Name Index:
Pityo = Amrod, abbr. of Pityafinwë
Telvo = Amras, abbr. of Telufinwë
Chapter 8:
The Wake of Water
A cool drop hit his hand.
Makalaurë looked up from where he knelt, staring dumbfounded at the place on his hand where a splattering of moisture grew cold against his skin. He looked up further to the sky and another drop nearly landed in his eye. More fell, and the noise of the gentle sprinkles tinkling on armor grew.
Murmurs erupted around him, a rising of exclamations overlapping from the Host congregated on the banks of the river. But before the full impact of what that meant came to him, Yánadur was standing in front of him, grabbing his shoulders and helping him to his feet. Where had he come from? The question could not even filter from his brain to his tongue before Yánadur was squeezing his arms, giving him a firm shake.
"Makalaurë, it rains!" he nearly yelled, as though attempting to break whatever daze he had fallen into. Makalaurë nodded, looking around. Carnistir stood just a ways off from Yánadur, clearly having arrived with him, and he was staring up into the sky with eyes squinted against the gentle rainfall. His hair grew matted with moisture as the rain continued to thicken, and his face was a blend of bewildered surprise and a desperation that conveyed the fraying of the tenuous control he had managed to hold since their hasty departure from the fissure. And now he stared up in slight wonder, unmindful of the rivulets of water running down his face and underneath his armor.
Makalaurë saw that Carnistir was not the only one struck silent by the rain. Looking out at the sea of people, most of the Host he could see from here had their faces upturned towards the clouds as well, some rising from where they sat. Their exclamations grew more wondrous as the rain fell harder and he glimpsed several small children clapping or bouncing where they stood, smiles lighting up their faces, while the older children hassled their parents with question after question. Not that they were able to answer. The few campfires that had been kindled hissed and wafted steam at the sudden onslaught of water and many rushed to cover their satchels with cloaks.
It was raining.
Makalaurë wracked his brain for something to say but came up with nothing, finding himself just gawking up at the sky with the rest.
"What small mercy is this?" Telufinwë wondered softly, a small frown creasing his forehead.
"A fine feigning of one," Pityafinwë retorted somewhat angrily, though he gazed up into the rain with an expression equal to that of his twin. "Sure, we stand here gaping at the fall of rain, but this is not near enough needed to douse a campfire, let alone the burning of our encampment."
"Ah, little princes, I daresay it is," Yánadur murmured, he and Vëantur both peering in the same direction as before.
Makalaurë spun around at the expressions of both Commanders and his eyebrows climbed up his forehead at the sight of thick clouds in the far distance sending down what could only be a torrent of rain where their encampment lay. Even in the dark as they were, with the starlight completely blotted out by the storm clouds, the sheets of rain were so heavy that they could not be mistaken for anything else in the glow of the encampment's fire. A fire that was gradually but quickly dimming as they watched.
"I cannot believe it," Carnistir muttered, though Makalaurë could not tell whether his words had been grumbled with disgust or incredulity. Whatever.
"Commander Vëantur," he called languorously, eyes still fixated on the dying orange haze. He heard squelching steps behind him and turned, his gaze passing briefly between him and the others. "Relay my voice that the Host is to rest as well as they may for the remainder of this day. In ten hours we will move to return to the encampment. Bid Orostámo to aid you in speaking to all the heads. He should be with the healers. And send Fionildo and Menelluin to me if their hands are free. Tyelkormo will organize the watch for the perimeter when I find him, so do not concern yourself with that."
Vëantur seemed taken aback by the end of it. He opened his mouth but hesitated. He closed it, his expression unreadable as he bowed his head and turned on his heel, speeding off and calling out to one or two others who then followed in his wake. Makalaurë watched them go, mildly curious as to what the Commander intended to say.
"What is happening, Makalaurë?"
He turned to his left to find Curufinwë and Tyelkormo coming, both with hair matted to their heads, and the former with a very wet Telperinquar sitting on his hip.
A fond smile touched Makalaurë's mouth at the sight of the disgruntled expression on his nephew's face when so soaked and the way he hugged his arms around Curufinwë's neck. He opened his own arms wordlessly and, with a slight raise of his eyebrows, Curufinwë passed Telperinquar to him. He hefted the child onto his hip as the little one dug his hands into the plates of his armor. "He really is becoming a little too big for this," he said to Curufinwë with a wry grin and Curufinwë returned it with a nod.
He looked at Telperinquar. "You are wet, I see." Telperinquar nodded, gnawing on his lip with that gloomy look still firmly intact on his delicate face. Makalaurë chuckled. "You do not like it, hm?" The little one shook his head, the ends of wet strands swiping across Makalaurë's cheek. "Want to be warm and dry? Yes? Well, I believe Uncle Tyelko's hound would agree."
In a sight that Makalaurë wagered would have been amusing under more pleasant circumstances, everyone there, Yánadur included, turned to look down at said hound that was faithfully sitting on his haunches at his master's feet. Huan, panting and with his tail and tongue wagging, looked as though he had dove into the river and stayed there a little too long. His fur was sodden and dripping incessantly, his dark eyes practically covered by sopping strands. As if on cue from their collective regard, the huge dog gave a muffled bark and rose, giving himself a fierce shake, splatters of water landing on Tyelkormo and the twins, who both grumbled. Telperinquar's mouth finally turned up in a small smile and Makalaurë gave him a squeeze.
"See? Even Huan declares we must all dry off. In some time we will leave, but I must borrow your father for a while." He lightly jostled him. "May I?"
Telperinquar looked between him and Curufinwë, softly frowning. "I want to be with him," he whispered tentatively, as though fearful he might be saying the wrong thing.
Makalaurë glanced at Curufinwë and the remorseful expression peeking through his little brother's face. He looked back at his nephew, tilting his chin up with a finger. "He told you of your grandfather." It was not a question, but Telperinquar nodded anyway, his visage growing more pained at the reminder of Fëanáro. Makalaurë hushed him, rubbing his back. "All is well, Telepitya. But your grandfather left some things for me to do, and for a while I will greatly need your father to see them done. Will you lend him to me for that?"
Telperinquar nodded, burying his face in Makalaurë's dark tresses as his small body grew tense and he knew that the child was trying to hold back sobs of some nature. Though with a fleeting look in Curufinwë's direction, he was quick to believe that the learning of Fëanáro's death was still probably too new. He kissed the top of Telperinquar's head, running his fingers through the dripping strands of hair. "Thank you," he whispered in his ear, and he felt the child's arms tighten around him. From the corner of his eye he saw the approach of the two healers and passed Telperinquar back to Curufinwë, giving a final pat to his head. "All will be well, little one. We only must wait." He watched as Curufinwë gathered the child by his side and tilted his head in mild intrigue. "You face is rather empty of wonder at the rain, brother," he observed curiously.
Curufinwë shrugged, appearing unsurprised. "I smelled rain before your arrival at the perimeter. Though the actual might of the storm does leave me in wonder." He held Telperinquar close, retreating in his steps. "Summon me when I am needed, will you? If we are to soon make the return journey, he needs to rest."
Makalaurë nodded his dismissal, gesturing for Fionildo and Menelluin to approach when they neared, though they slowed to a stop a respectful distance away. The healers' attire was damp, but not as much as Makalaurë's own and it was obvious that they had erected some form of a shelter for them to attend the wounded under, or possibly more so to protect their provisions of remedies and healing supplies from winding up drenched.
"Highness," Menelluin greeted with a curtsey. Her chestnut hair was askew from its twist at the base of her head, thin strands clinging to her cheeks and neck, and she appeared more than a little exhausted. But she was alert enough as she looked at Makalaurë in question. "Commander Vëantur said we are to depart in ten hours?"
"Yes. What say you of the wounded? Is it well if they return to the encampment now or wiser if they remain here for a day or two longer? If so, I will arrange for a suitable escort to remain behind for their guard, but Fionildo will be accompanying the Host when we set out either way."
Fionildo raised an eyebrow. "I will?"
Makalaurë nodded. "Yes, along with four battle-healers of your choice, though a fair portion of the healers will remain with the Host. That is why I need your answer now. If the healing provisions need to be divided, it must be done on this side of the river."
Fionildo and Menelluin exchanged a glance. "Where do you go, Highness?" Menelluin asked, her forehead slightly creased.
"To learn what became of my lord brother and his delegation, of course." A palpable silence met the words and he felt the stirrings of pained dissonance behind him from his brothers, but he could not find it within himself to speak with them about Maitimo yet. He knew he needed to, but his fëa positively curdled at the very thought of it. "Your answer, Master Healers?"
Fionildo sighed, pulling his mottled green and grey cloak tighter around him. By the hefty broadness outlining his shoulders, it was evident that he at least wore the leather pauldrons and breastplate crafted for him beneath his cloak, though his forearms and legs were free of the cumbersome material. "Crossing the river again in the same manner as before will present no immediate danger to any of the wounded. Those confined to a bed handled the first crossing well enough. Only if the rain persists do I recommend that they stay here awhile before being transferred." Menelluin nodded along with his words. "The majority of those suffering a wound are able to walk and I wager that they would rather be among their families and friends than stay here, regardless of what we would say. We can divide the healers returning with the Host among those of the wounded who wish to go and can endure the journey without consequence."
"Very well. I leave it to you and Menelluin to organize a way to see the wounded safely back, should the rain cease. Tell me if you need any more additional aid than you have now and come to me in six hours with your plans. We need to begin readying the Host in how the banners will fly by that time." Both bowed to him in concession and he dismissed them with a soft gesture, turning to a silent Carnistir and Tyelkormo, the latter of whom was standing with an eerie stillness, one hand on the pommel of his sword and the other on the head of Huan, absently fondling the saturated mop of hair. Huan looked more like a contented cat at the moment, Makalaurë thought with an inward scoff. "Tyelkormo, Carnistir, walk with me. We need to assign a perimeter guard sooner than later, even if this storm really has staved off the threat. Yánadur." He turned to the Commander, who looked at him in question. "Stand at the ready for the Nelyahossë until Vëantur or I return, will you? The guards will most likely be pulled from them and the Tatyahossë since I want the Minyahossë ready to act as escort across the river."
Yánadur was silent at that and though an unsettled frown crossed his face at taking up the daunting task previously upheld by his colleague, he acquiesced with a nod of his head and departed without a response. Makalaurë was unconcerned by the resolute silence as he watched him go, aware that Yánadur had ever resorted to it when dealing with stress.
"What of the Pilindossë and Ehtyari?" Tyelkormo voiced. "Do not forget we have them."
He nodded, but shrugged uncertainly. "I do not know yet. We will figure something for them on the way. You two runts," he called to the twins. He ignored the identical astringent looks at the cavalier form of address. "Until we finish, be my voice for the Host and see to it that a substantial number of hunting parties are made ready."
Both nodded their understanding. "We will ensure that the worst of the meat is reserved for you," Telufinwë added with a glare.
Makalaurë glared back but resisted the bait. He instead held out a hand, a pointed look in his eyes. The twins stared at him nonplussed for a moment, their russet hair now darkened by the water to a deep red that would have been considered exquisitely beautiful under a brief flash of Laurelin light. But nearly at the same time, comprehension dawned in their eyes and both made a disgruntled face before Pityafinwë slid the strap of the haversack containing their father's armor from his shoulder. He passed it into Makalaurë's outstretched hand without a word.
Makalaurë hefted the satchel back onto his shoulder, feeling as though it weighed the heaviness of thirty ingots. Makalaurë turned to his brothers and ignored how their gazes were trained on the bulky haversack. "Let us go."
O = O = O
It was not until crossing the North-river that Makalaurë saw Vëantur, let alone finally spoke to him. He had seen neither hide nor hair of his father's Second since issuing his orders to him the previous day. Nor had he known whether to be troubled by the silence or simply believe that Vëantur's time had been fully taken up with alerting the Host, which was entirely possible considering how clustered they had all been along the riverbank. They made use of the banners in the same method as when first fleeing the encampment and Makalaurë's own banner was at the head of the Host. Right now it had the largest following of Noldor, still conjoined with the majority of people from his father's and Maitimo's banners who had selected it when dividing themselves. Probably for the sole sake of choosing someone in the limited time and he had merely been the next in line, he reflected somewhat sardonically. But his banner had taken the van of the Host while Tyelkormo's brought up the rear, the warriors of the five Companies of the Noldohossë interspersed among both of them to conglomerate as a single force to act as the vanguard and rearguard while those among the rest of the banners acted as a standard escort for the rest of the Host in the middle.
The Noldor following his own had already crossed, children being carried on shoulders and even smiling at the ride. Makalaurë remained behind to stand on the east-bank of the river so that he could monitor the crossing of those who were bed-ridden. They only numbered a few, fortunately, and were not in any immediate danger despite their confinement to a pallet. But nonetheless, the riverbed was rampant with white water that ran over the many rocks, tumbling and churning. They were using the same junction as before since it was still the narrowest point of the river, stretching out at just under fifty paces wide. It was also shallow enough – despite the storm – as to present no jeopardy that came with the rapids found both upriver and downriver. The deepest area of the crossing rose to mid-thigh while the average depth only submerged the Elves to their knees. But under this vision-obstructing dark and with the slickness of the rocks, Makalaurë felt doubly paranoid for those physically incapacitated when even he had stumbled several times over one the rocks.
All of the wounded were crossing together. Fionildo was standing a short distance away from Makalaurë on the same bank, observing the dozen or so litter-bearers just as sharply as he was. Two satchels were draped across his chest and he was so dripping wet from the chest down that it was obvious he must have kneeled several times in the river before reaching the east-bank. That, or he just plain and simply fell in. Makalaurë was just straining his ears to make out the sharp warnings Fionildo was issuing to the litter-bearers when Vëantur was there at his side on top of the smooth rocks.
His appearance was so sudden that Makalaurë looked at him with unadorned surprise, his heart beating just a little faster. Valar, he knew the Commander was a puissant guard and was proving to be a warrior of equal caliber, but would it have been that troublesome to make just a little noise when sidling up?
Vëantur raised his eyebrows in response, amusement allaying the grim cast of his eyes. "My apologies," he uttered, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Makalaurë made a face. "Oh, leave off."
The glimpse of a smile grew before fading away completely. He cocked his head to the side. "You do not walk with your banner?"
"No, but Orostámo carries it." He turned his attention back to those on the riverbed. "None of those wounded upon enquiry wished to remain behind when the rain ceased and I felt obliged to supervise their crossing over the river."
Vëantur hummed, his own eyes moving to observe the many Noldor wading through the water. The line of the Host melded into the darkness in both directions and the opposite bank of the river was only just visible, marked mainly by the meager starlight that had begun to finally peak through the dispersing clouds.
"Go with your banner, my prince," Vëantur eventually said. "Though we have two days of travel ahead of us yet, be at the van when we come to the encampment."
Makalaurë nodded, a dour frown twisting his mouth. "I know I should." He sighed, the stiff set of his shoulders dissipating a little bit as he thought about the encampment. "I pray their anger will not be too great when they see what damage there is."
"If they harbor any anger at all. The only real complaint they can possibly have is worn feet since you returned in time with warning of the Enemy. I would think any person would rather suffer the loss of their belongings than their own life."
Makalaurë grunted in concession to that, though he was still torn. He did not doubt it, but he did not wholly agree with it either, at least about the part that they would not complain. People loved to complain. But he kept that to himself, able to guess with a fair amount of confidence what Vëantur's response would be.
Vëantur looked at him as though waiting for a further reply, but when none came he seemed to shrug it aside, looking again at the Elves in the water. And just when Makalaurë was convinced his regard was fully focused on said Elves, the Commander turned to him again but with a sharper, keener regard. He twisted his jaw and it only took one glance in Vëantur's direction for Makalaurë to sense the debate warring inside him, but he kept his silence, willing to wait him out.
"If I may enquire, Highness," he finally said, "what foresight came upon you after Maitimo's departure? I thought little of your decision to remain in the fissure, for he was –" He grimaced. "–is your lord brother, and I would have done the same. But now seeing what came of it, I am curious if your decision was perhaps inspired by something more."
Makalaurë rolled a shoulder. "There is nothing really exciting to tell. It was Carnistir who requested to stay. I simply granted it, though admittedly to the relief of both Tyelkormo and myself when I refused to let him stay alone." He pursed his lips in consideration. "Though the silence drove me mad, I think now that I needed it for a while."
Vëantur frowned at him. "I know it is not my place, but is Prince Carnistir well? I cannot claim to know him as well as Yánadur does, but he has spoken very little of late." The frown deepened. "I only ask because it is rather unlike what I have come to know of him, even in Tirion."
A small smile quirked Makalaurë's mouth. "I know my brother, Vëantur," he reassured. "You need not be concerned." He turned his attention away from those in the river to regard Vëantur shrewdly. "On the other hand, have I earned your disapproval? You were ill-pleased with my orders."
Vëantur made a face, though it ended in a mild grimace. "Not disapproval, Highness. Your redirecting of the Host just caught me off guard. It was rather sudden. I simply wondered about the risk of returning so soon to the encampment."
"The Enemy had ten hours to come to the river," Makalaurë reasoned. "Why do you think I wanted us to wait so long? They could have come to the river in so short a time and the Host would have probably continued moving west if so, but they never showed. We would have been able to see their coming, especially since we saw the encampment's burning. But the storm chased them away for all we know, though I find it difficult to believe they would be so fickle with rainfall," he added in mild skepticism.
"Many are proclaiming that it may be a mercy of Manwë," Vëantur remarked idly, his lips pursed.
Makalaurë snorted. "Well, no offense to the Elder King, but I highly doubt any mercy of his unto the Noldor right now. Besides, I am far more ready to believe it to be a coincidence. Curufinwë said he smelled rain on the air while you awaited our coming from the mountains."
Vëantur frowned sharply at him. "I smelled nothing," he protested. "I was with him that whole time."
Makalaurë shrugged, not finding it within himself to even care. He turned around with caution, glancing down at the water lapping at his ankles to find any footholds to anchor his boots against. "If you remain here I will go to the van. I would rather be with my banner, as it is."
Vëantur nodded, stepping out of his way. "I will remain."
And they pressed on, though Makalaurë had to commend the fortitude of the Host.
Despite the Commander's reassurance, the wariness of his people's reaction to the encampment – or more so what was left of it – surfaced in Makalaurë's mind again two days later. Because Valar, he felt even his own chest tighten as he stood on the crest of a flat hill and merely observed all that had been done. They finally returned and, though the heavy storm clouds had dissipated, remnants of them still littered the sky with windows for starlight occasionally blown open. Scouts had been sent abroad and when assured not one creature of the Enemy had remained behind, Makalaurë led the Host across those last few acres of the Grey Fields. With his previously given consent, people filtered past him to the place they had temporarily managed to create a home out of, threadbare as it was. It was not long before Makalaurë joined them, his brothers close behind, who had met up with him shortly before the last stretch of the journey.
Despite the storm they had watched wreak havoc on this field, the encampment had not been saved entirely. So much had been burned and what had been spared the fire might as well have been dredged from a flooding, all thanks to the storm. The blackened remains of tents littered the ground, some floating in puddles of water and flecking it with specks that broke off from the charred material. A lot of bedding was destroyed, the wax of candles ruined, and newly crafted chairs and tables and divans lay in heaps of ashes, which had then been wetted into a sludge by the rain. But still, Makalaurë had to admit that the storm had come just in time and had actually saved much from the ravaging of fire. Many tents still remained erected, though they bowed under the weight of water that had puddled in the fabric and many of their pegs were scorched from the fire that had managed to lick at their wood before the rain had come. But with casual glances towards those shelters that had been burned only partially or completely, it seemed to Makalaurë that many of the Elves' personal belongings could maybe be salvaged, if not the homely comforts they had crafted since settling in the Grey Fields. That was good, at least.
The healing ward, however, was completely gone.
Makalaurë slowed in his steps to stare at the place where the massive shelter had been set up, a place that now looked so empty and bereft without that assiduously built structure. Though he had considered it wise beforehand, Makalaurë now felt nearly overwhelmed with relief that almost everything had been removed from the healing ward before abandoning it. All the tinctures, all the herbs, the dressings, the journals, the delicate tools, even the collapsible canvases for transporting water, all of it had been removed in advance. Bedding and their frames would have to be remade, new blankets hemmed and stitched, wooden bowls and cabinets and pitchers again carved, but everything valuable to the healing arts had been saved. But Valar….It would take so long to rebuild that shelter. So damn long. He now realized that those bursts of flame they had seen on the horizon must have come from the healing ward.
Makalaurë sighed, turning to Orostámo who stood just behind him with a white-knuckled grip on the shaft of his banner while he looked around at the ruin of the encampment. His Second straightened as he suddenly realized that his liege's attention was on him and Makalaurë offered a grim smile. "Pleasant sight, is it not?" He shook his head to himself, looking around at the encampment's remains again. He turned back to Orostámo. "Go and convoke the Council. They can find me at the command tent."
Orostámo stared at him dubiously for a moment before passing the banner into the hands of a neighboring guard. He gave Makalaurë a halfhearted bow before speeding away. He glanced back only once in question and Makalaurë nodded at him, waving at him encouragingly to go.
Watching him disappear into the mass of people, Makalaurë absently reflected that Orostámo probably had no idea of the level of authority he now carried. A Second's ultimate duty was to act as their liege's voice, and in the absence of Maitimo, Orostámo now had more authority than Sornion – if by some miracle Maitimo's Second was still alive – and more authority than even Vëantur, who had been his father's Second but was now technically just the Commander of the Minyahossë since Fëanáro had died and nothing more, unless he was appointed as something more. Makalaurë wondered how many people had concluded that, if even Vëantur himself had realized it yet, realized that most of his authority among the Host was now totally gone.
"I know not whether to feel relieved that half the encampment was saved or to think it a mockery of what we had before," Carnistir said behind him, looking around at the mess with clear irritation.
Makalaurë shot him a wry look, though really, he did not know how he should feel about this either. "Come now," he drawled, "let us prepare for the Council. You can grumble later. I know the Noldor are returning to their tents, but Orostámo will know where to find everyone. Pityo, Telvo," he called to the twins further in the rear of their small company, and both raised their eyebrows at him. "I need you with me. I know you would rather return to your own tent first, but we need to ready some maps."
"I will join you soon," Curufinwë interjected, who was again carrying Telperinquar on his hip, and who in turn was looking around with eyes more curious than unhappy. "I need to take Telpë to Canyadil and Riellotë. You two go ahead with Makalaurë," he said to Tyelkormo and Carnistir. "I will see what became of our tent."
Both nodded and Curufinwë broke off, heading towards the west rows of shelters while the others followed Makalaurë towards the center of the encampment where the command tent stood, which, surprisingly, was still wholly intact save for a few scorched pegs and brailing straps. The walk there felt like he was traversing through a swamp, though. Makalaurë looked down, uncertain if he was walking on grassy turf or treading through muddy water. The ground was just so sodden. Next to the command tent were the watertight crates stacked high and sturdily, and with the water still steadily dripping from their sides, it was a good thing indeed that they had made them watertight. Otherwise he could only imagine the damage that would have occurred inside.
They were within the green of the command tent when Huan abruptly bolted with a bark.
Makalaurë was taken aback and slowed his steps to a halt, turning to watch where the hound went. The others did the same and Makalaurë could almost chuckle at their flummoxed expressions. "Huan!" Tyelkormo yelled after him, his eyebrows drawn together as he followed.
Huan barked at Tyelkormo's shout but continued to run and kept on running until he came to a sliding stop, barking and barking. There had been quiet conversation from surrounding Elves that had their tents circling the command tent, but now several of those conversations ended while those Elves looked on with open curiosity at the hound so glibly making a raucous.
"Huan!" Tyelkormo called again more sternly, coming within reach of the animal, and this time Huan did end his relentless barking, though he did not turn to his master. Instead, he lowered his nose to the ground and began sniffing, weaving back and forth as he followed whatever scent he detected. Sniff, sniff, sniff.
Everyone stared.
"How can he smell anything in this wetland?" Makalaurë heard Telufinwë grumble. Pityafinwë snorted with a chortle.
Huan proceeded to follow his nose with Tyelkormo close behind, going in no particular direction and steering back in the direction he came more than once, paws splashing and kicking up water. Even Tyelkormo appeared confounded by the hound's behavior, but before long Huan moved himself to an area in the middle of the green that was not three steps away from the massive pit originally dug out for a communal bonfire and the dozens of crates of various Noldorin materials. Sniffing the area between the water-filled pit and water-soaked crates, he circled the spot three times before turning to face Tyelkormo and resolutely lowering himself on his haunches.
He barked.
They all stared.
Carnistir snorted. "Your hound is strange."
Tyelkormo leveled a mild glare on him before swiveling his eyes back to the dog, who now pressed on to bark unremittingly, dividing the sharp noises between yips and growls. He uncrossed his arms from where they had folded across his chest and approached his companion. "Now, now," he murmured, crouching down in front of him, his left hand absently going behind him to heft the bottom nock of the tauriyavan-bow so it would not dip into the water. Huan barked again and Tyelkormo lifted both his hands to run them over his head, tousling his ears and fur. "Tame your baying. What scent beckons you, my old friend, hm? What do you lead me to? Pray speak, my hunter. What…" His words in Quenya faded away as he without thought slipped into the speech of hounds, Huan grumbling quiet responses and lowering his head to butt it against Tyelkormo's chest.
Tyelkormo looked up at Makalaurë, his hands never ceasing their massaging of Huan's neck and shoulders. His face was a mask of plain bewilderment as he pursed his lips. "He says the scent is no smell," he said slowly, as though testing that if the words were spoken through his own mouth they would make more sense.
"How astute," Carnistir muttered.
Makalaurë ignored him, peering curiously at the dog as his tail flitted back and forth, swishing in the puddle that he looked very comfortable sitting in. "Is something buried there?"
Tyelkormo removed the glove from his right hand and lowered it to press his palm against the ground, submerging it in water up to his wrist. He moved his hand across the surrounding turf, around Huan and between his front legs since the hound still refused to move himself. His fingertips threaded through the grass, digging into the soil before he removed it completely, flicking droplets of water away. He looked back up at Makalaurë, shaking his head. "Most likely not. The ground is unturned."
Makalaurë sighed. "I agree with Carnistir. Your hound is strange." Tyelkormo offered a small half smile, rising to a stand and running a hand across the hound's head a few more times. "Come," Makalaurë went on, turning again to the command tent not thirty paces away. "Let us make this place ready." His boots squelched in the grass no matter how softly he tread, and he was suddenly very glad that the seal on his footwear was so impermeable. He heard his brothers squelching behind him.
Huan barked as they walked away and Tyelkormo turned back, whistling for him to come. Huan did not move, though he did jolt forward as though burdened by indecision on whether to follow or not. Tyelkormo beckoned him impatiently with his hand, Huan again listed forward, his ears perking, and Tyelkormo sighed in exasperation. "Stay there, then!" he called, turning again to follow Makalaurë, and Makalaurë resisted a chuckle at the indolent look in the hound's dark eyes.
Huan gave another half bark before rising from his haunches to bolt after his master, splashing all the way.
Pityafinwë muttered a curse as they entered the dark interior of the tent and, looking around, Makalaurë felt like echoing it, though he contented himself with a disgusted sigh. Everything was wet. It was nearly black in the darkness, the interior illuminated only by the pitiful amount of starlight filtering through the two ventilators. The ventilators that the rain had fallen heedlessly through after pooling on top of the slings of roof Makalaurë now realized. The material still bowed under the weight of water pooled there, low enough that Makalaurë was able to push against it with his hand. The swishing of water around their feet was loud and Makalaurë nearly tripped over some object lying sideways in the water. "Kindle a light!" he barked at whoever was behind him.
He heard someone depart and, though it took a while, the distant sound of a flint and steel came. A soft flame was carried back in by Carnistir; a candle in a sconce that must have been resting on one of the chests lining the wall. How it had not fallen into the water or become soaked from the storm was beyond him.
Everything inside was in disarray. Furniture overturned, many more sconces like the one Carnistir held scattered across the boggy ground, and many materials most certainly now ruined.
"Damn this flood," Telufinwë uttered in nearly the same vexed tone that Pityafinwë had grumbled his curse in. They hauled up an overturned table, one specifically crafted to lay out the broad mappings of what they had so far charted of Hísilómë.
"Check your displeasures, Ambarussa," Makalaurë warned absentmindedly. "I would far rather deal with damage dealt by water than fire. It is only on account of the water we have a table to lift upright at all."
Both twins hummed, using their bare hands to wipe away what bits of water stubbornly clung to the tabletop. "We have yet to contend with the damage done by the fire, so I would hold that conclusion until after," Pityafinwë said. He lifted his rucksack onto one end of the table with a clamor and, after a moment of hesitation, Makalaurë straightened a fallen chair and relieved himself of the weight of his father's armor. His shoulder twinged with a searing ache with every movement and he rolled it a few times, wincing at the jolts of pain it shot up his neck.
Carnistir was moving around the pavilion, searching for candles with dry wicks or just dry enough to burn. He found only four and lit them with his own, placing two on the table and the other three on another small table and two upright crates. The lighting was minimal at best, but it was enough. Truthfully, Makalaurë was surprised that the structure of the tent had not been displaced by the loosening of the soil the pegs and posts were pounded in.
He nodded towards the twins. "Draw out the maps of the Grey Fields, mainly those west of the North-river."
"You actually want to lay our only-drawn-once maps on this wet wood?" Tyelkormo pointed out.
"Lay down a cloak, then."
Tyelkormo shrugged, fingers swiftly untying his own since his in particular was doubly treated for oilskin. Both Pityafinwë and Telufinwë had their hands in the former's satchel, murmuring indiscernible words to each other as they filed through leaflet after inked leaflet. The specified atlases were unfolded and laid flat, Tyelkormo drawing arrows from his quiver to rest against the maps' corners so that they would not curl. Curufinwë ducked inside not a moment after bearing a brightly flaming torch, much to their pleasure.
"Mount it somewhere," Makalaurë said with an absent gesture of his hand.
There was little time for any further conversation before those who received the summons began to appear. The Council as it stood had been hastily assembled out of need, but until they devised a more fitting congregation of counsel, if they ever did, Makalaurë was content to uphold the current structure of its members. And he guessed that any changes they might make would be small since this Council was not too different in purpose or organization from the one in Tirion. Though answerable foremost to the Noldóran and to the Princes of the Noldor next, each division of the Host was issued their own chain of authority. Makalaurë knew their father had been aiming to replicate the structure of their society as well as they could afford, all the while accounting for the novelties of this peculiar Endórë.
Of the Noldohossë, Vëantur and Yánadur were present for the Minyahossë and Tatyahossë respectively while Captain Samnodil was present for the Nelyahossë in place of the missing Sornion. Likewise, Aldëon of the King's Guard was also present in substitute for Aráto. None voiced the significance of their particular presences, very well aware that their substitution just might be no temporary arrangement at all. A Captain each from the Pilindossë and Ehtyari were present, standing alongside Tyelkormo at his right. Present for the Host specifically were Fionildo of the healers and Master Yáravalto, the other Lambengolmo of high renown who moved to stand near Yánadur. Lords Laiquisyar and Sinyalvë, three masters of trade, and his and his brothers' Seconds also entered the pavalion.
"I will be swift," Makalaurë said come the moment the tent flaps closed behind the last to enter. What little discourse being quietly exchanged fell silent and he found himself the focus of many rapt gazes. "And I want any counsel you have to give to be swift also. We need to relocate this encampment and the sooner it is done, the better its purpose will serve. Even if we had Laurelin waxing in a neighboring field, I do not believe this excess water would dry in any acceptable time, and I would not subject one of the Host to such poor conditions if it can be remedied."
There was silence. He could tell by their awkward regards and exchanged glances that they had been caught off guard by the anomalous topic of conversation and Makalaurë made certain that his face was a careful mask of neutrality. It was not difficult to guess their thoughts. He knew what they had anticipated to be discussed. No, what they most certainly had been expecting to discuss and then plan with urgency. But by any recording of time, it had been over a week at the earliest and, though it made his heart twist in his chest, one more hour would not change the outcome of whatever had happened to his brother.
Tyelkormo was the first to stir and he folded his arms over his chest. "I can guess by the maps, but where do you suggest the Host moves?"
He tapped a spot on the sheepskin. "Here." The Elves listed forward to crowd in around the table. "A league or so west of the North-river, but south enough to mirror our present location near the rim of the Lake. I would send field surveyors abroad to appraise the agrarian and living durability for a host as great in number as we prior to settling there, but we need to at least determine an ideal location now."
"Why relocate, Highness?" Laiquisyar asked. "I know we must contend with the water, but the Host put much effort into building up some resemblance of a home here."
"An effort that took not even an hour to tear apart," Carnistir interjected before he could reply. "We fled because we did not know the limits of those Valaraukar, something we still do not know."
"My brother is correct, though I am of as much reluctance as you, my lord," Makalaurë conceded with a sigh. "With my own hands I helped with the construction of the healing ward that is now destroyed, built up Maitimo's and my own shelter that is now undoubtedly burnt. I know of the sweat our people gave for their labor, but these last days proved us unsafe here. Granted, with Moringotto out there we are probably unsafe anywhere, but I do not know why my sire decided upon this lot of the Grey Fields and, unless my caution is unfounded, I consider it at least a little safer in the fields beyond the river."
"I do not think he ever truly decided, Makalaurë," Yánadur said contemplatively. His head was tilted as he examined the map, but by the glaze over his eyes it was clear he was not actually looking at it. "Fëanáro impressed the need to chart the lands of our passage, but it is a massive undertaking in this foreign and vast Endórë, and even he was wary of doing so without settling in some manner first. The Host needed a place to call home for the time being. As of now, there was no differentiation between both sides of the river. As you said, the Grey Fields are habitable and we are near a boundless source of water. This field was as good to settle on as the next."
Makalaurë slowly nodded. "That makes sense. And I know it is farfetched to believe the other side of the river is any safer from Moringotto's reach than where we stand now, but there is a chance it may."
Curufinwë had been studying the map with an intellectual's intensity and he now shuffled forward to lean across the table, tapping at another point in the basin of the mountains. "If protection by distance with a barrier of water is what you are thinking, why not migrate south of the Lake? South and then west over the South-river? We would have not only two rivers but also the Lake between us and the eastern mountains." Several pairs of eyes, including Makalaurë's, turned down to the area he was addressing.
Makalaurë hummed as he studied it, his face twisting in uncertainty.
"Do not forget the southern mountains," Tyelkormo added pointedly.
Makalaurë glanced at him and then back at the map, slightly frowning. "You are right. Southwest is ideal, but if the Enemy attempts to accost us from the southern mountains we would be impeded by the West-river if we were forced to flee again. Or the East-river if we were to relocate southeast of the Lake. Whereas in the north, there would be no rivers to stop us. And we still have to fully scout those lands. Indeed, we have not even traveled the full length of the Lake's shores yet. Perhaps we will fortify our encampment south of the Lake in the future after we have scouted it, but for now, any uncharted wilderness can be dangerous to us, especially if the Enemy knows those lands while we do not. And trapped between a curve of mountains and two running rivers is not ideal when compared to remaining north of the Lake." He glanced up and garnered the attention of both Yánadur and Yáravalto, both who raised inquisitive eyebrows at him. "We need to also maintain quick access and contact with the Mithrim," he stressed. "Though I have heard many Noldor loath to say it, we need those Elves right now. At least until we locate other Sindar, wherever in Endórë they might dwell."
Yáravalto made a face, eyes focused on nothing in particular. "I still question if that name is adequate enough to call these Moriquendi."
"It is a name I believe they would and should better appreciate," Yánadur argued, giving his fellow loremaster a wry glance. "They acted as though we offended their highest fathers and mothers when we called them 'Moriquendi'."
"But they are."
"A debate for another day," Makalaurë mildly rebuked, though the warning for silence was bright in his eyes. "As I spoke, I want any counsel you have to give to be swift. Do any of you have a better field to relocate the Host? Or counsel against the one I elect?" There were negative answers all around, whether by a shake of the head or a small murmur, and Makalaurë gave a solid nod. "Very well. Though the Host will not begin to move until after we return, I want the people remaining to strike up everything that survived both the fire and storm while we are gone and to make it ready for transport."
Several eyebrows shot up. "Gone, Highness?" Sinyalvë ventured.
"Where do you think I intend to go? I have a brother to find."
Elder King: "Chief of the Valar of Arda was he whom the Eldar afterwards named Manwë, the Blessed: the Elder King, since he was the first of all kings in Eä." [HoME Myths Transformed X.378]