.
Chapter 7:
Across the River
Makalaurë went to the campfire with a waterskin, lowering himself to sit cross-legged alongside Tyelkormo. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he relaxed against the hard ground, softened only by the many thick tuffs of grass growing at random lengths. And the cheer of the fire was welcoming, he had to admit, something newer than the number of tasks he was running out of to keep his mind busy or the number of songs he sang or halfheartedly hummed under his breath to keep his mind distracted.
He shot a cursory glance at Tyelkormo, who sat on an upright log next to a pile of kindling and brittle branches. He tossed the waterskin at his feet. "I thought the solitude of the fissure would be peaceful, but really, the absence of the Noldohossë makes me fidget."
Tyelkormo snorted, not looking up from his hands. "The rest of the King's Guard remained with us, plus some of the Pilindossë. I suspect they would be honored by your discourse and each has a voice able to speak, so go and talk with them if talking cures your fidgeting."
Makalaurë rolled his eyes and leveled a withering look on him. "Yes," he drawled. "Guards who are essentially as miserable in company as we are. And those of the Pilindossë watch the perimeter."
"There is Carnistir."
He scoffed. "Embracing a kiln would be safer."
Tyelkormo grunted, though no further answer was forthcoming, not that Makalaurë really expected one. He tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing in curiosity as he paid more focus on the rhythmic movement of Tyelkormo's well-corded hands. A small, soft smile upturned the corners of his mouth.
He was carving.
Makalaurë's mind was taken back to when he had last seen his little brother at his favored pastime and he realized with mild, glum wonder that it had not been since before the Darkening that his brother's skilled hands had been whittling away at wood. But he did not appear to have lost any of his talent in the subsequent time, Makalaurë added as his eyes followed the swift blade. A horse the size of a hand that was standing in a graceful pose had been shaped from what looked like wood from the fissure pines, a fashioning that resulted from hours of delicate woodcarving and now Tyelkormo was knifing in the finer details. Making the choppy surfaces smooth and the subtle engravings more prominent. He was using the hunter's knife he always kept in the sheath of his boot and Makalaurë recognized it as the one their father had crafted for him when he had completed his apprenticeship. Its handle, shaped with finger grooves, was worn smooth over countless years of use and the immaculate blade elongated in a curve and tapered to a point, from which angled a lethal grip hook. Makalaurë was often surprised it was still functional, having many times wondered how frequently Tyelkormo needed to replace the blade, how many times he already had. But he knew Tyelkormo had only ever used it for carving, despite the purpose of hunting their father had crafted it for.
"I must say it is uplifting to see you carving again."
Tyelkormo looked at him sardonically before swiveling his eyes back on the shaven wood, blowing dust off it and the knife's bevel. "Then prepare to be disappointed. I only make it for Telpë." Makalaurë raised an eyebrow at the mention of their nephew. A look of what might have been regret passed over Tyelkormo's face as the corners of his mouth turned up in a pitiful attempt at a smile. "Atar promised to make him a horse," he explained. "I am just finishing it."
Makalaurë's brow crinkled in mild bewilderment, trying to recall any recent time he had seen his father carving. It was almost ridiculous just thinking about it. "I was unaware Atar was crafting anything for him."
Tyelkormo shook his head. "He was not. But I know he intended to because he asked me to unpack the carving sets after we began settling in the Grey Fields, but…." He trailed off with a shrug, gesturing in a way that bespoke of some finality, but Makalaurë nodded. He understood. Too well. Moringotto had launched his assault only shortly after they established an encampment north of the Lake that had some level of functionality to it. Valar, he still remembered to this day the astonishment that had transformed his father's regal face, an astonishment that had swiftly transformed into a mask of wrath so intense that it had fueled the fire of his fëa until showing terribly raw in his bright eyes. Followed by their immediate counterattack, followed by ten days of hard battle, followed by their father's death, and followed now by him and Tyelkormo and Carnistir in the fissure and the whole Host of the Noldor at the Lake waiting impatiently and anxiously for Maitimo to return. They were into their fifth day of waiting, though he was not due to return for at least one more day, maybe several more.
Makalaurë gnawed on his lip, willing his mind to latch onto something else, but Tyelkormo's words filtered through his brain more fully and he cocked his head as he looked at him again. "Why wanted he a whittling knife? You know how he was lately and any kind of sharp knife can be used to carve something so simple."
He shrugged, running the knife along the horse's flank, curled shavings toppling off. "He always used a whittling knife, remember? You know he was always so maddeningly particular about the proper tools being used for the proper task."
"So I was reminded every time he asked for my help in the forge, remember?" Makalaurë contented himself with the rhythmic rasping of knife on wood. He stared at the horse, the finer intricacies gradually taking shape and breathing life into the figurine. He pursed his lips. "I know not what to think of Atar carving a plaything, if I should be gladdened or troubled."
"Do not be." Though the words were spoken tranquilly enough, the knife began moving in shorter, more agitated swipes and cuts. Makalaurë frowned but remained silent as the expression on his brother's face darkened. "I spoke with Telperinquar soon after we passed through that cleft, the one with the waterfalls." He sighed, lapsing into a brief silence, but he pushed on again anyway, his voice growing stiffer. "I suggested that he should ask Atar to make him a horse. Something to distract him from the internal noise when everything else could no longer do so."
Makalaurë looked at him at that, his eyes softening as they rested on his brother's features, a brother who now refused to raise his eyes. He felt a surge of warmth in his chest at the unspoken intention Tyelkormo had likely meant to happen by his request to Curufinwë's son. He could see it now, had their father lived long enough; just sitting there on a log or the verdant campgrounds, quiet and still, and steadily whittling away at a piece of wood, his eyes temporarily clear of the turmoil and emptiness while he had something simple to concentrate on. But no. It had not happened.
The gentle swishing of the blade started again and Makalaurë was grateful to be dragged away from such thoughts. He peered closely at the horse, pursing his lips as he studied the light wood that shown even whiter at the flowing mane. "You need swirls."
The knife stilled. "What?"
Makalaurë offered a small smile as he gestured to the horse. "For the mane. You need swirls, not straight lines. Atar would decorate the mane with swirls." The clarification was met with a blank stare and his smile grew. "Remember you not the horses Atar carved for you and the others when you were children?"
Tyelkormo was silent, blank stare still firmly in place as his eyes traveled from the horse to Makalaurë and back again. "Oh." A grumbled curse fell from his lips and Makalaurë was hard pressed to withhold the chuckle at the foulness of the words. Tyelkormo sighed. "Curse it all." He chucked his knife into the ground.
With a glance of wry amusement, Makalaurë reached over and yanked the knife from the dirt. He flipped it in his hand, presenting it hilt first. "Finish it. Just tell him you forgot to ask Atar how to carve the mane."
There was a pause, but with a look of chagrin Tyelkormo took back the knife. "Good enough, I guess."
"Princes!"
Both started at the sudden shout and turned in the direction it came from. It was Ingorion, a Captain of the Pilindossë. Only thirty or so Elves of the regiment of archers remained with them in the fissure under said Captain's command and they now ranged the perimeter of the mountain cleft while those of the King's Guard stood in the immediate vicinity of the sons of Fëanáro, clearly refusing to let any one of the three out of their sights. Even Carnistir who had left on a hike to walk off some of his aggravation was not able to weasel out of allowing a small troop of guards to follow in his wake. So few Elves present with him and his brothers left the fissure with a haunted emptiness that just did not feel healthy after filling it for so long with an army.
Ingorion was standing on the side of a path high above them that trailed to the eastern ridge, leaning precariously over the ledge. Makalaurë had to crane his neck to properly see. He was attired completely in leather armor, his head free of any helm and a longbow strung across his back with the fletching of arrows peeking over his shoulder.
"What is it?" Tyelkormo shouted, voice tight with consternation. Makalaurë glanced at him but remained quiet. As Commander of that particular troop he held Ingorion's service especially.
"Pray come, my lords!" Makalaurë felt his heart skip a beat at the anxiety in the Captain's voice. "A fell light fast approaches from the east!"
He and Tyelkormo could not have flown from their seats faster.
Their feet pounded on the ground as they ran towards the pathway, the many guards hurrying their pace as they followed in their wake. They ascended, only slowing midway up to accommodate the danger of the hazardous climb and more than once a curse was muttered under an Elf's breath as someone stumbled on the loose gravel. The fact that there was not a glimmer of starlight gracing their location did not help their going, the clouds above them thick and curdling as ever. They climbed nearly blinded, feeling ahead with their hands to ward off any sudden boughs hanging too low, though Makalaurë suspected their eyesight was adapting to the dark more and more with every new day of perpetual night.
There was a blur of movement to their right and, out of nowhere, Carnistir appeared, melding with the shadows of the pines.
Makalaurë grabbed hold of his arm to help him along. "Where did you come from?"
Carnistir wrenched his arm away, his face transmuted with a dark expression that seemed to have become a more or less permanent fixation of his visage. "I wager every Elf heard his shout. I was not far off."
They reached Ingorion and the Captain wasted no time before stepping on the almost indiscernible left trail of the fork in the path and running up the steep hill, the others quickening their strides at his urgency. They soon enough reached the eastern ridge where two other Elves stood in a huddle, exchanging quiet words and worried glances. The Elves crowded around the ridge, nearly all the guards having followed and Makalaurë and his brothers jostled their way to the front, joining the Captain who was pointing into the distance with his longbow. He was speaking, but Makalaurë could hear none of it.
He could see without the Captain's explanation just why they had been called here. And Makalaurë felt horror dwarf every part of his being.
Something was coming their way impossibly fast. The expansive plains were as dark as ever, but on this high mountainside they could still see for leagues into the east, all the way to the bend of the horizon, though Thangorodrim was endlessly a distinct sight. But a sound like the rumble of thunder traveled across the steppes, nearly blending in with the distant booms of the far gales, but still so prominently different that it could not be mistaken for anything else but the sound they had heard only once before over two weeks ago: the angry cadence of an Enemy march. The dark horizon was lit with a greatly contrasting glow of deep crimson and striking rays of orange, a glow that very quickly grew bigger and brighter. Makalaurë stared, knowing every Elf looking on recognized the glow's unique diabolical hue. And it was heading straight for the mountains.
It felt as though the air had been sucked from his lungs and Makalaurë felt himself go cold as everything stilled around him.
Nelyo….
"What happened?" The whisper came from his right and Makalaurë looked over at Carnistir's terrified expression.
He forcefully whipped his eyes away. "Tyelkormo," he nearly barked, his voice tight. "Recall those of the Pilindossë. Aldëon!" He turned, eyes flying to locate the second-in-command of the King's Guard. The tall Elf stepped forward. "Do you the same with those stationed about the fissure. We leave anything behind that does not need bearing, though take up Fëanáro's banner and conceal the healing supplies in the caches as fast as possible."
"Makalaurë –"
"We have to hasten back to the Grey Fields, Carnistir!" he snapped, unknowing of what his brother was going to say. But his heart was now galloping so fast in his chest that he did not care. Carnistir looked at him in unadorned disbelief and Makalaurë half expected an angry retort to be snapped in return, but the horror that Makalaurë felt consuming him was so blatant in Carnistir's face that there was no room left in his eyes for anger. Makalaurë looked around at them all. "I know not what became of our lord brother and his regiment, but spawn of the Enemy marches before our eyes and at their speed they will reach the mountains in a day! Moringotto cannot know we remained here to wait for Maitimo, so that horde's only destination can be the Host. Now let us move!"
Aldëon gave a short nod, his expression closing off as he turned around, brief and quick orders falling from his tongue and the guards abruptly fell into action. Tyelkormo also shook himself from his speechless daze, though still visibly shaken as he gestured towards his Captain. Tyelkormo sped off at a run down the trail with Ingorion right on his heels, the keen note of his powerful horn blasting across the fissure and echoing among the mountains' broad pinnacles just after he disappeared from view.
It was by sheer will Makalaurë managed to turn away from the ridge, his heart palpitating faster and the spike of raw dread only piercing deeper with every step. Carnistir and the others trailed behind him and Makalaurë burst into a run.
O = O = O
Curufinwë sighed wearily, absently running his fingers through Telperinquar's thick hair. He shifted where he sat on the grassy turf, stretching his legs further out as he leaned against the center pole of the tent, the solid shaft of wood stable enough to support his weight. Curufinwë looked down at his son. He really was starting to be a little too big to sit on his lap, but sitting on his lap he was, his head resting on his shoulder as Curufinwë supported him with his arms. Telperinquar's cheeks were streaked with dried tears as he slept and, though his exhausted body demanded Curufinwë to lie down and rest, he did not have the heart to let go of his son and carry him to his own bedroll.
After returning to the encampment and collecting his son from his minders, stumbling as the child had run to collide into waist, he had led him by the hand to the tent they currently shared with Carnistir and sometimes Tyelkormo. But his son must have seen something significant in what he thought had been his unreadable expression because his normally inquisitive tongue had been silent. He had doffed his armor and weapons, resting his sword reverently atop his armament crate before removing his gambeson to change into something more comfortable. After donning a light robe of deep blue he had loosened his hair from its bindings before kneeling on the grass and gesturing his son towards him. It had been some days before he had told Telperinquar what happened, seeing to the needs of their people and the reintegration of the warriors with the Host, but he delayed the discussion for as long as he dared.
The ensuing talk wound up being harder than anything he had prepared himself for.
Telperinquar shifted and Curufinwë looked down at him. No. Still fast asleep. Curufinwë ran the backs of his fingers along one cheek to wipe away the streaks, closing his eyes as he rested his head against the pole again. The Elves outside were singing and he contented himself with listening to the voices of hundreds of Elves raised together in lament, though his throat closed up as the words struck him all over again.
"Oronti pella ortanë i hiswa lúme
Yá Fëanáro taura qéle.
Hendya síle ep'eleni calimambë
Yá rëantes cennenmë illumë alcarë.
Ómaya né telepsa
Ar máliya nér malta
Mal yo endaya úruva
Apantanë hendemman i lissë
I emmo nómë avaháya ar vinya."
Curufinwë grimaced. The raw grief in his son's face when he had told him of his grandfather's demise had broken something in Curufinwë and before he could stop it, he had found himself weeping, hands trembling as he tried with all his might to put them away, but the tears had fallen nonetheless as Telperinquar had cried into his shoulder. Though it made Curufinwë doubly glad he had omitted most, if not all the details of how and why Fëanáro had died. Valar, he could only fathom the horrific images that might have haunted his son during his sleep, but logically, he knew it was only a matter of time before Telperinquar was bound to hear the gruesome truth of the matter from the lips of passersby or from overhearing a quiet conversation among any two people of the Host. And, Aulë help him, he did not know what he would do or say then. Yes, it had only been some days since their return to the encampment, well over a week and pushing two, but word of the manner of their king's death had spread throughout the Host with the speed of a brushfire. Not too surprising, but Aulë help him again, he owed so much gratitude to his friend Canyadil and his wife Riellotë, who gladly minded Telperinquar during any absence of his, for preventing any words that might have even been possibly embellished from reaching his son's ears.
Curufinwë glanced out between the folds of the tent, the twins' faces popping up in mind. He had not seen them for over two days, not since this song of the Noldor began resounding across the Grey Fields continuously. But wherever they had removed themselves to, he could only hope that the other two copper-haired runts of their family were similarly struck in the heart by the Lament. Part of him loathed the thought of them being hurt in the way only exacerbated anguish did, but they had kept it bottled up since the battle's final day and they needed to release it before it festered, or festered more than it already had. Maybe it was a good thing Makalaurë sent them back.
Part of him also wondered how Vëantur fared upon hearing the Lament. A sore Elf to think on, admittedly. Curufinwë shook his head at himself. He would be the first to admit that his acquaintance with the Elf before the Rebellion had been poor. Poorer than it should have been. Yes, he had only been the Captain of Finwë's Guard, but Vëantur had long been entrusted with the safeguarding of their father whenever Finwë had managed to convince their sire to accept the mote of protection. Valar, he could still feel the surge of shame at learning Fëanáro had elected Vëantur as his Second during their Flight – it had obviously bespoken something of the value his father had perceived in the Elf, a value that was maybe born of a friendship Curufinwë never stopped to consider they may have shared. And now the Elf Vëantur had guarded for as long as Curufinwë could remember was gone. He had no idea what had become of the Commander of the Minyahossë either, whether he withdrew to his own solitude or if he still walked among the Host to attend to any warriors. Curufinwë did not have the slightest doubt Vëantur was aspiring to follow Maitimo's example, with how steadfast he was remaining and all, but this Lament was not exactly easy to hear and he wondered if Vëantur had caved to it as well.
And Yánadur, he knew, had taken what solace he could find with his wife.
Maitimo. His heart fluttered a little faster as it always did at the thought of how his brother and his delegation fared out on those steppes.
His ears twitched when he heard the Elves start the song over again and he turned his head towards the tent's entrance as he listened to the ode. Hm. Would it succeed in striking Maitimo hard enough to break him down and shatter the walls of ice he had clearly erected around his heart? Just maybe, Curufinwë grimly thought. For he would also be the first to admit that it was their oldest brother he worried for the most. Carnistir's reaction at least made sense. Makalaurë's made sense. But Maitimo's frightened him, something Curufinwë resolutely kept to himself for now since their eldest and now uncrowned Noldóran was correct in trying to maintain his composure for the sake of their people. It was why Curufinwë had done his accursed best to replicate it, why he had caught Makalaurë doing the same and probably everyone else who had some measure of authority among the Host. He could not help but wonder if Maitimo was aware of the effect he had generated and Curufinwë viciously wiped at his face as his eyes started to burn with those stubborn tears all over again. Wisely decided or not, this reaction was entirely unlike the Nelyo he had known his whole life and Curufinwë committed himself to speak with his brothers about it after this whole maddening affair of striking a bargain with Moringotto was finished.
He was confident they would all agree to take their eldest aside to speak with him. And though Curufinwë had not a shred of doubt in his mind that Maitimo was reluctant to show even a flicker of what he might perceive to be weakness when he now had the daunting task of ruling the Noldor on his shoulders, it did not change – should not change the fact that if there were any he should feel free enough to have a breakdown in front of, it would be his brothers. It had better be his brothers. Because for all the coldness Maitimo now donned in his face, he knew Maitimo was hurting. Knew how deep it went. He was his brother, damn it all. He knew. Though Curufinwë wept enough tears with his son, he was aware that the long, woeful journey to heal from this was only beginning, but releasing the buildup of sorrow had helped. At least for a little while.
But once things calmed down among the Noldor and some measure of stability was restored again, Curufinwë would be damned if he allowed Maitimo to close off his heart any longer from the reality he knew was trying to tear it in half.
"Oronti pella ortanë i hiswa lúme
Yá Fëanáro taura qéle.
Úcaurë sé mahtanë Valaraukannar
Ar qéle pan altanáreltya.
A Fëanáro Noldóran!
Yo véra umbarterya sé appanerye oirë.
A Fëanáro Finwion!
Tentanë atarlenyanna
Ar hiruvalyë métima sérë."
The Lament went on and on. Curufinwë clenched his jaw all over again as the words fell relentlessly on his ears, despite that he had heard them so many times already. It was an ode shorter than the wont of their people's songs, but it had been sung on and off for hours, rising from a congregation of Elves or sometimes only a few. There was no gentle plucking of a harp or lyre or soft blowing of a pipe accompanying the song. Only the countless voices of high and deep vocal ranges from both neri and nissi, and the enchantment woven from their descants made the power of the Lament so ridiculously palpable that Curufinwë was at a cross between loving it and hating it. He could hear the grief in the wavering notes and partially wondered if no one added the harmony of an instrument because they thought the Lament was beyond it or something else. He had no notion who composed the song and though he was hardly surprised by the speed at which it had been taken up by all of the Host, it still made persistent tears sting his eyes that it had. The words were so simple, so unadorned with the zest and flair Noldorin composers typically added to their lines, yet it still hurt so badly to hear them sung. Though he still betted that the song Makalaurë would foreseeably compose would be beyond the ability of any Noldorin voice to sing, and he did not know whether he was excited to hear it or if he dreaded it.
A sudden blast of a keen horn blared across the Grey Fields.
His eyes snapped open as he turned towards the mouth of the tent, trying to peer between the small gap of the flaps. Telperinquar stirred in his arms. "Atto?" he mumbled, blinking up at him.
"Shh." Curufinwë strained his ears, frowning. The hundreds of Elves outside abruptly ended their singing in answer to the one, piercing note that had cut through the sound of all their voices. A heavy silence fell, broken only by the eerie chirring of insects and the occasional quiet murmurings Curufinwë could make out.
The horn blast came again.
He sprung to his feet, shifting Telperinquar onto his own and taking his hand. He stepped outside, looking around for who was near and was grateful to see both Canyadil and his wife not far away. He gestured them forward.
The horn sounded again.
He recognized that particular sound to belong to the horn of Tyelkormo but dismissed it from his mind as the two approached.
"What is happening?" Canyadil asked, his brow furrowed. "That was not Makalaurë's trumpet." He was a hardy Elf, his stature broad with a physique shaped from an existence at the forge, his dark hair thick and coarse, though his face was fair with sharp angles and his blue eyes bright. Riellotë was as much a dark beauty also, a hastily woven shawl wrapped around her petite figure as her hand clenched apprehensively on her husband's forearm. "It is Tyelkormo's, no?"
"It is, but I need to go." Curufinwë looked from him to his wife. "Riellotë, would you pray look after my son awhile?"
The mistress nodded. "Of course. You know you need not ask."
"But Atto –"
"Go with her, yonya," Curufinwë spoke over him sternly. "Go. I will return shortly."
"Come, Telepitya," Riellotë urged with a soft smile, calling him by the affectionate name given to him by his grandfather. She held out her hand. "I am sure your uncles have much to discuss, so let us let them hurry on with their talk, shall we?" The child took her hand, clearly reluctant, but she gave it a fond pat and led him towards their own tent where it seemed like tea was steeping over their campfire.
Curufinwë looked after them, waiting until she walked him a far enough distance away, though their small shelter was erected not far from his own. "Canyadil, find my brothers for me?"
Canyadil nodded and sped off, his steps light and swift as he weaved in and out of people before becoming lost to sight. He must have had some prior notion of the twins' whereabouts if his friend's surety in the direction he had taken off in was any indication.
Curufinwë gave a small shake of his head and began walking towards the eastward rim of the encampment. He had to suppress the urge to run, ignore how his heart began to beat faster as his mind formulated reason after reason why Tyelkormo sought to raise the alarm. More and more people stirred at the persistent blow of the horn and several people waylaid him at the sight of his hurried pace, question after question being asked, but he bid them to remain calm and to tell others the same. Valar, the last thing they needed to deal with was a panic among a host numbering as many as they.
The walk from the center of the encampment to the perimeter was long despite the haste he moved with. Halfway there, Curufinwë's eyes flew to his right when Vëantur suddenly appeared, keeping pace and Curufinwë looked him up and down in mild inquiry. The Commander had doffed any armor fashioned from metal, though he now walked in half-armor with leathers hardened with wax. He carried a brightly lit lantern in his left hand and an unclothed spear in his right. Many words sprang to mind to speak, but Curufinwë held his tongue and Vëantur also appeared reluctant to speak with so many people milling around. They completed the walk in silence, passing the perimeter and bypassing the perimeter guards, though no further than fifty paces out as to remain in clear view. The stars were shining bright in the near cloudless night on this side of the mountains and he and Vëantur crossed over the field without trouble until they stopped on top of a hill. Without a word, Vëantur handed the lantern to Curufinwë and then shoved the butt of the polearm into the soft ground with three mighty heaves. Taking back the lantern, he reached up and hung it from the roundel and slowly removed his hands, waiting to see if the thin handle would slip from the narrow perch of metal. But it held, casting an ominous glow on the spearhead above it. Curufinwë nodded. At least his brothers would have a location to veer to when they arrived.
The horn sounded again, much louder this time, and Curufinwë looked out to the rolling hills that were littered with trees. Because of the starlight he was able to see the summits of the mountains on the horizon, but he saw nothing yet of his brothers. Or of Tyelkormo, at the least.
He cast a wry glance at Vëantur. "And now we wait."
Vëantur absently nodded. "Always waiting."
There was a pause before Curufinwë collected himself and turned a graver look on him. "Have you been among our people of late or retreated you to solitude?"
"Both." His eyes remained trained on the fields. "I have been everywhere, primarily to keep myself active. But too often did the Lament drive me to the isolation of my tent."
Curufinwë hummed in agreement. "Gathered you any idea of the Host's response to everything happening?"
Vëantur snorted. "I believe the Lament is answer enough, Highness," he said, ill-humored. His expression softened. "Forgive me. These last few days have been difficult. But in my honest opinion, I believe the people's grief is made greater by the fact that there is no body to bury and that they were just as shaken as we when learning what happened to it. Concerning the plan of Prince Maitimo…." He sighed, eyes wearied. "I know not the general opinion towards it, but I gather that they are too anxious to yet know what to think of it. That they just want the delegation to return first." A sardonic smirk twisted the side of his mouth. "Always waiting."
Curufinwë shrugged. "I cannot fault them for it. My sire's death is a blow to the Host and I wager this parley with the Enemy only exacerbates it."
There was noise behind them, a trampling of light steps, and both turned to find a group of Elves hastily approaching: the twins, Yánadur, several guards and the Seconds of both Tyelkormo and Makalaurë. Curufinwë knew the Second of Carnistir would have been present, but he was currently in the healing ward on the opposite side of the encampment. And where his own Second was he had no clue. Curufinwë observed the twins with a shrewd glance but could not discern whether or not they had at all done as he hoped. Both wore identical expressions, which were completely unreadable, though he could see the same confusion clear in their eyes that he felt dwarfed by himself.
Yánadur was the first to speak. "What is this?" Curufinwë raised an eyebrow at the question that, truly, had not really needed to be voiced. "I know it is the horn of Tyelkormo. Believe you that Maitimo and the delegation are with them?"
Curufinwë so desperately wanted to say yes, but he had to be practical. "No," he answered with a sigh. "I want to believe it is, but it is too early yet for Maitimo to return to the mountains, let alone cross them and traverse the basin as Tyelkormo at least has done." Unless Maitimo had turned around early, but Curufinwë kept his mouth shut.
No one had a response to that and they all fell into a communal silence. Time passed, though every portion of the wait felt like an hour on its own. There were occasional mutters between the Elves behind him and the chatter of crickets with no cessation seemed to grow in intensity the longer they waited. Curufinwë closed his eyes, hoping that the twisting of his stomach would calm if he focused on the braying of the wind. At least there was no smell of burnt charcoal lingering on the air on this side of the mountains, he reflected sourly. Though right now it smelled like rain.
He frowned, looking up at the starry sky. His frown deepened. There was the infrequent wisp of a cloud moving across the skies, only made discernable when it passed over the stars and obscured their light. But there was nowhere near the accumulation needed for even a gentle rainfall, let alone an amount that would cause him to smell the coming of rain on the air. He stared, the frown persisting.
"There!"
The hail shook him from his rumination and he looked to where the guard pointed. Sure enough, pinpoints of light in the distance emerged from the darkness, traveling the many hills of the fields. It was a troop of Elves nearly fifty strong and Curufinwë was washed over with the crushing weight of disappointment as he realized that, unwittingly, he had been carrying the same hope as Yánadur had. But Maitimo and his sixty Elves were most certainly not among the group heading towards them now.
Curufinwë's eyes widened slightly when he realized that the Elves were running. Running as fast as they could over the uneven terrain and with no torch to light their way. Why did they run? Even as he had the thought, the troop of Elves steered towards the direction of the mounted lantern. The banner of Fëanáro was held aloft and as they came closer Curufinwë saw that his three brothers were at the fore, all the Noldor who had remained with them in the fissure directly behind. A dark foreboding took hold and traveled all the way down Curufinwë's spine and into his hands, which he slowly tightened into fists. They had not been supposed to return without Maitimo.
Not a word was uttered behind him and Curufinwë waited with bated breath until the Elves reached them and came to a hurried stop, several of the guards taking up positions in a range around them and turning their backs to face the mountains.
"My princes, what happened?" Vëantur asked, and Curufinwë was mildly taken to hear the unnerved undertone in his voice.
Makalaurë's eyes traveled over them, hair horribly tousled as he panted. Curufinwë was sure his eyebrows were not the only ones to rise. Valar, just how long had his brothers been running to actually end their journey winded? Tyelkormo and Carnistir heaved for air just as heavily, Tyelkormo recovering only a little faster. All of them looked as though they had run for five straight days, the minimum time required to traverse the land from the encampment to the mountains. Makalaurë's grey eyes passed over them one more time, settling a little longer on both of the twins and Curufinwë, and the look he saw in Makalaurë's eyes made Curufinwë feel a pit of dread.
Makalaurë looked at Vëantur, drawing in a few more deep breaths and there was a level of authority in his voice Curufinwë had rarely heard before. "I will speak this only once, for we have little time, so hear me," he said in an upraised voice. "A horde of the Enemy fast approaches behind us. We know not the number, only that Valaraukar are with them and that they make for the encampment. The Host needs to migrate and some swift coordination between the banners will be needed to see it done in the little time we have."
Voices rose with both exclamations and questions behind him, but Curufinwë lifted an imperious hand and the tumble of demands quickly died down. He stared hard at Makalaurë, barely breathing. "What happened? I hear you and we will heed whatever you say, but what has become of Maitimo if the Enemy draws near?"
There was a crack in Makalaurë's resolute expression as his eyebrows drew down together. "We do not know," he said after a moment. "Neither Maitimo nor any Elf with him returned, but a lookout on the eastern ridge espied the fast coming of another possible assault. From the direction Maitimo departed in," he added. "Conclude what you will."
The silence that met those words was deafening. Curufinwë's heart began to pound so hard in his chest that he heard the blood in his ears.
"But he agreed to flee come realizing that Moringotto had sent more than agreed!" an Elf behind them protested, one of the Captains of the Tatyahossë Curufinwë saw.
"Be still, Valindur!" Yánadur hissed.
"Obviously he had not!" Carnistir bit out at the same time. "My lord brother has spoken and we have no time to waste with a long exchange of words to assume what may or may not have happened!"
Vëantur nodded at him. "As you speak, Highness." He was clearly reluctant to give up the topic but said nothing as he turned to Makalaurë. "And as you command, my prince."
Makalaurë stared at him silently for a long moment before he took another deep breath, turning his eyes to look across all of them once again. "Curufinwë, Ambarussa. Gather together the heads of the Host so that I can address them and then go and raise our six banners. Bid those who marched under Atar's and Maitimo's banners to divide themselves among our own and to stay there until a more permanent solution is determined. We will divide the Noldohossë from the Host so that the warriors can provide a more stable escort for the crossing. Aldëon will lead the King's Guard in Aráto's absence and Vëantur, take up the command of the Nelyahossë along with the Minyahossë. Tell the Captains of Sornion it is my order to heed you if they protest."
Vëantur's eyes slightly widened before any expression closed off completely, but he nodded. "The crossing of what, my lord? Where is the Host to move?"
Makalaurë nodded his head towards the west. "Across the river." There were four rivers that sprouted to each corner of the compass from the Lake and they had established their encampment just east of the northern branch. "Orcs we can battle well enough if we must, but we know not yet how to slay Valaraukar, so beseech you unto Ilúvatar that those demons loathe water as greatly as Orcs do."
Vëantur nodded his understanding, but Valindur took a step forward. "You actually believe a measly river will stop them, Highness?" he demanded incredulously, his face anxious.
"Valindur!"
Makalaurë held up his hand and Yánadur fell silent. He stared hard at the Elf until the Captain retreated back the single step. "Pray they do." It was all Makalaurë said and he barely let a moment more pass before looking away. "Yánadur, while rousing the Tatyahossë, sound the alarm and see that my order is heard to strike up the camp. My brothers and I will coordinate the passage of the Noldor, though all the children and those in the healing ward will need to be borne across the river at once since their going will be slower."
Curufinwë narrowed his eyes, concern taking hold. "You are speaking of urgency, Makalaurë. Just how much time have we to see this done?"
"A day." Makalaurë held up both his hands to forestall another barrage of questions. "We flew here as fast as our feet could fly, but we must take on the assumption that a day at most is all we have to begin migrating before they are upon us."
"But it is several days' worth of travel from here to the mountains," Yánadur interjected with no little stringency. "We cannot see any Valaraukar fire. If they are a day's distance away, they should have crossed the mountains by now, which are plain unto our sight." He gestured towards them and several heads in Makalaurë's company turned to look, though Makalaurë did not. "There is nothing out there and we all know we should be able to see the fire of their passing."
"So should have Maitimo," Makalaurë retorted darkly. "Though we cannot guess what ensued, it is easy to trust that his delegation was met with the same Valaraukar who now come for us. And that, for some Valar be damned reason, he went so unknowing of their presence that fleeing was no longer an option! I would rather we not make the same mistake if the Enemy aspires to ensnare us with the same trap."
"But a day gives us little time to ready anything for transport," protested another Captain.
Makalaurë relented a little bit, the corners of his mouth turning down. "I know," he conceded, his eyes grave. "But we have no choice but to carry only what our backs can bear."
Vëantur slowly shook his head, worry finally making it into his expression as he continued to stare, nearly glare at Makalaurë. "They will burn everything if we forego defending it."
Makalaurë met the fierce stare. "Then they will burn it." He looked away from Vëantur, eyes flicking across the others. "We must move the Host across the river. I know the Noldohossë is wholly ready to uptake arms once again to defend our encampment for a second time, but Valaraukar come with whatever number of Orcs must be marching and we still have no notion on how to kill those particular beasts. So unless one of you has been suddenly blessed by Ilúvatar with insight on how to, our options are very few. Pack whatever the horses can carry and with the mounts send the nissi and children to the river first, along with any who bear too grievous a wound to walk. We can only take means for survival and have only hours to do so. So let us move."
O = O = O
Those next few hours had Makalaurë fraying on the edges. The ascending notes of many horns had been blown in a fit pattern that the Noldor had long been tasked to memorize. Curufinwë had run ahead to take a distraught Telperinquar in his arms, who had been covering his ears at the deafening horns and, after a very brief explanation of what was happening, he asked Canyadil and Riellotë to take him across the river while he dealt with his own banner. Riellotë had looked shaken by his words but readily took the child's hand again while Canyadil volunteered to rush to the healing ward to help with the transport of those too ailed among the wounded to go on foot, those who needed to start moving now. Every warrior donned whatever manner of armor and weapons he had and any second sets of armor, primarily of hardened leathers, were worn by the wives of those Elves who had them. Haversacks were quickly filled with only blankets and food, flint and steel, a few items of clothing, and only the most precious and smallest of trinkets. Makalaurë's racing thoughts started to slow as he watched many of their people become ready to go within an hour.
Rather belatedly, Makalaurë's memory sparked and he assigned the twins an additional task, running urgently throughout the encampment in search of them and sidestepping several people, many of whom hastily veered out of his way.
"The parchments," he gasped at them, heaving in quick gulps of air. "In Atar's pavilion. Add them all to the satchels." Both nodded in understanding, the younger of the two rising from his squat with one of said satchels to make his way towards the green.
The healing ward was another tale entirely. It was a massive tent erected on the westward side of the encampment, nearest to the freshest water source and it was a peak pole structure with several center poles and support lines and stakes and brailing pegs. It was unquestionably the structure most loathed to see burned and not just by the healers. So many Noldor had contributed to its make, heeding Fëanáro's command that the healing ward had to be the first shelter most functional for those who would inevitably be injured. Pallets had been long constructed but now were padded and made ready for carrying. Despite Makalaurë's order to travel lightly, he rescinded it for them and the Master Healers oversaw the packing of nearly all their supplies, Menelluin and a band of healers going ahead with her to prepare a place beyond the river while Fionildo remained behind with the sons of Fëanáro.
Campfires were doused with hastily thrown dirt and the horses were made ready, though they whinnied and neighed with abandon, seeming to sense the distress in their masters. Those who marched under the banner of Maitimo were dismayed to learn the reason why they were instructed to follow someone else and Makalaurë had to be summoned to calm their rising dissent. His fëa had ached at the chore and he wanted to collapse to the ground afterwards, but he had been little surprised by the assembly's reaction; the host under Maitimo was massive in number, second in size only to Fëanáro's. Many had migrated to Makalaurë's own banner and he had wound up asking the twins to combine their own banners with his to have more stability in the multitude of people now being guided across the river by the elegant harp threaded with gold and silver upon a crimson field. Maitimo's own banner of a laurel branch with three stars for sprigs was carried alongside his own.
Just as the Noldor began to shift westward to leave the perimeter, that very familiar glow of red appeared on the rim of the horizon. Panic nearly set in again, but Makalaurë commended his brothers and the Commanders and lords for keeping order, though urging them on all the faster.
But such progress was impeded by a gradual lack of light. Makalaurë was ready to curse aloud as he glared up at the sky. Not too long after the confirmed sighting of the Enemy, heavy clouds began accumulating with great speed, black and rumbling with the early sounds of thunder. Many were quick to believe it was just another omen of all the ill tidings of this day, and Makalaurë found it difficult to deny. What? Were these Valaraukar always hailed by dark storms?
"Fine. Fine! Take away what starlight we have too!" Carnistir had snarled in disgust at the darkening skies. Makalaurë could not really disagree with the pessimism.
Slowly, the encampment was vacated.
And just in time.
The warriors of the Noldohossë walked along the perimeter of the Host that was moving in a solid line across the fields. Tyelkormo and Curufinwë had taken point to see the nissi, children, and wounded safely across, though with the river as wide and perilous as it was in several places, more than a few Elves found themselves swimming. Makalaurë and Carnistir brought up the rear with Vëantur while all the others leading the divisions spread out throughout the rest of the Host. They crossed the river at the shallowest bend nearest to them and then turned south a ways so that a deeper part of the river, rampant with fierce currents, lay between them and the Enemy, if the Enemy was actually going to follow them so far and not just stop at the sight of a vacated encampment. There were no torches among the Host, so they essentially would not be able to be seen. Hopefully.
Makalaurë found himself shaking his head. Though the Host was divided by the banners, it was still a haphazard mess. He spotted Curufinwë a distance off with Telperinquar on his hip, even if he was a little too big for it, the child's face buried in the crane of his neck. Many of the children were being held and reassured.
Makalaurë walked among them. Multiple Noldor had shuffled into one small group or another. He passed by several families huddled on the ground, mothers rocking their little ones in their laps while fathers sought out something to do, whether to find kindling for a fire or to receive orders from his commander or liege. Many of them turned to look at Makalaurë as he walked by, eyes filled with fright and uncertainty and he could feel their gazes burning into his back long after he passed. Taking up a cold face as Maitimo had done was becoming easier and easier.
He located Vëantur with the twins to his left and made his way towards them, taking care not to tread on any clothing or fingers. Vëantur was removing his helm, hair matted with sweat, and Makalaurë was grimly reminded by his fatigued expression that Vëantur had done so much heaving and lifting and running when he had not necessarily needed to. Makalaurë pursed his lips, knowing he was gradually learning why his father had elected him as his Second. His own Second, Orostámo, was presently assisting the wounded. Both twins bore haversacks that he knew to be stuffed to the brim with the parcels among parcels of maps and journals that they had charted and chronicled over their migrating of Hísilómë. Makalaurë reckoned those heavily and even messily scrawled parchments were currently as sacred as few other things.
The twins gave him brief smiles of welcome, though the smiles were faint and disappeared quickly. "You look to be tearing apart at the seams," Pityafinwë observed mildly.
"I feel like it," he grunted, doffing his own helm as well. The mild wind was bliss as it cooled the sweat along his neck and forehead.
Pityafinwë hefted the haversack on his shoulder before holding out a hand towards Makalaurë. Makalaurë looked from the hand to the twin, brow crinkling in slight confusion, and Pityafinwë gestured towards the haversack that hung from his own shoulder. "Let us."
"You need the reprieve," Telufinwë added.
Makalaurë hesitated. Inside the haversack was his father's armor, each piece individually wrapped and he had clipped his sire's sheathed sword to the opposite side of his sword belt. He hesitated further, but at the meaningful look both the twins gave him, he sighed and slid it from his shoulder, placing the leather strap into Pityafinwë's hand. The twin swung it up on his other shoulder, looking none the worse for wear at the extra weight.
Makalaurë forcefully turned his attention away, focusing on Vëantur. "Your thoughts?"
Vëantur sighed. "Well, I think this past week has been a trial on its own, though not much has really happened in your absence. But then, I also think that too much has happened too fast for the Host to adapt as they should. And…." He trailed off as he turned his eyes upward, visibly trying to collect himself with a shaky intake of air. "Damn it all, Makalaurë," he finally said with an explosion of breath. "I have gone to great lengths to endure his death, but just knowing what must have happened to Maitimo and the delegation is angering me." He closed his eyes, running an exhausted hand over his face and leaving small traces of dirt behind. "I could tell the Nelyahossë is bereft without Sornion, though they did not disobey your order. And Aráto I knew since he entered the Noldóran's Guard in Tirion. So many of those people. And Maitimo…." He trailed off again and Makalaurë saw the strained movement of his throat as he swallowed.
Makalaurë stepped closer. "Vëantur," he said solemnly with a firm shake to his shoulder. "Think not this is laid to rest. I fully intend to go across the mountains and yes, you and far more than sixty Elves will go with me. But pray last a while longer," he insisted. "I need the aid of as many who can give it right now."
Vëantur was nodding. "I know, Highness, and you have it." He gave a bitter smile. "I would not fail my sire in such a way. Just…." And once more his words died off. His eyes shifted away to look over Makalaurë's shoulder and they widened with a growing dread as he seemed to inwardly deflate. "Ai Ilúvatar," he cursed under his breath.
"Look at that."
Makalaurë turned to Telufinwë at his whispered words, seeing the horror in his little brother's eyes as both the twins also looked in the direction Vëantur did, and Makalaurë bit his lip, closing his eyes with a sense of dread. He knew what sight he would see. He turned around, looking beyond the river and he felt his chest tighten up as he saw the orange haze blazing in the eastward darkness, the haze quickly growing in intensity.
The encampment was burning.
Shots of flame erupted into the air and the Elves looked on in silence, not a word falling from any person's mouth and Makalaurë caught many people turning away from the sight. After several more moments of silent staring, he did as well, walking away from the twins and Vëantur to kneel on the damp turf, uncaring of the mud that found its way into the crevices of his greaves. He bent over, bowing his head and closing his eyes tight. The clouds had continued to build up overhead and now all starlight was completely blotted out, thunder booming endlessly in what Makalaurë was ready to believe was a mockery of their horrid circumstances.
Makalaurë pressed his lips together as he ran shaking hands through his hair to grip at the locks, willing himself to take up whatever composure he still had left. But what was left was quickly shredding. His throat was tight as he swallowed and it was all he could to do stop from yelling. Valar, what if they came to the river? What if Captain Valindur was right? If the Enemy did actually go beyond the encampment to the river and the Valaraukar were actually able to cross it (and why would they not?), he had no idea what he would do. What could be done.
Stars above, what was he going to do?
Yonya = an affectionate diminutive of yondo (Q. "son"), equivalent to English "son/my boy" (much like the Spanish mijo)
English translation of Fëanáro's Lament [not diagrammed]:
Beyond the mountains rose the grey hour
When perished the mighty Spirit of Fire.
His eyes gleamed brighter than stars
When he smiled we saw always radiance.
His voice was of silver
His hands were of gold
But with his flaming heart
He revealed to our eyes the grace
Of a picture of a place far away and new.
Beyond the mountains rose the grey hour
When perished the mighty Spirit of Fire.
Without fear he fought against Balrogs
And fell to their great flame.
O Fëanor, King of the Noldor!
With his own finality he touched eternity.
O Fëanor, son of Finwë!
Go to your father
And at last find peace.