“By all the Valar, be silent!”

Short-tempered was an understatement on the best of days, and this was not the best of days. Caranthir surged to his feet from his seat and stalked down the stairs from the dais, perfectly aware of and all right with the fact that his expression was very close to murderous. Everyone in the hall was trying very hard both not to look and watch very closely. Fools, all of them, ignorant, small-minded –

“You,” he said, coldly, to the man now cowering somewhere around the vicinity of his knees. “Have you thought this through at all? No. The answer has been no before now and still is. And if your folk persist in asking me stupid questions I might have to get irritated with you.” He grinned, very deliberately, and turned his back to a profound silence.

That was satisfying.

“That is all. I think I’ll wait to deal with the rest of your lot until later.” Looking up, he realized that Pityo was leaning against the chair on the dais and watching him with an expression that appeared to be trying very hard not to smile. He deepened his glare, which had no effect on his brother but rather hastened the bustle for the door.

Ignoring the fleeing crowds, he took the stairs two at a time to meet his brother. “Any news? Next time feel free to interrupt me, I’d rather hear you than the complaints of any number of men trying to get out of their taxes or weasel more free land out of me at the behest of their leaders.”

“You looked like you were having fun. I didn’t want to stop you.” Pityo’s face was so perfectly straight that Caranthir could not help reaching out and ruffling his hair, mischievously.

“Don’t fool yourself. I wasn’t. News, Pityo.”

The very slight grin faded. “Nothing. No word, and the borders are still quiet. I checked that too. If I had better news I would have interrupted you.”

Caranthir swore. He’d been so certain that they would come here first! Even if Curufin would have opposed it, he thought that Tyelko would speak for it at least. If they were dead something ought to have been heard of that, too, at least. Anything would be better than silence - or almost anything.

“I’m almost tempted to give them another week and hope they’re only slow.” What would slow them down? Being wounded. Following that train of thought led nowhere good either. If they had been captured, there should have been some ransom. What did it mean?

He shouldn’t bother thinking about it. It only resulted in headaches and a shorter temper than usual.

“Almost tempted. Oddly enough, I don’t quite believe that. Is that shocking, brother?”

“No. Because I’m not going to. Come with me, I’m writing a letter to Maitimo. Perhaps he’s heard something we haven’t.” He started toward the door to the halls behind the dais and only paused when he realized Pityo wasn’t following.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this anxious.”

“I’m not anxious. I’m angry,” Caranthir snapped, though he could feel the hair on the back of his neck prickle. “I’ve never had the need to.”

“Why now? We’ve all been in mortal danger before.”

Caranthir didn’t stop to consider that question, and deliberately did not voice all the things that made this different. With every passing day it seemed more and more possible that one or both of them was dead. With every passing day without news it seemed clearer that he might never even know. And there was the fact that they were now traitors, despised by most of the inhabitants of Beleriand on every side, now.

Two lone hunters, he could not help reminding himself, would not pose such a difficult target to a determined bowman. Morbidly, he let himself picture it again as he imagined in sleepness nights: dark horse rearing, Tyelko yelling and trying to bring it into line until his voice died in the hard sound of the arrows sprouting from his torso and then through his neck.

He shook his head. Sometimes imagination seemed a remarkably unhelpful thing. “What, and you’re not concerned?” He didn’t mean it to sound like an accusation, but it must have, because Pityo bristled visibly.

“Of course I am. Maybe you just don’t show it so much and that’s why I’m surprised.”

“Why should I,” he muttered, but let the subject go, turning toward the door again. “You’re going to have to help me with this. If only for moral support.”

“It’ll only be moral support. You’re better at writing letters than I am.”

Slipping into his study – or whatever the room should be called – Moryo almost felt the weight of the room settle on his shoulders, like he was carrying the whole damn ceiling on his shoulders. He hated this room, small and cramped and cluttered. Any day, it would be better to be outside risking his life than in here tallying accounts and counting gold, no matter how nice it looked in large quantities. Sitting down, though, and pulling the quill out, sucking its tip, he felt a slight surge of energy for actually being able to do something.

Even if it was only to write a damned letter. “There’s someone we can spare to carry this, isn’t there?”

“Most likely. I’m sure I can find someone, if you would like me to.”

“I would.” Dipping the quill in the inkwell, he set the point to some parchment and considered how to phrase this.

Maitimo, I don’t know what you have heard but I certainly hope you’ve gotten some word that Kurvo and Tyelko have gotten themselves exiled from Nargothrond. Findarato’s dead, I imagine his son is pissed. If you knew this already, especially from a first hand source, I would very much like to know. You know how irritable being left out makes me. Don’t get yourself killed between now and the next time you see me.

Also, if you don’t have any news I would appreciate your permission to go looking for said ‘news.’ I’ll probably go looking either way, but it would be appreciated if you gave me an excuse for doing it. Hope things are as dull where you are as they are here.

Caranthir lifted the quill and looked up at Pityo. “Subtle enough?”

“No. About as much as a boulder to the head.”

“Good. I don’t need subtlety.” Stuffing the quill messily away and ignoring the smears it made on the wood, he scattered sand over the letters, dumped it on the floor, and folded the short missive crisply in thirds. “And Maitimo could probably use a boulder to the head.”

“One would hardly know you’re related to these people sometimes, the way you talk about them,” Pityo murmured, and Caranthir shot him a look and poured the wax slowly over the letter to seal it before stamping it with his seal and eying it with satisfaction.

“It’s because I’m related to them. If I didn’t like them I’d use something a lot sharper than a rock.”

“I’d never have guessed.” Pityo’s voice was almost a drawl. “Do you want me to take that?”

“Please.” Caranthir held the letter out for his little brother to take. “Find someone to deliver it. If this lasts much longer I’ll just take off for Nargothrond myself and shake the truth out of Orodreth. Maybe he just sent them to Thingol if he didn’t want to dirty his own hands. That would likely be as good as a death sentence, especially if his damn daughter was mentioned.”

Pityo’s hand, to his surprise, fell lightly on his forearm, and he looked at his brother, startled. “If you keep talking like that,” he said, softly, “I’m going to think you’re already assuming our brothers are dead.”

He didn’t think about that, deliberately and very firmly did not think about that. And arrows sprouting from his chest… “No. Of course not.” He made his voice utterly flat. “Then what would be the point in looking?”

There’s no use thinking that way. I won’t believe it until I see their graves.

Pityo understood what he didn’t say and squeezed his arm, once, before letting go. “I’ll send the letter. I’m sure Maitimo will be quick to reply.”

“He’d better,” Caranthir muttered, “I don’t think I can put up with another week of those idiots out there without some good news.” And it had best be good news. I don’t think I can put up with anything else.”