***TEARS UNNUMBERED SHALL YE SHED!***, Roleplay story

[Maedhros]

They travelled in darkness, except for the flashes of lighting that only illuminated a thick curtain of falling rain. Maitimo could barely see his own men, much less his brothers’ forces. They were vulnerable, all of them, and he hated it. He knew that Morgoth had sent all of this—the storm, the darkness, the impenetrable grass and the sickening stench from the swamps. For a moment, Maitimo felt a traitorous regret that they had ever left Aman, where they had been safe and surrounded by beauty. But such a thought was disloyal to his father. Of course Atar had been right. They had had to come. Their presence would cleanse these lands of this evil, no matter how penetrating. They were strong enough. Yes, they were strong enough. Maitimo repeated these words to distract himself from the soreness of his exhausted, wet body, knowing that the rest of the host was in the same condition.

A commotion rose above the storm. Elven voices cried out in alarm from the border of the poisoned water. Then a terrified lieutenant galloped toward Maitimo and reined in his rearing horse. He did not say what had been found at the water's edge, but he panted a message from Tyelkormo. The army would move to the grassy plains to avoid being hemmed in at the riverbank. Maitimo nodded his approval, then spurred his horse to canter down to Tyelkormo and Curufinwe at the putrid water’s edge.

He never reached Turco and Curvo. As Maitimo's horse picked its way through the storm, hotheaded Moryo galloped towards Maikhel's forces at the front of the host. Maitimo watched helplessly as Moryo lost control of his horse, then was thrown when it stumbled. The next lightning flash revealed huge, roaring wolves bearing down on the dazed Moryo.

Maitimo urged his horse toward his brother, drawing the bow from his back. He prayed for another flash of lightning. When it came, the wolves were gone, but so was Moryo's horse. Another foe was bearing down on him. It was three times his size. Maitimo had no idea what it was until he remembered the Battle-Under-Stars. These gigantic, hulking creatures had been there when Feanor perished. The elves had named them trolls. They did not wield fire as balrogs did, but their strength was immense. Maitimo's heart froze as the creature's fist swung towards his little brother.

He vaulted off his horse and sent an arrow boring into the troll's hide. At least its size made it easy to aim. Maitimo's lieutenants ran after him, a small army ready to aid Moryo.

"Shoot the troll! Bring it down!" Maitimo shouted. After a volley of arrows, the warriors drew their swords and rushed into battle with the towering creature.

[Caranthir]

The volley whistled over his head. The flickering starfall of gnomish darts punched into the creatures thickened skin, slowing the it's lumbering steps. It swatted at the arrows like a man who suddenly finds himself in a wasp's nest. Moryo rolled to avoid a distracted stomping foot. The wide splayed toes dug deep into soft earth as the creature braced itself to shout at the charging swordsmen. It was huge bellied and many fingered. Its compact head was patchy with grassy hair and ridged with heavy brows under which deep pitch eyes glared down at him even as Maitimo shouted commands. Caught between, Moryo was minded of his early youth running wild with his brothers through the fields of Yavanna stealing honey, the enyd keepers waving their branchlike arms and chasing the impish elfin younglings away. If onodrim spent an age mouldering in shadow and had tempers to match - he was looking at one now, or a mockery of such. Corrupted into something different and deadly - torco, troll. It's lethal glare and reaching hands were arrested by the commanding shout of Maitimo and his retainers as their charge brought them into range of its sweeping arms. In golden memory it was always Maitimo who had turned and stood, facing down the irate enyd of Yavanna. Maitimo who had faced their wrath, placated them. Maitimo the eldest who even, drawing on a young echo of their grandfather's and father's kingly tones, commanded them to stand down as Moryo and the younger ones escaped into the forests. Moryo fled.

Weaponless and panicking, he slither kicked under the troll's legs, sliding into the grassy trough that was greased with horse blood. Tuffs of mane and bits of cloth barding stick to his skin. Rain mixed with gasping tears at the still warm feel and smell of it. His horse. Gone. Gift from Orome's people. Tack. Harness. His sword tied to the barding! Made by his father! Desperate, he crawls into the grass sided tunnel where the wolf creatures had disappeared. So much had been taken from him so quickly. He would not lose another memory to these twisted parodies of life back home.

The wolf shapes had not scared him, much. He had hunted often enough with Tyelkormo and Orome's outriders. Hart and boar, horse and hound. His brother's hound, Haun, was well known for taking down the wolves the Lord of Forests allowed to roam his lands in Aman. But those eyes glaring from the wolf creatures here. Intelligent. Conscious like Haun's. Yet deep and twisted. Filled with hate. Moryo was quickly coming to rue this darkling land. It seemed the only light here was that they brought with them. Truly the Powers had abandoned this place to their kin, Bauglir. He shuddered tho think what else lurked in the land ahead. He could not face the troll unarmed but nor could he let his father's begetting gift be dragged into some reeking wolf den.

Moryo took long deep breathes, crouched, he steadied himself in the near dark of the tall grasses. Eyes blinking in the dim light, the shifting grays of grassblades wove back and forth in the wind, snatching the scent of death away. Head clearing, he felt the steel poniard in his belt, the pommel grinding into his clenched palm. He prepared to move deeper into the grass.

Suddenly they were before him. Shadows in the deeper shadow. Betrayed only in that they did not bend and sway in the wind. He squinted, stepping back. Their wide eyes gleamed luminous in the shifting light. They whispered, barely heard above the rasping grass. Words just beyond his understanding but thought came with them. Stalking. Hunting. Hatred of the wolf creatures. Blood-feud. Moryo released his grip on the steel, stood slowly, holding his palms outright. Whatever they were, these were foes of those things that had slain his horse.

"Where is he? Rocco?" he tried, horse. The shadow folk all bent to one knee before him, murmuring, save one. It drew closer, drawing aside a cloak like cloudy night under which stars glimmered. The jewels on the hilt of his sword twinkled as the shadow man drew it forth, wrapped in the torn barding lately worn by Morco. Holding it forth like a serpent in a bag, the figure held it out to him.

"Russėlyaa macaryondo," it whispered, a barely felt breeze of recognition. Moryo took the cloth gingerly, catching the weight with both hands, even as his quick elven mind struggled with the strange dialect. The meaning was clear enough, 'your blade, swordsmanson'.

"Hantanyel tulesselyanen," he replied, 'I thank you for coming'. "Mįravė omentaina! Nanyė estaina Morifinwė." He hoped the shadow folk would understand his meaning, 'Well met. I am named Morifinwė. He bowed deeply and grasped the hilt, hand touching the cool shaped steel of his father's handiwork. He could not resist drawing it slowly to check the condition of the first few inches of the blade. The flickering lightening above caused the jeweled hilt and steel to flash.

Quick as a ripple, a predator's smile splayed across the face of the shadowband's leader as Moryo bowed. He signaled his people. When the elf raised his head they were gone. He glanced around, curious. As silent as could be, Moryo walked backwards out of the tunnel, looking in vain for the strange hunters that had returned his blade but of the shadow folk there was no sign. The dull crash of thunder rolled. He turned and ran for the clearing where his brother undoubtedly held the troll at bay. Brandishing his sword he raced for his side.

[Maikhel]

He shook his head to clear the mental cobwebs, the flickering disorientation. All along the front his men beat back the grass into a verdant if somewhat slimy roadway. In places they were up to their knees in mashed verdant foliage. The plains clearly concealed deep gashes but so long as no fool horseman came charging blindly across they should be fine. Pulped and armor in need of cleaning, but fine. Smiths through and through, some were already trying to wipe the sticky filth from their greaves and bracers, hands green and fouled.

The screaming sounded like a horse in pain. Suddenly cut short into silence.

Maikhel ran down the line toward where the sounds from where the sounds had come. All along the line hammer and mallet wielding elves paused, exhausted and coated in spattered plant pulp, looking at each other or out into the swaying grass. He pulled quickly by them, close enough to see the hulking shape of the troll rear up in the distance off where the army's left flank should be. "A rider, a rider is down!" the men shouted. He realized with a start there was no left flank. They had left the main body of elves somehow in the disorientating landscape that rippled in grassy waves. He grabbed the nearest file leader by the pauldron, "Gilsar!" he shouted over the soldiers jostling, "Form them in square!" Not waiting to watch the soldiers movements, he trusted the clarions that began to trill. The sound warbled oddly in the wind. Like gulls cries. He pushed thoughts of docks running red from his mind. Of red smoking shapes rising from the dust. White crested curving plumes blackening and curling beneath the lash of scourges...

"Sir! Lord Maikhel!" the dead shook him, pulling him down. He struggled. His vision blurred and resolved into elves around him looking worried. He was gazing straight ahead, not seeing what he had been seeing. The dry flicker of lightening was followed by a rumble of long thunder. "What? what?" he answered woodenly. Gilsar had followed the elf lord as the orders were issued. The square had formed without incident, a compact body of infantry surrounded by long swathes of smashed vegetation. Maikhel had been spotted standing motionless on the verge of the deeper weeds, adrift. Gilsar's company, notable embossers of reputed skill, followed the file leader clustering around their lord. Gilsar shook Maikhel's shoulder again. "My lord, what is it?" He shook his head again, visions fading.

"Someone is out there," he muttered.

"True enough," replied Gilsar, strain tweaking his pitch annoyingly to Maikhel's ears. "We saw the horseman go down. Courier most like. Those nasty crevasses were saw..."

"No! No!" said Maikhel heatedly. "All this damn steppe land. Its hiding something. Something..." He snapped back, "We're being stretched Gilsar, beaten over someone else's pattern. I don't like it. Not at all. Something is testing our patterns, our movements, pulling us onwards." He thought briefly of the Swan Ships pulled by their namesake, whatever hand held the tiller and to their terrible ending.

Gilsar shook his head, fingertips running over the raised metal of the twin trees on his pauldrons, "Nothing here but wind and grass, sir."

"So the pattern embossed into steel says to itself, 'I stand of my own strength'. Yet it is hollow beneath the lines." Gilsar's company exchanged looks. Many rumors flew of Maikhel's survival of the ambush on Feanor's guard. Few were kind in their appraisal of Mahtan's heir, or his conduct since. Exile and the Doom of Mandos had seemed empty words to many just weeks ago but subtly, jealousy and fear bore their poison fruit. Doubt dimmed their ardor with clammy tendrils. "Do we wait here, sir?" asked Gilsar in a plaintive voice. "We should draw back to our lines. Regroup."

Pulling and coaxing him, the smiths haltingly made their way back to the protection of the trampled clearing. As they walked, many craned their heads searching for the hulking troll shape in the distance. All were too concerned with their lord's fey mood or the far menace to note the cowled shadows watching silently nearby. The rasp of power laden words whispered unheeded on the wind.

[Maglor]

The silence drove his mind inside as it had always done and now Makalaurė was asking himself a million questions. What was right and wrong about their time since the carefree days in Tirion? How had they gotten themselves into such trouble? Cursed by the Valar! What could be changed and what must remain? The conclusion was always the same. They could do nothing. They were doing what was right, they were pawns in some bigger plan. Now he came to this conclusion yet again, and he did not like it. He had never felt so restricted.

As a musician and poet he had been taught that imagination should be free to create from nature. Yet his imagination was nothing compared with the reality they were facing. This was no Tirion, Aqualondė or even a musician's colony. Here there was danger and one must keep alert and trust others to do the same. As if on cue his horse tensed and Makalaurė realized the soggy silence had been broken ahead, up the line of march. The rear guard moved their horses alongside his own and Arįto sped up to keep step until the intervals between the different houses had come together and all was slow again. Orders were yelled up ahead, trumpets sounded the formations and as if by some unseen hand the ranks parted for him. He urged his horse into a gallop toward the sound of trouble. His eyes were tearing from the speed as he raced toward a dusky scene not yet clear.

Sounds like none he had heard before chuffed from the dark mist. Arįto hesitated, slowed and trembled. When was there ever a time when his horse had ever trembled in fear? Makalaurė drew his sword with his right hand and lay his left hand on the grey neck of his mount. Arįto steadied, moved forward once again but at the trot. All around soldiers were forming and reforming to commands delivered by their superiors or by horn. Here there were spears tipped forward and just beyond a company had their shield arms braced and swords drawn.

Then there was space to move! The ground here was different, made up of the tall grasses beaten to pulp in the sticky mud. The footprints of Elves were woven among the mush. Judging by the noise they were not far ahead. Arįto reared and jumped forward, his back legs kicking out, almost dislodging him. A dark form rolled under them, its blood-curdling snarl turned to a yelp of pain. Another form from out of the darkness landed upon Makalaurė's shining sword turned to meet the danger at the last minute. Wolves! Three more were brought down by archers that had gone unnoticed. There! Ahead he saw... TORCO?

"Shoot the troll! Bring it down!" It was Nelyo's voice ahead!

Makalaurė's left hand moved to his horse's neck to get and give comfort as they closed the distance. "Įnin anta estelya," he whispered as he returned his sword to its sheath and brought forth his bow from his back.

"Į pusta! We will not get any closer!"

Arįto halted, allowing the seating of an arrow and the drawing of the bow. Many times this scene had been played during the hunts of Tulkas and Oromė in Aman, only the beast was not so dangerous. Where to shoot? Its skin was tough, like thick leather left out in the weather, dried and not pliable. No matter, he could not stay there doing nothing, his brother had given orders, he might even be in danger! The string sung as the dart was released and sped forward to lodge in thinner skin under the trolls left arm. It didn't notice! ...Yes! It DID!

Beady eyes moved within the trolls bowed head, turned ever so slightly from under its shelf-like brow. Makalaurė felt their gaze rest on him, felt its whole attention gather. His mouth went dry as he tried to recall the steps he had practiced so many times. Draw an arrow, fit it to the bowstring... Several soldiers stepped up, their bows straining. "Shoot out its eyes!" one cried as the released arrows went in a graceful shallow arc toward the beast. Yes! Good idea! Makalaurė thought as he too sent his shaft into the air. Luck was with them. The beast swatted at its face where one eye was a ruin and uttered a forlorn wail before it turned, retreating into the darkness of the savannah.

[Celegorm]

"Be careful Moryo!" Celegorm wished he could recall his younger brother but knew it would be wasted effort for he was now grown and his own keeper. Caranthir was even more impetuous than he himself had been in his earlier years and he hoped it didn't get him into trouble. Celegorm's concern now was to cover the flank until it was shored up once again so he turned his thoughts to the more immediate concern. He cursed his uncle under his breath as he searched beyond the twisted grass heads for possible approaching enemies. There was something... something unseen but surely there. If he deserved the name hunter, he should be able to find the sense of it he groused to himself.

Celegorm trusted his senses. Since his many years hunting with the powers of Aman he had developed ways like unto the animals he hunted. He could see a trail like they could, smell a trap like they could, think of the ways to escape like they could, and delve into the very primitive base senses of all things. Trees, grasses - the very ground spoke to him when he was on the hunt until it was almost too easy for him to be victor. Now, he felt his veins thrill with the excitement of knowing this prey was worthy of his prowess, something new, dangerous and so very challenging. His awareness of the feculent fen left him as he concentrated on the distance. When a fog rolled in front of his eyes he blinked, realizing he need not look but feel the foreign thought, not words but - it was hard to associate anything with this sense. It pulled him in as if he was the very air itself travelling in the direction that most interested him. The noise of misadventure drew him back to confront reality. He had forgotten to deploy a formation to cover the opened flank.

With quick and direct words he ordered a troop to place themselves in the grasses where he knew they were vulnerable but their presence would keep any surprise attack less likely. The Elves moved immediately into the grass, proud that a son of Feanaro had given them a direct order. Celegorm hoped his Uncle would reform correctly when it was obvious he had left the line disoriented and open.

His horse danced in place, sensing danger but like its rider, not knowing what or where that danger might be. Celegorm received messages, garbled verbal links to an attack by a large beast of some kind working with wolves but he stayed where he was, overlooking the opened flank until it could be mended once again. Curiousity drew his eyes to five Elves brought through the lines to the healers behind but their deaths and injuries only steeled his resolve to get whatever it was out there.

Then he saw a familiar form. No! NO! What was HE doing out there!?! NOOOO! The elder Elf turned his head and tried to give Celegorm a smile as he passed by upon a makeshift stretcher, a broken bow lay upon his knees. There was such wearyness in those eyes, and the smile changed to a grimmace unable to hide the pain. "Sįrendur" was all he could utter in a choke of emotion before he brought himself under control.

[Curufin]

They brought his page back on a litter through the waist high grass. Curufin, his face set and grim, looked down on him from his horse. His mettle still high from the skirmish, the horse pawed the ground unsettled with the smell of fresh blood. The wolves had torn open the boy's throat. The Black One had perverted the very nature of the animals that roamed the forests, his power reached into the very center of a being, distorting its shape into a waking nightmare. He had hunted with his brothers long enough to know that wolves attacked prey to eat and to nurture their young. Curufin had never been the target of the Black One's easy grace, the whip of his elegant cloak as he swept down the hall with his retinue to see his father caused him to grumble angrily to himself if were home visiting. His brothers called him jealous, Morgoth's interest was in his father whose talents eclisped his own. His anger had baffled him then.

"Which unit is his brother riding in?" he asked his son.

Celebrimbor swallowed before he could answer,"He rides with Maikhel's men among the smiths."

"I see now." He dismounted and went to where the boy had been laid on his once bright cloak darkened with his life's blood. "The troll attacked the smiths and he went to aid his brother. Aglarloth would not leave me otherwise. These wolves are bigger than any I have ever seen. Monsters from the Dark One's imagination." And we go to this parley docile in the hope that the one who created these monsters will treat with us as equals? With deliberate care he stored the pain of losing the boy who had served him so well, who he had loved as his youngest son, aside. When he stood his face had a mask-like quality that would replace his infrequent smiles. Maikhel would have died trying to save him as would I have.

"Regroup towards the center," he commanded.

[Caranthir]

Holding his sword point down and trailing behind him, he rushed back to the clearing where the wolves had attacked him and stirred up the great troll. Breaking free of the shifting obscurring deeper grass, he burst out the verdant tunnel with a loud war cry - just in time to see the other elves look his direction with bemused faces. The troll was nowhere to be seen. Archers were picking up arrows that could be salvaged. The marching shape of formation stretched away to the east, trying to link up with the vangaurd on their right flank. Thoughts of the twisted lupine forms that had attacked him made him shiver involuntarily. Such pain and hunger in their eyes. He though he heard points of contact up and down the battle line, "The half-wolves are testing our formations, no doubt. Seeking our weakness and points of command."

That they were intelligent he had no doubt. The eyes. Scouts perhaps for a larger force. For the first time Moryo wondered how many Morgoth Bauglir would send to this summit, this parley of armies. The ambassadorial letter had even hinted at the surrender of a Silmaril. Surely any army could claim right to guard its own march. Were they just blundering into Morgoth's outliers? If so they would need caution to not cause a confrontation when they were so close to recovering some of what they sought.

Looking at the nearest company leader, he sheathed his sword and approached. The patterned leather armor and boiled leather helms marked these for light infantry, mostly archers and slingers, useful no doubt with trolls about but otherwise useless, little more than peasants he thought with scorn. "You there, I have been pursuing Udun-wolves into their lairs. What is our disposition?"

At the tone of command, the archers' leader wiped the smile off his face, approached and bowed, recognizing Morifinwė. It did little to cool Moryo's embarrassment at missing the fight. Late again, he thought, 'Will I never earn their respect for who I am, not whose son I am?'

"Spare me your pretensions, archer. Report!" he spoke hotly.

"The troll has retreated into the savannah's darkness, Morifinwė. We are reserves sent up by Curufinwė when Maitimo engaged the turco. Your brother Makalaurė lead us in repelling the creature. Tyelkormo has pushed on, seeking to rejoin with the vangaurd.

"And our losses?" Moryo gritted his teeth, his brothers gaining glory again. "There is more than wolf blood in this clearing."

"Truly, the wolf-creatures returned as we fought off the troll, though they seemed to have as little love for each other as for us," the archer indicated the congealing smears on the gound and grass, "but several of our number were injured in the fight, some slain by wolf-tooth others by the troll's strength. Morgoth will pay for this." The archer blached thinking of young Aglarloth's elven body they had recovered with his throat torn out.

"Indeed he will. We will make that jail-crow rue the day he left Mandos to steal our people's treasures." Moryo clenched his sword hilt, one of the few masterworks of Feanor to escape Morgoth's plundering of their fortress-home in exile at Formenos. He and his brothers had taken their arms to Tirion before the great festival when Morgoth had attacked. Even now it hummed with some power made by his father's forging. He realized the archer was prattling on and he nodded absently.

The archer cleared his throat, "You think we should pursue the troll?" he asked questionably.

"What? No! Of course not, don't be a fool. Regroup your arrows and fall in with the next company of pike or spearmen." Moryo did not know why his mind was wandering so much, too much change, too much loss, he thought. "I will track down the creature and see it does not trouble you again." He held up his hand to forestall any arguement and retored agrily, "You would argue with my father, do not argue with me. You will see the Fire of Feanor has not departed from you!"

"What of the half-wolves?"

"They hold no fear for me. We are the hunters, not these slinking dogs of Angband."

Drawing his poinards, one in each hand, he set off into the grass following the broken trail of the troll. Not certain why but the thought of the shadow-folk, avari they must be, came unbidden to his mind. 'Yes,' he mused, 'there is more than one force at march in these lands, we must find those who hate Bauglir enough to aid us against his henchmen.'

Unseen and unknown, the shadowy hunter folk fell in on either side of him, silent as phantoms, following the singing of his blade that was clear to their attuned ears.

[Gothmog Noldo-Bane]

The howling of wolves and trample of unclean feet made the earth groan in protest, for those who had ear to hear it. She was such a one, fingers lightly trailing the trembling walls of her hallways, deep beneath the starlit world above. Gothmog had come to claim his favor. She trembled in remembrance of the power in his frame. If Melkor had a son, many aspects would be wrapped in the balrog's shadowed form.

Others always came to disturb her. Intruders. Disturbers of her silence. They had come at last. The long expected for children, written in the Music. Echoes of the Great One's thought. She once a handmaid of the Feanturi, like to their sister. But where that lonely mistress mused on pity and compassion, her own thoughts turned to despair and dread.

When the Great Ones had forsaken the world, leaving Yavanna's seeds slumbering, covering Aule's works in twilight, she, Lady of Secret Shadow, had found no rest in their guarded playland of delights. Nor had she found comfort in the quiet corners reserved for the Feanturi, Lorien and Mandos. Not for her were dwellings made to her taste. Nor would she wait hand-and-foot to serve them as their pride grew. Oh no, too proud and haughty were the Valar by far to spare thought for her. So she had slipped away, forgotten, ignored.

She remained in Middle Earth, amusing herself, dwelling in the shadows even as Melkor filled the world with his harsh minions. Tyrant. Blaggard. Avoiding his growing kingdom, she sought her own ways, passed under darkling forest eaves. She might casually swat at Melian's nightingales, or pluck and hide the lilies of the River Daughter, or distract Oromer's hunting folk as they beat about the land. Mischief was her delight and play, taunting those she could, feeding off their disquiet. Then the children had come. Prattling in the starry twilight. Singing on hilltops. Echoes of the Music, these young and naive quendi, thus the best instruments to play her own themes. Intruding on her solace they drew her hungry ire.

Not by Melkor's hand alone were the woods surrounding Cuiniven filled with fear. Not by his plans alone were the children afraid of the dark. Thus it was she learned to feed off their fear, draining what they were to sate her lonely hungers.

She had followed them, of course, sweetmeats that they were, as the greater kindreds crossing the starlit lands. Always she whispered to those that would listen. Despair and dread were her songs and more than a few would listen, sometimes halting the host's march when Orome was off on errantry. The lonely culled from the herd to amuse her in repayment for their intrusion into her perfect silence. She both desired and hated them.

In Dorthonion at last she had come to dwell, held at bay by Melian's influence, and more still Ulmo's realm. With the aid of her wayward spouse, such of those starry eyed wanderers as she could lure away she did before the Girdle of Doriath was raised. Her husband oft took spider form, weaving nets for her use and his own. The hapless she caught and drained, naming them her own and teaching them her sombre songs. The Shadowfolk they became, shadows of their former selves, like glass vials emptied of their vitality and filled instead with her gray and murky tendrils, extensions of her thought.

Dwelling in the secret ways under the earth, issuing from hidden cave or starless well, they moved here and there, pursuing her ends. Though with the Girdle raised and the Falas walled, fewer and fewer made their way to her nets and chambers. Her appetite grew. Then the War came.

Her spouse had forsaken her, drawn away by Ungoliant's heady phermones wafting from Nan Dungortheb. The adulterous fool deserved to be eaten by that self-absorbed harlot. Gothmog had succored her, fending off the hissing offspring of Ungoliant's breeding, and his price had not been unwelcome in her need. In return she had taught Gothmog many of the Underways, that he and his brethren might better serve Melkor. Melkor the Elder King, tyrant returned from unjust imprisonment at the hands of the overproud Lords of the West. She had rejoiced when the light failed, knowing in disruption and chaos she would feed well. The world was too crowded now to dwell alone. One must choose one's allegiances.

Gothmog knew her needs well. She clutched the token he had given her, feeling the thought and mind of the elf that had made it. Yes, these returning children had dwelt long in the Light of her cousin's kingdom across the sea. They would make fine feeding indeed once she led them to her table as Gothmog bade.

And then, who could say? She felt other players at work in the Great Game. A little parley to whet the appetites, yes, that was just what she needed. Make these starry eyed children sing her songs. So would her revenge be worked on the Valar and perhaps to her advantage. The captains of the Iron Crown vied for power in Melkor's growing kingdom. A courtezan's place was not on the field of war. But information could buy many baubles and a place of strength from which to sing her songs, from where she could lure new fools to her chamber.

Her children were abroad above and she knew the children of the West were drawing near.

[Maedhros]

An attendant brought Maitimo his horse and a report from his host in the center of the army. The skirmish seemed to be over now, he said, but they were not yet out of danger.

"I know that," Maitimo snapped. "Where is Morifinwe? Has he been recovered?"

The attendant peered through the rain, shading his eyes. "No, I do not see--"

Just then Moryo emerged from the thicket, shouting a warcry for a battle that no longer raged. Maitimo shook his head and smirked, but then another flash of lightning lit the scene with an eerie white glow. Maitimo's smile faded when he saw the stretchers carrying the wounded. They would lose more kindred to the Enemy this day. The thought was like a fire burning deep within his bones.

Gradually, Maitimo realized that he did feel a fiery pain. He loosened his armour and saw that the troll's fist had dislocated his left shoulder. His arm was knocked from its socket, and the shoulder stuck out too far. Gritting his teeth, he reached over to grab the injured joint. With a loud crack and a vicious growl, he pushed his shoulder back into place.

Waving away the concerned attendant, Maitimo mounted his horse and strained his eyes to pinpoint his brothers' locations. "Send orders down the column to regroup and press through the grasses on the higher ground," he commanded the departing attendant. His own voice sounded strangely harsh and rasping to his ears.

He turned his horse toward the spot where Moryo had reappeared, wanting to make sure he was uninjured. But as he watched, Moryo brazenly walked back into the thick grass--back into harm's way, alone! Maitimo's temper flared. The unseasoned High King forgot his new station, remembering only the years spent looking after his six younger brothers. He spurred his horse to follow the rebellious Moryo.

Leaving his horse with one of Moryo's archers, Maitimo stormed after him through the thick grass on foot. He caught up with Moryo in no time. Grabbing Moryo's shoulder, he yanked his brother around to face him.

"Moryo!" Maitimo wanted to scream in his anger, but instead he whispered to avoid attracting their enemies' attention. "Are you mad? Do you wish us to engage in another battle to rescue you? Was one not enough? Back to the host, now! I need you there, and your men need you. We cannot waste our time seeking--"

A flash of lightning revealed a large grey shape behind Moryo. The shape lumbered towards them, not twenty yards away. Moryo had found the troll he sought. Maitimo suddenly felt the pain in his shoulder again. Wincing, he tried to shepherd his brother back towards the main host. "Quickly," he whispered, "let us return, before it sees us."