Name Index:
Kanafinwë = Maglor, his father-name

Chapter 16:
A Talking Bat

Yánadur was searching for Carnistir and he bit off a curse, annoyed by how spectacularly he was failing at it.

He reached out to a passing member of the King's Guard. "Know you the whereabouts of Prince Carnistir?"

The guard frowned, visibly harried by whatever task he was doing. He glanced towards the north, gesturing to one of the many copses of trees barely visible in the distance. "That way, last I saw, Commander. I do not know if he went elsewhere, though."

Yánadur sighed shortly, lips briefly pressing together as he looked in said direction. He nodded his gratitude to the guard, clasping his shoulder as he moved around him and quickened his pace across the field.

It was time for the rest of them to follow the Host across the North-river. Only a portion remained, the sons of Fëanáro among them, but Carnistir had gone unaccounted for in the last hour and Yánadur had been bidden in no uncertain terms to find him. Par Makalaurë's orders, the eight banners had been unfurled and Orostámo had blown the horns himself in a recognized pattern of high, keen notes. The Noldor had responded at once, chatter erupting across the fields as they finalized any and all of their arrangements for migrating. Yánadur had remained nearby the green of the pavilion to wait for Makalaurë to emerge from the command tent. It had not been until the hustling of the roused Host had risen to a clamor that Makalaurë had finally shown himself, shoving through the canvas flaps and bypassing Yánadur completely, not even sparing him a glance as he sped off to whatever destination he had in mind, his face utterly unreadable. Yánadur had watched him go, looking after him with an abject sigh.

Shortly after Makalaurë departed, Elves arrived to dismantle the command tent and store it and all its contents away. As was the wont of rousing the Host, it took hours to assemble the Noldor for a full migration. The remaining shelters were disassembled and smaller belongings packed. While the divisions of the Host went underway and as the Noldor congregated to whosever banner they marched under, Makalaurë had convoked the Council. Not one of the other brothers had attended and Yánadur initially thought it was only due to the massive preparations being handled for each of their hosts of people, especially when all but one of his brothers had just returned to the Grey Fields. But then Makalaurë had bidden the members to listen and, in what were maybe the fewest words possible, he relayed to Yánadur, Vëantur and the whole lot of the others his decision.

There had been a resounding silence, but Makalaurë gave them no opportunity to counsel him or dissuade him, if they even thought to. He simply told them of his course, briefed them on their respective instructions to set the Host marching, and moved to depart without a glance back. And Yánadur had again watched him go, shock coursing through the whole of his body and unable to recall a time when he had seen Makalaurë bear such an emotionless expression and an equally numb demeanor.

"Highness," Laiquisyar had called after him, horror written all over his face. "How can –"

Makalaurë had snapped up a hand and the Elf-lord fell silent at once. He then passed an unreadable glance over them all before turning on his heel and leaving.

None of the members of council had spoken a word afterwards, even to each other. And where Makalaurë had removed himself to for the subsequent hours, not even Yánadur could guess.

Witnessing the Seconds unfurl their respective lieges' banners and with Sornion now confirmed to be dead, Yánadur had erected Maitimo's banner himself, mounting it in the same field where stood Fëanáro's own banner that Vëantur had unfurled. Yánadur stood at his side and they exchanged a solemn glance, but neither commented on the deadness the two legendary banners now felt to carry.

Especially since word had spread rapidly among the Noldor in regards to Prince Maitimo. The Host, to say the least, had not been well receptive of it at all.

"We are to abandon him?" one Elf demanded in open incredulity. "He is our liege and king! What madness is this?" A chorus of agreement from the surrounding Noldor rose up at his exclamation.

Yánadur sighed in barely concealed weariness as he looked at the Noldo with a grudging sense of sympathy, a Captain he now realized, and he exchanged another telling glance with Vëantur who had grown eerily still when the Captain spoke. But Vëantur only gave a minute shake of his head, his stoical face darkening into an intense frown. Yánadur looked away, having to concur with the silent sentiment he could see plain in Vëantur's face: this was a mess.

Over half the Host was congregated on this particular field, extending over the land like a sea of people, and Yánadur could only look at them all in dismal disbelief. Valar, Makalaurë and his brothers really needed to devise a solution for those Elves who had marched under Fëanáro's and Maitimo's banners, and soon. He glanced at Vëantur again, beginning to regret his silent volunteering to bear Maitimo's banner in Sornion's place. But Yánadur looked at the horrified Elf. Etsirë was his name, Yánadur remembered. A Captain of the Nelyahossë, under the command of Sornion and, considering that he now stood before Yánadur with the mass of Noldor behind him, he had most probably marched under Maitimo's banner. Yánadur could only stare at him, flummoxed. Just how was he supposed to respond?

Vëantur, much to his relief, had stepped forward, his expression darkening even further. "Prince Makalaurë's decision stands," he declared in a tone that warned against any protestation. "None are sanguine with it, Prince Makalaurë and his lord brothers among them. But we will abide by his will and have not the time to dally in this discontent. The Host moves across the river, so see yourselves readied come the sound of the herald's horn!"

"And we are to just forsake the oaths that bind us to him?"

"Be still, Captain!" Vëantur bid angrily, and his hard eyes moved over the mass of Elves. "And any of you with equal utterances in your hearts. The banners have been raised and we await only the princes' command to march. So see yourselves readied!"

Yánadur narrowed his eyes at Vëantur and how flustered he was visibly becoming. He raised an eyebrow, suspicious at how rehearsed his speech sounded. "How many times have you now said those words?"

Vëantur glared at him, looking as though he were on the verge of actually losing his temper. But he said nothing, resolutely turning back to the task he had been busy with before being hounded by Noldor. Again, apparently. Yánadur wondered if the princes and Elf-lords or any others of authority were enduring demands and even pleas for answers among all of the banners. No, not well received at all.

And as for what several enraged and aghast members of the King's Guard had to say….

Yánadur sighed, shaking himself from such contemplation to focus on his newer task at hand: finding Carnistir. The grass grew thicker here, taller and more compact, and he waded through it with large steps, once again mystified by how wild this wildlife of Endórë was. He entered the grove of trees, hearing the scrapes of squirrel claws scrabbling up trunks as he shoved through the thickets. He swiveled his gaze between the trees, squinting as he tried to see through the shadows. Not much starlight could filter through the low-lying eaves. Insects were chirring loudly and a woodpecker knocked on wood somewhere high to his left, and he heard the trickle of a babbling brook somewhere nearby where a remnant of the North-river watershed flowed. But he finally spotted Carnistir not far off, thank the Valar. He nearly blended in with the dark where he sat on a tree root, and most certainly would have blended in entirely if not for the silver hue of his tunic. He must have been sitting there for a while, though. A multitude of bugs had gathered to hover around in his vicinity, the precious kind that lit up like dew drops of Laurelin when night fell. Even as he made that observation, several of those bugs migrated towards him, flashing their light as they slowly circled him.

Carnistir glanced up sharply at his approach, the wariness in his eyes easing once his gaze alighted on Yánadur's face. He turned his attention back down to his hands where he fiddled with something between his fingers. "I thought you were taking up Maitimo's banner."

His subdued voice was nearly lost in the incessant chirring of insects and Yánadur stumbled the final few steps through the knotwork of underbrush, wincing at the ungraceful racket he was raising. He made a face at the several bushes he saw sway away from him as he ventured closer to Carnistir. "I did. But Laiquisyar offered to head the banner for me since he has far more experience than I may claim in quelling a mass of people. I set out to find Makalaurë and Makalaurë bade me now to find you." He shot a cursory glance around at the scraggily boles. "And I have." He looked back down at Carnistir, seeing now that it was a slab of bark he held between his fingers and was steadily shredding. He hesitated with a mild frown. "What do you here, Carnistir? You almost sent the King's Guard into a fit and Makalaurë into a temper."

Carnistir snorted, the stiff motions of his fingers growing more rigid until the snapping of the bark was audible even above the crickets. Followed by another snap, and then another.

Yánadur watched him, slightly canting up an eyebrow. "Carnistir?"

The fingers stilled, dark eyes swiveling over to look up at him. Carnistir raised an eyebrow in turn, though whether in question or effrontery Yánadur could not tell.

Yánadur sighed, worrying his brow. "You know why I am here. Come," he said with a soft gesture. "They ready the steeds as we speak. Or as I speak, more like."

Carnistir sprung to his feet, slightly startling Yánadur by the sudden movement, but he only tossed the bark to the ground with a stiff jerk of his arm. For a long moment he just stood there, staring at the soil where the bark lay. But then he turned fully to Yánadur, cocking his head as he peered at him through slightly narrowed eyes. "Do you agree with him?"

Yánadur closed his eyes, sighing again. "Carnistir…."

"Yánadur."

Yánadur hesitated again. There was something in Carnistir's eyes that sent a worm of discomfort wriggling through him, something ominous that he did not want to interpret too closely. "In all truth, Carnistir, I think I am doing as Maitimo told me to do, locking away my heart right now." He glanced away. "I do not deny it is easier."

His eyes narrowed further, a hint of that familiar anger surfacing. "Do not dare freeze as he did," he gritted out darkly. But then he abruptly shook his head, tossing up his hands. "Nevermind. I do not want to hear it."

The tension increased in the set of his shoulders and Yánadur felt a swell of both compassion and exasperation as he watched Carnistir bend over and snatch up the same scrap of bark, absently breaking splinters off with his nails. Yánadur stepped closer. "Carnistir –" He sighed. "I am not one you need to guard against. I never was. Since you were a child you have known that." He did not bother to hide the concern from his voice and he peered at Carnistir closely, almost desperate to see through his irate visage and he could not stop the dejected frown that turned down the corners of his mouth. "I do not know anymore what to say to you or your brothers, and am almost afraid to say it when I think I do. Tyelkormo does not speak to Makalaurë or me. Curufinwë appears incensed now twice over. And Makalaurë –"

"Enough with his name!" Carnistir snapped. "I care not for the child it makes me sound like, but I cannot hear it. Not now." Muttering an oath under his breath, he threw the bark back to the ground with a vicious swipe of his hand. He glared at Yánadur, anger sparking in his eyes like flashes of fire. "What am I doing here, you ask?" He folded his arms, fingers clenching at his sleeves. "I am here because Maitimo came here. Nearly every night since we settled on this side of the river. And for all the stars of Varda, I cannot yet understand why he did." He looked away from Yánadur, perusing the many trees and foliage as he clenched his jaw. "Once he was sure Atar was asleep and would stay asleep, Maitimo came here. To this spot. Not every night, but often enough. Maitimo was never one to seek out solitude to find peace, not like Makalaurë, but on the nights Atar's body at last drove him to sleep he always came here afterwards."

A pensive frown crossed Yánadur's face. He looked away from Carnistir, idly perusing their surroundings and the bugs that still hovered around them. "I was unaware of that," he eventually said, almost to himself. The slight frown deepened. "I know he spent essentially every evening with your father, pouring over those parchments, or so I saw whenever I passed by his pavilion. I just assumed he stayed there to rest himself. I did not know he left at all, let alone to venture here into the woods."

Carnistir glanced at him but again looked away. "No one did. We all did so with Atar, to see that he fell asleep. It was how we discovered that Maitimo wandered here afterwards in the first place, when we exchanged places, but we left him to his peace and never enquired him about it. He deserved that much. So I came here to mayhap learn why he always came here after seeing to Atar's rest instead of resting himself, what this place was to him."

"And what is it?"

"Boring." A smile flitted across Yánadur's mouth, but it quickly faded as Carnistir began to pace in short strides, the uneven and root-stridden terrain not slowing him down at all. "I never asked him," Carnistir muttered, the frown on his face darkening as it gave way to the faintest traces of misery. He ran his hands roughly through his black hair as he stared into empty air, his eyes glazed over in something only he could see. "I never asked."

Yánadur hesitated, gesturing helplessly. "You may yet be able to."

"Yánadur!"

He jumped at the scathing bark and gritted his teeth in mounting exasperation at how easily startled he was of late. Releasing a soft sigh, Yánadur moved a step closer. "Pray calm yourself, Carnistir," he entreated quietly, trying to catch his gaze. "You help no one reducing yourself to this state."

Carnistir laughed, but it was short, bitter and devoid of any humor. "Calm myself," he echoed sardonically. "Calm myself. Everyone tells me to calm myself. Well alas, Yánadur!" he practically yelled as he spun on his heel to face Yánadur and his expression was thunderous, even in the heavy shadows. "Alas that I am not Maitimo who can don a cold face whenever he damned well pleased, nor am I Makalaurë who can apparently shut his heart against those dearest to him. And the Valar know that I am not Atar who could evidently endure everything!" Yánadur opened his mouth to speak at that but snapped it shut as Carnistir went on, his glare so raw and bright that it was penetrating. "I searched every patch of that field, Yánadur. Every patch! Even after those sixty Noldor were removed from the battleground, Tyelkormo and I continued to search. After no Noldor were left to find, even after we found his shield and helm we went on searching! Our hands actually blistered from how many of those carcasses we overturned and threw aside. And when at last it occurred to our panicked minds that Maitimo was actually not there, was nowhere to be found, I was both terrified and gladdened. Gladdened for it meant he was alive but terrified of what being alive meant for him. Is meaning for him as we speak!" The ire in Carnistir's expression began to collapse into an abject wretchedness, one that he visibly tried to rein in, and he spun away from Yánadur when he could not. "And to hear Makalaurë– to know that– Know you the irony of all this?" he demanded, whipping back around.

Yánadur quirked an eyebrow, but Carnistir went on without even seeing it. "We do not actually know if Maitimo is even alive. Ah yes, we speak and speak and speak as if he is, but part of me wonders if he is, especially after hearing all the high words from Makalaurë's mouth. How can we know with no shadow of a doubt he was not slain with the rest? That Moringotto had not just wanted his lifeless hröa for whatever perverse purpose? But to believe him dead– And do you know what else?" Carnistir swiftly closed the distance between them, his expression cracking further. "Part of me, a small part of me wanted Findekáno in that pavilion." Carnistir nodded to himself, a humorless and bitter smile twisting his lips. "If only he could have been present, to hear all that Makalaurë was deciding. Part of me wanted it because I could only imagine our cousin's reaction and all he would have said to Makalaurë himself. And I could imagine the morphing of Makalaurë's face as he said it! But then I was glad Findekáno is a Sea away because I knew Makalaurë could not have withstood his tongue but perhaps that would not have been so terrible if it resulted in his change of course but if he changed his course and heeded what was right and the Noldohossë– the Noldor– Valar, he has my brother. He has him!" Carnistir plopped himself back down on the root with little grace, leaning on his knees as he covered his face, strands of hair falling forward over his shoulders.

Yánadur did not so much as shift on his feet, watching him with eyes that grew increasingly soft as a pain that was becoming now very familiar lanced through his own chest. He sighed shakily, swallowing down the rise in his throat and he forcefully moved his feet forward until he stood alongside Carnistir. He grabbed him by the arm, hauling him to his feet, and Carnistir did not resist after an insistent tug or two.

Yánadur peered at him, resisting the urge to touch him as he had attempted to do with Makalaurë. He sighed again in resignation, gesturing behind him in the direction he came from. "Come, Carnistir. We need to go."

Carnistir avoided his gaze, but he nodded and began to walk, his steps surprisingly quick. Yánadur matched his pace, keeping to his side as he tossed subtle glances his way, but Carnistir had suppressed whatever remained of his expression in the few moments on that tree root and was silent.

After another bout of hesitation Yánadur reached out, threading his hand under the fall of hair and resting it on the back of Carnistir's neck, moving the pads of his fingers in a circular motion against the stiff muscles. Carnistir tensed and for a moment Yánadur thought he would rebuff his touch in the same manner as Makalaurë had. But then he relaxed, a small sigh falling from his lips.

Neither of them spoke on their walk back to the encampment, where the gentle fog had gradually started to filter over the far expanse of land. The fog was difficult to see in the dark, merely knee-deep, but visible only as the moisture reflected the starlight above. And looking upon the encampment's fields now, Yánadur had to admit that it was a desolate sight. Empty of the hundreds after hundreds of shelters, empty of the distant flickering light of campfires, empty of people. All that remained were the hollowed out pits of said campfires, the one gouged out in the command tent's green still swamped with water. Yánadur knew it was foolish to feel any bout of sadness at the encampment being fully struck up, but it was depressing nonetheless, even though they were only going to move across the river and fortify their encampment all over again from scratch. But the night felt colder, almost barren, however much the wind was soothing and carried the ever faint traces of the Song. The Noldor had now mostly departed for the crossing of the river and, peering into the distance westward, Yánadur could see that only one banner remained. Makalaurë's banner, he eventually recognized. A mass of people were congregated on the far side where the healing ward had once been erected and were slowly shifting as they hiked up haversacks on shoulders and fastened any loose belongings.

The banners had gone ahead on the journey one by one an hour apart to prevent a clogging at the riverbed and, save for Makalaurë's own host of people, the King's Guard remained and those in the immediate service of the princes. All of them were in the near vicinity of each other, but the encampment was now so bare and foreign to the eye that Yánadur could not even identify where in the encampment they were, though he could see the fire pit of the center green not far off. The herd of horses had been guided alongside the van of the Host, but several steeds were left behind for whoever Makalaurë would send to ride on ahead. The horses were being readied now and Yánadur parted from Carnistir with a pat to his arm to fetch his own satchels.

Vëantur glanced at him as he neared, fondling the nose of his grey palfrey. "Where was he?"

"In the woods." Yánadur grunted as he hefted both straps onto one shoulder. He made a face at Vëantur. "At least he did not go far."

Vëantur nodded, running both hands along the horse's muzzle. "Makalaurë almost sent several of the King's Guard in your wake to aid you in your search, but I counseled against it. The fewer Elves we await the return of, the sooner we can depart."

Yánadur opened his mouth, ready to declare that the aid would have been quite welcome after all the time it had taken to locate that particular son of Fëanáro. But recalling the reception he himself had received from Carnistir, he decided he should be grateful none had come. "It was no matter of urgency. He just knew how to lose himself in the woods amid this dark." He looked to his right at the docile clip-clopping on the damp turf to find one from his own Company of the Tatyahossë guiding a saddled horse to him. He nodded his gratitude, gesturing the mare towards him and scratching her between the ears when she bowed her head in concession. Her brown pelt shined beneath his hand as he moved around to the pommel of the saddle, reaching up to rearrange the few satchels already knotted there.

Vëantur grunted in turn, bending over alongside his steed's flank to fasten the girth straps of his own saddle. The palfrey's ears pricked upward in response. "I thought as much, but all things as of late are a source of stress for Makalaurë. But his concern was sound, I think, particularly when Maitimo always ventured off with nary a word."

Yánadur looked over at him, his hands stilling. "You knew about that?"

Vëantur nodded, moving back to cup the muzzle of his horse. "Fëanáro told me. He asked me to keep an eye on him when Maitimo did so." He saw the look on Yánadur's face and shrugged. "Even accidents may happen in the wilds of Endórë, and we still have yet to fully chart this basin of Hísilómë."

Yánadur looked away with a frown. How had Fëanáro known if Maitimo had only left after he had fallen asleep? He glanced back at Vëantur over his shoulder, slowly working the straps again. "Well, those woods are rather harmless should you discount the occasional woodpecker. It may even be a worthwhile endeavor to send the healers among their undergrowth to search for their herbs. It was quite bountiful."

"Well, Maka–"

"Makalaurë!"

Both of them snapped around at the sharp apprehension in Pityafinwë's shout. Everyone looked. The twin, both of them, were standing beside their readied mounts, both peering into the east as Telufinwë whispered something in Pityafinwë's ear.

Makalaurë stepped forward, hefting the strap on his shoulder of the now very familiar haversack that contained Fëanáro's armor. "What?" he called.

Both of them pointed into the eastward sky and Yánadur turned his gaze to the range of mountains silhouetted in the distance. His eyes flitted back and forth across the barely discernable foothills and alps, searching for whatever caused the twins such alarm, but he could see nothing. He turned to Vëantur, a question on his lips, but Vëantur was staring with no little confusion and wariness at the sky, his eyes slightly widened and shining with the first glimmers of unease.

The sky.

Yánadur looked back, casting his gaze higher. It was a black, cloudless night littered with stars. But again, he saw nothing and was on the verge of voicing his confusion until he saw it. Something passed over the stars. It was brief, a flicker of a shape that broke up the constant blaze of starlight. He would have missed it entirely had he not been searching for it and he marveled that the twins had managed to see it at all. He felt Vëantur slowly migrate away from him to head towards Makalaurë and he followed, unable to remove his eyes from the shadow that still flitted above the mountain peaks and was gradually coming closer.

"What is that?" Aldëon muttered, his hand absently dropping to the scabbard of his sword and angling it slightly forward to facilitate drawing the blade.

"Orders, Highness?" Vëantur asked tersely with a quick glance at Makalaurë.

Makalaurë did not answer. He was peering into the skies at the shape that soared there like a dark cloud, his eyebrows drawn together as strands of hair gently wafted across his face and around his neck. The recognizable slither of an arrow shaft on wood suddenly sounded and several eyes snapped over to Tyelkormo. His tauriyavan-bow was held at the ready, an arrow nocked and half drawn, though aimed towards the ground, the steel broadhead glinting coldly as it disappeared into the low-riding fog. Those archers of the King's Guard and others of the Noldohossë who remained went to mirror his actions, unslinging bows from their harnesses.

Makalaurë twisted around, snapping his hand up and glaring at those archers. "No! Conserve your arrows."

"After all to have happened, dare it be risked?" one of them questioned with a look of apprehension. "Highness?" he added hastily. He stood not far from Tyelkormo with his own bow in hand, arrow now hesitantly held in the other instead of nocked.

Makalaurë returned his gaze to the skies, his frown deepening. "One in lonesome flight is hardly a risk."

"It is no bird," Tyelkormo warned darkly, glancing at Makalaurë, but he did not release the tautness on his bow. "I cannot hear any feathers of its wings."

"Orders, Highness?" Vëantur looked at Makalaurë with more urgency. "Its flight is swift."

"I said to conserve your arrows, not sheathe them." A moment passed after those words before the archers proceeded on with nocking arrows and flexing bowstrings while Makalaurë concentrated on the spectral creature that glided towards the encampment, but even his free hand swayed towards the blade at his hip. "Just be still."

"Maka–"

"Be still! Neither our sire nor lord brother hastened to slay any suspicious thing of Endórë, and nor will I."

Silence fell, though the arrows were not stored away again in their quivers and several Elves loosened their swords in their scabbards. The indistinct shape glided on, growing more distinct as it flew closer and before long it could truly be determined to be a winged creature. In a short time, the distant thrum of its passage through the air could be heard, though the creature made no noise itself. A league away it began its descent from the skies and more than one pair of eyes slightly widened at the realization of just how massive the creature was. As Tyelkormo had said, no feathers could be perceived on its wings, but it glided on the wind as smoothly as any bird.

It was a bat, Yánadur suddenly realized. Often enough had he heard bats fluttering around in the attics of Ampano Lambengolmoron, camping on the bracers of the edifice. He recognized the unique shape of the creature's angular appendages and the shadowy dark hue of its skin, recalling all of the sudden how Fëanáro had found the swarm amusing when it had been reported to him and thus elected to allow the small things to make a home out of the unused lofts. But this bat now gliding straight towards them was unlike any of those nocturnal animals that had fluttered around Tirion at the height of Telperion's waxing, that he had occasionally held in the palm of his hand to watch it chomp down on bits of fruit. This thing was easily twice the size of Huan and rose to the chest of any Elf with a wingspan that must elongate out as any Eagle's. A cloud of darkness moved with it, as though the tendrils of the vapors exuded from the folds of its membrane and the backs of its giant ears, and a smothering pall felt to settle over the field of some obscure necromancy, growing heavier and more oppressive with each moment it came closer to the ground.

Huan began barking. Yánadur's heart skipped a beat at the sudden noise and he snapped his eyes over to the hound in mild surprise. As if cued by the sharp bark, the horses began nickering and whinnying, their ears twitching back and forth and wide eyes flying. Several Elves rushed over to calm them, soft Quenya spoken with soft voices, but many steeds reared back, hooves shifting across the grass. Huan kept baying unrelentingly, the barks vicious and sharp while his paws dug agitatedly against the muddied turf as though he were resisting the urge to lunge. Tyelkormo did not silence him, did not even cast a halfhearted glance his way. No one did. All watched as the bat of gargantuan proportions finished its trajectory towards the field and landed with barely a sound, angling up its body to lean back on its webbed feet. Yánadur froze, casting a discreet glance at the others, but he could see by the stiffening set of their shoulders that the significance of the bat's landing did not bypass any of them.

The creature had landed in the very patch of the green where Huan had sat with a bark after the return from their crossing of the river, in between the pit and where the crates had been stacked.

Yánadur looked at Huan briefly, but the hound continued to bark at the fey creature not fifty paces away, his muzzle contorted with an unsightly snarl and his ears drawn back. The bat shifted itself into a stable stance, each joint's end of the webbed wings barbed with an iron claw, and it pierced its lethal thumbs deep into the soil. It carried something in its mouth, but before Yánadur could glean what the miniscule item might be the bat spat it out and it disappeared into the fog around its feet. Its iris-less eyes of a gleaming black roamed over the contingent of Elves until they fell upon Huan, who still went on madly barking. The bat spat at the hound, unleashing a bloodcurdling screech that sent many Elves wincing, though Huan merely barked all the louder. Yánadur's own ears went ringing at the macabre shriek, but it abruptly ended and was followed by several chirps from the bat's throat that sounded very much like a high-pitched chirring of a cricket. The bat snarled, first at Huan and then at the rest of them, its noseleaf curling and eerily long fangs glinting in the starlight as they were bared menacingly. The bat jerked up its thumbs from the soil and poised its wings in a readied position to uplift its body in immediate flight once more.

The bat flapped its wings a time or three, the deep whooshing thrum of their membrane abnormally loud. Its eyes moved over the Elves one by one until its gaze fell on Makalaurë himself. It spat again, followed by a small hiss.

"Kanafinwë Fëanárion!" it called, its sniveling voice discordant and chilling unto the very fëa, and more than one Elf cringed at its raucous pitch. Not even Orcs emitted a sound so horrid. The bat slammed its thumbs back into the ground only to wrench them out again. "Raise you your arrows against one in innocent flight? From the Mightiest of Eä I come, and carry for you his words on my tongue. Be you wise, O Prince of the Noldor. For once."

A shiver ran down Yánadur's spine as he stared at the winged creature, rendered utterly silent. He blinked.

A talking bat. That could talk. In Quenya.

Oh, sweet Elentári….

Makalaurë did not identify himself, though it was rather obvious that he did not need to since the bat's cadaverous eyes remained unwaveringly trained on him. Huan's persistent barks were all that disrupted the tense silence. The bat went on hissing and shifting, Huan went on baying, and Makalaurë regarded the bat dispassionately, standing eerily still. His eyes were bright, the muscle in his jaw ticking and his knuckles whitening where he gripped the strap of the haversack. The bat spat again, baring its fangs further and Makalaurë released the smallest of sighs as he raised his hand in an unspoken gesture. Another moment passed before arrows were slowly returned to their quivers, the archers exchanging uncertain glances. Tyelkormo was the last to do so, his intense gaze swiveling from the bat to Makalaurë and back again, his eyes brightening as his lips pressed into a tight line. He jerked the arrow's nock from the bowstring, sliding it into his quiver in one fluent motion, appearing just as angry in his face as Huan sounded. Though Huan also stopped his barking, instead rumbling out growls, his teeth bared and ears drawn back until practically flat against his head.

Makalaurë lifted his head, his expression darkening. "No gofer of Moringotto is welcome here," he called. The bat spat again. "Be you gone from this grey land lest you desire that volley of arrows!"

The bat chirruped gutturally, its noseleaf quivering as it lowered its wings, hunching down in a position better suited for its skeletal arms. They could hear the grass being torn by the claws of its thumbs in the fog as it listed forward, its massive ears twitching. "To you my Master says: Shame upon the House of Fëanáro and the honor of all princes decried! You broke the covenant I in good faith offered, and for it your lord brother is chained beneath my wing. Seek you my wrath, my displeasure? As I erstwhile spoke, my design is above Noldorin grudge, yet unceasing you remain in your pining to harbor glories of war. All gratitude be to Noldor faithless and treacherous, for in mine Iron Crown the Silmarils bright and fair are enmeshed and shall henceforth be. But so also shall Nelyafinwë henceforth be fated to dwell in Angamando if you heed not my last offering of mercy. In spite of every Orc you have slain and your perfidy towards our covenant, I will yet allow you free passage from my demesne and will release your lord brother from his bondage, regardless of how undeserving of it the both of you are. Heed that I speak again: Forsake your fruitless war, O esteemed Noldor, and return you unto the West! Or if the abode of my Brethren is to you now so unsightly, depart you far from Endórë and into the South of the World! When you do Nelyafinwë will be freed, and until you do Nelyafinwë is mine, and he will know why it is so. So be you gone and with haste fly! With you my patience has ended and if you remain, do accept my pledge that bitter fruit shall be borne by both you and him."

The bat's right ear twitched. "So ends my Master's words. I am not bidden to return to him an answer, but make –"

Huan lunged without warning, bolting from his stiff stance and snarling out the most malicious of growls. The bat spun to him, screeching out its unholy shriek as it reared up on its bent feet and ripped its thumbs out of the soil, clumps of dirt flying into the air. It flapped its mighty wings in potent thrusts, their deep thrum drowning out Huan's barks once again. Huan skidded to a sliding halt as the power of the wind its membrane stirred batted painfully against him. Huan growled and lunged again but braced his feet against the ground as the bat forced another wall of air on him. Huan bared his teeth fully, growling deep in his chest with his ears still flattened, dark eyes sparking. But he stepped back, returning to Tyelkormo's side.

The bat hissed, stopping its beating of the air and resting fully on its feet again, but it did not lower its wings. It spat at Huan, the barbed points of its wings' third digits tearing up the grass before turning its eyes on Makalaurë again, their bottomless black glittering. "If seek you to try and slay me, my Master will know, so keep you well to memory that he holds your precious lord brother in his keeping!" It chirred at Huan again, the piercing sound interchanging with hisses and shrieks, and the membrane of its wings fluttered ominously.

Huan growled louder, shifting on his hind legs, and Tyelkormo beside him looked just as taut, every muscle of his body coiled tight and his eyes unfathomably bright with suppressed fury as he glared at the bat, unblinking and hands working at his sides and on the grip of his bow. Everything from his dark expression to the tension in his body was humming with hostility. A long moment passed wherein the bat proceeded to hiss at Huan, Makalaurë, and now Tyelkormo, but then Tyelkormo visibly subsided as he released a shuddering breath, his face a mask of painfully dark indignation. With his free hand he reached out and clutched onto the mass of fur at Huan's neck, giving it a slight tug. Huan ceased growling, bowing his head and retreating back a few more steps.

The bat ceased its noise, lowering its wings and piercing its thumbs back into the earth as it turned its attention on Makalaurë, twisting its head to the side. It blinked. "Make my Master await your compliance at the peril of your Host and wellbeing of Nelyafinwë, for my lord declares he shall not be released until you have removed yourselves across the Sea or no less than a hundred leagues away, to and beyond Lestanórë. Then will Nelyafinwë walk unchained from Angamando, but only upon the evidence of your fulfilling of this new covenant. My Master says he will give no such mercy again, so with haste fly and be you gone!"

The bat launched from the ground in one powerful thrust of its wings and ascended swiftly into the heights of the sky, turning around and flying off into the darkness. The thrum of its passage was heard even after it melded into the cloudless night, the shadow of its shape and the corona of darkness about it breaking up the starlight once more as it became a black speck in the distance.

No one spoke, nor did Huan, who had lowered himself to his haunches at Tyelkormo's feet. Makalaurë finally stirred, turning to look over at Tyelkormo, his expression unreadable. His eyes moved from his brother to the hound and back again. "What was Huan saying?"

Tyelkormo looked down at Huan, running his fingers through the thick fur that he had been gripping moments before. Tyelkormo twisted his jaw, a look of foreboding entering his face. "Let us just say we now have another Maia to contend."

Makalaurë nodded, appearing unsurprised as he looked back out to the distant mountains. His face may as well have been carved from stone. The bat was no longer visible, nor could the passage of its flight be heard. Makalaurë hefted the strap of the haversack on his shoulder and began walking in long strides to where the bat had stood.

Yánadur watched him in no little confusion, growing only more flummoxed when Makalaurë stopped and studied the layer of fog with a keen gaze before he remembered that the bat had spat something from its mouth. Makalaurë soon leaned over to pick it up, turning it over in his hands. Yánadur exchanged an uncertain glance with Vëantur. Without speaking both of them moved to follow Makalaurë with more than a little hesitance. The other brothers moved also, along with a few archers, though they stopped a small distance away while the rest crowded behind Makalaurë. Yánadur was careful not to touch him, particularly when he could see even with all his apparel and armor that Makalaurë was shaking. Hard. Yánadur forced himself to focus on the minstrel's hands.

It was a parcel. Or it looked like one. It was made of a ghastly material, a skin of some fashion, the likes of which Yánadur was too leery to guess. It was no bigger than a handspan, rounded and plump and beaded with moisture. Makalaurë was trying to open it, turning it this way and that, his fingers scrabbling to find a seam or a nook, but apparently none could be found on the smooth surface. His movements grew stiffer and agitated, his fingers taking on a perceptible tremble. There was a hiss of steel on leather and Makalaurë turned to Tyelkormo, who extended the hilt of his hunting knife in silence, not looking at Makalaurë as he took the sharp blade and sliced impatiently through one edge of the material. He handed the knife back, tore the rest apart with his fingers and peeled back the folds of the dark skin. Makalaurë froze, what little there was in his face disappearing completely.

Hair. Russet hair, a hue similar to that of the twins', but more deep and vibrant. Long strands of it were twisted and folded to lie cradled in the heart of the parcel, the tresses lusterless and coated with dust. Yánadur stared at it over Makalaurë's shoulder in growing horror, a knot forming solidly in the pit of his stomach. He could feel Vëantur stiffen beside him, heard the slight catch of his breath.

Carnistir sighed in disgust and bit out a vicious curse as he spun away, his gate stiff and quick as he walked towards the mounts, which had still yet to fully settle from their whinnying. Tyelkormo looked down at the copper hair in silence, his face transmuting with an onslaught of emotions so raw and extreme that Yánadur found he could not look into his expression for long. Tyelkormo slowly leveled a peculiar look on Makalaurë that Yánadur could not interpret, one Makalaurë did not seem to see, or if he did he ignored it. But Tyelkormo did not speak. He too turned away but walked in no particular direction, Huan following in his wake.

Makalaurë finally stirred, lifting up his eyes from the neatly twisted knot of hair. He did not look at Yánadur or Vëantur or his brothers, his gaze flicking across the nearly imperceptible silhouette of the mountains. Lowering his eyes, he shakily closed the parcel and turned on his heel, his boots squelching on the yet moist turf. Yánadur turned to watch him go, his steps slower this time on the grass, and a sense of distraught weariness came over Yánadur. The twins and Curufinwë departed shortly after, speaking no words and heading in the direction of the steeds. For as well as Yánadur knew them, he could not read one thought in their faces, not even the twins, the least guarded of them all.

He turned to look at Vëantur, giving a small sigh.

Vëantur slowly nodded. "I know," he murmured. He narrowed his eyes, peering into the directions Makalaurë and his brothers had headed before raising an eyebrow at Yánadur. "You want Makalaurë?"

Yánadur returned the questioning look. "And you take the others?"

He gave a halfhearted shrug. "Fine with me."

"Very well."

Yánadur clapped him on the shoulder before turning to follow Makalaurë.

Ampano Lambengolmoron: Quenya for "the Hall[lit. wooden hall] of the Loremasters of Tongues". No official name was given for their edifice and only ever referenced by Tolkien in his notes as a 'school' or 'academy', neither of which is applicable.