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Chapter 17:
Decide, Decide

Makalaurë was just beyond a patch of thickets generally favored by the horses to graze, though all of the remaining steeds were still being calmed from their fright of the bat. Yánadur did not expect to see Makalaurë sitting directly on top of the sward, knowing he himself would have sought to avoid the moisture that the wild grass was yet saturated with, but this section of the encampment was more grassland and trees than littered with beds of stones to hunker down on. Yánadur rounded the tall shrubberies, steering away to mind the brambles, though he stopped his approach just beyond them, his last reception from Makalaurë ringing clear in his memory.

Makalaurë did not lift up his gaze from where he stared into his lap. Yánadur waited, but Makalaurë did not turn to acknowledge him. "I know we must leave." His voice was nearly lost in the incessant chirring of crickets. Yánadur frowned at the emptiness he heard in it. "I just needed a moment."

Yánadur craned his neck to peer over the haversack resting alongside Makalaurë and a sense of weary resignation overcame him when he saw the bat's parcel. The ghastly thing was in his lap, opened with its torn skin wafting in the breeze. Makalaurë held several of the fair strands, absently running them between his fingers. Yánadur leaned back, bowing his head to briefly turn his eyes away as he folded his arms somewhat stiffly. "I come not for the same reason you bade me search out Carnistir." He turned his eyes back, tilting his head. "May I?"

There was no response and for a moment Yánadur wondered whether he had even been heard. But Makalaurë turned his head towards him, though not completely his gaze, gesturing halfheartedly to the other side of the haversack. Yánadur sat, making a face at the chilly moisture that immediately seeped into his buttocks and thighs. He must have made some noise to the effect because Makalaurë glanced at him, a brief flicker of what might have been bleak amusement appearing in his eyes, but it was gone before Yánadur could fully identify it. He adjusted himself before fixating all of his attention on Makalaurë, but he did not speak. He looked him up and down, seeing that Makalaurë had yet to rid himself of the filth from their journey, not even his hair, its natural sheen now lackluster from the film of dust, though he appeared to have at least taken a damp cloth to his face and neck. Yet he looked just as much a mess as he had in that pavilion only hours ago.

Makalaurë looked at him when the silence persisted, his fatigued eyes running up and down Yánadur in the same manner of idle perusal to settle on his face. But when he met his eyes it was maybe only a breath it lasted before Makalaurë lowered his own, his expression collapsing into those faint traces of wearied misery.

He closed his eyes, sighing as he buried his face in his other hand, leaning on his knee as the fingers that toyed with the copper hair stilled. He sighed again, this time with a mild tremble. "I know, Yánadur," he muttered again, his voice tight with strain. "Just grant me one moment."

Yánadur frowned, suspicious of just what Makalaurë might have seen in his own face. He shook himself from the thought. "I never said I would not."

Makalaurë did not lift his head or, again, provide any indication that he heard the words. A muscle in his jaw ticked, the tendons of his hand flexing as he squeezed his fingers a little harder over where they covered his face. "He called it Angamando."

"What?"

Makalaurë removed his hand, sitting up a little straighter as he stared at the grass, and Yánadur was taken by the empty look on his face. "He called it Angamando," he repeated a tad louder. "The Dwelling of Moringotto. He called it Angamando."

Yánadur glanced away, briefly gnawing at his lip. "I know," he murmured, eyes darkening. "I would rather not think about that."

Makalaurë gave no response, but minute movement in his peripheral vision prompted Yánadur to turn his gaze back to the minstrel. And he watched as Makalaurë took up the hair now with both hands, absently threading the strands apart with his fingertips, pressing them back together and rolling them between his fingers and then repeating the process all over again. And again and again. Yánadur opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, his gaze suddenly drawn to the shorn hair as he truly observed it for the first time, unwittingly listing forward as morbid curiosity overcame him and he had to crush down the bilious rise of disgust at the thought of actually shearing an Elf's hair.

He knew the strands belonged to Maitimo. That fiery hue was well recognized even by those who glimpsed it only once, and it was so rare for an Elf of any kin to have so distinguishing a feature of their hröa. It was what identified Maitimo as very few other things did. But watching Makalaurë toy with it now, Yánadur was beginning to realize that the hair sample was long. Very long. The sickly feeling grew. Great stars, he must have hacked Maitimo's hair off at his neck for the strands to be so long and unbroken. But it was not the length that made a foreboding grow in Yánadur, because his face turned grim as he saw just how much filth coated the hair. Each Elf had been dust-ridden after ten strenuous days of traveling the steppes, including himself, but the state of Maitimo's hair made him feel clean. Images came unbidden, if whether he had been dragged for a league across the steppes for his hair to have become so imbedded with grime, some of the dust a black color he could not remember seeing out on the plains. Though, he admitted sourly, the state of the hair did answer Carnistir's question of whether or not he was even alive. Despite its filth, it was still healthy, nowhere near as dead and brittle as the hair of those slain Elves had been.

"Did you know that I wonder where I will lay myself to sleep?" Yánadur's eyes snapped up to him and Makalaurë nodded stiffly, a humorless, almost acerbic smile ghosting across his mouth. "Of all things to now render me a panicked mess, my mind chooses to linger on the question of where I shall sleep." The ghost of a smile emerged again, a bitterness curdling in his eyes. "You know how shelters were assigned, at least until more canvas is plaited. The twins shared a tent. Carnistir shared one with Curufinwë and Telpë. And Maitimo and I shared one while Atar had his own. But then Maitimo would spend nigh every other night with Atar to ensure he slept. He often ventured afterwards into the woods, you see," he added. "Though he always returned before Atar could know what he did."

Yánadur pursed his lips, looking away as he idly ran his fingers through the grass. "I hardly think Fëanáro would have minded," he said mildly.

Makalaurë gave a quiet snort. "Do not jest over this, Yánadur. You knew Atar. He would have had a fit, doubly so if he discovered that Maitimo went without escort. But during those times when one of us would normally take his place beside Atar, Maitimo was often too fatigued and remained there to sleep himself instead of making his way back to our tent. Tyelkormo usually shared quarters with Carnistir and Curufinwë, but when Maitimo spent the rest of the night with Atar, Tyelko then stayed with me." He huffed cynically, a self-loathsome grin again twisting his lips as he worked the hairs faster between his fingers. "And now I wonder just how our quarters will be shared after today." He shook his head. "Preposterous," he bit out quietly.

Yánadur frowned, now exceptionally and even lugubriously curious as to just what words had been exchanged in that command tent. As he and Vëantur had bidden the others, they had too removed themselves well beyond the reach of uplifted voices, only then venturing forth to the green come the sight of one brother after another departing from the pavilion, each with a darker and more dismal expression than when they had first entered. And Makalaurë's words now elicited that same inquisitiveness that made Yánadur warily wonder just how and why Makalaurë had been on his knees when he had screamed for Orostámo.

But Yánadur did not voice his thoughts. He just stared at him, again resisting the temptation to offer a ministering hand. He clasped them around his legs instead to ensure he did not. "Makalaurë, I think you need to breathe a little bit."

Makalaurë sighed, his fingers stilling as he closed his eyes, frowning. "Yánadur, I just abandoned my own brother to the mercy of Moringotto. In a place the Enemy dubbed Angamando. And you tell me to breathe?" He opened his eyes, a glimmer of impatience flashing in them as his lips tightened. He looked at Yánadur and Yánadur resisted the urge to lean away from what he saw in them, feeling suddenly wary. Eyes he knew so well were dark and their grey, normally so merry and scintillating with delight, now more resembled the gloomy hue that lingered after a storm, filled to the brim with self-loathing. Makalaurë lifted an eyebrow. "Why are you here, Yánadur? What do you want? I feel enough like a sapling being robbed of its water."

Yánadur regarded him gravely, feeling a mote of frustration but he checked it, giving a nod of concession. "You can fain guess. We need to know if we are to move again. And such needs to be decided with haste. Most of the Host is across the river or will have crossed it come the time we reach them. If we are to truly head south as the bat told us to, word must be sent ahead fast to see that the Noldor forego settling right away, something they will most likely do since the fields for the new encampment grounds were already marked. So?" He gestured questioningly with both hands, clasping them back around his knees.

Makalaurë was already shaking his head, slowly and with fatigue. "We flee into the South no more than we would return to the West." Despite the grim set of his expression, there was resolve in his voice, though he kept his gaze on the ground. And his expression transformed into one of utter, dark bitterness. "He will not release Maitimo," he murmured softly, and the lilt of fatalism in his voice was painful to Yánadur's ears. "He trapped Maitimo and would now do the same to us, if it means in the end that his will is achieved. I think that is becoming clearer now more than ever. Truthfully, I grow more and more to agree now with Maitimo's and your conjecture." He gave a feeble gesture with his hand, glancing at Yánadur and whipping his eyes away. "What you said, that more so does he work to see us forfeit our war and be gone than to waste his time dealing with us at all. You were right. You must be." He scoffed, his eyes growing vacant and not a little dim. "And even if he would release Maitimo, we go not into the South because our Oath keeps us here. As Maitimo said, war will come. And I cannot deny how my heart begins to more and more sing Maitimo's words of being now more desirous than before to battle Moringotto." He scoffed again, a tight smile twisting his mouth. "For stealing from us now three kings. Valar, I would swear it again right now I am so angry. I know not whether to love it or loathe it, but even did it not…." He faltered, tensing even further as his brow puckered in dismay. He bowed his head, lifting a hand to thread his fingers through his hair, only to viciously grip the strands in a fist, kneading and pulling them. "He will not release him," he whispered raggedly. "No matter what we do, he will not release him. He knows we are bound here to remain by our Oath, yet still…." He trailed off completely, releasing a shuddering breath as he gripped the dark strands tighter.

Yánadur frowned, suddenly curious at the question of whether they could even be assured that Moringotto knew of the Oath they had sworn. How could he? But he was diverted from such ponderings by Makalaurë's morose figure and he watched him helplessly, utterly unknowing of what to do or say as Makalaurë visibly shredded himself apart with whatever deprecating thoughts haunted his mind, loose strands of hair falling forward on occasion at the slumping of his shoulders. Yánadur cast a futile glance around for some manner of inspiration, anything, but he found his gaze riveted on Makalaurë, the sense of helplessness growing until unbearable. He could not stand it any further. Casting hesitation to the wayside, he leaned across the haversack and reach out, resting his hand on Makalaurë's shoulder, kneading the tense muscles he could feel contracting beneath his fingers even with the layer of apparel. He was relieved when Makalaurë did not rebuff his touch, but he had not relaxed either, and Yánadur partly wondered if he was so lost within himself that he could not even feel his hand.

He sighed, running his hand over the shoulder a few more times before clasping it, giving him a firm shake to garner his attention. "I cannot say I disagree with you, but I still find myself confounded."

Makalaurë drew in a deep breath and straightened as he rubbed his eyes. "With what?" he asked wearily.

"Well…." Yánadur hesitated, shifting where he sat to better face him. And he looked at him, not bothering to suppress the sheer confusion he felt. "Why capture him?" He gave a minute shake of his head. "The bat said that Moringotto will keep him 'chained beneath his wing' until we do as he says. I hardly trust any promise or bargain from him, especially now, but why did he capture Maitimo and kill the rest of the delegation? By Moringotto's words, he intends to use Maitimo as leverage against us, but why not take captive any of the other three score Noldor as well to hold over our heads? That would have been a greater leverage for him, to demand the ransom of all of them in return for our departure, not just one Elf. If seeks he in truth to encourage us to go into the South, it makes no sense for Moringotto to not just imprison all of them instead of only Maitimo. Yes, Maitimo would be the greatest extortion to you and your brothers, to the Host, but why cast away all the others? Moringotto must know how we would have reacted to all of them being captured. So why only take Maitimo and kill the rest? It seems redundant and even spurious if the design is to compel us to do as he says."

Makalaurë was nodding, a faint grimace passing over his face. "I know. Maitimo is Atar's heir, the third Finwë. Moringotto may desire to have Maitimo for that reason alone, which I actually can believe. But I cannot believe that it was solely why he captured Maitimo and that is precisely why I know Moringotto will not release him, no matter what we might do. He uses Maitimo as the incentive for us to leave, the 'token of his sincerity' as the promise of a Silmaril was the first time. But Moringotto broke that covenant as much as we did. Those Valaraukar hailing from the east were proof of that, and even if no Valaraukar had come to the mountains, Moringotto is a fool if he expects any of us to believe that only twenty Orcs could actually slay the sixty we sent with Maitimo, particularly after we massacred the hordes he assaulted on us. No. As much as he accuses us, Moringotto was just as faithless. If he had been sincere on his end of the parley, then his newer bargain might hold some value. But it is clear Moringotto wanted Maitimo before he even could have gleaned my brother went to the appointed place with more than agreed, for he was already awaiting him with a greater force."

Yánadur tilted his head, the frown deepening. "Why did you not say all that to the bat? It would have been delightful to see how that creature would have countered such an argument."

Makalaurë shook his head, the lassitude in his worn expression becoming more prominent. "No. That bat was a messenger, not an emissary. And a Maia evidently, according to Huan, though I would be suspicious of any dark creature that can speak Quenya and be shrouded in such necromancy. But upon my command for it to depart from the Grey Fields, the bat remained. He was only acting as a mouthpiece of Moringotto, just as that Orc-speaker had."

Yánadur sighed, shoving down the bout of mild disappointment. "I grow tired of how they give us no room to speak our piece. By Vëantur's account, the Orc-speaker was no better."

Makalaurë shrugged. "A messenger is a messenger. Or so they say."

"Well, in retrospect, I suppose the bat answered the question as to whether or not Moringotto has more Maiar at his beck and call."

Makalaurë grunted. "And how wonderful for us."

The corner of Yánadur's mouth quirked upward. "You sound like Carnistir." The glimpse of a grin faded. "Though I confess to being little sanguine that the question of it is now replaced with this new one of what mesh Moringotto now works to weave over our eyes. I cannot discern what design he intends with Maitimo and that terrifies me."

"I know." Makalaurë was silent for a long moment, his eyes growing vacant as he persisted on with staring at the ground. "It is completely illogical, which makes no sense because everything Moringotto did has always been logical, at least as we have seen." He scoffed low in his throat, a hint of derision surfacing on his face. "Honestly, how can he believe we are so gullible as to trust this new bargain when he broke that agreement just as much as we did?"

Yánadur lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. "Mayhap Moringotto is unaware that we know he broke it," he suggested, and he shrugged again at Makalaurë's sharp look. "The bat flew to the encampment and if that creature came from this Angamando, it had to have seen the carnage at the appointed place. But mayhap it could not see that the Noldor were missing among the many Orc carcasses, that we ourselves had been there to remove them."

Makalaurë looked at him skeptically, lifting an eyebrow. "Forgot you the Valaraukar? Tyelkormo's blow on his horn as we ran with all haste from the mountains to the Host? How we abandoned the encampment and later watched it burn and then be flooded? And that we now leave to relocate across the river because of it?"

Yánadur made a face of chagrin. "That is true. The presence of the Valaraukar would be difficult for Moringotto to explain away." He grimaced, a mote of disgust rising. "Valar, that only makes it worse. For Moringotto to be fully aware of what we know and that he still baits us with such a thing. Such mockery."

Makalaurë nodded slowly, reluctant agreement evident in the tight pursing of his lips. "I think we know in truth now just who is playing whom," he muttered under his breath. He looked at Yánadur. "The only good thing to take from this is that it is confirmed Moringotto no longer underestimates us. He proved that with the bat's mention of Lestanórë. Or mayhap it is not so good, for his underestimation of us was the one advantage that saw us to victory in that battle not two months ago. The less Moringotto underestimates us, the less we retain that advantage, and the fewer steps we stay ahead of him."

Yánadur frowned at him. "What?"

"Lestanórë," he emphasized. "The bat said Moringotto would only free Maitimo after we remove ourselves at least a hundred leagues beyond Lestanórë, whatever that is."

"Or wherever." Yánadur nodded at his questioning look. "Perhaps it is a place, as much as Losgar or Hísilómë is. It would make more sense than it being a landmark. And the name itself identifies that it is a land, though its components may mean little when it is Moringotto offering up the names."

Makalaurë nodded in concession. "Either way, we know nothing of this Lestanórë. Had never even heard of it until now. Moringotto underestimated us severely when he assaulted us, but now he assumes we are learnt on these wide lands of Endórë as to know of this Lestanórë and where it is."

Yánadur hummed in consideration. "Unless Moringotto just wants us to assume that he assumes we do."

Makalaurë looked at him, clearly hesitant and not a little discomfited, before he let out a jaded sigh. He closed his eyes, lifting his hand again to rub his fingers against his temple.

Yánadur grimaced. "Sorry."

Makalaurë slowly shook his head, keeping his eyes shut. "Do not be. It only emphasizes that we cannot guess what Moringotto truly knows anymore, what words from his mouth are of the truth or of a lie, or mayhap we never could. Again, I think we know now just who is playing whom."

Yánadur grimaced again, uncertain how to respond to that. Much to his relief, however, he did not have to, for a sound greater than the chirring of insects came from their right and both turned to find Vëantur approaching. He hesitated at the patch of thickets, eyes swiveling back and forth between the two, but Yánadur gave a discreet gesture of reassurance with his hand and Vëantur rounded the bushes, coming to a halt before them both. "Highness, Yánadur," he greeted mildly.

Yánadur nodded his head to him, but Makalaurë sighed in the same wearied manner as he had with Yánadur, bowing his head as he gave it a small shake. "I know we must go, Vëantur. I just needed a moment."

Vëantur lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. "Good," he said after a pause. "We need to leave all the sooner, for the fog thickens upon the ground and I would not see it clog the air before crossing the river ourselves. It is not why I came, but it is good to know there are no further delays."

Yánadur narrowed his eyes, perusing the Commander's face in effort to garner even the smallest morsel of an indication of how his own undertaking with the other brothers had gone. Vëantur's face was as stoic as ever, if not entirely unruffled, but Vëantur caught his elusive glance and gave a discreet nod. Yánadur frowned. What did that mean? He gestured at the ground nearby for him to sit, but Vëantur gave a quick shake of his head before looking away completely to Makalaurë. Yánadur's confusion grew, his gaze passing suspiciously between the two, as much as Vëantur was doing to them.

Vëantur continued to stare at Makalaurë, his expression softening just a little. "I pray to have not disturbed your discourse," he added after another pause.

Another sigh came before Makalaurë lifted his head, his hand dropping with a flop back to the parcel. "You do not," he assured softly. "Yánadur and I speak of the bat and its lovely message. Even though my banner is the last to march, word will run rampant upon our reaching the Host and the ill tidings of the bat will spread." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully at him. "Mayhap I will send you ahead, to at least inform those at the van and the Seconds that we are to settle in the Grey Fields as planned. The Council I will deal with later." His eyes fluttered away, a faint cringe of discomfort briefly appearing. "I know not if I can stomach them right now."

Vëantur gave a single nod. "Understood, Highness. If you will it, I will ride ahead when we set out."

Makalaurë looked up again, peering at him. "What are you doing here, then, if not to bid me to my steed?"

Vëantur folded his arms. "My question was answered. I came from talking with your brothers on the matter and now came to learn what we are to do since we have little time to see it done, and learned what we will do I have."

Makalaurë glanced at Yánadur before swiveling his eyes to the ground, but even in that brief look Yánadur could see the conflict warring in them. They waited, exchanging a quick glance themselves, but Makalaurë gestured towards the grass. "Sit, Commander." He waited until Vëantur did and he regarded the Noldo with a solemn, hesitant gaze. "Is this something I need to confer with my brothers on?" he eventually asked. His face was guarded. "If so, our departure will be delayed awhile longer, though we have delayed long enough and the rear sentinels will come running soon."

Vëantur hesitated, twisting his jaw and a glimmer of uncertainty showed in his eyes. "I do not believe so, Highness. I spoke with them, Tyelkormo mostly. He was with Curufinwë and Carnistir was – ah…."

"–being Carnistir, I know," Makalaurë finished, giving a tired nod.

Vëantur raised an eyebrow again but nodded. "Yes, well, I could gather little from what they said, at least from what they told me. They barely spoke a word to me when I enquired what the Host is to do, what orders I am to follow. They just told me to ask you."

That answer was clearly not the one Makalaurë was looking for, nor one he wanted to hear if the imperceptible way his face fell said anything. He looked away, pressing his lips. Yánadur looked from him to Vëantur, a frown creasing his brow. "That was it?"

Vëantur gestured uncertainly. "More or less." His attention was on Yánadur, but his gaze kept flicking over to Makalaurë. "They are not pleased. Tyelkormo commented about yielding to a mockery of…something." He trailed off, mildly confounded. "He spoke too fast for me to make it out, but Curufinwë calmed him."

Makalaurë's fingers absently smoothed over the strands of hair. "What said they of going into the South?"

"Well, Curufinwë said Moringotto must believe us the fool if he believes us so susceptible. I enquired what then we shall do, to build up our encampment anew and settle or what else. Again, they told me to go to you, though Carnistir said in particular that he would sooner return unto the West and enthrall himself to the Valar than permit Moringotto to gloat that the Noldor were hatched on the underside of a tree." He enunciated each word slowly and with precaution, as though questioning if he was even reciting the correct words in the first place. Vëantur looked between the two of them. "I–I do not know what that means."

Yánadur gave a tight smile. "Worry not," he assured wryly. "It is actually a compliment."

Vëantur's skeptical expression said enough. "Well, here I am," he ended with a soft outbreath. And again he looked between the two, expectant and waiting.

For a long moment Makalaurë forewent responding, neither shifting nor lifting his eyes, only brushing his knuckles against the Maitimo's hair. "And what say the twins?"

A faint wince creased Vëantur's forehead. "They would not speak to me."

Yánadur's eyebrows hiked up. "At all?"

Vëantur shook his head. "I approached them, but they told me to stop and to leave them be. So I did and sought you out."

Yánadur was silent at that, uncertain of even what to think and found himself joining Vëantur in watching Makalaurë as tactfully as possible, awaiting some response. They were not made to wait long. Makalaurë stood, moving with a speed that belied the exhaustion in his face and Yánadur hastened to follow, taken aback by his sudden alacrity. Vëantur sprung to his feet as well, reacting a little faster. Makalaurë clasped the open parcel of hair in one hand, reaching down with the other to take up the strap and shoulder the cumbersome haversack. He took a deep breath, closing off any glimpse of emotion in his face completely as he looked from Vëantur to Yánadur and back again. "Then let us depart. Tell Tyelkormo I want him to ride ahead with you. As well as Curufinwë. He should be with his son right now."

Vëantur frowned and Yánadur hesitated, regarding Makalaurë warily. "You will not tell them?"

Makalaurë sighed, briefly shutting his eyes as if summoning his last vestiges of patience. "Do not start, Yánadur. Not now." He did not meet his gaze as he walked around Yánadur, lightly shoving the parcel against his chest as he did. Yánadur caught it before it could fall, glancing in question to Makalaurë's retreating figure and feeling a pang of frustration when he did not turn around. But any frustration swiftly turned into a swarm of discomfort as he looked down at the hair, a sickly sensation forming in his stomach again. The copper hue was remarkably stark against the dark rawhide. Yánadur ripped his eyes away, closing the flaps of the torn parcel as securely as he could.

Vëantur also had a minor look of discomfort on his face, but he looked from Yánadur to the direction Makalaurë departed in. "You know him better than I. Why is he so akin to a stone?"

Yánadur leveled a mildly mordant glare on him. "You actually need to ask that?"

Vëantur made a face. "You know of what I speak. He walks more withdrawn than before. I know not if I would rather him freeze as Maitimo did, as they all were attempting to do. That at least I was growing proficient in dealing with."

Yánadur gave a slight shrug. "I cannot blame him. I know the bat's own threat against Huan echoes in my mind, that Maitimo awaits the consequence of any offense of ours. Nevermind the rest of the bat's message. It alone tempts me to freeze like Maitimo had."

Vëantur gave a wry nod. "Though I feel I would be better faced with yelling, not silence."

Yánadur chortled grimly. "Time to grow proficient in something new, then." He paused, casting an apprehensive glance at Vëantur. "He will now take up the fight, will he not?" The query was rhetorical, but Vëantur still looked at him in question and Yánadur gestured towards the mountains with the parcel. "Moringotto. You heard everything he warned twice now of the consequence if we refuse his terms, refuse now to go across the Sea or into the South." The seed of anxiety grew. "He is going to start fighting back now, is he not?"

Vëantur appeared just as troubled but nodded nonetheless. "Unless he lied about that, too, but I have the feeling that of all things he would want to lie about, that would not be one of them." His grave gaze traveled down Yánadur to his hands and a flicker of disgust flashed across his strong visage. "What do you intend to do with that?"

Yánadur looked down at the parcel, the discomfort resurfacing. "I do not know. At all."

A piercing whistle ripped through the air, jolting them both. They turned in the direction of the mounts and the host of people of Makalaurë's banner. Tyelkormo was standing beside his own steed, beckoning them with an impatient wave.

"Valar forbid us to become the next delay," Vëantur spoke drolly. Yánadur grunted, walking with him away from the thickets.