The Tempered Steel by Lyra

Part I, Chapter II

In which the Brothers Fëanorion receive Orcish messengers, and unpopular decisions are made.

Fog hung over Lake Mistaringë* like a soggy blanket. Although it wasn't raining, by the feel of the air it might as well have been. The stars were obscured from view, the forests hidden by the grey mist; lamps and torches were surrounded by soft coronas. Cloaks were little protection against the damp air: The wet crept everywhere.
Canafinwë Macalaurë, High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth, looked out over the ramparts into the foggy gloom. It was night - not by any virtue discernible to the eye, but simply by custom, because it was the time of rest and sleep in the camp. Only the guards were awake - and he. Sleep frequently eluded him ever since Maitimo's host had not returned from the parley with Moringotto. Mere days after Fëanáro's death, his heir was presumed dead as well, and all of a sudden crown and responsibility had come to Macalaurë, who had wanted neither. He had accepted quietly, as was expected of him. In truth, it was bearable - by day at least. It kept him busy, there always being some work or some administrative matter to deal with. He knew he had to be strong for the sake of his people and his brothers, and he was. But at night, unwatched, his composure crumbled.

He sat down with a sigh, cradling his harp. He was far enough from the longhouses not to wake any of the sleepers, but he couldn't think of anything to play, so his fingers just slid over the instrument, plucking strings at random, soft, plaintive notes hovering in the wet air. The harp was out of tune again, despite the cloths and the wooden box that were supposed to protect it when it was not being played. It was not unpacked often these days; the King had other duties, and the people had other things to worry about than entertainment.
Sitting more upright, Macalaurë began to tune the harp. It was good to have a purpose, he thought, even if it was as simple as returning harmony to an instrument. Or especially when it was so simple. There were far too few goals now that were easily achieved.

He had not come far when he noticed a light approaching. As it came nearer, he could see through the fog that it was carried by one of the guards. Sighing, he set the harp aside and rose. By the time the man reached him, he had recovered the mask of sober but determined leader that his people had come to rely on.
"My lord King?" The guard's brow was creased with a frown, and his eyes betrayed great unease; Macalaurë wondered what might trouble him in the middle of the night. "Vorondil. How can I help you?"
Vorondil shifted from foot to foot. "There… there is an envoy that demands to speak with you, my lord."
"An envoy?" Macalaurë was surprised and made no attempt to hide it. He couldn't imagine what kind of envoy might come to see him at this time. The wood-elves they had occasional dealings with observed the same rhythm of work and rest. In fact, the count of days and nights in the settlement of the Noldor had been modelled on theirs. Certainly they would not come in the middle of night-time unless there was a matter of great urgency.

"They say they are an envoy," Vorondil interrupted his chain of thoughts, "but truly they are Orcs, my lord."
"Orcs!" Macalaurë exclaimed. "Haven't we decided not to parley with Moringotto or his foul brood ever again?"
"Aye, my lord," said the other, studying the floorboards of the ramparts intently.
"Then why have they not been shot already?" His voice was sharp now, although he kept it low so others would not be woken by their discussion. There was too much grief bound to the last time they had dealt with an envoy of Orcs.
"We meant to, lord, but…" Vorondil swallowed, shifted his weight again. "They said they had news of your brother."
Macalaurë reached out to the log wall to steady himself. Hope and dread both welled up in his heart as he stared at Vorondil, who looked back anxiously, biting his lip.
"They showed us this."
He held up a strand of hair. It was knotted and soiled with dirt and blackened blood, but even through the fog, in the weak light of the lamp, Macalaurë could see that it was red.

- - -

"We cannot accept this," Curufinwë said, pacing agitatedly. He had not even bothered to sit down at the council table where his brothers had assembled in haste. Macalaurë watched him walk to and fro, frowning; it was hard enough to contain his own anxiety without Curvo adding to it.
"This is not an offer, it's a trap," Curufinwë continued, slamming his fist against the wall. Ambarussa winced. "But we cannot leave Nelyo there!" he protested. "I cannot believe we even have to discuss this!"

Macalaurë held his hand up to calm (or at any rate silence) him. "We do not. I'm afraid I already know what our course must be. But nonetheless I would hear your opinions."
"Too kind," quipped Tyelkormo and earned a stern glance. "At any rate, Ambarussa, nobody said we would leave him there. But I certainly agree that we cannot make a deal with Moringotto."
Curufinwë nodded in agreement, leaning over the table where his youngest brother sat. "We have seen often enough how he honours his promises. They are no firmer than the air they're uttered to."

Macalaurë nodded. Outwardly he managed to maintain an air of calm, but his hands were gripping the table so tightly that his knuckles stood out, the skin white. He knew that his brothers would likely notice, that they wouldn't fall for his carefully studied composure – so much like Nelyo! – but it had become a habit by now, a way of helping him master the crises they'd had to deal with. This definitely was one.
"What do you suggest then?" asked Ambarussa defiantly.
"Why, brother," said Tyelkormo, "I should think it is obvious. We cannot strike a deal with Moringotto, and we cannot leave Nelyo in his power; they'll torture him…"
"They already have," Carnistir spoke up in a distant voice. He had remained silent so far, betraying no emotion at the news; but the brothers had grown used to his silences, and had given up pressing him for counsel long ago. Now he raised his head. Macalaurë looked at him sharply. "If you have information inaccessible to us, Carnistir, you had best share it." But the darkest of his brothers did not speak again, only stared fixedly at the lock of red hair that had been placed on the table as if to speak for their absent brother.
Silence fell. Curufinwë slumped into his chair at last.
"It is a reasonable assumption, I suppose," he said, looking down at the table, fingers tracing the patterns in the polished wood. "He has been missing for nigh five years as we count them. It is not likely that he has been unharmed in all this time." There was another uncomfortable silence. The council room was brightly lit, the lamplight reflecting on the white plaster of the walls, yet it felt as though the fog and the darkness from outside had somehow crept in to smother the light.

Eventually, Tyelkormo broke the silence. "To my point, however…"
Macalaurë forced himself to give him a brief smile. "Yes. Please go on?"
"We can, as I said, neither fulfil Moringotto's demands nor leave Nelyo in his power. It is obvious therefore that we must fight."
Curufinwë nodded his agreement.

"We are too few," Macalaurë said in the tone of one who had considered this option but had been forced to reject it. "We have tried to fight our way into Angamando when we were of greater strength, and failed then..."
"But surely you cannot mean to leave him!" said Curufinwë, rising from his seat again. "I don't believe it!"
Macalaurë closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he found that his brothers were staring at him. He sighed. "No. I do not mean to leave him." He saw the others relax and felt all the worse for what he knew he had to tell them. "And if any of you have a realistic idea about what we can do, I'll be more than happy to see it through."
"We are not too few if the Moriquendi march with us," Tyelkormo suggested at once, tapping the armrest of his chair excitedly, his mind already at battle.
Macalaurë grimaced, but to his surprise Curufinwë was speaking before he could muster a reply. "Perhaps not. But what would the Moriquendi care about our brother?"
Tyelkormo's eyes widened and Ambarussa gave a small shocked cry, but Curufinwë cut their protest short with a wave of his hand. "No, think about it. I, too, wish to see Nelyo free. But why should they? You know as well as I that many of their own people have been captured by Moringotto: Yet they have never gathered and tried to free any of them. They have no army, hardly any weapons beyond what is needed for hunting. They have survived here by avoiding war with Moringotto. Why should they do otherwise now, for the sake of one who means nothing to them?"
"He doesn't mean nothing to us!" shouted Ambarussa, rising from his chair. "We have to save him!"

"And do you truly think, littlest brother," retorted Curufinwë, getting into his stride, "that Moringotto would sit and wait while we attack? Do you truly think he would not seek to hurt us in any way he can? Even if we were to break the gates of Angamando and march in, do you think we would find Nelyo alive in the end? Nay, by attacking we should likely harm Nelyo more than by waiting. Not to mention that we'd likely kill all our host if we attacked now. I hate it, brother, as you do – and rightly so – yet I am afraid Macalaurë is right after all."
Tyelkormo leaned back, disbelief written all over his face. Ambarussa was on the verge of tears, his eyes shining with anger and hurt. Macalaurë rested his forehead in his hand, wearily. "Thank you, Curvo," he said softly. "That is indeed the conclusion I have come to. We can do nothing but wait. Everything else would make things worse: For us, for our people, even for Nelyo."
"But we will have to fight Moringotto eventually," Tyelkormo snapped at him, "and if not for Nelyo, then for the Silmarils." Macalaurë had secretly wondered when their father's jewels would first be brought up; he was surprised it had taken so long. "I am not sure whether you remember, but we have sworn an oath," Tyelkormo continued, brushing a stray strand of hair out of his face. "We can postpone harming Nelyo by attacking, but we cannot put it off forever. This is useless."
Macalaurë raised his eyebrows, and when he replied, his voice had a hard edge to it. "Perhaps, Tyelko. But we have not sworn to attack senselessly against better judgement, while we have no chance of winning. We must regain our strength, and make strong allies if we can, and when we strike, we must strike hard and swift. If we're lucky, we may win both the Silmarils and Nelyo. But if we strike now, we cannot win anything. We would only throw away our lives, and every chance to fulfil our oath. We cannot attack now."

"Then we must accept Moringotto's terms," Ambarussa said dejectedly, his voice thick with tears. "We can't give Nelyo up. Not now that we know he's alive!"
"We can do nothing else," said Macalaurë, eyes dark and voice heavy. "It is terrible, Ambarussa, I know, and I wish it were otherwise, but we can do nothing else. We cannot do what Moringotto demands; going back is impossible for us…"
"Then we must go to the south," Ambarussa said between gritted teeth. "No, don't interrupt me, I know as well as you do what we have sworn. I did not say that we had to leave for forever. We could go, and when we have Nelyo again and an army to match Moringotto's, we can return; what could he do against it?"

The others exchanged meaningful glances. "But if even you, Ambarussa, Prince of the Noldor, child of the Blessed Realm, have no intent of honouring these terms, do you believe Moringotto would be more faithful?" asked Macalaurë. "I believe he wouldn't release Nelyo whatever we do. Remember how we lost him in the first place!"
"And Nelyo would not want us to do that," Carnistir added softly. Curufinwë raised an eyebrow but refrained from making a scornful comment, a certain sign that he was very distressed indeed.
Ambarussa sat back down, burying his face in his hands. Nobody found any words to console him.
After a while, Macalaurë rose. His head was bowed as though a great weight lay upon his shoulders. "It is decided then. I will tell them."
"You condemn him to torment!"
"I know," Macalaurë said, resting a trembling hand on Ambarussa's shoulder. "I know." He looked at each of his brothers in turn, then at the brilliant colours of their father's banner on the narrow side of the council room as if expecting encouragement from them. Then he shook his head.
"Nelyo is stronger than all of us together. He'll make it."
It sounded unconvincing even to himself.

Chapter End Notes

*We are not given an official Quenya translation for Mithrim (the lake, as opposed to the people), and I thought it would be unfitting to use the name of the people. "Lake Sindar" just sounds absurd. So I cooked something up.
An alternative translation for "Mithrim" as a geographical feature would be "grey lake" (or "foggy lake"), which sounds much more reasonable. I decided for mista rather than sindë so the Quenya name would be an immediate equivalent of "Mithrim", with the added bonus that mistë means "fog, mist" on top of "grey".
Later on I remembered that there are a lot of instances of „Lake + [name of local people]“ in the real world (TM), so it wouldn't have been so absurd after all.
But I still like “Lake Mistaringë” better than “Lake Sindar”.