knew more cataloging was in their near future. But the meat smelled delectable and appeared to be freshly cooked, at least judging from the great billows of steam wafting upwards.

There was no cutlery, never had been, so he pinched a cooling end of one piece and raised an eyebrow at the twins. "Sheep? Goat?" He popped it in his mouth, having to briefly juggle it with his tongue at the near scalding heat.

Telufinwë smiled. "Deer." The smile turned into one of chagrin. "Sorry. We both thought you would appreciate hot food instead of dried rations. It is all we have had this past week."

Maitimo nodded, gesturing for them to sit and they both kneeled down in front of him, taking their ease. "My stomach appreciates it, at least."

"Our apologies also it is just meat," Pityafinwë added with a grimace. "We wanted to prepare more, but know not enough of the vegetation in these mountains yet."

He snorted. "Methinks we left fine dining behind us in Tirion. But it will come again when we settle." He looked between them as he ate another slice. "You cooked this?"

Both of them nodded. "We joined the hunting expeditions after you dismissed the council," said Pityafinwë, and Maitimo finally noticed the fatigued set of his shoulders. "With the others organizing your delegation or speaking with you in Makalaurë's case, or Carnistir being Carnistir in his case, we had to keep active. We found plenty of game and delivered it to the cooks to be distributed, but believed you should have hot food ere setting out tomorrow. The cook even demanded we take the best of the deer meat for you," he added with a wry grin.

"Well, as I said, my stomach assuredly appreciates the fresh meal."

"The way Carnistir goes on, it will be your last," said Telufinwë.

"Where is the rodent?"

"The eastern ridge, last we saw," supplied Pityafinwë. "He was organizing the distribution of skins of water and tinder sheaves, but we saw him leaving the immediate camp when we returned from hunting."

Maitimo began eating a little quicker. "I want the two of you to be there for Makalaurë while I am gone. Leading the Noldor even for a couple of weeks at the level Atar did will be a task for him, at least at first I think, but especially with the state the Noldor are in now. He commands those who marched under his banner, but they are just a portion of the Host. Do as he bids."

"You know we will," they both assured.

Maitimo nodded. "I know." He cast a fond gaze over them both. "Off with you now," he went on, his voice softer. "You both need rest. Our embassy may be walking into potential danger, but the Noldor remaining shall be trekking the mountains back to the Lake even as we journey across the steppes. And after the ordeals of this day, everyone is in need of rest. Take advantage of the calm of the fissure."

They both nodded in concession, though reluctantly, and rose to their feet. Maitimo watched them disappear beyond the range of the campfire's light, though being silhouetted by the many others, and swiftly finished what remained of the unseasoned meat.

Carnistir, to Maitimo's relief, was still at the eastern ridge when he set out on his second hunt for him after returning the bowl and offering his fire to Elves visibly in want of its warmth. He was grateful, however, that none had interrupted his walk to ask him questions or for some sense of direction. All the warriors would soon know of what was happening, probably by the time he returned.

The eastern ridge, as his father had dubbed it, was but one of the more reclusive precipices that overlooked the slope of the mouth of the Ehtelë Sirion Pass and the depressing plains that stretched out beyond it unto Moringotto's Dwelling itself. Or unto that Thangorodrim place. There was no shield from the harsh buffeting of wind here and Maitimo could swear he smelled the scent of burnt coal, of all things, on said wind. Carnistir sat on a fallen trunk that looked to be half rotted, leaning on his knees as he absently toyed with what looked like a splinter of bark.

Carnistir looked up as Maitimo approached, his face still as dark as when he had last seen it, though now more subdued. His brother averted his gaze, lowering it. "Sorry," he muttered.

"You should be." Maitimo came close and stood above him, declining to sit on the spacious log. He crossed his arms, looking down at Carnistir with a solemn gravity that belied the stringent undertone in his voice. "You need to gather your wits, Carnistir. Upon our births it was and still is our burden to both our people and Atar to place ourselves last, even should it mean creating the perception of having a cold heart. You know I would be the last to disparage how to react to everything happening, but everyone is hanging on by but a thread, damn it."

Carnistir still refused to look at him, his jaw clenching and fingers moving faster. "You are no better."

"I know."

"You are doing just as Atar did."

Maitimo raised an eyebrow at that and, when no answer was forthcoming, Carnistir looked up, eyes blazing in a mixture of anger and anxiety. "It is true," he insisted harshly, fingertips beginning to break the bark apart. "He set before himself one path with one end and obsessed with every step of it. And look at what it gained him!" His brow was furrowed, eyes dark, and Maitimo absently reflected that for all the vast differences in their temperaments, Makalaurë and Carnistir had ever been the two unable to wholly suppress so extreme an emotion as grief when it was granted the opportunity to erupt. "So far ahead of the van he ran that he charged unto a throng of those Valaraukar. Valar, did he even see where he was going?" The pitch of his voice rose to an incredulous note.

"You can be upset with Atar for any ill judgment later," Maitimo retorted mildly. "Besides, far more stable and less clouded is my mind than Atar's was, and you know I am proceeding with this parley with as much caution as can be conceived."

Carnistir looked at him again, eyes sparking and maybe even shimmering with moisture, though it was difficult to tell in this dark. "You come back," he gritted out. "Slay you twenty Orcs or no, you come back."

There was a pause. Maitimo returned his harsh gaze with an unreadable one of his own, but then he reached out and grabbed a fistful of Carnistir's jerkin, hauling him to his feet with a jerk and pulling him into a tight embrace, tucking his raven head under his chin. "You know I will, Moryo," he whispered in his ear. "As I fear I must keep stressing until our departure, I have no will to die just yet, or to lead those who accompany me to theirs. My word is as powerful as an oath sworn when I say we will turn and flee come the first sign of Moringotto breaking his own covenant, if he does. I promise. Have that much faith in me, at least, Moryo. Because the Valar know that I would rather return home to the Host now."

Despite his intransigence, Carnistir returned the embrace, nearly robbing Maitimo of his breath from how fiercely he did. Maitimo could not resist a fond smile, for as Makalaurë had at the spring, Carnistir now clung to him as he had not since he was a child. But then, mayhap a time such as this was high strung with emotions extreme and crippling enough as to make any person regress back unto an easier mindset like that.

Maitimo released him, rubbing his back and trying to impart some comfort. "Come. We need to be with the Noldohossë right now, and the twins did some cooking you might find yourself willing to indulge in."

Though he did not hide his reluctance, he did as Maitimo bid and walked with him back to the heart of the fissure. Neither spoke a word, but Maitimo felt at peace with the silence, and he could feel Carnistir's volatile mood begin to lessen to a simmer during the calm hike along the narrow pathway.

It only lasted until they entered the fissure, for the moment they stepped off the path someone grabbed hold of Maitimo's upper arm and pulled until he either followed or was yanked off his feet. An angry retort on his lips, he looked over to find that it was Tyelkormo who had assaulted him, and though his brother met his gaze, he never released his vice-like grip.

Maitimo sighed, allowing himself to be manhandled. "What are you doing, Turko?" he demanded wearily.

Tyelkormo gave no answer until they were removed to another isolated space of the fissure beneath two towering pines. Maitimo saw that ferns had been collected and knitted into makeshift bedding. And a fire danced soothingly nearby. He opened his mouth to comment on the sight, but Tyelkormo spun him around, grabbed hold of both his arms and shoved him down onto the bed of ferns, placing an ankle behind his feet so that he would collapse beneath the push.

Tyelkormo looked down at him. "Sleep."

Maitimo glared up at him, uncertain whether to be affronted or amused. "Forgiven me too, have you?"

"No. But you need to sleep and have not slept since four days ago. So sleep."

With that, Tyelkormo lowered himself on a flat rock a whisper's distance away, removing one of his daggers and running a calloused thumb over its edge, most likely inspecting it for any nicks.

Maitimo raised a challenging eyebrow. "And what? For the whole night you purpose to watch over my resting body?"

"Sleep!"

Maitimo rolled his eyes, deciding it was not worth the effort. But as soon as he stretched out on the ferns, he was glad he had not argued further. He practically melted into the bedding and, turning on his side and resting his head on his folded arm, he relished in the comfort of his brother's presence as he slipped onto the path of dreams.

Atar = father (Sindarin equivalent adar), with hypocoristic atto (S. ada)
Anatar = grandfather (Sindarin equivalent daeradar), with hypocoristic anatto (S. daerada)