Shadows Laid Before the Sun by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 1

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But Carnistir, who loved not the sons of Finarfin, and was the harshest of the brothers and the most quick to anger, cried aloud: 'Yea more! Let not the sons of Finarfin run hither and thither with their tales to this Dark Elf in his caves! Who made them our spokesmen to deal with him? And though they be come indeed to Beleriand, let them not so swiftly forget that their father is a lord of the Noldor, though their mother be of other kin.'

…

Maitimo indeed rebuked Carnistir; but the greater part of the Noldor, of both followings, hearing his words were troubled in heart, fearing the fell spirit of the sons of Feanor that it seemed would ever be like to burst forth in rash word or violence. But Maitimo restrained his brothers, and they departed from the council, and soon afterwards they left Mithrim and went eastward beyond Aros to the wide lands about the Hill of Himring.

The Silmarillion, Quenta Silmarillion, Ch 13, Of the Return of the Noldor

 

Dimbar, west bank of the river Mindeb, the 7th year of the First Age.

 

“The bridge shall be up soon, lord.” Canissë was stern and efficient as ever, but Carnistir felt the sharp sourness of her disapproval. The captain of Maitimo’s knights studiously ignored him.

Carnistir kept a stony expression as he met Canissë’s eyes, and stood up straighter. He had expected as much from Maitimo’s loyal bloodhound.

Maitimo would not forgive Carnistir until he had dragged him all the way across Beleriand like an ill-behaved dog on a leash. His scouts had found some frigid mountain lake, as far from the Nolofinwëans as one might go without falling off the map entirely, where Carnistir was to sit and stay put until Maitimo whistled for him once more.

It was outrageous! A prince of the Eldest House of the Noldor, and he was being made to stand in the corner like an insolent brat, merely for speaking his mind. Carnistir’s anger seethed sharp and sour in his stomach. 

“Would you have us leave the pontoons afloat after the crossing?” Canissë asked Maitimo, her back turned to Carnistir. “The river is easily bridged here. Why the Sindar have not done so an Age ago is beyond me.”

Maitimo did not answer her. His mind was far away. He stood still as graven marble, staring across the shifting silver of the Mindeb’s surface.

To Carnistir’s eyes the river looked … unwholesome, somehow. Beneath the summer sun the waters that flowed from the Ered Gorgoroth seemed iridescent, but less like a rainbow than that strange, diffracting scatter of colour on the surface of rotten meat.

On the opposite bank the road ran eastwards under the eaves of Doriath. Even at this distance the trees looked twisted, strange, with oily mist trailing between the foremost boles. Deeper into the forest the great beeches were obscured by a shimmering aura of Power. Melian’s Girdle was a terror to behold, to those she considered unwelcome.

“My lord?” Canissë kept her distance. She had learned better than to risk startling Maitimo in this state. Her scar had thinned and paled, but in his mindless terror Maitimo’s blunt breadknife had bitten deep enough that her cheek was still marked.

Maitimo’s wide-eyed gaze remained fixed on the looming bulk of the Ereth Gorgoroth, snow-capped peaks falling in sheer precipes to the shadowed valley at their roots.

Nan Dungortheb, the Sindar called it. The Grey-elves’ patois was as drab as their garments, and Carnistir had not yet bothered to learn much Sindarin, but nonetheless a small shudder ran down his back. The Valley of Dreadful Death.

Beside him Maitimo stood still, but the snapping north wind stirred the heavy oxblood wool of his cloak into a moving bloodstain about him. Angband taught Maitimo to shield his mind, withdraw all of himself into a cocoon of mithril-lined steel so impenetrable that even Carnistir’s osanwë slid off uselessly, like a wooden staff off an armoured knight.  

Maitimo had been listening, though, because at that thought, he looked sideways. “Apt metaphor, Moryo. Alqualondë on your mind again?”

Carnistir did not like to be called by his childhood endearment in the presence of their retainers, but what he hated even more was to be reminded of that dreadful day of slaughter, and Maitimo knew it.

Maitimo’s look was knife-sharp as he watched the double barb sink in. “A pity the experience failed to teach you tact.”

How long would Maitimo keep punishing him for that spat with Angaráto? Anger, black and hot as bile, welled up inside Carnistir, but spewing it out would only confirm Maitimo's reproach.

On its heels came sorrow, a bone-deep yearning for the brothers they once were before their world darkened and the shadow spit them back out as lords and vassals. Longing howled like a hungry beast inside Carnistir’s chest, but he beat it back down. The Maitimo he knew in Tirion was gone. 

“The pontoons, my lord?” he asked instead, gesturing towards Canissë, Maitimo’s honorific crisp upon his tongue.

“Bridging the Mindeb would speed travel between our eastern marches and Barad Eithel,” Canissë reprised her argument. Her tone was formal, as if they stood in Maitimo’s council chamber instead of a muddy riverbank, with her lord staring blankly into the distance and shooting barbs at his disgraced brother. “If we leave the pontoons, a company of sappers could replace them with solid stone in a month.”

Carnistir wondered if she knew why, exactly, Maitimo might want a quick road to Barad Eithel. There certainly was more to it than an ardent desire for fresh gossip from the new king’s court.

At the thought, Carnistir could not help but scoff. Nolofinwë, King of the Noldor. Hah!

“We will build no bridge.” Maitimo did not look at Canissë as he spoke, his eyes fixed beyond the river, on the black roots of the mountains. Clearly ease of canoodling with Findekáno was the last thing on his mind. “Whatever inhabits that valley must be kept contained.” 

With that, Maitimo turned towards the bridge, where even now the first companies of Fëanorian warriors were starting to cross behind the starred banners of their House. The sun was sharp and bright on their silver mail and the waving plumes of their helms. 

Blood-red, Carnistir tried not to think, but did so regardless.

The soldiers’ singing blew towards them across the river, strong and stirring as always, but their marching cadence was a new one - something about kicking Nolofinwë’s usurping arse. Maitimo gave a small, exasperated sigh, and Carnistir made a note to find the song’s instigator, and reward them. 

At last Maitimo wrenched himself away from the view to face his second-in-command.

“Double the watch. No one is to venture out alone. Inform all companies that we march in closed formations until we reach Himlad.”

“What is in those mountains, sir?” Canissë was an old hand, but now her eyes flicked up to the looming mountain, and fear stirred the smooth surface of that martial mind. 

“An ancient evil,” Maitimo answered. “I know neither its name nor its nature. Not even the Enemy does, I think, for his Orcs would rather die than tread those paths.” Some terrible memory rippled his mind like a breaching sea-monster, but he forced it back down into the dark depths. He pointed at the shifting mists of the Girdle, his tone dry. “If the Sindar have learned anything, they do not deign to share their knowledge.”

He loosened the gold-laced peace-ties on his sword and slid it partly from its sheath. Blue flames licked down the metal.

Carnistir and Canissë both tensed, their hands moving to the pommels of their own weapons, but Maitimo showed not the slightest outward sign of concern.

“Whatever this is, it is hemmed in between the mountains, the river, and the Girdle, and there it should remain.”

At a small gesture, Maitimo’s esquire approached, leading his great stallion.

Maitimo swung lightly into the saddle. “Retrieve the pontoons once the final company has crossed. Then burn them.” 

 

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Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading along, everyone!

I'll be posting a chapter a day until Halloween. I'd love to hear what you guys think about this first chapter, and of course any thoughts and speculations about what awaits our heroes are very welcome. A comment would make me a very happy Scribe!

See you tomorrow,

IS