Assault to Abjury by Agelast

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Chapter 1

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Maitimo awoke to someone shaking him and calling his name. It was Makalaurë, looking faintly sick in the faint blue light of the lampstone. “Maitimo,” he said, “please get up. Atar says that we must sail in earnest before the rest of the company is awake.”

Warning bells rang in Maitimo’s head. He was up before he was quite ready, and, instantly, he was hit by a moment of utter confusion. Makalaurë steadied him for a moment, and Maitimo looked back at his brother. “We are leaving our cousins behind?”

“There is not enough room for them all,” Makalaurë said, with a trace of impatience in his voice. “His mind is made up; you will not sway him.”

“Let me try, at least.”

Fëanáro was in the captain’s quarters, pouring over what maps they had of the coastline of Middle-Earth. None of them were especially detailed, and all were absurdly out of date. His eyes flickered over to Maitimo and Makalaurë, huddling around the entrance of the room. “You are late, the both of you. We should have set sail an hour ago.”

Both of them spoke at once.

Maitimo said, “Atar, you cannot mean to sail without our uncle-”

Makalaurë said, “Atar, I told him that we would come back-”

Fëanáro rose from his seat and looked Maitimo over with a critical eye. Maitimo was conscious of the sight he made. He had not been able to change since the battle in Aqualondë, save to wipe his face and hands clean of blood. Fëanáro, on the other hand, looked every inch the king of the Noldor. It was all that Maitimo could do not to cast his eyes downward in shame.

“We are leaving, Nelyafinwë. As your brother says, we will return for the rest later. If your questions are answered, we will begin. No more delays.”

“At least...At least take one of his children, or Angrod and Aegnor. I know my brothers are fond of them. As a gesture of our goodwill, and a promise to return.”

Fëanáro pinned him with a sharp look, and Maitimo felt as if he were twenty again, struggling to find the right answers to his sums. “I am their king. I have no reason to earn their goodwill, as you call it. They have
sworn their loyalty to me, Maitimo, as have you.”

“I meant no disrespect…”

“The matter is closed.” Fëanáro gestured to a man behind them to call to sail. But Maitimo was not finished yet.

“If you will not have any of them here, send me to them instead.”

Next to him, Makalaurë pressed a hand on his temple and grimaced. Fëanáro’s face was a cool mask, and Maitimo had a feeling of sudden dizziness, as if he were standing on a precipice, ready to fall. He expected Fëanáro to deny him once again, and, if he did, Maitimo would go and speak no more about it.

Instead, Fëanáro said, very quietly, “Is this what you choose, my son?”

“Atar,” Maitimo said, “I would do nothing to shame you. Please believe me.”

But Fëanáro only shook his head, frowning. “Very well,” he said heavily, “but remember what you have sworn.”

Maitimo felt a rush of relief, which quickly curdled in his stomach into a sort of cold fear. He quashed it as much as he could and thanked his father, who was no longer looking at him. He was dismissed with a wave, and Makalaurë led him out.

“You are taking a terrible gamble,” his brother hissed in his ear. And then, “Why are you leaving me with them?”

Maitimo raised a brow. “It is as Amil always said: discomfort is the first step towards change.”

“She never said that, Maitimo! Be careful. They are...They are not like us.”

“Findekáno is not ill company, at least.” It was the first time in a long time that Maitimo had had the luxury to think of Findekáno at all.

Makalaurë rolled his eyes.

Maitimo was given a bag of supplies and a boat. His brothers (of those who could be found; some were belowdecks, and the rest on the other ships) saw him off. Makalaurë sang softly as Maitimo and his boat was lowered into the water. A sudden fog rolled over the water and soon the lights from the ship were muffled and then extinguished, but Makalaurë’s song stayed with him as the current took hold of the boat and moved it inexorably towards the shore.

His reception on shore was a cool one, attended only by some minor lords who had only happened to be there when he landed, as well as Turukáno, who was there for similar reasons. He greeted Maitimo coolly, but not, as Maitimo expected, frostily. A group of people came upon them as they were talking; among them was Findekáno, whose color was high. He pushed past the crowd to come to where Maitimo stood.

“It is a relief to see you. When we woke to see the ships had gone...” Findekáno paused, and tookMaitimo’s hand. He smiled warmly at him and Maitimo looked down and examined his boots.

“They will be back,” he said, not looking at Findekáno directly.

“Come, we have breakfast waiting,” said Turukáno impatiently.

 

The meal was not as painful as it might have been.

True, the children of Arafinwë stared daggers at him the whole time. The food would have been rather lacking, even if the company was better, but Maitimo, unlike some of his brothers, knew better than to complain. He kept an eye on his uncle, who took his reappearance with a faint air of impatience, as if Maitimo had indeed been expected.

Fëanáro’s sudden departure had left everyone with anxieties that had time to run amuk. Many times after the meal, Maitimo, who went out of the large and smoky tent to pace outside, was interrupted by some lord or other, demanding to know what the matter was. Patiently, he told them what he knew, but none would accept it.

One of them asked, “Does Fëanáro forget that he is the king of all the Noldor, and not just some?”

“Or perhaps he wishes us to have another king,” said another, with a covert glance at the direction of Nolofinwë’s tent.

Maitimo merely shrugged. “Perhaps what you speak of is treason.”

He smiled when he saw the lords’ faces go grey. They seemed to melt into the darkness without a backward glance. He heard a soft chuckle behind him, and felt a familiar hand on his shoulder.

“That was more blunt than they were expecting,” Findekáno said, with faint approval.

“I am not in the mood to coddle them today,” Maitimo said evenly.

“No, the time for coddling has definitely passed. You have eaten, then?”

“Yes. I did not know you there.” Nor had he seen Turukáno or Nolofinwë.

“No, I have been in a meeting with my father and brother. I am to take you to them shortly.”

Maitimo swallowed a sigh. He had never felt this weary in his life. Indeed, he had never known what it was to feel weary, but now he wondered if he was not treading so far from the absolute brink as his grandmother had done. He felt Findekáno’s shoulder bump against his and turned slightly.

There was a not-unfriendly look on Findekáno’s face. “You don’t have to look so grim,” he said, “I do not think they plan to roast you over a fire.”

“No,” Maitimo said softly, and then, his voice stronger, “I expect not.”

Nolofinwë and Turukáno, and, to Maitimo’s momentary surprise, Findaráto too, had wanted one thing, and that was assurances of Fëanáro’s return, which Maitimo, wary of speaking for his father, hesitantly gave.Then the talk went on to different topics, starting from a way to divide their various groups onto the ships, when at last Findaráto spoke.

“My followers and I will not set foot on those ships.”

The conversation stopped dead, and everyone looked down, or to Maitimo. Maitimo looked at Findaráto, who looked back at him calmly. Findaráto, Maitimo thought, had grown up since the last he had seen him. Findaráto, always a charming, smiling boy, looked nothing like that now. His face was set and frowning; he looked very much like Finwë had when he came to the decision from which he would never move.

“How do you plan to get there, then?” Maitimo said, finally. “Assuming now that it is truly too late to turn back.”

Findaráto did not flinch at the dig. “I will find a way.”

Maitimo was saved from having to reply by a shout outside, and a runner bursting through the tentflap. The boy made his way directly to Nolofinwë and knelt (collapsed, really) in front him. “My lord,” he said, between large gulps of air, “the scouts had seen something on the horizon. They said that you should know.”

Everyone began to talk at once. Could this be the Valar, changing their minds? Could Arafinwë have somehow convinced the rest of the Noldor to return? Maitimo shook his head, but before he could rise and follow the rest outside, he was stopped by Findaráto, pulling at his arm.

“Have a care, cousin,” Findaráto said, a sad look in his eyes.

“What do you know?” Maitimo said. “What can you tell me?”

“Only that you, too, will never set foot on those ships.”

*

There was an orange line across the dark horizon, so faint that Maitimo could almost believe he only imagined it. Except the others had seen it too, and a great cry went out, almost immediately. “Fëanáro has burned the ships! We are betrayed!”

There were now shouts, screams, everywhere, and Maitimo felt his blood rise. It was like Aqualondë again, but he had to keep his head this time, he was not armed, this time...

 

Someone grabbed his arm and he began to struggle away before he saw that it was Turukáno. They exchanged a look, short and fraught, before Turukáno shouted into the crowd, “People! Calm yourselves! Here among us is Fëanáro’s heir. Why would he burn the ships?”

“Fool!” someone cried out. “So Fëanáro has six heirs now. What does it matter to us?”

“It matters,” Maitimo began, and was almost drowned out by the roar of the crowd. “Listen to me! I am as stranded as you are. Listen to...” he looked around the crowd and saw Nolofinwë coming toward him. Nolofinwë pushed Maitimo forward, towards a slight rise of the ground.

“What would you do if you were in my position?” Nolofinwë said in a quiet voice in Maitimo’s ear.

“I cannot say, my king,” Maitimo said.

Nolofinwë smiled. “Flatterer.”

Then he turned to the crowd, his face grave, waiting for them to quiet. One by one, all eyes were on Nolofinwë. “My friends,” he said quietly, “if we have but half the heart I believe we do, we will see this through…”

Maitimo turned away for a moment, and looked to the horizon once again. He knew he should feel more than he did; perhaps the shock needed more time to settle. The wind picked up, cold and harsh, and the smell of smoke came with it.