Hells of Iron

by chiliadicorum

*canonical gap-filler* Tolkien left a huge gap after Fëanor died. What happened to Maedhros in Angband after he was captured? What became of the Noldor and Maglor as their newly appointed ruler and of them abandoning Maedhros? Behold the missing tale. (also feat.: Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufín, Amrod, Amras, some Sindar, plenty of Noldor, and many others)

14. He is Alive

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Chapter 14:
He is Alive

The sixty corpses had been arranged as Makalaurë bade with as much care and deference as could be given in their frail and decomposed states. The mound was ready, the bodies stripped of all armor and arms and shrouded in the cloaks they had worn across the steppes. No tinder was needed since the decaying conditions of their bodies would prove to be kindling enough. The host of warriors was congregated in a crescent assembly on the eastward side of the line of corpses, facing to the west, as though acting as a final barrier between the fallen Elves and the horror that lay eastward, as well as the scattered carcasses of Orcs, which they refused to handle any more than necessary. And standing there, watching the sons of Fëanáro arranged themselves around the mound, each with a torch in hand, many felt a depth of impotence at the poor farewell they were resorting their kin to.

Coromindo was one of them. He stood towards the back of the assembly, his vision of the mound impeded by the many warriors standing ahead of him. His body was stiff but still as he stood at attention, yet he could not help grounding the butt of his spear into the bedrock of dirt. Once again, he saw the restless shifting of the Elf beside him from the corner of his eye and turned to the other half of their archer unit with more than a little exasperation.

"Stop fidgeting," he hissed, barely moving his lips.

Alcarion made a face at him but nonetheless stopped his fidgeting. "Leave off. You know I mean not to."

"If I can notice others can as well, so be still."

"Well, my apologies, high spearman, but should we not be leaving?"

Coromindo turned an incredulous glare on him. "How can you be so heartless?"

"Not heartless!" he refuted in a harsh whisper. Alcarion's eyes were bright as he wrung his hand on the pommel of his sword. "I must now go tell my cousin that her husband is dead, but Prince Maitimo is missing and every hour more is a loss to his rescue."

Coromindo sighed wearily, but there was a frustrated tick to his jaw. "Three weeks have passed, Alcarion," he murmured, turning his eyes back to the mound. "Mere hours mean little in the face of such time. You know that. For as much as you and I would obsess about it, I can only imagine the thoughts plaguing my lords when Maitimo is their brother. If the princes can muster the discipline to postpone our going after him so that we may honor the fallen, then so can you, however long it will take." He saw the faltering look of Alcarion's expression and relented, sighing once again, this time in commiseration. "I would rather that we were going after him without delay as much as you. Believe that, if anything. And I am certain it will be done after we have paid witness to the burn of the mound."

He saw Alcarion open his mouth to speak from the corner of his eye, heard him draw in the breath to do so, but Coromindo was startled at the sudden smack to the back of his head. A hard one. He winced away, whipping around and finding himself face to face with Captain Ehticánë and he froze. Alcarion had the same look of alarm on his face and Coromindo realized that he must have been smacked on the back of his head too, but Ehticánë was a Captain of the Ehtyari, his own Company, and Coromindo felt the weight of his hard gaze doubly so. Ehticánë bore a cold face, his eyes swiveling back and forth between the two and Coromindo cringed, turning again to face the mound.

"Both of you be silent," the Captain warned in a sharp whisper as he leaned in between them. "Have you no respect for your fallen kin?"

Coromindo resisted shifting on his feet. "Pray pardon us, Captain. We but spoke of the delay to commence the search of Prince Maitimo but agreed to have patience." Alcarion gave a short nod, eyes trained forward.

Captain Ehticánë was glaring at him. Them. He could feel it. He could not see it, but he could feel it.

"See that you do," he said after a pause, a tad less severe. "But keep yourselves calm. I held discourse with Prince Tyelkormo on the matter and it would be foolhardy to march unto the Enemy with only the amount of warriors we presently number. All of the Noldohossë will be needed and we must return to the Host to inform the families of the fallen, as well as so Prince Curufinwë may be made aware of all that has happened. Only then will it be wise to march out as swiftly as we are able."

Both of them were silent, but Coromindo did notice Alcarion trying to catch his gaze. He met it briefly, too well aware of the Captain's proximity. "Oh," he finally murmured, mostly for the sake of saying something. "I knew not such discussions were underway."

"I am confident many things have been spoken between our princes, but such is neither my concern nor yours. And Prince Tyelkormo spoke the little he did to me because I sought his instruction of what we were to do. Delaying the search of Prince Maitimo may be an error in your minds and mayhap many others, but they do the honorable thing."

"It is a mild wonder to me Makalaurë did not lift his voice in song for this," Alcarion mused in a murmur.

Coromindo looked at him. "Perhaps he awaits the burial of the shields to do so, so that all of the Host may hear."

Alcarion raised an eyebrow. "That is the reason for the order to take up the shields?"

"Yes," Captain Ehticánë answered impatiently. "Now be silent the both of you. No mutters should be passing between any two of us."

Coromindo winced again. "Understood, Captain."

No further words were exchanged, though Captain Ehticánë remained standing still and silent behind them. A solemn hush fell over the assembled host of warriors. It had been that way before, the eerie silence of the steppe broken only by the shuffling of bodies as they moved to position or shifted where they stood, but as all eyes watched the five present sons of Fëanáro arrange themselves around the elongated mound of corpses, not even the muffled sound of a boot scraping across the ground was heard.

Each prince bore a torch in hand, the flames dancing wildly in the winds that were still blasting harshly across the plains, nearly blowing out on more than one occasion. But their torches along with the many held aloft among the multitude of warriors were the only illuminations in the darkness of the gales still knitted overhead, and their ominous flickering lent no favor to the gruesome sight of the corpses. It only made them look more horrific to the eye and Makalaurë again felt a swell of anger and shame that this deplorable fashioning of a burial was to be their end. That they would be burned, unadorned with a reverential shroud or honorable treatment. That not even their families and friends could look upon them one last time.

Makalaurë finished his slow walk around the corpses, having put each face to memory no matter how ghastly and rotten they now looked. His brothers had followed to shroud the bodies in the cloaks they had died with, something Makalaurë had done personally with Sornion, whose last bit of neck had finally torn under the pressure of how he had been laid. He now stood at one end, Tyelkormo on the other and Carnistir and the twins interspersed along the middle. He supposed that he should speak some words, to just say something, anything. But as he gazed along the row of five dozen bodies, no words came. No words could fix this. And any that sprung to mind just felt like a mockery of their demise, in that they had died, so yes, words now must be spoken about it. As if it were some cold tradition. Makalaurë's eyebrows creased together over his eyes, his intakes of breath becoming shallower. He stared at the corpses, and stared. Stared at their putrefied flesh and bloodied apparel, any sense of time feeling to seize up until there was nothing left but that cold, blasting wind. That damnable blasting wind.

He abruptly ripped his eyes away, lifting them up to find Tyelkormo looking intently at him from across the way, waiting and clearly refusing to break such a desolate silence himself.

Makalaurë looked sidelong at the warriors assembled to his left, standing tall and deathly still with the spearheads of those bearing spears glinting coldly under the torchlight. He looked back at Tyelkormo and then to his other brothers, each meeting his own gaze and somehow managing to hold it. The twins looked as sick as he felt.

He nodded to them, hefting his own torch and leaning over to rest it in as far as he could reach, laying it down so that the core of the fire rested between two heads. The hair would catch fire the quickest with how brittle and utterly dried it was, and unless the wind worked against them the rest of their bodies should be quick to follow. His brothers followed his gesture and placement of the torch, and they retreated several steps back as the flame quickly burst into a fierce burn. The hair caught fire in an instant and quickly burned to ash, followed by the cloak, then apparel, and then the body beneath it all. Makalaurë had to step back even further as the fire grew tall and bright with blistering heat, even with the wind working to tame it. Black smoke filtered up, filling the air with a putrid stench, but Makalaurë refused to move or cover his nose. Or hold his breath. His brothers had done the same, remaining resolutely still and there was not one shift among the mass of warriors. Makalaurë tossed a quick glance their way, not surprised to see that all of them were looking at the mound. The corpses were barely visible beneath the bright flames and their booted feet were quickly engulfed in the inferno.

Makalaurë watched them burn, eyes watering at the heat that singed his face. It would take hours for the mound to burn out, until nothing remained but ashes and maybe some of their bones. But he would not move until it did.

O = O = O

Curufinwë ducked inside his and his son's tent, again briefly amazed at how empty it felt without Carnistir and sometimes Tyelkormo loitering inside. Much of its material was salvageable, the fire the encampment had suffered thankfully having only reached the front corner of the structure before the rain had doused it. The rest had been resultantly waterlogged, but it was drying. Slowly. Everything was drying slowly. Even as he knelt on the grass to open his satchel, he felt the knees of his leggings immediately dampen with moisture. Forget the moisture. He could actually feel the water against his skin. But at least they were not walking through a swamp with every step anymore. Curufinwë had to concede that much.

All he had left to do was strike up his own tent, which was essentially the only remaining chore of the whole Host. And it was a good thing that the tents were left as the last task to handle since it gave the material a longer time to dry out. A buildup of mildew was the last nuisance they needed right now. Curufinwë had just returned from his brothers' tents, having scoured them for any small and loose belonging that needed to be stored away before ordering their tents to be dismantled and folded, save for the twins'. Pityafinwë and Telufinwë's tent had burned completely, though fortunately the chest containing anything of personal or important value to them had remained intact, however charred. Makalaurë's had survived the fire, appearing not to have even been touched by a lick of flame, but the tent itself had collapsed entirely beneath the torrent of water. And his father and Maitimo's tent….

Curufinwë sighed, closing his eyes as he clenched his jaw. His hands worked faster to untie the satchel, the scrabbling of his fingers sharp and stiff before yanking the fabric against the drawstrings. He was shoving in the last of the belongings when he sensed movement to his right and he looked up, smiling slightly as he saw Telperinquar shuffle forward.

"You slept well, yonya?" he inquired, tying the satchel back up.

He nodded, his fine hair still tousled from said sleep. "Is there paint?"

"Paint? For what?"

He lifted up his hands silently, in which he held a small figurine carved from wood. Curufinwë gave another soft smile as he saw it, reaching up to pat down his son's hair. "You like your little horse?"

He nodded again, looking down at it as he ran a fingernail along a groove. "Uncle Turko said he forgot to ask Anatar how he carved manes."

Curufinwë glanced down at the horse, finding himself impressed again by its fine whittling. And the slight smile grew as he inspected the straight lines that made up the mane. "He was kind to finish the piece. But why ask you for paint? To paint it?" It was more rhetorical than anything since his son had somewhat outgrown the playing of toys and now found more interest in adding color to their muted woods. Sure enough, Telperinquar nodded in answer again and Curufinwë squeezed his shoulder as he rose to a stand. "It gladdens me to hear it, but the wonders of Endórë are still new and we must first find the dyes to make the paints, do we not? Which will happen soon enough, I imagine, for the seamstresses will not want to go too long without hues to their fabrics. But pack that away for now, Telepitya," he added, tapping the horse with his finger. "We will soon be departing. And unless waylaid, your uncles are due to return any hour now."

As if in an uncanny answer to his words, the distinctive blast of the trumpet of Makalaurë suddenly sounded across the encampment, followed by the horn of Tyelkormo, their blares on the ears less great due to how far they were evidently still away. But Curufinwë had to scoff, shaking his head in grim amusement at the timing of his words and their announcement of arrival. He gave Telperinquar a wry grin. "Well, look at that. They come as we speak. Give me that." He took the little horse, bending over to open the satchel again just enough to work the whittled wood inside. He straightened, taking Telperinquar's hand and leading him outside the tent, absently tidying the child's hair with his other hand.

Curufinwë turned to the guard standing at attention just beyond the anchor pegs. The remainder of the King's Guard had gone with his brothers over the mountains, but that did not stop Makalaurë from assigning a contingent of warriors to ensure his own wellbeing. "I go to the command tent," he told the Elf. "See that my lord brothers know I await them there if they search me out here." The Elf bowed in response, moving away as Curufinwë led his son out of the mud, the majority of the grass of their green having been completely burnt.

"See that you mind Canyadil and Riellotë, Telpë," he said as they walked along the makeshift pathway through the field of tents. "I know not how long I will be, but I will come to you before we move out." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Be good now."

Telperinquar nodded up at him, the grip of his small hand tightening on his own, but he was silent the rest of the short distance to the Elves' assigned tent, which they had by now struck up and now sat around a dying campfire. Curufinwë kissed him on his brow, tousling his hair and gripping Canyadil's shoulder in brief gratitude while Telperinquar gave him a quick embrace around his legs. He heard Riellotë speaking to Telperinquar in her soft voice as he proceeded on towards the command tent.

Though several Elves straightened at his passing and followed him with their eyes, very few attempted to stop him. Everyone had been forewarned of the pattern blown on the horn so as to be assured it was not of any impending attack like the last time. But nonetheless, Curufinwë's heart began to beat all the faster at knowing that the moment had come. Being forced to idleness had been a torment on its own, but Curufinwë had done his best (he hoped) to see that the Host and he himself had been kept busy, which came easily enough since salvaging any good materials and then packing all the essentials and equipment and possessions took time, all of which had gradually accumulated during their crossing of Hísilómë. Of course, much of that accumulation had been burned by the fire and Curufinwë could only beseech to the stars that the Host did not harbor too much bitterness for it, particularly against he and his brothers. Though the healing ward had suffered entirely and only charred scraps of its material were left behind, floating in the pools of water, over a third of the shelters of the Host and everything inside them had been destroyed as well. The stench of scorched textiles, woods, twines, and metals had lingered on the air for days, and the swamp of the encampment's turf had created a sludge-like mud due to all the debris the water had mixed with.

Curufinwë entered the green of the command tent, bypassing the fire pit that was still filled to the brim with water and surrounded by the first glimpses of fog that had started to appear. Few Elves loitered in this area, though he could see many Noldor now hustling in response to the horns. Makalaurë had made it clear that the Host would delay setting out to cross the river only a while longer after they returned from their search.

Watch your temper. Watch your temper. Watch your temper.

He reiterated the mantra again and again in his head as he sidled through the entrance of the tent, letting the flaps fall shut behind him. He was near plunged into darkness, the interior of the structure illuminated only by the starlight filtering through the two open vents. He looked around. He had personally seen to the disposal of those items that perished by the fire or water and then to the storage of everything else, though there had not been much remaining that Pityafinwë and Telufinwë had not initially packed into their haversacks. All left was the central table and a few collapsible chairs that yet needed to be stored away on a cart, along with the crates lining the tent wall. Curufinwë sighed. At least it was dry, he conceded as he moved to light several candles. He just had to keep a firm hold on his temper. But Valar, he had rarely been so furious with his brother.

He rested two sconces on top of the bare table, but as he went to light another he heard the flaps of the tent be shoved aside and quietly spoken words. He turned, seeing it was Lord Laiquisyar and his own Second Ingólemo who had entered. Both halted in their steps at the sight of him, mild surprise on their faces as they both gave brief, hasty bows.

"Pray forgive us, Highness," Laiquisyar spoke up, straightening with a frown. He retreated back a step. "We knew not you were in here."

Curufinwë shook his head dismissively, sighing as he continued to light the half dozen candles sitting around. "Stay, my lord. I am only preparing a place to hear whatever my brothers come to say." He saw the half-glanced look Laiquisyar and Ingólemo exchanged, even in the dim lighting, but he pointedly ignored it. "What did you need? Is aught wrong?"

"No, Highness. I heard the trumpets and word of your lord brothers' coming is being delivered to the outreaches of the encampment as we speak." Laiquisyar tightened the auburn cloak that was draped loosely over his shoulders as he looked around at the emptiness of the tent. "I clearly shared your own thought to come here."

Curufinwë paused at that, lighting the last of the candles and turning to face the two Elves more fully. He frowned slightly. "If you thought to, then others will also."

Laiquisyar's eyebrows hiked up in question. "Is the Council to be convoked?"

That was what Curufinwë was trying to decide. In the end he shook his head. "No. Not yet. But it most assuredly will before we set out to the river." He turned to glance at Laiquisyar as he took up one of the chairs, folding it and resting it on top of one of the crates. "Or mayhap not. It is but a guess on my part, but see to it that they are told to await our summons and not to come here just yet, though you may return here unless Makalaurë bids you otherwise."

Laiquisyar bowed his head, ducking out of the tent without a single word and with only a passing glance at Curufinwë's Second. Ingólemo looked quickly from the Elf-lord to his liege and back again before giving a brief but courteous bow to Curufinwë and turning to follow Laiquisyar, pushing a flap aside.

Curufinwë bit off a muffled oath. "Stay, Ingólemo!" he called out a tad incredulously. His Second halted in his steps, turning around and Curufinwë stared at him in something of amused exasperation. "By Aulë, you act as though you await the sting of a hornet."

Ingólemo shrugged. "As you will," he uttered softly as he meandered further in.

Curufinwë sighed at the passive response, bowing his head as he felt a brief churning of shame. "Forgive me," he uttered back, and he meant it. "I imagine I have been less than reputable this past fortnight."

"Well truthfully, you have been as pleasant as a hound with a ferocious hair up its rear." Ingólemo shrugged again, reaching up to massage the back of his neck. "But no one can really blame you."

Curufinwë stared at him for a long moment. He snorted, making a face as he moved to the next chair. "There are times I really wonder why I elected you as my Second."

"My apologies."

Curufinwë tossed the folded chair next to the other one as he felt a flare of impatience. It landed with a clatter on the wooden crate, but he ignored it, moving to the table to lean on its edge. He sighed again. Now to wait. Nothing left to do but wait. Always waiting. He leaned further against the table, bowing his head and running a hand roughly over his face. He just had to hold his temper. To center himself and focus on the matter at hand, at least to a good enough restraint so that the mere sight of Makalaurë would not affect his tongue. Maitimo would not have wanted it.

Curufinwë closed his eyes tight, dropping his head to cover them with his hand. Curse it all. Just all of it.

The sudden hand on his shoulder almost startled him. He opened his eyes and lifted them up and over to look at Ingólemo, who had come closer on silent feet and, even under the bright gaze of his liege, did not remove his strong hand from Curufinwë's shoulder. The commiseration in Ingólemo's eyes as he continued to just stare at him was too much and Curufinwë was hard pressed to not turn his own eyes away. He nodded in response, drawing in another deep breath as he forced himself and his short rein on his temper to simmer down. The breath came out shuddering, but he felt calmer. A little. He patted the hand on his shoulder and Ingólemo gave him a solid squeeze before removing it.

"Is there anything I can do, my liege?" he asked.

"That is the very question on every person's lips, I think." Glancing at Ingólemo, he finally took notice of his Second's garb and his brow creased in mild perplexity. Ingólemo was wholly attired in a hunter's apparel, hues of various greens and greys, but the studious Elf was no hunter. Curufinwë questioned if Ingólemo even knew the finer points of the activity. His suspicion grew. "Were you hunting?"

Ingólemo looked befuddled by the random question, but before he could answer there was a hustle outside and then the flaps of the command tent were shoved apart as Tyelkormo entered. Curufinwë straightened at the sight of him, gesturing Ingólemo away and his Second moved to return to his position at the tent's entrance. Curufinwë perused his brother up and down in mild interest. Tyelkormo looked as though he had dismounted from his steed and, without pause, marched straight to the command tent because his half-armor was still donned and his shoulders firmly mantled with his cloak of mottled green. Every part of him was ridden heavily in the dust of travel, from the staves of the tauriyavan-bow slung across his back to the leather of his boots to the very crevices in his sword's hilt. Even his hair was windswept, crusts of the steppe dust visibly embedded in the roots of the thick tresses. Curufinwë twisted his jaw. He would certainly have a merry time bathing later.

But the look in Tyelkormo's face distracted Curufinwë from the story the rest of his appearance told. His brother was as weary as Curufinwë had rarely seen him before, but even that blatant exhaustion could not stand against the look in his eyes at all.

Curufinwë swallowed, feeling like a rock was being forced down his throat. "I dread the look on your face."

Tyelkormo looked at him in fatigue, slowly sighing as his expression morphed into one of utter bleakness. He mirrored Curufinwë's earlier action and ran both gloved hands over his face in stiff swipes. "Damn it, Curvo," he muttered weakly.

Curufinwë closed his eyes at the hopeless lilt in his voice, dread smothering him in the way that hurt. Badly. He had to force himself to say it, force it pass the tightness that was closing up his throat. "He is gone, then?"

Tyelkormo released a harsh breath. "Gone, but not dead."

Curufinwë's eyes snapped open and over. "What?"

Tyelkormo nodded, lips pressing into a thin line. "Yes." He then launched without pause into one of the longest recitation of events Curufinwë had ever heard him speak. Not too long after he began relaying everything to have happened, Huan came trailing in through the tent entrance, his pelt just as dust-ridden as his master. The hound looked the very picture of despondency with his head lowered and tail drooped, moving one paw forward after the other. And he appeared just as fatigued. Tyelkormo gave him an absent ruffle on his head as he passed, not slowing in his account. Huan detoured towards Curufinwë to briefly rear up on his hind legs and rest his front feet on Curufinwë's thighs, leaving faint paw prints behind. Curufinwë only just caught himself from buckling under the sudden weight, enraptured by what Tyelkormo was saying. Huan moved on to crawl under the table and lie down, folding his paws in front of him and resting his head on top of them. He huffed, his dark eyes moving back and forth between his master and the other Elves occupying the tent.

But Curufinwë could barely take any notice of Huan. The blood drained from his face as he listened to everything Tyelkormo had to say, paling further at the description of the dead, and he was certain he had forgotten how to breathe by the time his older brother ended his account. "The mound was quick to burn, faster than I predicted," Tyelkormo began to finish. He had gone to lean against the crates or maybe even sit on them but was evidently too wound up with the anxiety that was quite visible in his face to relax even that much. He stood, continuing to pace back and forth, arms folded stiffly across his chest. Huan had not so much as even twitched his tail, though his eyes continued to unerringly follow his master around the tent. "Though that should have not been a wonder. The bodies were drier than the deadest of wood. Makalaurë is seeing to the shields being stored away on a cart at the moment. I know he means for us to bury them, but he has yet to disclose just how we are to go about doing that."

Curufinwë was incredulous. "But what happened with Maitimo?" he nearly shouted. "What is this you say, that he was not there?"

Tyelkormo hesitated, though in that brief duration and as if summoned by the mention of his name, Makalaurë then entered the command tent. Unlike Tyelkormo, he had doffed his armor and arms, save for the long dirk at his hip. But by the filth visible on his dark jerkin and leggings, he had not cleaned the dust of their journey from himself and his hair was also crusted with it, the strands nearly having fallen completely loose from their plait. But whereas the apprehension was strong and raw in Tyelkormo's face, Makalaurë's own countenance was worn, as though he had walked a hundred leagues. His grey eyes looked haunted and the ominous flickering of the candlelight did not improve the look on his face, which was carefully empty of even the slightest thought.

But Curufinwë barely allotted a moment for that observation to filter through his brain. "What happened?" he demanded.

Makalaurë held up his hand, stepping further into the interior. He did not look at Curufinwë. Did not speak.

Curufinwë frowned, the sense of panic rising. "Maka–"

Makalaurë held up the same hand again and Curufinwë snapped his mouth shut. He watched in rather awkward silence as Makalaurë bypassed him completely and walked to the far end of the table where little of the candlelight beat back the shadows. He leaned on the unvarnished wood with both hands, which were also caked with filth Curufinwë now noticed, and he bowed his head, the loose strands of dark hair almost entirely curtaining off what little was visible of his expression.

Curufinwë frowned at him and turned back to Tyelkormo, the question clear in his eyes.

Tyelkormo was watching Makalaurë, but at Curufinwë's near glare he shrugged. "Do not look at me. He was silent the whole journey back. Most were." He rolled his shoulders, as if trying to shrug off the dark pall that was determinedly settling on him. "We need a plan, but we were anxious to return home with all haste. Needed to return home first."

Curufinwë started to speak, but there was another rising of noise and murmuring voices outside the tent and then Elves were filtering in. They had clearly been following in Makalaurë's wake and Curufinwë thought for a moment that Laiquisyar had indeed convoked the Council. But after a moment of seeing those who ducked inside the tent, it was clear he had not, though the Elf-lord was also present. Vëantur, Yánadur, Carnistir and the twins, several Captains and all of their Seconds. Along with Laiquisyar, only a few from the remainder of the Host also entered the pavilion, but Curufinwë was grateful that the total ended there. Fionildo was not present, but Curufinwë supposed he was off to confer with Menelluin and to once again organize the transfer of any wounded across the river, which had risen a substantial bit after the storm.

In a matter of moments the tent was crowded with the near score of Elves. No Council had been convoked, but Valar, it seemed they had all simultaneously had the idea to migrate here immediately. Unless they were here by Makalaurë's order, who had not shifted in the slightest from his position at the table.

Curufinwë glanced at Makalaurë.

Still ignoring them.

The burning anger began to surface but Curufinwë forcefully shoved it down, turning away. Maitimo would not want it.

The Elves were talking quietly, though all of their voices were laced with anxiety and Laiquisyar meaningfully lifted his head. "What is this?" he called to no one in particular. His eyes were bright but hard with consternation. "Word already runs rampant throughout the encampment. What happened?"

The low din of conversation died away completely and Yánadur sighed wearily. "They were all slain, Laiquisyar," he answered, his voice equally tired. "If it is already told among the Host I will spare you the details, but Prince Maitimo was not among them."

Laiquisyar visibly paled in the dim lighting. "Taken?"

"Was I not clear enough?"

"I –"

"Do not even think to stoop to bickering right now, my lords," Tyelkormo interjected rather vehemently. He had finally ended his pacing, though it was unknown whether it was because he now had no decent space to pace or because the presence of other people had forced him to collect himself if only for dignity alone. "We must plan and truly have not a moment to spare to do so. There is no time for such frivolity, so take any unneeded speech to the solitude of your homes. Our course of action needs to be decided upon quickly."

"And faster still," Vëantur added as he took advantage of the proffered respite and leaned against one of the crates. He also had foregone doffing his armor, but there was no shield slung across his back. He appeared to have removed everything save for his sword. "I foresee those who marched under Prince Maitimo's banner congregating before long to demand answers or some direction on what they are to do. They will not content themselves for long to being kept in the dark."

"He is just gone?" asked one of the masters of trade, his face a combination of disbelief and apprehension. "Nothing was left behind? No message?"

"Tyelkormo and I left not one breadth of the battleground unsearched," said Carnistir. He too stood with a stillness, but even his brothers could decry the abnormality of it. His expression was worn but dark, and the tension in his frame was so prominent that he looked to be only one incentive away from bursting out with all the agitation that lined his body. He met the gazes of many Elves, his eyes bright yet dimmed at the same time. "Every Orc carcass was overturned and my hands still carry the stench of their decay from how many I threw aside. His sword is missing too, but his helm and shield were found, both rent with the blows of weapons, and both with their fasteners broken where they were anchored to the steel." Many weighty looks were passed at that description, but Carnistir proceeded on. "Tyelkormo put his every talent through the fire and the scouts with him, but any hint of a trail has gone cold. Not even Huan could detect one. Nothing was found, no matter the number of torches we lit."

"How much time do we have to assemble?" Vëantur interjected, his brow creased in sharp concentration as he looked between several of them. "Because those who just returned with us will need to rest at least a day, if not more. I made the journey on horseback and even I am wearied."

Tyelkormo nodded. "Those things will be accounted for, but we need –"

"Stop."

As quietly as the word was spoken, the sheer unexpectedness of it caught most of them off guard and all eyes were fast to snap over to Makalaurë. He had remained so unnoticed and silent that it was apparent many had forgotten that he was even in the pavilion. He had not removed himself from beside the table, had not even looked up as he uttered the one word, but there was a tautness to his shoulders that had not been there before.

Tyelkormo glanced sidelong at the others, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "Stop what?"

Makalaurë took a deep breath, straightening from his lean against the table and sweeping back the fallen strands of hair behind his ears. He looked an utter mess and his face was a raw reflection of it, streaked on one cheekbone with faint smudges of dirt and the delicate structure of his complexion paler than it should have been. He turned towards the others, finally lifting his eyes to glance around at them all and settling his worn gaze on Tyelkormo. "Stop planning. No one is going after him."

A profound silence met the words. Makalaurë did not say any more, but he refused to turn his eyes away from Tyelkormo's. He could feel the gazes of the others burning into him, first in bemusement and surprise at his proclamation and then, once the meaning of what he said finally filtered through, in disbelief to utter shock. The weight of their voiceless regard grew with each passing heartbeat, but Makalaurë could not turn to them, or to his brothers. Could not take it right now. Not that looking into Tyelkormo's face was any better.

Valar, looking into Tyelkormo's face had to be the worst.

He could see the process of Tyelkormo's thoughts in his eyes, in the minute changes of his expression, all of which transitioned from bewilderment to a raging disbelief in the space of two breaths. He blinked, his brow slightly creasing as he stared at Makalaurë in barely concealed incredulity. "What?" he demanded in a rising voice.

"You heard me."

Another silence. A longer silence. No one moved, but Makalaurë kept his eyes trained on Tyelkormo. He could sense Carnistir not too far from him, sensed the twins, sensed Curufinwë. But Valar, he could not look at them.

Tyelkormo's face then shuttered as he closed off what there was in his expression completely, rendering it utterly unreadable, even to Makalaurë. He turned towards the others in the tent, eyes quickly passing over each of the Elves. "Leave us. All of you. Out."

No one hesitated at the order. It seemed they might have even been grateful to be told to vacate the pavilion if how quickly they were moving to rush out said anything. The sons of Fëanáro remained within, but not even Yánadur or Vëantur nor any of their Seconds dared to approach them. Vëantur, on his part, was urging the Elves forward once clear of the command tent. Though some continued walking into the surrounding barrage of lodgings, most probably to their own shelters, several simply stopped within the green, appearing ready to wait for however long their lords required. But Vëantur shoved two of the Captains forward, both who stumbled at the viciousness of the push.

"Keep walking!" he commanded through gritted teeth in barely concealed anger. His eyebrows were drawn and he looked on the verge of yelling. "We do not need to hear this and the Valar know that there will be shouting."

One of the Captains hesitated and several of the Seconds mirrored him. "But what if they –"

"No, keep moving!" Vëantur pushed them along again and Yánadur beside him echoed his vehemence, gesturing them away impatiently. "You can guess what will ensue and what they will say is not for our ears to hear. So move!"