Just One Victory by Feta

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The Ghost

Maitimo detangles himself from the marred, lifeless body without a single sign of emotion; not a kiss on a still-warm cheek or the stroking of a dark tress.  Moonlight filters through tears in the canvas, leaving streaks of silver across the dirt floor, illuminating various scattered items: specifically, a cast-off brown cloak lying heaped in the corner.  How convenient.

Shrouded, he makes his way out of the tent, finds himself face-to-face with Turukáno, and feels very fortunate that his own face is now covered.

“He is gone?” the younger cousin asks coldly, but with an underlying sorrow that cannot be fully masked.

“Yes.”  Maitimo is not afraid of having his voice recognized.  It is hoarse and rough, now, after so long of conversing in orcish, or not at all.  Certainly, he does not sound as he once did.

“Will you stay with us, stranger?  I would learn more of the one with whom my brother chose to spend his last moments.”

Maitimo is having some difficulty standing upright, and has a feeling that if they choose not to let him leave, he is not going to have much say in the matter.  That is fine.  He is not accustomed to having power over his own fate anyhow, and it will be difficult to get where he wants to go without more news of what is going on in the world.  He replies:

“I would speak with you a while, if you have the time.”

“Certainly.”

He refuses to enter any of the various nearby makeshift dwellings, but sits himself on the ground near a campfire, and Turukáno follows suit.  It crosses his mind that getting back up is going to be easier said than done, but there are more pressing issues.

Turukáno seems convinced that Maitimo is a spy from the Enemy, who deceived his brother and led him to his doom.  It takes a great deal of calm words and a fair amount of well-pronounced Elvish to convince him otherwise.  The two exchange uncomfortable pleasantries and talk of their mutual friend.  Maitimo explains exactly what went on between Findekáno, several Balrogs, and himself, leaving out the events that led him to this particular fight.

“But you already knew my brother.”

Turukáno does not speak the departed elf’s name; this is a respectful gesture that Maitimo follows as well.

“I did,” he says.  The subject is closed.

The conversation is steered toward the overall outcome of the battle: it appears that only half of the allied fighters have survived, and that Nolofinwë was not among them.  This is not a surprise; Maitimo had eavesdropped a great deal while waiting for a chance to see Findekáno; he had been distracted at the time, hoping for someone to leave that fateful tent and say that his cousin was going to be fine.  With no such luck, he listens attentively to Turukáno’s careful analysis of the state of those for whom he still has some emotion left.

It seems, as he had heard, that all six of Fëanáro’s sons have escaped alive, as well as many of their followers, all underneath the command of the high king, Makalaurë.  That last bit is an interesting development.  Maitimo questions:

“Do you know where they went?”

“South, most likely.”

This is not particularly helpful.  He stands, arms flailing as he grasps for support.  Turukáno steadies him, and comments, “You don’t seem to have fared so well in battle, yourself.”

Maitimo shrugs, not affirming or denying this.  He changes the subject rather abruptly.  “It seems that I will be going south.”

That one does not need an explanation.  The night does not mask Turukáno’s obvious displeasure.  “I suppose you will be needing a horse?”

“That might be helpful.”

It is to his credit that Turukáno does not demand a name or face from his mysterious visitor, but lets him ride away into the night.

 

 

Like leaves in the wind.  Makalaurë may have limited time for poetry nowadays, but he finds that this phrase sums up their situation exactly.  That he manages to gather up the remainder of his people and get them to relative safety is a miracle in itself.  Always a brother or two will attempt to question his authority; he has proven, however, that he was named commanding-Finwë for a reason, and one battle lost does not entirely undermine a range of prior victories.

It is a week at least that they have been on the run, and not having a destination makes it just as likely that their final home will be among these trees as any others.  A river runs nearby; mountains loom in the distance; it is not exactly Valinor, but not unattractive either.  They have recently met up with the women and assorted other non-fighters with whom they had parted before leaving for battle, none of whom seem to want to travel any farther.  Even these are fewer than before; a few stray orcs are responsible for this, he is told.

“Are we staying here?”

Makalaurë looks up.  He is not one too place blame, but a nagging thought that it was Tyelkormo who got them into this mess in the first place makes this particular brother’s presence irksome.  He replies:

“I remember when we were younger, and would travel with Father, every five minutes you would ask: are we there yet?”

Tyelkormo is not amused.  “Well, are we?  If so, you really ought to give the order to make camp, you know.”

Makalaurë nods.  “I suppose we are.  You can give the command.”

After a decent amount of time shouting orders and battle-cries it is a relief to have his younger brother give his orders and leave him be.

It is equally relieving to think of a proper encampment, with roofs over heads and places in which to sit and think.  Recently, they have been sleeping in trees, for the most part; an uncomfortable business, with everyone scrambling for the best branches.  It will be nice to lie on the ground once more, with all enemies a decent distance away.

He feels infinitely lucky to be able to sleep at all, now: last he heard, Nolofinwë was dead, and Findekáno missing, and several thousand others had met similar fates.  His own people are not without casualties.

“We are still six,” Tyelkormo says.  “We have survived and we are going to be all right.”

Makalaurë does not think to remind him that they used to be seven.

 

 

Days pass uneventfully.  That is to say, Maitimo sleeps through them, and rides at night.  Old habits die hard, and he has grown so accustomed to darkness that even the moon feels unnatural, and the harsh light of the sun is more than unpleasant.

He does not cover much ground, and when he does he is never sure if he is going in the right direction.  It is difficult to concentrate, because darting from one extreme to the other is hard work.  First he thought he would never see his love again; next they were unexpectedly reunited; and now they are parted again.

It would not do to dwell on memories.  Just the knowledge that he once loved an elf-boy named Findekáno in the gardens of Aman is good enough, for now at least.  That sooner or later they will see one another again is a nice thought, but by this time Maitimo is quite familiar with the concept of immortality, and knows that this will most likely not happen for a while.

He is sincerely fine with that.  What is going to come is going to come, and now that he has a great deal more control over it, he is entirely willing to deal with whatever ventures his way.  And while he has no specific plans, there is a brother who he misses rather fiercely, and five more as well, all of whom he would rather not confront.

Undoubtedly the younger ones would raise messy questions about who is the rightful ruler and whether or not a brother is still a brother if he no longer acts like one.  Maitimo would rather not bother.  It will be enough to see them alive, from a distance, and to know that they are living and breathing and fighting.

Traveling is a good time to reminisce and sort out feelings.  Maitimo is not in the mood for either activity.  He concentrates on his destination, which is hard to do when he is not exactly sure of where he is headed.  He has noticed that the sun rises in the same place every morning, but not knowing which direction it is makes this rather unhelpful.

Riding is not a pleasant experience; where a few words in his mother tongue would have once tamed any animal, this does not seem to work anymore.  This could be because he seems to have picked up an accent that takes a great deal of concentration to get rid of; such a level of focus was possible with Turukáno, but is too much to bother with at the moment.  In any case, it is a jarring ride; crossing rivers and weaving through trees makes slow going; and the food stolen from his cousin’s stores has run out.

He knows better than to count the days.  As he has no clear path in life, it does not really make a difference.  Mad thoughts cross his mind now and again: he should avenge himself; he should fulfill the Oath; he should turn back around and head straight to Angband, knock on the gate, and politely ask for the jewels and his honor back.  It is unclear which will be more difficult to recover.  The first two sentiments, in any case, are left over from an Elf who does not exist anymore.

Regardless, when he catches sight, far off in the distance, of a familiar banner that he never thought he would see again, as well as a large group of makeshift dwellings, he dismounts, and abandons the horse. He proceeds to creep his way forward on foot: a difficult action still, but there are always hands and knees when his feet feel like fire and he does not think he can stay upright any longer.

It would not do to be found.  He does not want to face all of their questions or run the risk of growing too attached to his family again.  Affection only leads to a horrible lonesomeness in the case of abandonment.  He is not sure if that rejection can be felt on both sides; but in the event that it can, a situation might arise comparable to the last time he heard from them.  And he is not going to subject either side to that again.

Maybe he is not being very fair.  All he knows is that one minute a very large and very dangerous enemy was telling him about his brothers, and the next there was an orc on top of him.  The situations may or may not equate; but logically he is not going to take that chance.

Freedom is a very precious thing.

 

 

Tyelkormo is trying to prove a point.  Makalaurë is not interested.  The former says:

“We have found a horse.”

“That is good.  We are short on them.”

“There is food missing.”

“Our two youngest brothers have a bad habit of taking without asking.”

“I saw someone dart away.  I thought it was Ambarussa.”

“My point exactly.”

“I saw him a few moments later.  He denied it.”

“The other Ambarussa, then.”

“I think…”

“Yes?”

“I think that it was a spy.”

“Or a hungry brother.”

The fair one is growing aggravated; he fidgets, clenches and unclenches his hands.  He and Makalaurë are sitting on a log by the river; life on the run does not allow for many chairs or tables, and certainly no thrones.

“Have you forgotten so quickly?” Tyelkormo questions.  “If not for spies and traitors, we might already have won the war.  We must not let such a thing happen again.”

The king says: “We will deal with this if it gets to be a problem.”

“It is a problem now.”

“Of course.”

Makalaurë’s tone is bland and patronizing.  Tyelkormo rises, and departs.

 

 

After much time watching their lives go on without him, Maitimo can now name each one of his brothers, and has caught sight of all, though only two have glimpsed him as of yet.  They fascinate him; they are dysfunctional but work together nonetheless; if ever they feel the need for a seventh member among them, they keep this to themselves.

Makalaurë: Almost as tall as him.  Fancy crown.  Likes to sing, but only when no one is listening.  Stays very calm, but is also quite opinionated; speaks forcefully when necessary, but rarely shouts.  Clearly does not enjoy power.  Does not pray to Eru or Manwë, but to his father and elder brother, which is an endearing form of blasphemy.

Tyelkormo: Blond hair.  Pesters Makalaurë quite a bit.  This must mean he has moved on; back in the old days, it was always Maitimo.  Pretends that he is in charge of the camp; shouts lots of orders; is obeyed more than half the time.  When Makalaurë is frustrated with him, he reminds him of some situation with a girl and a dog; this generally silences him.  Caught sight of Maitimo making off with some stolen bread.  Has blown said situation way out of proportion, but appears not to have recognized the thief.

Carnistir: Red-faced as ever.  Could be a result of his extensive drinking.  Keeps to himself.  Gets angry when anyone approaches him.  Apparently, lost more soldiers in the battle than any of his brothers.  A bit of a sore loser, but that is nothing new.  In denial that the battle has actually failed; when not sulking, tells anyone who will listen of plans for new attacks.

Kurufinwë: Still looks uncannily like his father.  Spends most of his time whining about not having a forge, or not having his son; apparently, is unaccustomed to a nomadic existence, and has chased away his offspring by being too Fëanarian.  While complaining, gambles away large quantities of old trinkets made in his days as a metalsmith.

Ambarussa: Could not be called little anymore.  Spends hours practicing archery, kind of like a redheaded Findekáno.  One of his arrows came into the flora where Maitimo was hiding, and he caught sight of him scampering away.  Fortunately, only appears to have seen the flutter of a cloak; has mentioned this to his twin only.  Has adopted the horse that Maitimo abandoned.  When not relating to said mount, can often be found cooking, of all things.

Ambarussa: Unsurprisingly, looks just like his twin.  Also plays around with weaponry, but prefers swords and spears.  Spars with various soldiers on a regular basis, and almost always wins.  More friendly than his brothers with the mortals living in the camp; also generally used as ambassador to neighboring Sindar.

Maitimo? Hides in shrubbery and keeps himself cloaked at all times; generally travels on all fours, but has become quite proficient at this means of transport.  Would not hesitate to compare himself to an animal.  For the first time in centuries, finds himself comfortable with his own existence, simply because he does not have one.  Living like a ghost means that he does not need to admit to his own presence.  As a spectator, he can be as dead to himself as he is to them.  As long as he is not caught, he does not exist.

Of course, that is only a matter of time.

 

 

Something is going on.  Tyelkormo knows it.  Makalaurë denies it.

The second gets the distinct impression that his younger brother is not pleased with him; but that is not a new experience.  Tyelkormo is sure he could be a better king than Makalaurë.  Makalaurë is sure that he is a better king than Tyelkormo would be.  Both know for a fact that Maitimo could do better than either of them, but neither has spoken that name to the other in a very long time.

The two of them are seated in Makalaurë’s tent.  The younger is quite busily explaining the situation.  The older feigns attention.

“Yesterday Ambarussa was telling me he was short on arrows.  He came to me several hours later saying that he found a pile of ones that he had not recovered sitting on his bed.  Someone had seen where they landed and returned them.”

“Interesting.”

“Last night Carnistir couldn’t find enough firewood.”

“And brooded?”

“Fell asleep.  When he awoke, the fire was blazing.”

“I suppose it couldn’t have been any one of the thousands of inhabitants of the area?”

Tyelkormo is not paying attention.  He continues:

“And then this morning I found a tunic that had ripped days ago… mended.  Not neatly.  It can’t have been an elf.”

“Next you are going to tell me that I only found my missing harp by the grace of our friendly local spy.”

“Clearly, it has been busy.”

“He or she is fond of us, you mean.”

“Or getting on our good side before it sets the enemy on us.”

“Illogical…” Makalaurë mutters, shaking his head.  He does not think much of the situation.  Obviously a son of Fëanáro would be wary of good luck or favor; but this is probably nothing more than some young mortal or other trying to get on their good side.

Tyelkormo storms off.

 

 

Sometime after twilight, Ambarussa is sitting beside a campfire, looking into the flames that match his hair so well.  A figure seats himself beside him.  The newcomer wears a brown cloak, hood up, and stumbles as he walks.  Neither of these traits stands out particularly.

There are a few moments of silence.  “Hello, friend,” Ambarussa says warily.  When he receives no answer, he presses on: “It is a nice night.”

“Yes,” agrees the stranger, speaking slowly, as though it takes great concentration.  His speech, nonetheless, is clearly Noldorin.  Most doubt that Ambarussa might have about him is allayed by this fact.

“Do you have a name?” Ambarussa inquires casually.

“A few.”

A pause.

“I’m called Ambarussa.  Or Amras, if you like.”

There is silence, again, though not altogether uncomfortable.  The stranger seems unaccustomed to casual conversation.  He fidgets, restless.  Ambarussa says:

“Do I know you?”

“Possibly.”

The conversation respites once more, until: “That is a change.”  Ambarussa puts forth.

“What is?”

“You haven’t tried to talk about the war.  That seems to be the first thing out of anyone’s lips, these days.”

“A battle was lost.  It is not the end of Arda.”

“Most seem to think so.”

This evidently upsets the stranger, who says, “That is downright ungracious.  You live, you walk the world freely.  Those are not things to take for granted.”

“Of course.”

“Some good may have come of all this.  You never know.”

“I suppose not.”

Another interval; then the stranger stands.  He does not look back, but says as he strides off, “Good night, Telvo.”

The darkness swallows his form as it limps away.  There is something off about the entire encounter.  Ambarussa gets the distinct impression that he has been visited by a ghost.

 

 

Whether he had planned that meeting, Maitimo is unsure.  As makes his way through a maze of tents and crude dwellings, occasionally pausing to hide from a passing insomniac mortal, he decides that this encounter has been quite enough to last him a lifetime.

The thing about Elves, even brothers, is that they are going to expect him to fight for them, bleed for them, and most likely land himself right back in their enemy’s possession, all for them.  They would have every right to feel this way.  He has done all of these things in the past, as far as they are concerned.

Maitimo has very little sympathy for the elf that behaved thus, and no intention of taking on this role again.

Makalaurë is his weak spot.  One of two: the second being his inability to travel with much ease.  He attributes this to a combination of years comprising limited or no time standing or walking, and various instances of injured legs and feet.

In any case, these two weaknesses find a way of attacking him in very rapid succession.

When he reaches his usual hideaway in the flora behind the king’s tent, he is careful as usual, but not entirely silent.  He does not suppose that he will ever regain faultless, graceful motion ever again.  This does not bother him.  As long as he has the ability to keep himself hidden, nothing else matters.

He has chosen this particular place as a home because he likes the thought of being close to his brother, even though he knows that the younger Elf is better off without him.

Makalaurë’s guards are all mortals, and have attributed any rustling or movement from him to a stray dog.  Sure enough, within moments they are discussing him offhandedly, with such asinine comments as:

“Dog’s back.” – and – “Do you suppose it’s hungry?”

Maitimo curls up, collapsing in on himself, folding into a tight ball, wrapped securely in his cloak.  The cloth still smells like Turukáno.  Tired from the effort of conversing normally with his younger brother, he slips halfway into sleep, eyes open.  Discussion wafts towards him.

“Careful you don’t scare if off like last time.”

Footsteps approach.  It seems that the guards have decided that tonight is the night to meet their alleged dog; and so it is time to move.  Unfortunately, approaching guards have formed a semicircle, whether purposefully or not, and he is fenced in.  The only route of escape, naturally, is the back entrance to Makalaurë’s tent.  If he is to avoid capture, he had better get inside.

He should have seen this coming.  Irony never dies.

And so he scuttles inside.

It is very bright in here, considering the time of night; candles are everywhere.  The light hurts his eyes, though less than it once did; he still sleeps through daylight more often than not, and somewhere in the back of his mind he still equates large amounts of lights with tormentors needing to see what they are doing.  This is odd, an arbitrary thing, because for the most part Maitimo has managed to stay almost entirely in the present.

The more pressing issue, however, is that the king is not nearly as asleep as Maitimo had hoped or expected.  Actually, he is entirely awake, busily pacing back and forth with his crown lying discarded on his bed.  He looks up sharply at the intruder.  From the other side of the thick canvas walls the guards’ conversation is still audible, remarks like:

“It’s gone again.”

“Damned dog.”

“I told you not to scare it.”

Makalaurë keeps his voice quiet; he seems to inexplicably understand the need for secrecy.  He inquires guardedly, “I suppose you are the dog in question?”

“It would seem so.”

Maitimo finds himself suddenly self-conscious; he does not like his brother hearing his voice, and more than anything, he does not want the younger elf to see his face.

It is time for a quick departure once more.  Hopefully, the mortals will not question a hooded stranger leaving the king’s tent.  With all the tangled love lines of their kind, they will most likely assume that their lord is having an affair.  Maitimo tries not to think about love right now.  Any such thoughts, recently, have done nothing but make him feel sick.

The king is cautious.

“Maybe you can explain to me why you were lurking in my bushes.”

It is obviously a command.  Maitimo has no time for commands, anymore.  He strides gracelessly for the exit; but logically, the Valar are not going to favor him with a second easy getaway in such a short period of time. 

Makalaurë reaches out to stop him; his hand catches on the hood of the cloak, it is pushed back, revealing copper hair and grey eyes in the candlelight.  The younger elf stares.

Maitimo has a feeling that this was inevitable.

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