The Commander by Cirth

Chapter 1

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Disclaimer: I own only the story.

The Commander

Fëanáro did not know what to name his newborn son, and neither did Nerdanel; so the baby for a fortnight had to be referred to by generic pronouns. The High Prince knew about his second-born only what he could directly perceive: round, rosy cheeks, a head of jet hair that promised to grow full and curly, and very large, dark eyes like Fëanáro's mother's. A gentle, dry smell of powder clung to him. He cried little, his pretty voice reserved for fitful whines, gurgles, and other sounds that were not quite as sophisticated as the Noldor would have preferred. He was a delicate, almost insubstantial weight in his father's strong, dexterous hands. To Fëanáro, the baby appeared like any other, save that he was more handsome (as was his other son). It was not a father's pride, he soothed himself, that made him think thus. His intellect, his famed rationality, were not in jeopardy. He could wear his smith's apron and hold his silver-tipped quill with pride, without the fear of being considered a fool.

It was late evening now, though one couldn't tell in this dank basement, for it had no windows. Some paltry light was offered by a lamp, which Fëanáro had brought and which now rested precariously on the ground. Fëanáro held his new son in one arm – he'd been dressing him when unlooked-for inspiration struck – and rummaged through stacks of papers and objects with the other. "Where," he grumbled to himself, "is that sheet?" He had an unfortunate and unwanted habit of leaving his projects in arbitrary places when he felt he would rather begin another, and needed his recently discarded study of the Sarati. Inevitably, these abandoned works, picked up by either Nerdanel or attendants, ended up, along with other odds and ends, in this dim place at the south of their house.

Fëanáro found, among other things, an old spinning top, an incomplete essay on optics, a broken harmonica, and...a slim volume his mother had written on embroidery. He was, momentarily, appalled, and in his passion nearly dropped his son, who protested indignantly with a cry. Impatiently he shushed the infant, and returned his attention to the book. This should not have been here. Anything that was created by his mother was, to him, more precious than the ancient stars that the Eldar held in reverence, and should have been handled with the most scrupulous care. His mood blackened. His heart beat like a hammer against his slender, heaving chest. He forgot why he was in the basement. Þerindë had the sole right to the title Queen of the Noldor. Her skill had been unmatched. To imagine one could equal her would be folly, desecration, almost. It was fitting that she alone commanded the greatest craftsmen of the Eldar...

The baby yowled, violently pulling Fëanáro from his thoughts. For a moment he was so dazed he forgot to quieten him. Then he blinked and, as if waking from a dream, realised where he was. The idiosyncrasies of the room stood out: the piles of paper, the uneven, slate floor, the lamps hanging from the ceiling, grey with dust. His son, still screaming.

Cringing at the uncannily loud voice, Fëanáro looked at the baby, whose sobs, in response to this action, subsided to indignant, little sounds. "Are you glaring at me?" asked Fëanáro, incredulous, unmindful of the fact that his son had yet neither the intelligence nor the motor skills to reply. Indeed, the baby was glaring, in high dudgeon, with his gleaming dark eyes, currently narrowed beneath a deeply puckered brow. The effect, what with his size and his helplessness, was ridiculous, though Fëanáro pressed his lips together and took a breath to calm himself.

The baby caught his index finger in a demanding manner, and yanked it to get his attention. He did not need to. Fëanáro's mind was now turned to his little son, and he had a thoughtful look on his patrician face. "You do not hesitate to ask for what you desire," he murmured as the child promptly stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked. Fëanáro thought of his son's powerful voice, nearly impossible to not be enraptured by, of his strong fingers, of his steady, unyielding gaze. He had the makings of a fine leader.

"Yes," he muttered slowly, as the baby raised his eyes, somewhat suspiciously, to his own. "That is who you are. That is who you will be. Kanafinwë. You will be the great artist the Noldor – nay, all the Eldar – will reverently heed." Gently, he bounced his son, who giggled around his finger in ignorant delight. Fëanáro smiled, and his heart stuttered for the almost unbearable love he held for him.

He bent down and kissed the baby's forehead, stroked his rich hair.

The Commanding Finwë.

---

F.A. –

"You are new here?"

"Yes; I was in the Lord Celegorm's host, before he decided he had no further need for me," The young soldier, Celirluin, replied, not without some resentment. He had skill enough with the bow, and strength besides; what more did his fair leader wish from him? Such thoughts had tumbled bitterly around his mind during his extensive, lonely ride to Maglor's Gap. He had skipped meals and missed sleep because of them. Now he stuck his knuckles into his aching eyes, frowning. A headache was threatening to split his skull.

The other elf, a dark-haired Noldo, smiled wryly, not missing the tone. "The minds of nobles are beyond us; might as well try not to understand them. In any case, I daresay you'll like it here," he said, and gestured around him. They were inside the high walls of the fortress, in the courtyard, along with a fairly large, motley group of soldiers, training, chattering, idly picking dirt from their nails. Shouts and bursts of laughter rang out. A white sun beat down on their backs and greedily sucked the moisture from their skin.

Celirluin wagged his mouth a few times, as if the other was too foolish for words, before he placed a hand on his forehead. "The most dangerous position in Beleriand, and here we stand, about to take orders from a minstrel."

The elf's expression quickly changed, grew sober. "He is a commander," he corrected him quietly, with surprising gravity. "His men are fiercely loyal to him, myself included. You have only to hear his voice to be his thrall."

"Thrall," the bowman parroted lowly, and kicked the dry ground with his boot, not really paying attention.

All of a sudden a great, deep sound cracked the air like a whip, powerful as thunder, more glorious than gold. "Archers!" One word, two syllables. It was enough to turn Celirluin's legs to jelly. He groped for a support, found none, and only with commendable effort prevented himself from falling heavily to his knees. His ears rang with the potency of the voice, with the sheer mastery of vocal cords. It created chaotic confusion in his mind. He had never heard the like. He never would.

Several elves, who'd been scattered haphazardly earlier, straightened their backs and came together in a neat, square formation with unexpected rapidity, their bows slung about their torsos.

Quivering, his body in shock, Celirluin turned his eyes to where his captain stood, a little distance away from a huddle of elves. He was tall and broad-shouldered, yet slender in the way of the elves, with a grim but noble face. Full, curly hair whipped about his head like black seaweed. He wore a fitted grey-blue tunic, tucked into a leather belt, from which hung a longsword in a fine scabbard.

The captain turned his formidable gaze to Celirluin, who found himself rooted to the spot, and began to stride towards him. He stopped but three feet away and said, without preamble, "You look lost. You are the new addition to my army." He spoke as if referring to an heirloom or a belonging that was indisputably, solely, his: his army, his soldiers; he would not suffer them to be taken away from him.

Celirluin nodded once, dumbly, in awe.

The elf before him offered an amiable quirk of the lips and placed a firm, callused hand on his shoulder in a surprising gesture of comfort. "I am Maglor, your new lord. Welcome to the host."

The air trembled with his voice even after it ceased.