Name Index:
Telperinquar = Celebrimbor

Chapter 5:
One Last Calm

Makalaurë wondered how much of a heartless creep he must be being perceived as by his people. At least he thought they must be thinking of him as that, for he surely castigated himself with the accusation every moment he had a spell of self-reflection. He had done his best to mimic the example Maitimo set after descending from his solitude by the spring. He really had. What with putting on a cold face and quickly discovering that it was easier to just feel nothing at all, be the sentiment good or ill. He could hardly comprehend how Maitimo did it, how Maitimo did not simply collapse beneath the weight of it all and not rise. But he knew his brother, knew him a little too well right now maybe, and he could tell that Maitimo was simply frozen for the time being. Any person who knew even a morsel of their eldest brother could glean that this response of nonchalance was well beyond the line of abnormal and Makalaurë vaguely wondered what would happen when he unfroze, when the crashing of reality would overwhelm him and render him catatonic with the anguish he was somehow miraculously suppressing. He simply remained frozen within to do exactly what he had bidden his brothers to do. It was just so accursedly hard. But Makalaurë had to do it. He had to. Their father's death was already so devastating that he did not need the burden of shame to crown it.

It was just so hard.

Makalaurë stood near the edge of the eastern ridge's precipice, hair being impossibly tousled as the harsh winds whipped it with abandon. It would be a nightmare of knots to untangle later. But he paid it no heed, even as some strands occasionally thrashed across his face. He also paid no heed to the rancid scent of coal on the air, of all things, and reminded himself to ask Maitimo or a Master Healer about that particular peculiarity later. It would not do well if this high mountain air was unhealthy to breathe. But for now, he watched the sight before him at the base of the mountain slope far below in despondent silence.

A throng sixty warriors strong was moving out. Makalaurë knew that the three score of their people would have been impossible to see under the ubiquitous shroud of darkness if not for the torches they carried. Within an hour of their departure, Makalaurë had persuaded Maitimo to light a substantial amount of torches to aid the passage of their journey, at least for the first few leagues in.

"After all," he had said with more than a little sarcasm, "traveling in the dark as you will be, you could trip on a rock and break your neck."

Maitimo had been silent at that, a smile of chagrin quirking his lips, and he had heeded his counsel, deeming it to be reasonable enough. And now they marched. Their armor, immaculate in craftsmanship and glorious to look upon, reflected the light of the blue torches in a dancing illusion of silvery blues and whites. Makalaurë observed rather belatedly that it was the closest mirroring of starlight they had managed to achieve on this side of the mountains. Eight archers of the greatest shot, twelve spearmen of the swiftest strikes, one healer of quick hands amid the chaos of battle, and forty warriors bearing both sword and dirk of the strongest steel, one Commander and three Captains among them. And at the head of the company, now practically imperceptible to Makalaurë's eyes, walked his brother, taller than all accompanying him and Makalaurë could swear he spied the fiery hue of his lustrous hair in the light of the flames. And hanging by a guige to the back of every Elf was a kite shield, each bearing a heraldic device of either Fëanáro or one of his seven sons.

It was a magnificent sight, and Makalaurë hated it.

He felt a presence behind him but did not turn. For all that he loathed the sight, he could not for the life of him remove his eyes from the three score Noldor with his brother at the head just marching away. The hope he had committed himself to keep faith in was quickly dissipating, only to be replaced with a chilling dread that settled solidly in the pit of his stomach. He hated that too.

"The best warriors of the Noldohossë march with him." Curufinwë's words broke the wind-droning silence as he came and stood alongside Makalaurë. "He knows it not, though may guess it, but the Commanders and Tyelkormo have chosen prudently and had given all of the warriors a heavily worded speech. And I overheard Sornion giving them all another one after they assembled but before Maitimo arrived." A pensive look crossed his face. "Despite the apprehension I have over this, I actually feel confident in his protection. He indeed has the best of the guards with him."

"I know." Makalaurë may as well have been carved from stone for all he moved.

Curufinwë peered at him curiously, his eyes narrowed. "And you? Dare I ask if you are well? Or do I waste my breath?"

Makalaurë sighed, forcing his eyes away from the sight of the delegation and giving a resolute nod of his head. "Yes, I am, or I will be," he said. "Despite all my reservations, I still cannot dismiss the possibility that he just may be surrendering a Silmaril, unlikely as it is."

One of Curufinwë's eyebrows quirked up slightly. "Believe you he is?"

Makalaurë winced. "I want to say yes," he slowly went on after a moment. "The alternative is too horrible for me to just believe he does not."

Curufinwë grunted. "If they in truth carry a Silmaril, Maitimo will take it and kill them. If this is indeed a ruse, then Maitimo will order to turn tail like a cowering dog and run as fast as their adrenaline may carry them. Simple. The less details in a plan, the less chances of something going wrong."

Makalaurë made a face at him. "Not like a cowering dog," he protested lightly.

"It will seem like it to Moringotto."

"Well, my apologies to His Dark Majesty, but at present I could not care less what he would think of us."

Curufinwë gave a chuckle, though it was halfhearted and bleak. He shifted in his stance, crossing his arms against the frigid wind. "We will be ready to move within an hour. Vëantur is organizing the divisions for the journey as we speak. Yánadur would fain remain with you, however, or so he requested of me. What shall I tell him?"

Makalaurë gave a minute shake of his head, his focus still on the delegation growing more and more distant. "No. I want him to return to the Grey Fields. Those left behind of the King's Guard will remain with me along with the select few ordered by Tyelkormo and Carnistir. All of the Noldohossë otherwise is to leave for the encampment."

Curufinwë nodded. "I leave with them," he informed. "If you allow it. I know it would be a battle in convincing Tyelkormo and Carnistir to go."

"Thus why I do not." He looked at Curufinwë. "Go with them. Take the twins with you. The rest of the Host will need to be told of what has happened and is happening. It is only proper that some of Atar's sons be there to tell it."

Curufinwë was nodding, his face a mask of contemplation. "It is part of why I go. I need to tell Telperinquar that Atar is gone." He closed his eyes, dismay lining every part of his body. "Only once before have I so dreaded having to face my son."

Makalaurë cringed. "What will you tell him?"

Curufinwë sighed wearily and shrugged. "That his grandfather went to be with his own father, I suppose. It is true enough."

Makalaurë echoed the sigh but was silent. He reached out in the end, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezing. "Journey safely, brother."

"I shall." He shot Makalaurë a dry look. "Pray return you will Nelyo and the others unharmed."

"Násië," Makalaurë fervently muttered.

O = O = O

The first five or so leagues of the journey were without incident, much to the company's relief. There were no stars visible by which to measure their progress, a technique all had adapted to and then grown rather adept at accomplishing during the Darkening of Valinor, but each Noldo yet carried in their mind the remembered length of days, and so knew that they had covered the expansive stretch of the first three and a half leagues in about a day, more or less. With no steeds to bear them across the steppes and with the considerable weight of armor and weapons and ten days' worth of rations and water to carry, Maitimo considered the completed stretch of the journey to be a fair achievement when accounting for the factors against them.

One of them being that he and all of the sixty other Noldor were completely unacquainted and unknowing of the land they now trekked. When his father had drawn ahead of the van of the Noldohossë and been thus waylaid by these Valaraukar, he, Maitimo and his brothers, and the host they had led to their father's aid had scarcely been three leagues from the security of the mountains and into these life-forsaken plains. And the traversing of those three leagues were the only morsels of knowledge they had attained of what the vast stretch of land unto Moringotto's Dwelling might entail, a gathering of knowledge that had been greatly hindered by their urgency to first reach their king swathed in Valaraukar fire, and then to withdraw with all speed back to the mountains not three days ago. But despite their blindness and literal journeying into the unknown, Sornion had been fairly accurate in his halfhearted postulating of what they might encounter to the place appointed.

The last two leagues they had just finished crossing were just about an immaculate replication of those first three leagues, though it did not make the suffering of the wayfaring any more tolerable unto the fëar of the Elves. The windswept plains became so oppressive in their lifelessness and so deafening in their unnatural silence that many Noldor had attested on the first legs of the journey to feel a spell of madness being to touch them. It had been and still yet was vastly desired to raise even one voice in Elven song, and even Maitimo craved the appeasement such beauty would impart to his fëa, but even those who murmured their yearning to sing knew how high of a risk it would impose to their safety. All sixty accompanying Maitimo had been carefully apprised of the need to conceal just how many Noldor actually marched to the appointed place.

But such caution had not made the trek any more pleasant. The steppes were flat and resultantly permitted them to see for over a league out, as Maitimo had predicted, and he knew that the furthest reach of their sight was not ended by the bend of the horizon or a terrestrial obstruction like rocks. It was simply the land beyond the one league mark being swallowed up by the darkness that seemed even more pronounced in the distance. Maitimo frowned at it more than once, intensely enough that it had caught Sornion's attention, but Maitimo only shook his head at him. "Keep moving," he murmured. And they did. But though they were appreciative for the lack of impediment on the steppes, there was not one tree to be seen. Not even a tree that might be dead or dying. There was simply nothing. Not a shrub. Not a stream. Not even a field mouse. So much had been scorched and destroyed in the passing of Moringotto's army.

"It is well we brought water with us," Sornion had said sarcastically during one of the resting periods. Maitimo could not disagree with that. He knew they could dig deep into the surface of the steppes and would most probably find water, but they neither had the tools nor the time for it. The water they carried would have to be severely rationed and they would all be dehydrated by the time they returned to Ehtelë Sirion, but it would be just enough if they were careful.

Maitimo kept them at a forced march, one that was not a run but nor was it a leisurely walk. The forward scouts were ever abroad, rotating their shifts to report in and always reconnoitering the land up to a league ahead of the embassy for any new change to the geography they must account for or any potential enemy activity. Every three hours Maitimo bid them halt their progress to rest for a spell and quench any thirst. And at the nine hour mark he allotted two hours to acquire a more fulfilling rest if any desired, as well as to eat their rations of desiccated meats. At each break the five divisions, twelve Elves each with one appointed Captain shared for every two, congregated into their own groups to provide an easier and swifter rotation of shifts for the Elves to take watch. And the quiet hum of conversation drifted among them, most exchanges of words barely rising above a whisper, as though in fear of their talk being heard across the deathly silence of the steppes and unto Moringotto's Dwelling itself.

Come the time of each rest, Maitimo conferred with Sornion and the Captains to learn of their delegation's progress, of the wellbeing of their fëar as much as their hröar. And they were well. Granted, they loathed the shadowed horror that felt like a ubiquitous pall over the plains and occasionally shivered at the unnatural chill on the wind that kept on blasting from the east and north, but they were well. And Maitimo often found himself just standing there to consciously bear witness to such steadfast valor, for he would not have had the heart to blame any one of them if they had quaked in their boots at the realization at every rest period of just how much closer they were to the Enemy.

It was now time for one of those periodic rests and Maitimo walked among the five divisions, gauging what he could from their faces beneath strong helms, though some had doffed them as they sat. They seemed subdued, but at peace, or as much at peace as they could be out here.

In the division comprised of those from the King's Guard, most of whom were on watch right now, Maitimo spied Aráto sitting a short distance away, though within the perimeter, shield and spear resting beside him along with his dusty helm. Though but a calling's distance away, he was alone and as Maitimo approached, he looked up and shifted to rise but Maitimo waved him back down.

"Standing on ceremony is absurd on this particular venture." Maitimo lowered himself next to the Captain, unclipping his scabbard from his hip and contenting himself with holding the sheathed sword in his lap. He too doffed his helm, wincing as strands of hair caught on the crevices, but he relished in the cool freshness of the stale, murky air upon his head. He cast a shrewd look at the guard and took a deep breath, once again baffled as to why he tasted something like burnt sediment upon every inhale of this air. "Five leagues covered, eleven more to go," he commented mildly.

Aráto nodded distractedly, looking out into the far distance. His face was a mask of equanimity, but Maitimo could sense the mounting disquiet within him. "This place feels dead," he finally said, lips pursed in displeasure.

Maitimo huffed. "It is dead."

Aráto gave no response, only a narrowing of his blue eyes, and Maitimo wondered what had him so distracted. His answer was soon in coming, for Aráto all of the sudden raised a hand gauntleted in hardened leather, something generally worn only by those of the Pilindossë, and pointed northeastward. "See you the red in the far distance?"

Maitimo followed his eyes to where the Host had long presumed laid the abode of Moringotto. He squinted to better see, but it was just so accursedly dark. Nevertheless, he saw what Aráto was referring to. Maitimo knew by the intellect of his father that there were mountains out there, vast and probably impregnable if Moringotto dwelled in them. But, as always, the only portion of the mountains they could effortlessly see come any time they looked northeast were those three towering ones clustered together like a crown. But riding above and in which those three towers looked to pierce their peaks into were dark and churning gales, which seemed to endlessly grow more thick and ominous, as though accumulating. Even from here he could catch the wrathful rumbling of thunder – it was not difficult to hear in the silence of the empty steppes. But though the black clouds were brightened only when shots of what Maitimo presumed was scattered lightning tore through them, the pervasive gales seemed to glow in places with a dark red, appearing and disappearing, and occasionally shifting to a more crimson hue.

"Yes," he answered gravely. "I see it."

"Know you what it is?"

Maitimo shook his head. "To echo Yánadur, nothing pleasant probably. Mayhap at the place appointed we will see it more clearly, but really, when we have no manner of light to see by it is difficult to see anything of that dark place, save Thangorodrim."

"Thangorodrim," he repeated slowly, as though trying out the word on his tongue. "Though named by the Orc-speaker, is that what we shall call it, then?"

"Perhaps. It is as good a name as any, whatever it means. And it is at least more identifiable than merely saying 'those three peaks' every time. We will have to ask the Mithrim what it means."

Aráto huffed in slight amusement. "Ever had you the thought, my prince, that Moringotto purposed to mock Lord Manwë with this…Thangorodrim?"

Maitimo raised an eyebrow at him. "If you refer to Oiolossë, then yes." He looked back at Thangorodrim, pursing his lips slightly. "It was my sire who first put forth the suggestion and I doubted his words at first, for reasons I will not elaborate on here. But each time I look at them now, I grow more and more certain he may have been correct in naming the comparison of Thangorodrim to Manwë's abode."

Aráto sighed, eyebrows drawing down into a deep frown. "I have a feeling that King Fëanáro foretold many things unwittingly." He turned to Maitimo. "Do you believe that he will actually surrender a Silmaril, Highness?"

Maitimo looked at him at the abrupt change in conversation but did not need to hesitate long to formulate an answer. "No," he sighed. "Or so believes most of my heart while the sliver remaining clings to the hope that he does." He turned an inquisitive glance on Aráto. "Do you?"

"Yes." Maitimo's face morphed into ill-concealed incredulity and Aráto gave him a discreet smile. "Someone has to," he added softly.

Maitimo shook his head. "It is not that I want to disbelieve it. The idea that he does just seems too good to be true, that he would concede defeat so quickly. Concede defeat so readily and easily after everything the Noldor have been through, that Moringotto subjected us to…." He paused, a shadow entering his eyes. "After everything we have done to see ourselves here," he added in a lower tone, "it feels all to have been in vain if he yields now. Truly, I would gladly reclaim my father's Jewels here and now and see justice delivered unto the Valar's kinsman and not look back. But since his release from Mandos we know now that Moringotto had been plotting away, and now only begins to unleash the means to accomplish whatever schemes he came up with. And we can only fathom how much longer he had waited when in Mandos or even earlier to mayhap when Time as we know it was nonexistent." He looked at Aráto skeptically. "And now he yields?" He shook his head, a lilt of bitter mockery entering his tone. "I cannot believe it, not when he has finally escaped the Valar's grasp. Yes, I can believe that Moringotto considers us a nuisance, no matter the number of our Host and yes, I can believe that he would appease us by whatever means of his choice if it results in the Noldor leaving him alone to bring to fruition whatever ill design he deems we stand in the way of. And that is the sole reason part of me retains the belief that Moringotto just might actually surrender a Silmaril eleven leagues from here. But the doubt in my heart is still greater."

Aráto remained silent to that for a long while, his gaze clouded over in some passive contemplation. When the silence persisted, Maitimo believed their conversation to have ended and moved to rise with a sigh, but Aráto again turned to him just as he shifted to do so.

"Know you why I marched under the banner of your father, Prince Maitimo?"

Maitimo raised an eyebrow at, again, another sudden change in the conversation. But curiosity overcame him. "No."

Aráto opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, seeming to realize something unpleasant. "May I speak freely of him?"

Maitimo snorted. "Pray do. Plenty of others have."

"I have no dishonorable words to say of King Fëanáro," he reassured, and the depth of the sincerity in his voice caught Maitimo off guard. "No, I agreed not with every decision he made, and you saw me at Losgar when you confronted him after the ships ended their burn." Maitimo nodded and Aráto offered a faint smile, though it was tinged with remorse. "But if I was given the chance to go back and again decide under whose banner I should march, it still would have been your father's."

Maitimo waited, the side of his mouth quirking. "I know this is the part I ask why, so continue. Why?"

"Because he made me realize that the passion of your heart is only as great as the fruit it yields, no matter how many brushstrokes may corrupt the flawlessness of the dye on the canvas." He shrugged, his gaze pensive. "It made me reflect much on my own life while we were in Formenos."

Maitimo narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "You speak not of him making the Silmarils, do you?"

A knowing spark entered his eye, the ghost of a smile gracing his lips. "No. I speak of the fruit of his words, of the choices he made that were molded from that inner fire he was known for. And it made me ponder just what I had within me if not a passion of my own of that caliber. Mistake me not, Highness, for I was greatly honored to serve in the guard of Finwë Noldóran, but King Fëanáro taught me that the flowing of a river does not necessarily pave the path for the boats to float. That it is possible to swim against the current if my desire lay uphill instead of downstream like everyone else." He lowered his eyes, the timbre of his voice softening. "Doomed passion may be the most lamentable, yet it is the most powerful, I think. Do I walk a road that is safe but unfulfilling? Or do I walk a road fraught with danger but breathes life in me as I have never before tasted? The liberation of the latter is one of many things your sire proved to me, and to others I daresay. And for that, even knowing his wrongs, I would gladly march under his banner again."

Maitimo watched him as he spoke, his head tilted and softened eyes considerate. "Has it?"

"Has what?"

"Has our Flight truly breathed life in you, as you say?"

Aráto smiled more genuinely. "Yes," he said simply. "I find myself fascinated with this dark land. I know not if I will ever acquire that passion King Fëanáro had in droves, but I decided to come here and carve out a new life to see if I can find it, if I even have it. Though I will serve as your guard for as long as you will have me," he added lightly, but then he grew staid once more. "I only say this, my lord, as counsel to not so fast lose faith in what is perceived to be fallacious. Because of King Fëanáro we are here in Endórë, sleeping willingly with danger on our doorstep, and such a thing was inconceivable by the Amaneldi once upon a time. Who is to say the chance of Moringotto surrendering a Silmaril is ludicrous when we are able to sit here having this conversation? Besides," he added with a hint of mocking amusement, "mayhap to him we are a mere nuisance, and how often do we ourselves cast nuisances to the wayside if it means them no longer being a bother to you?"

Maitimo was quiet at such words, at the calm instilled in him to witness such high faith in something that carried so much foreboding of being faithless. He stared at Aráto, eyes softening. "Though my sire spoke seldom on this side of the Sea," Maitimo said solemnly, "know that he was honored to have such a stout companion at his side. As am I."

Aráto looked at him, and Maitimo could see in his eyes the effect the words had on him, for the humbled visage of one who was moved beyond words entered his expression. But simultaneously, the sorrow he had seen to suffocate the guard since his father's death grew prominent once more as his shoulders became tense and eyes shadowed over. And Maitimo had to stamp down on the will of his own heart to mirror the display before him. "Aráto." The guard seemed to be shaken from a daze at his voice and gave him his attention. "Be you ready to answer my summons upon our return to the Host. We need to talk after this."

Aráto's brow furrowed in both bemusement and alarm. "My prince?"

"After we return, Captain." Maitimo stood, clipping his blade to his sword belt again and donning his helm. "We must proceed on, though we can burn no more torches."

Aráto stood up at the instructions, manipulating the guige for his shield with quick hands. "I confess to being glad Prince Makalaurë convinced you to bear torches for part of the journey," he mentioned casually.

Maitimo nodded in reluctant agreement. "As am I. And I can see how the spirits of the Elves are uplifted by the little light. It is something of comfort among this dreary place." Maitimo's own fëa felt uplifted at the sight of the torch's blue flames as well, a hue they had decided upon for its subtlety during the night in comparison to red and orange flame. He was loath to see them go. But the time was nigh to go wholly unseen to the Enemy's eye.

"So," Aráto went on, clipping on his own sword. He raised an eyebrow. "Douse the lights?"

Maitimo nodded. "Douse the lights."

O = O = O

At ten leagues in the landscape began to change, something that quickly became a horror to Maitimo and those who led the five divisions. Covering the leagues with each steppe terrestrially looking the same as before, flat boring land after flat boring land, he had unconsciously begun to grow confident in Sornion's suppositions of what to maybe anticipate on this journey, namely nothing that they had not already seen. That they would maintain something of that advantage at least, an advantage of not walking into an entirely unknown place.

That hope that had been blooming more strongly with every passing league was now utterly gone.

Even with not one torch lit among them now, each could see how the once level landscape now began to break here and there by round and smooth boulders in no set pattern, some reaching an incredulous height. Maitimo had called the company to a halt immediately.

"We must be cautious," Sornion had said when they had all convened to discuss how to adapt to the problem, if they could. But even Sornion's eyes showed hints of doubt. "We have no stars to garner our sense of direction and if these boulders increase in number we may find ourselves lost within them."

"Thangorodrim is our bearing," Maitimo had said after a moment of consideration, nodding towards the dark silhouette. "We make our way towards it. But let us knit the divisions together to prevent the chance of being split by these boulders' layout."

And so they went on, proceeding more slowly and the frequency of the scouts' regular reports increasing in number.

At the twelve league mark, the suspicion and mounting dread in Maitimo's heart had become unbearable enough that he commanded an unscheduled halt. This new changing of the landscape had persisted with its scattered boulders, some massive and some miniscule, but they gradually increased in number, though still ranging between each other with a gap of thirty to a hundred paces, which was fortunate as far as Maitimo was concerned. But now there were rocky beds breaking the sward of scraggily ground, and Maitimo summoned Sornion who rushed quickly to his side.

"It is not that these new features of the steppes present a danger to us," Maitimo had said. "The beds we will have to cross cautiously, for I reckon their instability will be high. But call back the scouts fanning our forward flanks."

Sornion had slowly nodded after a moment, the keen glimmer in his eyes showing that he began to understand. "Maintaining the formation for the scouts will lose us time."

Maitimo returned the reluctant nod. "We have already slowed our march to account for the range of boulders. But heighten the alert of the van scouts. We have four leagues yet to travel, but unless our path is turned, Moringotto's embassy will be directly ahead."

"Do you suppose we may be entering the skirt of a new mountain range, my prince?" the Captain of the third division suggested.

Maitimo looked up and out to the silhouette of Thangorodrim that had become gradually bigger and more defined to his eye after all these leagues. He shook his head, absently twisting his jaw. It would certainly explain the multiple gigantic boulders. "I do not know," he answered with a sigh.

And it was true. Neither Maitimo nor any of their company knew what lay within these plains or beyond them. Save only those three peaks ever towering in the distance. Maitimo knew that it would be an intelligent decision to catalog the details of the lands they had traversed and yet will traverse, and to map the steppes' layout so far. Wholly blind to this new and outlandish land of Endórë, the Host needed all the gathering of knowledge they could obtain, whether from themselves or from their forsaken kin, whenever they would find them. But the task of mapping seemed frivolous in light of where they marched to and why they marched there to begin with. And so Maitimo refused to order it and even Sornion, who his father had unerringly appointed at some time during their wandering of Hísilómë as the Master of Scouts, not even he had challenged his lord's decision to forego mapping. And looking at his Second's face and the dark gravity in his eyes, Maitimo knew that the same thoughts must be running through Sornion's own mind.

Just beyond the fourteen league mark, Maitimo ordered a final rest and allotted three hours for it, bidding the Noldor to obtain as much rest as they could, though he knew that task would be difficult to achieve and he did not blame them. Whereas before the three score Elves had been well enough in morale, their sense of anticipation had tangibly heightened and he hardly would have been surprised if every one of their hearts was beating a little harder. Sleep, he figured, would most probably remain far from them. But they had to rest. If they were to engage tomorrow then they needed to be ready in body, if not wholly in spirit. But Thangorodrim now loomed before them, more obvious than any could have perceived it to be before, and Maitimo often found himself staring at those peaks in dreaded wonder.

Because if they were not yet even halfway across the steppes and this Thangorodrim was still at twice the distance they traveled…just how large were these mountains in truth? The majesty of Oiolossë stood forefront in his mind and Maitimo still reckoned that nothing could outshine the glorious divinity of Manwë's highest mountain, but there were three of these dark towers. And the unending sight of them, growing ever larger to the eye, was as devastating as Manwë's was magnificent. But instead of the one mountain that was Manwë's, Moringotto had three. His father's speculation of implied mockery and Aráto's reaffirmation of it echoed in Maitimo's mind, and he now had great difficulty in doubting that it just might be true, for all that Fëanáro had mentioned it in passing.

At fifteen leagues the tension of the embassy was practically palpable. Maitimo was compelled to maintain confidence in his face and he knew by the steadfast steps in the Elves' gate that it reassured them. And with only a mere few hours left of marching, Maitimo convened those of command one last time to initiate their plan.

"Commander Sornion," he said. "Recall all the scouts and send ahead the three you recommended flanked with their spotters. They know of the plan, but I just recalled a detail. Tell them ere they run to look out for a possible banner bearing a heraldic device."

Sornion raised an eyebrow. "I remember you saying how Moringotto's embassy flew a banner. What was the emblem?"

"I do not know. It was too dark to see. And it may be a device only the Valar would recognize, for all we know. But the banner stood at nigh twice the height of an Orc, and the three scouts might spot it peaking between the boulders before seeing the embassy itself." Sornion nodded his understanding and Maitimo turned his attention to the Captains. "Narrow the march," he spoke simply. It was all the command they needed. With hasty bows they left to fulfill his orders. And lastly he looked at the Captain of the King's Guard, standing silently off to his right. "Bid your guards to stand fast by my side."

Aráto nodded gravely at the quietly spoken words and left also.

The plan was simple, but it did not lessen the apprehension. Maitimo felt the beginning surges of adrenaline rushing through his own limbs and the next hour of marching seemed to go abnormally slow. Maitimo made it a repetition in his mind that the plan was good enough, for the fewer details and complicated maneuvers a plan needed to be functional and effective, the fewer chances there were of something going wrong. Narrowing the march was simply the five divisions forming into a line that was headed by Maitimo and Sornion, weaving about boulders and over rock beds that obstructed their path like a wiggling worm. The three scouts selected by Sornion would take point and scout ahead with the spotters, whose bows were held at the ready to guard the scouts from any unsuspecting assault. And the scouts' orders were simple: determine exactly where this embassy of Moringotto's waited for them and whether they actually numbered only twenty. Or if this really was a sly design to kill the heir of Fëanáro. For Maitimo's instructions still held firm to turn around and retreat if there was but one Orc more.

The only element Maitimo felt positive about was that they had yet to sight the distinguished glow of fire that emitted from those Valaraukar. The hope to see a league in advance was thwarted by the obstruction in the changes of the landscape, curse it all, but the Valaraukar were not particularly capable in the art of concealment. If those beasts were among Moringotto's delegation, the scouts and, really, all of the Elves should have seen their diabolical glow by now, should have by now felt the unique surge of Darkness they exuded, and Maitimo felt a brief swell of relief that they had not.

When less than an hour remained to march, Maitimo called a halt. The final halt. Maitimo drew in a steady, deep breath, letting it out just as slowly. Now they would wait for however long they must for the scouts to return with their report. Just wait. Wait and wait and wait. Maitimo reflected sourly that waiting had to be the worst part of launching an assault.

The three score of Elves behind him were silent as he had never heard them before and Maitimo turned where he stood at ease, casting a cursory glance over them. Swords remained sheathed, but there was not one blade not loosened from its scabbard and every Elf had a ready hand on the hilt. Bows that had remained strung for the whole journey were now nocked with arrows, though lowered, and spears were hefted. Despite that they may have to wait for hours until the return of the scouts, the Noldor were ready. Their eyes were bright with the light of battle and their sturdy stances belied the tension Maitimo knew they had to be feeling. He felt it himself. And they waited.

He looked up at the black gales above that churned and rumbled all the louder and found himself hoping desperately that the clouds would indeed stay knitted together as tightly as they were and would not allow even a glimmer of starlight through. If Moringotto was really surrendering a Silmaril, it was now paramount that the full number of the Elven force remained hidden from his embassy, lest they fled at the evidence of a broken truce before the Noldor could slay them and reclaim the Jewel. And any starlight would reflect off their armor, giving both the size and location of their company away. Let the smothering of this darkness last just an hour more, Maitimo inwardly entreated.

And they waited.

Násië: "Amen!"
Celebrimbor: no date of his birth or any evidence of exact age is provided, only that he was alive and an adult at the time of Finrod's departure with Beren from Nargothrond. The chronology of this particular story in respect to the canonical timeline infers Celebrimbor being born in Formenos.