Silmarillion The Captain's Charity

Well, here is my contribution to Maglor Monday. Yay for Feanorian Appreciation week! Wrote this probably eight or nine years ago and have always had a few other ficlets planned around it, one of which may be posted soon (if I can find it in my stack of handwritten fics).

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Each campfire he walked past seemed more appetizing than the last. The weather that night was horrible, to say the least. The wind had picked up quite a bit from the afternoon, causing the rain (now sleet, since the temperature had dropped just as substantially) to fall, so to speak in this case, in a discouraging horizontal manner that was just as unpleasant to look at as feel driving through clothing. The messenger reached up and drained one of his braids between his cold fingers. It was of no matter, seeing as his hair would be dripping wet again within a matter of seconds. He felt pity for the poor elf he had been sent to find, for he would have to leave the warmth and comfort of whatever fire he was seated around. But that was not the messenger's problem, for he would be able to take the elf's seat around the fire, for a while anyway.

After asking nearly two-dozen other elves and passing by several more tantalizing fires, he found his query huddled alone beneath a dripping blanket next to a particularly pathetic fire, meters away from anyone and everyone else. The messenger sighed: perhaps he would find one of his friends' fires and stay by that instead. He nudged the elf's shoulder, finding him doing what was possibly the dumbest thing on such a night – reading. The elf looked at the intruder with a cautious eye that showed slight disdain at interruption. Clearly, he wasn't one to socialize much.

"The Captain wants to talk to you," the messenger yelled over the faint cackle of wet wood, the hiss of raindrops bombarding the small fire and the roar of the wind and sleet.

"The Captain" was the universal name that the soldiers had for the Fëanórian Princeling who led them. No one could really remember how a Prince had earned such a relatively demeaning title, but after whoever had first said it, it had remained. To use it around him, though, would be considered an act of considerable disrespect, and was therefore not done by any of the company by some tacit unspoken agreement.

After another moment of staring, the elf slammed a bookmark in his book and dropped it into a supposedly waterproof leather bag before muttering a word of thanks and walking away. He didn't bother to ask why the Captain wanted to see him, since he was prudent enough to realize that the messenger probably wouldn't know, and that he would find out soon enough anyway.

There were guards standing outside the entrance to the tent, one on either side, armed with swords, and bows and arrows. Each also held a long glaive; Erestor wondered if that was how every soldier was equipped during battle, considering he had never yet seen a true battle. He had only killed his first Orc not a week before, and had not been impressed.

The two guards were lucky enough to be standing under a waxed piece of canvas, so water rolled right past them and down to the ground. _That strip of canvas is probably the only reason they can stand to, well, stand there,_ Erestor thought. When he reached the tent, he realized that he had no idea what to say to allow him entrance. He paused mid-step, but decided to walk up while looking confident, like an officer actually would and hopefully he would not be asked why he was there. What would he do if he was not allowed in? Should he walk around the tent, calling for the Prince to let him in? Or should he just turn around and go back to his book? He did not want to risk the Prince's anger if he turned around and ignored his summons. Erestor had nothing to fear however, for when he was right in front of the guards, he was surprised to see one of them step aside, pulling the tent flap with him. Erestor again mumbled thanks.

"You may hang your cloak, if you want to let it start to dry," the Captain's voice drawled from a shadow at the opposite end of the main room of the tent. It looked to be some sort of meeting room, or, at any rate, a place for him to hold war councils. Maybe the room was just there so that he could get out of the rain.

Erestor turned around, looking for the proffered place to hang his cloak, finding one of the tent's support poles behind him. The pole was apparently carved from a tree limb with a few branch stubs brilliantly left for hooks. A scarlet cloak already hung from one and most of the water already drained from it so only the bottom few inches were still wet. The elf untied the strings around his neck as well as undid the two buttons that held the top closed from wind. He then wrung it out as best he could and hung it by the hood on one of the former tree limbs.

Seeming to come out of nowhere, the Prince walked past him and looked outside, holding the flap open long enough to tell the two guards to leave for a while. Unfortunately, the whole time that the Captain held the flap open, a cold gust of wind blew through the room. Erestor, without a cape or cloak, tried to move away from the gust, seeing as his clothes were also wet. He tried to wring out his tunic slightly and straighten it on his body but his focus shifted off of himself when different sheets of parchment and maps whipped up off of a nearby table. _Almost_ whipped up, because Erestor ran over and did his best to hold them down against the table, hoping that there had been no particular order to them as he stuffed them back into one large pile. Hearing the two guards thank the Captain and walk off told Erestor that his reason for being there to talk to the Captain had just become much more interesting.

The Captain came back into the tent, rubbing his arms against the cold. "Nasty out there," he stated unnecessarily before eyeing Erestor's very unlikely position on his desk – he had leaned nearly his entire torso over it and hand used his chin to hold the pile of papers in place. "Interesting. Most people try to hide the fact that they have been sifting through my things." Without a second glance, he walked off.

"But… Ca – Highness! I," the ellon stammered, before noticing his protestation fell on deaf ears.

"It's no matter," the Captain said, dismissing Erestor's objections with a wave of his hand. "You can clear off the desk – just throw everything on the ground."

Erestor was horrorstruck; he would never do something like that! Not now especially, having just tried save the maps not thirty seconds earlier. He instead piled and moved them to one side of the table, judging there to be enough space for nearly anything.

"I took the liberty to make myself some tea – I daresay you would like some also?" He had just taken a small kettle off of a very low fire, which was the source of heat in the small room. The Captain gestured towards two porcelain mugs nearby and looked to the ellon for a response. Erestor nodded; tea did indeed sound very good, especially on such a night.

The Captain certainly lived in better conditions than his soldiers, for tea was rare and real mugs were next to nonexistent. Most of the soldiers drank from ladles, and the lucky ones had metal cups built to withstand the wear from travel and battle. The young soldier noted with the resentment that comes from being handed the hardest or most menial jobs that some poor elf had to carry those two painted blue mugs over miles and miles of terrain, having to be sure that the fragile things did not break… for fear of punishment, most likely.

"I personally carried these two mugs from Aman, all those years ago, and have carried them since." The Captain noticed Erestor's small look of contempt at seeing such finery in the midst of an ongoing battlefield. "They were a handmade and hand-painted wedding gift from one of my cousins. Her eldest brother sent me away from his home in Mithrim with the tea a few months ago when I visited him. If you were wondering, that is." He had a small smile on his face, which went unnoticed by the younger ellon.

A few moments passed, in which Macalaurë sipped his tea and Erestor watched his let off swirls of steam. "Drink it, soldier. Findekáno makes very good tea; it is almost as good as the tea that I make. But, ah… not quite." Erestor continued to stare at his mug of tea; the Captain had set it on the table – right on top of the maps. He couldn't bring himself to touch it just yet, his shaking hands perhaps spilling the dark liquid on the precious maps. "Did I not tell you to drink the tea?" The Captain questioned, "it will warm you much far faster and better than that cloak of yours does."

Erestor took the deep blue mug in his hands and inhaled some of the vapor wafting off of it. Deciding that it smelled very fine indeed, the ellon took a cautious sip to test both the temperature and the taste. The Captain had been right; the tea was good, and though the mug itself was warmed from being placed near the fire, the tea itself was the perfect temperature. He did his best to savor and remember the taste; chances were that he would never drink such quality tea again, much less in the company of a Son of Fëanor. The ellon had already far surpassed his childhood dreams of talking to such a famed Noldo. Granted, he had never anticipated their first interaction to be so… turbulent as it had been yesterday.

"Sit down," the Captain waved his free hand towards a chair on one side of the table, while also sitting in a chair on the opposite side himself. They were both plain chairs, made of pieces of log and other parts of tree that were lashed together with what Erestor could only assume were strips of bark. Both the back and the seat were straight and flat, but surprisingly comfortable. Just as many of the other things in the tent, real chairs were rare on the front.

They both sat for a few minutes hearing the rain drumming on the ceiling of the tent. Erestor snuck a few furtive glances at the Captain, wondering why he had been called there and how it came to be that he was drinking tea made by a prince with a prince.

"I don't normally live like this," The Captain commented after the loud, droning silence around them had grown altogether too quiet. Erestor realized when the elf had said that that a tent with a floor of mud would not under almost all circumstances be considered a viable home for such a well-born noble. He fully expected to hear the Captain speak of a large mansion with many beautifully furnished rooms built on a hill next to a lake, but he was wrong.

"I normally stay with those who serve me, sleeping on dirt or in mud with no tent, if I sleep at all that is." He paused, trying to remember something, "in fact, the last time I slept in an actual room with walls and a bed was the same trip when I got this tea from Findekáno. How strange it was to feel silken sheets and a pillow beneath my head. To not to need to have a sword within reach at all times felt equally odd." He laughed to himself, as if at the irony of his own life, all the while staring off towards a small but growing puddle on the ground. He continued, "and I do not always avoid famine, either. There have been quite a number of times where I give my rations, equal to the size of yours by the by, to a wounded soldier who needs the nutrients to heal." The Captain's eyes went from staring at the ground to watching Erestor, who had the annoying feeling that his mind was being read. He put that thought out of his mind, deeming the concept impossible. Erestor did not see the small grin light the Captain's face before he continued speaking. "After all, it takes more soldiers than officers to win a war. Otherwise all of us captains would butt heads for ages on end and nothing would be accomplished." Erestor smiled in response to the Prince's joke and waited for him to continue again. "At the moment, though, things are just a bit different than normal for me."

The Captain smiled ruefully, and with a barely noticeable wince, he rotated on his chair, readjusted his robes and gestured for Erestor to look where he pointed. The soldier saw, for the first time that evening, or indeed at all, the large bandage tied around the Captain's upper thigh. Erestor was taken aback.

"What happened?" He asked, belatedly adding a "m'lord" at the end.

The Captain eyed him a moment, testing his character. "Naturally, you shall repeat to no one anything that was spoken of or done in this tent tonight, do you understand me?" His tone was serious, his stormy grey eyes direct and severe. Erestor could only nod, feeling that he had no other choice. "I am glad. Now, understand if you go back on this promise, I should have you killed. I would most likely do it myself to see the job done adequately." The young elf, sensing this to be more of a promise than an actual threat, nodded quickly.

"I and a few of the better soldiers were working our way through infested territory and we came under attack by a group of a dozen or so. I was not the first hit, though I was one of the last alive. The Orcs had been searching for me, and in their confusion as to who I was, were actually trying not to kill us. They wanted to capture me. I inadvertently moved into the path of an arrow, coincidentally also saving another elf. I found out soon enough that it was poisoned. We managed to kill all of the enemy around us before fleeing back to our own front lines." He paused, looking thoughtful. "This was nearly three months ago now. The treatment I allowed at the time was for the healers to give me a potion to hopefully quell the poison and for them to also bandage my leg to staunch the bleeding. I only conceded to having this tent built when the edges of the wound started to turn black with rot. My primary healer is quite a persuasive elf when he wants to be. You see, when I passed up nearly all treatment, he told me that my brother and I would very soon be quite a pair, Maitimo with one hand and I with only one leg. I suppose that we would still be better off than Turko, Kurvo and Moryo, who collectively have one brain." He laughed at the joke at his brothers' expense while Erestor only smiled to be courteous. He could not comprehend making a joke of the three Princes, be they one's brothers or not. "I suppose, Erestor, for me to come down to a point is a good idea, or at least sometime soon. But before then I think I need more tea," The Captain proposed, shifting in his chair. Erestor, considerate now of The Captain's injury, made to stand up. Much to his surprise, however, The Captain beat him to his feet.

"Never mind, Erestor, I will make it," he smiled, a genuine expression that Erestor had not expected. "You do want more tea, correct?" The Captain gave him a very appraising stare while also taking the mug from Erestor's thin hand, making it clear that he was going to be served more of the scarlet tea whether he wanted it or not. Erestor nodded, fighting the urge to shrink away at the small touch of the Captain's hand on his own.

The Captain soon returned with the two mugs, now steaming and warm. Erestor mumbled his thanks. The older elf sat back down, placing his mug on the table to be able to massage his thigh. "The damp, chill weather makes it sore and stiff," he commented off hand. "I am quite thankful for this tent, I suppose. My healer also told me something very important that I had not realized: I am needed here… I agreed to this for my soldiers' sake." Erestor was somewhat confused. "Just as I told you earlier – it takes more soldiers than officers to win a war. It is still necessary, however, for those soldiers to have a leader, someone to look to in times of confusion for a clear path. If I died, though there are several qualified generals to take my place, I, as apparently a symbol of something greater, would be gone. Disorganization, confusion and chaos would ensue, and the enemy would take advantage of that weakness, and quickly. Everything that we have fought, and died in many cases for, would be lost. I could not let that happen, though I hated realizing what they all see me as. All I want to be is a simple soldier trying to make a dent against Morgoth's army, but I am instead a figurehead.

"I am a leader, but hopefully a soldier again soon. I hate sitting here not within sight of the battlefield, hearing secondhand news. For the present, though, that is what I must live with. That" – he gestured with his mug to the direction of the front – "is my place, and this injury was the only thing able to batter me into submission long enough to accept it." He smiled, glancing at Erestor's blank face. "I suppose the point of my speech up to now was to say that we must take the opportunities that we are given, while we can." He took a cautious sip of his tea, content to find that it was now cool enough to drink.

"Here comes the part of my speech, Erestor, where you finally enter the context. I have talked to you only a few times, this being the third, I believe. I can tell that, even with such limited experience and prior knowledge, that you are a very intelligent elf and hopefully, someday a wise one too.

"The battlefield is not your place. Forgive my saying this, but you are too delicate a flower in a patch of weeds. You have too much compassion for others, whether they deserve it or not." Erestor found himself only agreeing with the Captain, so far, rather than feeling insulted. "My division is not the place for you, nor is any that is led by a brother of mine. We are too ruthless, and to do what we do, we need soldiers that will follow us and obey us without question or second thought. You would not last long in a battle with another elf, Erestor. It is relatively easy to kill a monstrosity such as an orc, but when an elleth with a sword stands in your way…." Now the young soldier began to feel offended. He didn't like being called weak, or being called an outsider, but it was then that he realized that the Captain was using so many words to call him a good and unsullied person.

"All of the other elves in your regiment, Erestor, have been with me since Aman. Your compatriots do not treat you with much respect because you fill a role vacated by a dear and honored friend. Correct me if I am wrong, but you were not even born when your company first formed." Erestor shook his head, he was just barely old enough to join the military now, and had indeed been born a few years after the Fëanórians had landed in Beleriand. "Those you march with have spilled the blood of other elves, and we all know that another Kinslaying is inevitable."

"What are you saying, My Lord?"

The Captain took a deep breath, and Erestor prepared himself for another long-winded answer. "I am transferring you out of here. You leave as soon as possible, preferably when I am well enough to fight again." Shocked at first by the brevity, Erestor's mind took a moment to process what had been said.

"What?"

"Listen to me, Erestor."

Erestor stood up. "I have listened enough, but now I am leaving. Good evening, Lord."

"Yes, you are leaving, but not now." He stood up as well, ignoring the shooting pain in his leg. "I told you to. sit. down." The Prince grew slightly angry at his order not being obeyed. Erestor looked back, finding that the Captain's face threatening. Halfway to the exit, with his hand up to catch his dripping cloak, the ellon stopped in his tracks. He could not bring himself to disobey the Captain, and his anger had nothing to do with it. He was too honorable to leave after a direct order to do otherwise.

He sat down, but did not look happy with it by any means. The Captain sat back down as well, the angered expression gone in an instant.

"And that is exactly my point," the Captain sighed. "You must obey everything I say. What if my next order was to kill your best friend? Would you obey me then?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued.

"Realize, Erestor, that I am trying to help you." He sighed again. "I fancy you to be a bit like myself when I was your age; talented, with no useful place or opportunity at which to channel such talent. I do not want to see you swallowed into the life of a hardened and ruthless soldier that seems nigh unavoidable now. I feel that though I cannot legally save you from the contract that you signed, I _can _dictate where you fulfill your service. Findekáno's people are flourishing in Mithrim, and they need guardians to protect them, more than I need soldiers to forfeit their own lives in a pointless fight. I have decided to transfer you there, seeing as he is the only other Noldorin Princeling that is not one of my brothers, lives not Eru only knows where and I'm still on speaking terms with." He smiled at his own joke, while his hands fumbled around the table looking for ink and a quill. He pulled a piece of parchment from the middle of the stack and flipped it over to see what, if anything was written on the opposite side. Erestor made mild protestations to seeing the Captain lay his inked quill on the back of the map he had tried so dearly to protect earlier.

"Do not fret, Erestor," the Captain muttered, concentrating on his writing. "It is only a map. It will probably be helpful."

"I will not leave," Erestor interrupted, surprising the Captain enough for him to look up, eyebrow cocked. "With all due respect," he added hastily.

Macalaurë sat up straight and contemplated Erestor. "Do you now how many of those elves out there would do anything for the chance that I am giving you? You would be insane not to take it."

"You said yourself that I cannot leave," Erestor pointed out.

"Then perhaps I am giving you the chance I wish I could have had." The Captain's voice was low and he looked to the side at the fire.

This struck Erestor, the tone more so than the words. Earlier, the Captain had been the arrogant commander that showed no feeling, save for humour on newcomers. He played such a role as a general, or the prince that he was with such success that Erestor had nearly forgotten that he had a history and had had a life too. He had had a wife, and possibly children. He had once had hopes and dreams, and never in any of them had he thought to end up crippled and in the mud eternities away.

To be honest, Erestor wanted nothing more than to be able to leave, but he had been there long enough already to feel a sort of duty to the place and more so to the other elves. They had just started to accept him, in a small way.

"You shall leave in a short time, a few weeks most likely, pending you live that long." The Captain eyed him again, challenging him to protest. Erestor did not, and the son of Fëanor nodded his approval. "I shall give you a horse, but only because I owe one to my cousin." He finished the letter with a flourish and handed it to Erestor, who took it apprehensively.

"My cousin has a palace now, if I am not mistaken. I told him that you would be best suited to the library, though you should be placed wherever he wants you, I imagine."

The young elf stared at the rolled up map in his hand. He felt all the more like a deserter.

"You will do best not to tell anyone about this, however, just as I made you promise earlier. Quite a few of the soldiers in this garrison would kill you for that, I am sure." Erestor was surprised, and his eyebrows raised without his notice. "Oh, yes, they would. You would even, perhaps… I certainly would."

This statement confused Erestor even further and the Captain noticed this as well. "Had I the choice, I would not stay here. I have the worst mortality rate of any of my brothers, and I am quite positive that extends to my cousins as well. This garrison loses more soldiers each year than my brothers' put together. I am a soldier just as much as any of them," he jerked his head towards the area where most of the elves were encamped. "I have as much chance at death as most, if not a greater chance, because of my birth and known stature. Do not doubt I want to live, just as much as anyone."

He looked up just as three elves burst into the tent without warning. Erestor stood up in haste and crossed his arms behind his back. He looked away from the Captain and into space, snapping into attention. Luckily enough, the three elves seemed too preoccupied by their business to notice that he had been sitting with the Captain, but then Erestor remembered his tea mug, and his mind raced. He dared to look downwards and saw that only a single mug was sitting on the table, which was his own. Since the Captain's mug had been closer to him, it would have been easier to grab, dump its contents and then hide it. The map explained the other mug on the table. The Captain was also on his feet, a small wince of pain on his face that quickly disappeared. Erestor noticed this expression, but doubted that any of the others did; he leaned back to see the Captain's mug now sitting, still full, on his chair, out of view of the three newcomers. Their meeting was indeed to be secretive.

"How may I help you gentlemen on this unspeakably fine evening?"

"We have a situation My Lord." One of them said, his hair matted and soaked, both with blood and with rain, given the slight red tinge to the water draining into his grey cloak. His eyes cast around the tent and fell on Erestor.

Macalaurë followed his gaze. "He stays," he said to the three. "Relax," he aimed at Erestor, who dropped to a more comfortable stance.

The second of the three elves spoke, saying that one of Macalaurë's brothers was under attack.

"Which one?" The tone of his voice coupled with his facial expression showed that it did indeed matter which brother it was. Erestor was not as surprised as two of the other three elves, having heard a similar joke not five minutes past.

"The one you would most quickly name brother," the first said after a moment, apparently the one who best knew the Captain's sense of humor.

"Ah," the Captain's face went from skeptical to worried. "What does he need from me?"

"He asks for five units." The elf received a blank-faced stare from the Prince.

"Surely you jest?"

"Nay, My Lord, I would not." The Captain and the elf stared at one another for a moment before the Captain walked away, his hand on his forehead. Erestor heard him mumble something about "a hundred elves."

"Five is too many," he muttered. "But I cannot refuse him, times are easy for me…" The Captain shook his head. He was plainly worried, and he did not sound confident of a course of action. There was silence within the tent while rain still drummed on the canvas above their heads. Not facing them, the Captain shifted his weight off of his injured leg.

"I can spare two," he spoke after a moment. "Both leave as soon as possible. One shall leave on horseback and the other on foot. Hopefully this staggered arrival will give the appearance of greater numbers."

"Go back and tell Maitimo that I am sending all that I can. He will understand. Another of you may ride with the troops, while you will all receive a fresh mount." At this first order, the tallest and most imposing elf, also the one who seemed to know the Captain, bowed and left. The two remaining looked at one another before the taller of these two left. The last stood there. "You shall lead the soldiers on foot… Hurry."

Erestor was now alone with the Captain again. "I hope he knows that I am sending as many as I can…." He sounded worried.

"He knows that you will do what you can, Sir, because you care." He had a distinct feeling that had a different brother asked for help, the Captain would have sent one unit, perhaps none. The two elves looked one another in the eye for a moment.

"Do you have any siblings?"

Erestor nodded. "An older brother and a much younger sister." He quieted. "My brother, as well as myself, did not want to join the army. Our father was killed recently. Lirulin never met him."

Macalaurë suddenly understood better why this elf would be so unwilling to fight, so willing to free dangerous captives, and yet so adverse to a chance to leave. This young elf had much to live up to.

Morgoth's forces, having mistaken the ellon's father for the son of Fëanor, had captured him, and likely tortured him before tossing his head back over the walls a few weeks later. He had been a well-liked captain and part of Macalaurë's personal guard.

Macalaurë remembered the day that Orcs cornered the Prince and Callion behind a boulder. Callion took Kanafinwë's silver and gold circlet and put it on his own head before running out to attack the company of Orcs. Overcoming him, they dragged the taller elf away in their elation to find the leader so unprotected, leaving the real Prince behind, in shock of Callion's obvious sacrifice. No one else knew of this act besides Macalaurë. Now that he truly looked, the Prince could see the strong resemblance between father and son.

Feigning ignorance of his memory, "he was in my battalion, was he not?"

Erestor gave a small, almost nonexistent nod.

"I thought your face was familiar. He was - "

"A colonel," Erestor filled in, his voice quiet.

"I was going to say a very good elf, Erestor. Your father was one of the finest I have ever had the opportunity to fight alongside. I see your aversion to being here, but also your pull to stay. You will leave, however, and you will be happier and better off for it," Macalaurë promised. "If not now, then many years from now, when times like these are long put aside. Now, Erestor, go before I change my mind. When it is time for you to finally leave, I will send for you."

Erestor bowed and left, grabbing the map on the way out. He found that his cloak was half-dry, but this was more than dry enough to be going on with. Without another word, he exited the tent into the dark, cold, incessant rain.

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Silmarillion, Friendship, Tragedy