In His Memory by Elisif

Chapter 1

It was nearly midnight and Ñolofinwë was deep in discussion of politics with Angaráto, his voice raised against the festivities that showed no signs of dying down in the main hall of the Nolofinwëan camp despite having gone on almost since dawn, when he was quietly informed that Maitimo was looking to speak with him. 
He turned, and the crowd, already thinned by the raising of an especially lively saltarello by the tireless bards on the dais of the hall, parted to the sides at his nephew’s arrival; even with his missing hand, still short hair and gaunt features, in King’s robes and ceremonial armour, with his back rigid, he made an imposing spectacle as he approached his uncle and now King, and bowed his head. 
“My Lord, if I may, I have one further matter to discuss with you,” he said. Then, with a tilt of his neck, as the crowd filled in behind him, he added:
“In private, if you do not mind.”
Angaráto offered him a look of slight contempt; Ñolofinwë smoothed a crease in his robes, looked upwards. 
“Where?” he asked. 
“My own quarters, if your Lordship does not object,” he said. Then, glancing at Angarato, and brushing an overly ornate braid from his face, he added: 
“There is something I forgot to give to the King earlier.”
Ñolofinwë handed Angaráto his wine goblet, muttered “I’ll be back shortly” with a wave of his hand and turned to follow his nephew out of the crowded, still-unfinished hall down the newly cut pine steps onto the wide, muddied lakeshore, trading the scents of wine, newly applied plaster, sweat and spice for the cold scent of evening mist and pine that gripped the outlying buildings of the encampment as he raised his face to the newly risen stars to taste the air. He followed Maitimo between the swathe of outlying buildings, across the muddied area patched with dead grass where tents had stood until the completion of the last of the outbuildings last week, hesitantly into the neighbouring area of tents set up for the visiting Fëanorian delegation, a space in the back of Ñolofinwë’s mind still objecting to entering, though after the morning’s developments— the concessions, the apology and finally gifting of the crown— this should no longer have been the case. 
Against the muted browns and sharp misted silvers that constituted evening on Mithrim’s shores, the bright square of red and golds that was revealed when Maitimo lifted the door-pole and ushered his Uncle inside stood out as if it had been inlaid into an excised patch of Endorë’s soft, grey-painted night. Wall-hangings aside, the tent was sparsely furnished; a jumble of half-opened trunks and bundles against the opposite wall, a folding night-stand and a chair, one well-piled camp-bed covered in furs. A thin servant’s pallet protruded from beneath it, but it too was decked in furs and matching velvet coverlets embroidered with the family sigil, suggesting a nightly inhabitant of far higher rank. Maitimo knelt down to shove it back beneath the bed, gestured for his uncle to sit down on the richly attired cot with his right arm; Ñolofinwë obeyed, sinking into the deep pile of furs and pelts, his hands folded, watching. 
Maitimo walked across the tent, knelt down among the assortment of trunks and bundles against the opposite wall, opened one of the trunks and very awkwardly manoeuvred an elongated, linen-wrapped package to rest between his raised right forearm and left hand. He straightened his back, turned and began to walk reverently across the chamber towards his uncle, his head slightly bowed.
Or at least, he intended to; halfway across the small tent, his feet somehow gave out beneath him and he spared himself— not the package, which he dropped— from falling entirely only by seizing hold of the back-bar of the chair. Ñolofinwë leapt to his feet, but his nephew seemed to have caught himself, his knuckles white and shaking as he pulled himself back up against the meagre support, palm pressed against the bar and straightened arm wobbling.
“I am fine, honestly—“ he said as managed to once more stand. Then, through gritted teeth he muttered:
“After all, I’ve only been on my feet since dawn—”
More shaking. Wondering how the weight of the chair was sufficient to keep a man of his nephew’s size upright, Ñolofinwë noticed for the first time that he had wool stuffing liberally packed into his robes to make them fit his still-skeletal frame; a corner of down had emerged from the collar of his scarlet tunic and another from beneath one of his gauntlets. 
“I’m fine—“
When he slipped the second time, Ñolofinwë rose to his feet. 
“Nelyafinwë, as your King I command you to sit down and do whatever else your state of health requires of you!”
Maitimo stopped; then, somehow, he let his feigned confidence and ease slip as if removing a mask. The scars on his cheek and forehead stood out as they had not before, his eyes were bloodshot with pain and near-complete exhaustion clear in his movements as he stumbled over to the bed in a few rapid steps, sat down and buried his head in his hand, drawing a deep, pained breath. 
“My travelling case on the night-stand”, he said simply, rubbing his temple with his fingers. “Could you open it for me and pass me my sling?”
Ñolofinwë located the small ebony chest, undid the needlessly complicated eight-pointed star shaped latches and folded out the red velvet-lined trays which held neatly labelled glass bottles of various salves and medicines, a cloth bag of healing tea and some stray linen bandages. He found the sling tangled around a pair of knee braces in the larger compartment underneath and passed it over to his nephew, who slipped it over his neck and then eased his right arm inside. 
“There is a socket for my arm in there as well... And a wine-skin of pain-draught, if you do not mind.”
He had mistaken the requested socket for a drinking cup of some sort initially, but now identified it as a stump-cover carved of the same material as Fëanáro’s lamps, the white-blue stone perpetually hot to the touch. Maitimo took it, reached within the sling to lift up his right arm with pinched fingertips and slid the heated cover over his stump, grimacing slightly but then looking relieved as he let his suspended arm fall back against his chest. Ñolofinwë then passed him the wine-skin; he tilted his head back, took a generous swig from it, then shuddering passed it back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 
“Thank you,” he said. 
Ñolofinwë gave a curt nod; he then proceeded to walk across the tent and knelt down to lift the discarded linen-wrapped package Maitimo had dropped off of the trampled grass and into his arms. He attempted to wipe the mud from the age-yellowed wrapping with the back of his hand, but the folds of the worn thin cloth had frozen with age and with a crush of dust the minimal effort pushed its stiff form off of the leather sheath it had shrouded and onto the ground. 
Ñolofinwë had anticipated that the item his nephew intended to offer him was a sword; the name he saw inlaid in sapphires on the star-bright silver hilt when he sharply drew back the handle from the sheath to reveal an inch of silver blade, however, he had not. 
He froze, looked upwards at his nephew’s face, right hand still clutched tight around the leather-wrapped grip, the sheathed blade balanced against his outstretched left palm. 
“Nelyafinwë...“ 
Silence. 
“Surely you do not mean—“
The lantern-lights flickered; Maitimo slid the heavy cover off of his arm and set it aside, shuffled forwards on the bed, heaved himself awkwardly to his feet, then limped forwards across the tent and stood before him. He laid his one hand hesitantly down around the handle, over Ñolofinwë’s stronger, well-callused fingers, extricated his right arm far enough from its sling to support and slightly lift the three-quarter point of the blade with his stump.
Looking down, his eyes half-closed, he said:
“I took it from his ashes. It is only right that it should be yours.”
Ñolofinwë lifted his arms and let the sword tip back into the crooks, contemplated the engraved contours of the visible section of blade in the flickering lantern-light. From the festivities afar, someone’s sharp laughter echoed through the final stanzas of a hornpipe; both stood quiet, until Maitimo broke the silence and continued. 
“For the memory of Finwë. Whatever—“ he lowered his gaze, looked downwards at his uncle. Gravely, he continued:
“Whatever crimes my house has committed against your own, we fight against the same foe. The enemy who murdered my father’s father... and yours.”
After a moment’s pause, Ñolofinwë took and sharply resheathed the blade, gilded steel striking hardened leather, then with a stern but kind expression laid his free hand gently down on Maitimo’s shoulder. 
“And who did a good deal else besides,” he said. “Sit down.”
With his face contoured somewhere between a smile and a grimace, Maitimo admitted defeat and sat back down on the bed once more, forwards with his elbows resting on his knees, stump in hand. Ñolofinwë sat down beside him, unsheathed the sword— fully this time— tested its weight with the edge of the handle pressed below his palm against his knee; perfectly crafted, it rose and fell with even the merest motion of his hand and fingers.
“Do you mind if I ask why you did not give this to me earlier, when you did the crown?”
Maitimo sighed, gestured with his left hand and right arm.
“It is a right-handed weapon, Uncle. Had I cemented my ceremony of abdication by gifting you something that I am now entirely incapable of using, it could have been interpreted as miserly or insincere. But I want you to have it all the same. Again, for Grandfather Finwë’s memory.”
He nodded; they sat quiet for some moments. Ñolofinwë was suddenly aware of how much he had had to drink in the earlier festivities, indulging more than he should have in the fine persimmon and elderberry wines the House of Fëanáro had provided and that his own had all but forgotten the taste of, the weak candlelight light oddly bright against his eyes, his head swimming slightly and a tide of painful memories rushing unbidden to the forefront of his mind. 
“It may seem cowardly to admit this, but I never actually saw his body,” he said, and blamed the wine for the fact that he had done so.
Maitimo seemed unperturbed; bitterly, he said:
“There was no time for that, not for you, not for anyone. And if I were you— in truth, I’d be grateful for it.”
As though blindly reciting a well-rehearsed passage, he continued:
“I do not think that he suffered for long. He would have died quickly. It’s not as though Morgoth could have kept him alive while he—“
Silence. Maitimo hunched forwards, clutched even tighter at his right arm, closing his eyes and wincing. 
How in Arda was he ever supposed to respond to that, Ñolofinwë thought to himself entirely unsure whether to be more horrified by the implications of what may or not have been done to his dying father or to his tortured nephew, and a torrent of unwelcome images rushed to the forefront of his mind.
As if in mockery of their shared, pained reflecting, the tent was plunged into sudden darkness as the sole candle set in the pressed tin lantern on the nightstand spluttered and died. Ñolofinwë, however, was too tired for omens and conflicted enough over how to respond to be grateful for the minute distraction of hand and mind the snuffed candle offered, rose to scramble for flint and tinder and turned from having set the lantern aflame and the small tent alight once more to face his nephew.
Maitimo flexed his fingers and mumbled a thank you; he then drew a deep breath and in a quiet voice said: 
“If you do not mind, I think I’ll retire now. If you could— if you could send one of my brothers down to help me, I would be most grateful.”
“I will,” he said, and paced back over to the bed, where he lifted the sword and held it once more up to glitter in the light, before sheathing it with an audible thud as the thickly stitched leather edge struck the sapphire inlaid guard of the blade. His hand reached instinctively to attach the sheath to his belt before he remembered that his ceremonial robes lacked one, and he gathered the weapon up into his arms. He walked towards the door, but paused to turn around one last time. 
“Good night— Nelyafinwë. And thank you.”
The stars shone brightly as High King Ñolofinwë left the tent and quietly returned to the feast of his coronation with Ringil held reverently in his arms.