Name Index:
Curvo = Curufín, abbr. of Curufinwë
Chapter 9:
To Find a Corpse
Makalaurë had given his word to everyone that he and a contingent of others would journey to the appointed place. But he now had to acknowledge that saying that and actually doing it were two different things. But over the course of his own travelling to this alleged midpoint of the steppes, Makalaurë was taking no chances.
Fifty archer units accompanied them under the command of Tyelkormo, the majority of them taking point and acting as forward scouts. Fifty more warriors from each of the three Companies also came, Vëantur and Yánadur leading those of the Minyahossë and Tatyahossë respectively while Makalaurë took up the command of those from the Nelyahossë himself. And then all of the remainder of the King's Guard, now only thirty warriors strong, marched with them as well, bringing the number of the throng of Noldor to nearly three hundred people. Under the rather vehement counsel of both Vëantur and Yánadur, Makalaurë and his brothers made the journey on horseback, despite the limited horses the herd currently numbered. Though they did not really anticipate any new assault from the Enemy, the Commanders were adamant in their insistence that, should any misfortune happen anyway, the sons of Fëanáro would be able to flee with the speed of the fastest steed.
"We lost Maitimo already," Vëantur had justified unwaveringly. "Do not think we can readily endure the loss of another son of our sire."
Even if he had any desire to contend it, Makalaurë had no cleverly crafted argument to refute the logic.
Though he knew no one could truly imagine what had went so wrong that not one Elf of Maitimo's delegation returned, Makalaurë was determined to not let one more Elf find himself dead out on these forsaken steppes. They followed the same instructions originally given to Maitimo by the Orc-speaker: sixteen leagues northeast from the base of the Ehtelë Sirion Pass unto what the Orc-speaker dubbed Thangorodrim. Neither Makalaurë nor any of those he took counsel with could determine if those bearings were true or if Maitimo had been forced to veer off completely from them, but it was the only course they had.
Beyond the mountains and after crossing the first five leagues, Makalaurë had pulled Tyelkormo aside during one of their rest periods. "I want eyes far ahead of the van," he had said. "Send out the archer units that swept our retreat on the last day of the battle, when we were bringing Atar back to the mountains. We do not know what spoiled Maitimo's plan, but I have no intention of finding out myself. Cover the ground a furlong out left, right, and forward and tell the units to match our pace. I want to maintain the steady march with the same halt every four hours."
Tyelkormo had nodded, twisting around to peer at the van. "I can have them rotate to report in and send ten of the units a further furlong ahead to scout. No real harm in that since the trail of the delegation has gone cold. Not even Huan can scent any resonance of recent life on this particular route." The hound, fast as always by Tyelkormo's side and so massive in build that he reached the Elf's waist, had given a bark at his master's words that was followed up by several abject yips, his ears lowered and eyes cast down. Tyelkormo looked down at him with a wan smile, running his fingers over the hound's shaggy head. "If anything of a suspicious nature lies ahead of us, the scouts will find it. And if the delegation really did meet its end…well." He shrugged, but there was a stony look in his eyes. "Then they shall report the sighting of their bodies well in advance, at least."
Makalaurë had steadfastly returned his mind to the matter of safeguarding their band of Noldor. "Good enough for me. Tell a few units to remain behind, but organize the rest with Vëantur and your Captains. You have an hour."
They continued onward, league after league passing under their feet and the range of mountains behind them gradually disappearing from sight. The band of Noldor made their way across the vacant plains as a group, the warriors of the three Companies having arranged themselves in a ring around the sons of Fëanáro and the two Commanders with them. All the while those of the King's Guard presently led by Aldëon divided themselves among Makalaurë and his brothers with orders from Aldëon and both Commanders to not let one of them out of their sights. The archer units a furlong ahead of the van were still in sight, but far enough along that they were able to give ample warning of any impending attack. In this darkness they would see it quicker than any of the main troop. The ten units ahead were spread out into a line abreast, each unit of Elves fifty paces from their neighbor. And then ten additional units a further furlong ahead were scouting more diligently for even a morsel of a trace of Maitimo's trail. Another five units formed a similar screen to the rear, while those remaining of the Pilindossë and Ehtyari divided themselves to ride on either side of the command group on parallel paths over a hundred paces out.
Makalaurë could hardly deny that it was the one advantage they did have traveling across such a bare, rather featureless wilderness. That they were able to deploy guards across a wide space without the constant visual of them being obstructed by trees or other natural features. They could see any impending attack well in advance from an impossibly long ways out.
But Maitimo had had that advantage too.
His headache worsened.
Makalaurë glanced around, not turning his eyes forward again until they had briefly settled on each face of his brothers. It was a habit he had been doing more and more frequently, he realized. The twins were together towards his left, speaking softly to each other and Makalaurë's eyebrows drew together slightly as he wondered just what they could be discussing with such grave looks on their faces. Carnistir rode on his opposite side while Tyelkormo was further ahead with Captains Ehticánë and Ingorion of the Ehtyari and Pilindossë respectively.
And Curufinwë had remained behind at the Lake to lead the Host in their absence.
Valar, had that been a conversation.
"He is my Valar be damned brother!" he had protested vehemently, eyes bright with fury. "As much as yours! Sweet Yavanna, Káno, I walked every step of that distance no less than you – to and beyond the river and back! – haunted by the knowledge that my beloved brother who held me as a babe was most certainly dead! And now you dare bid me remain behind?"
Makalaurë had concentrated on taking a very deep, very steadying breath. He had removed them from the encampment a short ways to obtain some manner of privacy, particularly when it was easy to predict that his brother would not be pleased. But he still found himself slowly flexing his fingers with a rising sense of frayed aggravation. "Curvo," he had eventually replied with a forced calm to his voice, "someone has to remain here with the Host while we go to learn what became of the delegation. I would rather that you be with us, but one of Atar's sons needs to stay to lead the Noldor during our absence, to strike up the camp since we will be gone for at least three weeks."
"And I am elected?" His voice rose to an incredulous note, the anger in it not having dissipated in the slightest. "Have I no less right than you to retrieve the body of my brother? Than Tyelkormo or Carnistir? Than the twins? Pray speak why not one of them instead remains behind? Damn it all, Káno, he is my brother too!" he had ended on desperate note, the indignation in his face beginning to crack as glimmers of anguish forced their way to the surface.
"I know." His voice shook with the two words. "But one of us must remain and you have Telpë yet to consider."
"Do not dare use my son as the excuse to justify your bidding!"
"What do you want from me, Curufinwë?" he demanded with a wild, helpless gesture of his hands. "Someone must stay here and yes, I use the excuse of your son because he is the only excuse I have! Twice Maitimo bid me not to fail our sire now. Do not make me repeat his words to you!"
Those words had silenced any further argument from Curufinwë, but Makalaurë ventured it was only because neither of them wanted to delay the leave-taking of what amounted to a fair portion of the Noldohossë any longer than they already had. Makalaurë gave a small shake of his head at recalling the discussion, not particularly looking forward to having to face him again when they returned.
He was pulled from the recollection when he sensed a presence on his right. Vëantur, also mounted, was guiding his steed up alongside Makalaurë's. "I begin to understand why their prudence may have been foiled."
Makalaurë looked at him. The Commander appeared as stalwart as always, his bearing composed even if his face was grim, but he could see the apprehension in Vëantur's eyes that he most certainly felt dwarfed by himself. Though the calm appearance was countered by the filth that embedded his tresses of dark hair and dusted the plates of unblemished armor. The wind out upon these plains was vicious, the scent of burnt coal even stronger out here, and Makalaurë had lost count of the number of times he had impatiently swept whipping hair from his face or unsnagging it as it wrapped around the folds of his pauldrons. Not a glimmer of starlight shone and Makalaurë had to confess to being rather impressed that Maitimo had been able to keep his bearings on these aimless steppes, if he had in fact not unwittingly deviated from his course. But he presumed his brother had used Thangorodrim as a guide in the distance as they were doing now. For even with all the darkness and this misplaced dust obscuring their vision, those three peaks were always visible.
"Yes," Makalaurë sullenly answered. "That suspicion grows in my mind the further we see more changes in these lands."
"I know, and we still have four leagues to travel. If these boulders increase in number it is feasible they may have been ambushed."
Makalaurë could not disagree, however much he wished their observations of this place suggested otherwise. He glanced around him, more cursory than anything since he was now well acquainted with the sight of towering rock in ghastly formations, with no set pattern to how they littered the wide steppes. These flat plains were so empty, so barren of even the smallest resemblance of life beyond the trampled grass that sleep remained far from Makalaurë come the end of each day, if he would have even been able to sleep at all. Not that he was complaining about the grass or the occasional thicket of shrubs, even if both looked like they desperately needed water, but it was strange and felt almost wrong being able to see for leagues out and not lay sight on any copses of trees.
"If I may suggest, Highness," Vëantur went on after a discomforting silence. "Our venture is urgent, I know, but upon our return we should gather what information and knowledge we can of these steppes. It could be vital if there were ever any upcoming confrontations with the Enemy to be battled in this area of Endórë."
"It is being done as we speak." He gave a grim smile. "Those selected by my brothers are assigned the added task to take notice of any significant features of these flatlands – hills, cliffs, tors, foliage, streams, though a couple of those are probably laughable. I exempted Tyelkormo from the assignment, busy with leading the archer units as he is, but during each break those Elves go and speak to the twins and Carnistir what they have to report. And then during each main rest my brothers come to me so that we might compare all we have seen – or not seen, more likely – so we can keep all the observations as accurate as possible. When we return, I will set the mapmakers to chart what notes we have made under the supervision of those who actually made this journey. Or more so the twins. They surveyed the wilds of Hísilómë so well that I think Atar was planning to send them abroad beyond the mountains southward."
"Ah." A thoughtful look crossed his face as Vëantur harrumphed musingly. "I feel almost left out."
"You are not banned from our discussions of this place," he said mildly. "Yánadur has often provided his own input."
"He was high in the friendship of Fëanáro, though, and is held in close amity by his sons," he added with a discreet glance his way. "I did not know you spoke of charting the steppes when you gathered with your brothers."
"What did you think we spoke of?" Vëantur provided no answer, but his face transmuted into one of slight discomfort and Makalaurë looked at him knowingly. "Maitimo?" Vëantur looked away and Makalaurë gave a stiff nod. "Yes. Well. It is not a topic we exactly talk about. Every day of this last fortnight I looked to see if he was coming over the mountains."
The words were spoken just as stiffly, but again, Vëantur remained silent.
Come the next lengthier period to rest when Makalaurë wrapped himself up in his cloak and laid his head down on his haversack, he found himself staring up at the black sky. The endless drone of wind singing a baneful tune among the boulders was recurrently broken by the subtle sounds of those many guards on watch. The scouts' reports to Tyelkormo and then him echoed in his mind. They were nearly there. Two more leagues, and the landscape was worsening in its change. His heart began to pound. With a frustrated sigh, he rolled onto his side to find himself facing the twins who lay side by side. He did not know whose back was to him, but he deliberately shut his eyes against the sight of russet hair falling loose from its braid. Not like it made a difference when the image of Maitimo swam maddeningly in front of his eyelids anyway. Standing. Bleeding. Dying. His striking face twisted in the panic and then the despair he must have been feeling as he saw Elves one by one falling. Or maybe he had fallen first.
His heart pounded harder, mouth going dry. In a flurry of movement Makalaurë stood from the ground, clipping his sword to his belt and walking away. Like the five times before when he should have slept, he spent the time circling the perimeter to speak with the guards on watch.
O = O = O
When Makalaurë saw the scout running towards them he grew so lightheaded that he gripped the pommel. A solid pit forming in his stomach, he held up a hand to bid the company halt and, the cadence of their steps slowing to a stop, he watched as Tyelkormo up ahead bent down from atop his steed to hear the words of the archer. He saw their lips moving, saw the archer gesturing up ahead. Just as the Elf sped off again in the direction he came from, Tyelkormo twisted around in his saddle, finding Makalaurë's eyes.
"Just ahead."
Makalaurë drew in a shallow breath that came out shuddering. From the corner of his eye he saw Vëantur and Yánadur exchange a glance, but he did not dare turn his eyes to anyone. Not even Tyelkormo. He whipped his gaze away to stare into dark void that loomed ahead between arbitrary columns of spiking rock. He gestured towards Vëantur.
"Forward!" the Commander lightly called, just loud enough to carry.
Onward they went, not more than a furlong. Tyelkormo had ordered torches to be kindled halfway there and, when the first glimmer of armor was seen reflecting the light as it fell within range of the torches, a deadly silence fell over the warriors behind the van. They had been silent already, but it now swiftly transmuted into something chilling, something that Makalaurë could feel at his back. He saw Vëantur stiffen beside him and heard the twins' quick inhales of breath. Those bearing torches moved on ahead and, body by body, the field of corpses was illuminated.
Hundreds lay in a haphazard heap. Countless Orc carcasses, already ghastly and horrid to look at, now more so when dead. But up towards the end of the field, a spear jutted out at a low angle from the ground, the butt most likely caught and anchored between two fallen bodies. A bloodied pennant hung from just below the spearhead, the Star of Fëanáro barely visible beneath the dark streaks coating it. But littered among all the carcasses of Orc were Elves, their bodies strewn in whatever manner they had died on top or beneath Orcs or each other. Elf after Elf, lying immobile and some with lifeless eyes still open, their armor speckled and splattered with dried blood. Elf after Elf, one after another.
They were all dead.
All dead.
Makalaurë stared at the slaughter, motionless. As much as he had dreaded this sight, as much as he had expected it since their flight across the river, as much as he had gone to prepare himself to face it these last two weeks, it still hit him hard. Like a weight slammed into his chest and knocked all the air from his lungs and then some. His heartbeat was fast, but it hurt. Valar, it hurt. Like the muscle forgot how to work properly, and for a moment his heart was beating so erratically that he wondered if it would fail him completely.
He did not realize that he was gripping the pommel of his saddle until it slowly filtered through his brain that his fingers ached. "Find him." The words came out in a coarse whisper, for even his tongue did not seem to want to work properly. Everything felt one step removed. "Find him!" he said louder, and he did not know what it was within him that was holding him together. What it was that immediately took over after being faced with a bloodbath such as this. What it was that could keep him calm and collected when all he wanted to do was scream.
Carnistir was the first to shake himself from the motionlessness that had settled over his frame. Makalaurë could not see his face, but his brother flew from his saddle, moving towards the rear of the mass of bodies. His action made other warriors erupt into motion and even Vëantur shook himself, forcibly masking off the horror that had briefly shown in his face. Orders fell from his lips and Elves moved to obey them, running out to take up positions among the many rocks while others went among the many bodies, treading lightly. The twins and Tyelkormo dismounted too, moving as fast as they could in the dark. Makalaurë forced himself to do the same.
Though when he landed on his feet, he straightened and turned away, walking a few steps in no particular direction. He tangled his fingers in his hair and he tilted his head up, staring up between the peaks of the rock towering around them. There were swirling wisps of dust blowing up there, illuminated only by the meager light of the torches below. The swirls seemed to blur and it took him a moment to realize that it was his eyes that grew blurry. He blinked, trying to suppress the wailing mess he could feel rising to the surface, right up his throat. His chest tightened. His breath quickened. His body felt heated. Valar, he thought he had been ready for this. But his pounding heart was still hurting his ribs, or maybe it was the heart itself that ached. No. Just…No. No. No. His throat closed up and he distantly noted that his scalp hurt from the way his fingers were gripping the strands. He could not think. His eyes burned and for a moment he thought he would break down here and now. But he could not. Quaking, tenuous control was all he had.
Fraying though they were, he pulled on the strings of his will and turned back around, forcing himself to walk among the bodies. He felt himself grow faintly sick, his fëa twisting with illness as he looked, actually looked at the Elven corpses. Not because they were dead in truth. He had seen killed Elves before. Valar, he had killed Elves himself. But this….Their bodies must have been left out here from the moment they had been killed over three weeks ago. Already they had started to decompose. Grey skin had sunken far, the sharp angles and structure of their skulls grotesquely protruding beneath the sallow skin. And the skin itself of the face and neck and hands had blistered with parts flaking off at heavy bursts of wind. He dreaded to imagine what had become of the body beneath the attire. Listless and almost colorless hair was fraying and breaking like brittle twigs of hay. Muscles had disintegrated to reveal nothing but a skeletal structure and more than a few teeth and black, frail nails had fallen out. And the Orc carcasses were even worse.
Even as he observed all this, an overwhelming stench hit his nose and Makalaurë had to cover it with his hand unless he heaved then and there. Rotting. All rotting. Elf after Elf he passed, gingerly stepping over them, and even as the turmoil of grief and rising disbelief churned in him, an impossible fury rose up as well. Hot fury at the blatant ignominy given to each and every one of these Noldor, left where they had been slain to just rot away. Not buried, by Manwë, not even burned! They had become so decomposed that he could barely recognize the faces beneath the helms, some covered in blood and all of them with sunken eyes or, in the case of those who had died with their eyes open, empty sockets. A memory tapped the back of his mind, one of hunting with Maitimo and Tyelkormo in the vast forests west of Tirion. They had come across a fawn long killed by a predator, flesh torn off from its hind legs and flanks, and even that creature had looked healthier than these Elves now did. He could not remove his eyes from the faces of the Elves, the people who had gone with his brother in good faith.
A sudden sense of rising horror dwarfed him. Oh Valar. How would he be able to stomach the sight of his own brother?
Images popped up mercilessly in his mind and he nearly stumbled on the next corpse. Both alarm and then dismay washed over Makalaurë as he stared at the Elf, unmoving.
Aráto.
The guard captain was barely recognizable, but just enough of his features remained distinguishable. And the sword specially crafted for him rested alongside him in a way that bespoke of it having fallen from his hand before he himself had collapsed to the ground. That sword Makalaurë would recognize anywhere. He could see that the Captain had died from a strike to the throat, that an Orc had managed to land his blow in just the correct motion so that it slipped between the narrow gap of his helm and right pauldron. The gash was thick and deep, now gaping wide, and it was clear that the Elf had bled out quickly. Makalaurë wondered what had been the last thought running through Aráto's mind as he lied there, staring up at the fighting going on around him, gargling on his own blood.
Great Manwë….
"Vëantur! Yánadur!"
The shout burst from his chest rigidly as he continued to gaze at Aráto, unable to remove his eyes. Among the many cautious steps over bodies, he heard two sets hasten towards him and looked up as the two Commanders came near. Both their faces were unreadable, but a heavy shadow haunted their eyes.
"Has he been found?" Makalaurë asked quietly. Damn it all, why could he not stop the tremor in his voice?
Yánadur gave a short shake of his head. "Not yet. Several are searching, your brothers among them. I was about to join them."
"We found Sornion," Vëantur added tonelessly, distress entering his face for all that he tried to subdue it. "He looks to have been hit on the underside of the ribs with one of those axes Orcs are prone to wield. And he was almost decapitated."
Makalaurë stared at him. "Almost?"
He nodded, a sickly look twisting his expression. "It was attached by a length of flesh at the base of the neck."
Makalaurë closed his eyes as he turned away, taking a deep breath and trying to quell the bilious taste that was rising in his throat.
"What should we do with them, Makalaurë?" Yánadur asked to his back. "We cannot leave them like this. It is a disgrace enough that they were made to rest among these carcasses."
Makalaurë nodded, casting a brief glance around at the countless bodies strewn between the walling of boulders, the bed of rocks covered everywhere in dried blood. Over sixty Elves slain, but what must have been well over a hundred Orcs had to have been slain with them. He felt a dark swelling of grim pleasure at that observation. He turned back to Vëantur and Yánadur, folding his arms rather stiffly over his breastplate. "We cannot bring them back. Not like this. Even enwrapped in a shroud as we had done with my grandfather's body, I would not want their last memory of them held by their families or friends to be as they look now."
Vëantur nodded, looking down at Aráto. He grimaced. "I agree. It is rather baffling that no carrion birds fly above us, let alone feast on their flesh. Or that bugs have not either."
"Or mayhap it is a mercy of Manwë," Yánadur murmured, though there was little conviction in his voice. "It pays tribute to this new lifelessness of the steppes, anyway." He focused on Makalaurë. "Have you a solution?"
Makalaurë paused, frowning in thought. He took a deep breath. "From each Elf take up the helm, sword, and shield." He glanced down at Aráto whose body was bereft of a shield for some reason. Makalaurë flitted his gaze around the surrounding ground, but it was nowhere in the vicinity either. "Or the breastplates of those without a shield. And be gentle when working the buckles. Attempt your best to identify each warrior beforehand, for the swords we will return to their kinsmen. If an Elf came to Endórë with no family, then the sword will be given to their friend close enough in heart to claim it, and the helms to the coffers until we may honor them in a more honorable fashion." His voice lowered. "The shields and breastplates we will gather and bury them in place of their bodies upon our return. Of their remaining armor and weapons, take what can be salvaged for melting and recasting if they are too damaged to reuse."
"And what of their bodies, my lord?" Vëantur's voice was just as soft.
"They will be burned." He said the words resolutely, even though it tasted bitter to say it. "They must be. But not with the filth of Orc." He looked around briefly and gestured towards the way they had come about two hundred paces back, to where the horses patiently stood where they had been dismounted, shaking their manes or twitching their tails. "Again, be gentle, but take up each body and remove it beyond the steeds. In two rows lay them shoulder to shoulder, interlocking the first with the second row at their heads. I would we could give them a proper ceremony, but my brothers and I will kindle the fire together."
There was a noticeable pause. "What of Maitimo?" Vëantur asked, his face troubled. Makalaurë looked at him and Vëantur winced at whatever he saw in his face. He held up both hands warily. "I know what you think, Makalaurë," he went on with open sincerity, and not a little grief. "That it would be unjust to bear him back to the encampment while we leave the others to burn on this Eru-forsaken steppe. But bring him back, Makalaurë. Veil him in a cloak until we may weave him a proper burial garment. His body may be stiff, may even break during the return journey, but bring him back. So many people loved him, even those who had marched under another's banner. And the band of Noldor who marched under Maitimo's was the greatest in number among the Host, second only to Fëanáro. And the Elves who marched with Maitimo and Fëanáro combined made up well over half of the Host. We were left not with the body of your father to honor. Let us bestow the honor unto that of Maitimo's that we could not give your sire."
Makalaurë was shaking. And he knew the two of them could see it. He nodded, his jaw clenching. "Give the orders," he said roughly. "And find him. I want no one to handle him but myself and my brothers."
"Of course, Highness," Yánadur intoned, glancing sidelong at Vëantur. Both of them gave small bows before turning around and walking away, exchanging quiet words that Makalaurë was too clouded in mind to even bother to try and make out.
Makalaurë looked down again at Aráto's nearly unrecognizable face and his ravaged neck. With a quick gathering of resolve, he knelt, removing the gauntlets from his hands. He reached out, hesitating with a grimace before quickly working his fingers under Aráto's chin to undo the buckle of the helm. Skin flaked off with every brush of his knuckles and the flesh was so cold that nausea nearly twisted his stomach all over again. The strap loosened, he began working the helm off his head as gently as he could. But it was a snug fit and more than once he had to exert a substantial amount of effort. As he went to remove it from his head, Aráto's body was so stiff that it rose with it instead of bending at the neck, but the helm came loose and the body fell back to the ground with a light shifting of dust. He released a breath he had not realized he had been holding.
Wiping the light perspiration off from his brow, he reached for the sword and unclipped the scabbard from Aráto's side, sheathing the bloodied blade. All the weapons and armor returning would have to be cleaned before anything else, but that arduous task would be argued about later. Slipping the hilt of the sword into the helm, he laid both aside, moving next to the strappings of the breastplate. This took far longer to remove and proved to be far more difficult. But it came free with a jerk, dust falling from its sides that had been gathered from three weeks of wild winds. Makalaurë almost dry heaved at the sight of a chest cavity, the structure of the ribs having caved in. By the grace of Eru, Aráto had not deserved this end. Not this wanton disregard of the body that had housed his faithful fëa for over two Ages.
Squashing down the horrid feeling that he was being discourteous by removing his eyes from Aráto, Makalaurë stood, breastplate clasped in one hand and the sword and helm in the other. Just as he was raising his eyes to give a cursory glance around, he saw his Second not far away, obviously meaning to bypass him completely. "Orostámo!" he lightly called. The fair-haired Elf came to an abrupt halt, the dark gold of his tresses bespeaking of his Vanyarin heritage, and he cast a questioning glance at his liege. Makalaurë gestured him forward with the sword.
"Has he been found?"
Orostámo shook his head, looking as though he had just endured a long battle himself. "Not yet, Highness. I will join the search if you will it of me."
It was then Makalaurë took true notice of the sword, helm, and shield that his Second carried, the shield bearing a great fracture on its base. To make such unyielding steel bend it must have been struck with a mighty blow, and Makalaurë distractedly wondered if the shield had saved the Elf to fight a while longer or if that had been the blow that ultimately led to his being killed. He gestured towards the armaments. "Whose do you carry?"
Orostámo looked down at them. "Illúmëon." He looked away, gnawing at his lip. "He was but a spearman, marching under the banner of Tyelkormo, but we camped many a night together during our crossing of Hísilómë. I will return for the body after placing these next to my own haversack."
Makalaurë nodded. "I would that the arms of each warrior be borne back by one who knew him, but to Tyelkormo give the shield upon our return the encampment." Orostámo raised an eyebrow and he gave a firm nod. "We have not the time for it to be explained to all one by one, but you will see."
Orostámo bowed at his words, the movement somewhat hindered by the extra armaments, but he walked on towards the way he had been going, towards the way Makalaurë now saw many if not all of the Elves who had accompanied them had dropped their previsions and satchels before spreading out among the field of dead. But when he turned further, he nearly startled with a leap as he realized that Aldëon was standing silently not two steps behind him.
Taking a quick gasp for breath, he nearly berated the Elf but held his tongue when he saw the temporary commander of the King's Guard staring down at the decaying body of Aráto with empty eyes. Makalaurë relented with a sigh, but then wondered what Aldëon had come to him for in the first place. He regarded him with a look of both hope and dread. "Have they found him?"
Aldëon also shook his head and Makalaurë grit his teeth at the sudden surge of frustration. By the mallet of Aulë, what was taking so long? His brother was not that particularly difficult to distinguish from the others.
Aldëon seemed to sense something of what he was feeling since, with partially widened eyes, he stepped back with a bow of his head. "Forgive me, my prince," he said contritely. "I fear my mind to be unfit for a warrior at present."
Makalaurë sighed again. "I am no better," he muttered. With a thoughtful glance he looked from Aldëon to Aráto and back again. His eyes softened. "Would you bear his body to the grounds?"
Aldëon looked back down at Aráto and nodded, swallowing thickly. "Pray let me," he whispered.
Makalaurë stepped back. "Pray honor him as well by bearing his arms back to the encampment," he added with a subtle raise of the sword, helm, and breastplate. "I have those of my own brother to bear."
Aldëon finally looked at him, eyes swimming with poorly concealed misery and his brow furrowed over them. "None would fault you if you looked for Prince Maitimo, Highness. For all that he is –" He grimaced. "–was our uncrowned king, he was your brother. No one would blame you."
"I know."
A loud moment of silence followed before Aldëon took the items from Makalaurë's hands, slipping the sword in the opposite side of his sword belt, buckling the helm around the cross-guard of the sword and somehow manipulating the guige of his own shield so that the breastplate was strapped to his back alongside it. Makalaurë shifted away as the guard called to another of the King's Guard to help lift the body.
Making his way back to the mounts, he distractedly patted his own on the flank before going beyond the steed to the five Elves that had so far been laid down shoulder to shoulder. He stood off to the side, gazing at the face of each Elf now relieved of a helm. He thought he recognized one or maybe two of them, but it was just too difficult to tell anymore.
Even as he had the thought another Elf, lifted by the feet and shoulders, was delivered by two other Elves and laid in his proper place. Makalaurë could barely recognize him either. Shame filled him that he could not, even though he knew to feel shame at it was irrational. But it ate at him nonetheless. He lifted his eyes and narrowed them in the dark, watching the many Elves moving around and he wagered half were spread out among the many boulders to keep guard, some even standing sentinel on top of them, bows held at the ready with arrows nocked. The other half was moving among the massacre, their steps slow and prudent, going about their tasks in utter silence.
One by one, Elves shorn of their armaments was delivered to the growing mound, laid alongside another corpse. One by one, Makalaurë looked upon each face as he was laid, gut twisting with each new body.
None of them were Maitimo.
He had no clue how he would react when it finally was.
His heart began pounding again. Twenty-two of the first row of thirty were laid out and, when he cast his eyes up, he saw five more being carried over, barely visible in the cast of the torches held up by those standing at intervals to light the way between the mound and the mass of corpses. He watched as Vëantur and Yánadur both carried a body between them on a dust-laden cloak, a body that Makalaurë presumed and then confirmed to be Sornion as they neared. Makalaurë felt his stomach curl at the sight of his head almost completely separated from his shoulders. Morbid curiosity made him wonder how the two of them had transferred Sornion on top of the cloak without the rest of the neck tearing, but he banished the thought. The slain Commander's shield, helm, and sword were carried by Vëantur in the same manner as Aldëon had donned Aráto's. And as they laid the Elf down at the end of the line, Makalaurë wondered if Sornion had fought by Maitimo's side. If he had valiantly, if futilely guarded his brother's life unto the end of his own. If Maitimo had seen him fall. If Maitimo had faltered at the death of his faithful Second.
Makalaurë ran both hands over his face, which were shaking again, curse it all. "Have they found him?" he forced out.
Vëantur and Yánadur straightened before removing themselves to stand near Makalaurë, the latter turning to him with a forlorn look. "No, Makalaurë. Not yet."
Makalaurë released another frustrated sigh, a sense of incredulity overcoming him as he bit out a curse. "What mockery is this? Had they shredded apart his body or something as to leave nothing to find?"
Yánadur rested a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. "Be calm. We have only gathered half of the Elves. Your brothers are searching along with many others, but there are endless carcasses of Orc to cast aside. Sornion was found beneath two of them."
Makalaurë wearily nodded, unable to speak. Valar, he could not do this.
Silence fell and by some mutual agreement they maintained it, whether out of difficulty to even speak or out of respect for the Elves being carried over and lowered onto the hard ground. Makalaurë wanted to believe it was the latter. It was the least these Elves deserved. The first row of thirty Elves ended and the second one began, mirroring the first with their heads resting between each other's. Thirty Elves, then forty, then fifty. A disconcerted knot began forming in Makalaurë's stomach and more than once now he saw Vëantur and Yánadur exchanging troubled glances.
"Where is he?" he whispered, eyes alighting on each Elf as he was gently placed on the ground. He did not need to look at the putrefying face to know. Even if the tresses were as dried and decaying as all the others, the hue of Maitimo's copper hair stood out as starkly as the torches did. And every person knew by now to call him the moment he was found.
Neither Vëantur nor Yánadur echoed the latter's earlier words of reassurance. Both looked from the mound to the field of littered bodies, but, almost as one, their eyes sharpened on something in the murky distance and Yánadur reached out clumsily towards Makalaurë until his hand found his upper arm. "Makalaurë –"
Makalaurë was already turning to look. The twins ran towards him, jumping in and out of the dark with each new cast of torchlight. They carried a shield and a helm and, when they came to a stop in front of him, Makalaurë did not need to even hear their words to know who they belonged to.
"We found his helm and shield," Pityafinwë said, his voice strained. "They were beneath Orcs at the van."
Makalaurë stared at them, dismay growing as he studied the pieces of armor. The shield, emblazoned with his brother's three-star branch insignia, was blackened and sullied with black streaks of blood. But the buckles of the retaining strap were warped and broken, as though they had been stretched beyond the point of the leather's endurance. That alone told enough to Makalaurë, but the helm….He felt his chest tighten as a wave of cataclysm washed over him. The helm told the story well enough. On the right side were three minor cracks sprouting from a rent in their center where the metal had fractured. Makalaurë could only imagine the power the blow needed to have dealt such damage. A strike to the head. Had it ended his life or encumbered him just enough for that fatal swing of a blade to fall?
"Makalaurë!"
His head snapped up at the near yell, realizing that he had gone to drown out his surroundings again, and found himself faced with a distraught pair of eyes. "He is not here," Telufinwë stressed, expression open with anxiety.
Makalaurë stared at him. "What?" he demanded after the words had filtered through his brain. He shot a sharp look at the two Commanders only to find their faces mirroring his own.
Both the twins shook their heads. "His shield and helm were all we found," Pityafinwë went on, looking down at the helm he clenched in his hands. "Nor could we locate his sword. But he is not here. All the Elves have been removed and brought hither, or are yet being carried. But Káno…Maitimo is not here!" he ended on a mildly desperate note.
Makalaurë continued to stare at them, eyes growing wider, before he shot his gaze into the distance, squinting his eyes as he willed them to see in the dark. There were many Noldor still going about, guarding or moving among the Orcs. But two silhouetted shapes, Tyelkormo and Carnistir he presumed, were moving swiftly among the bodies, their steps and even leaps over the corpses frantic and hurried. All the Elves still in the field were searching with an urgency that they had before been without, shoving Orc bodies aside or rolling them over.
Not here.
"What…."
His eyes flew from the twins to Vëantur and Yánadur and back again, a newfound anxiety sprouting at the horror he saw growing in their eyes that matched the same that was rising in his own chest. Almost against his will, Makalaurë's eyes rose to gaze further into the distance, out to where those three towering peaks remained obstinately visible in the darkness.
Oh Valar….
Oh Eru, no.