The Art of Speech Through Smithcraft by Idrils Scribe

Sword

Of my father, Curufinwë Fëanorion, I try not to speak at all these days. Greatly maligned he has become, by Noldor and Sindar alike, and most of that infamy is entirely deserved.

Without descending into self-pity, I do believe I can justly name my mother and myself the very first victims of the fall of the house of Fëanor.
But I make false promises. I will not describe to you my garbled recollection of the dispassionate violence with which my father ripped the child I was then from my mother’s arms in darkened Tirion. She fought him like a lioness for her cub, and even unto the Halls of Waiting has her valiant and ultimately futile stand been sung. May it never be forgotten.
Against the fire of Fëanor’s most ardent son bent upon doing his will, even she could not stand. As she lay before the doors of our house, broken in body and spirit, I was carried to the blood-soaked quays of Alqualondë by the knights of his household to be embarked, a part of his baggage train as much as his smithing tools or the boxed-up contents of his personal library.

You need to know these things to understand what I am about to tell you, but I shall begin my tale proper somewhere else entirely. My father may have settled first in Mithrim, and roamed the width of Beleriand in the later days of what we now call the War of the Jewels, but in my mind Curufinwë’s proper place shall always be Aglon.
Upon that narrow pass between the empty sea of waving grasses that was Lothlann in those days before Morgoth’s marring of it, and the hill-country sloping down to the river Aros and Doriath beyond, my father and his brother Tyelkormo were bidden to build a great fortification and a keep. Thus they were to be part of an unbroken chain of defenses barring the Enemy’s creatures from entering Beleriand proper. In those days they still bowed to the authority of their eldest brother Maitimo, and they hearkened to his counsel. A mighty fortress they raised with their cunning stone-crafts, and held it against Morgoth Bauglir for many years.
It was there that I came of age and grew, if not to respect my father, then at least to a manner of understanding him. You may flinch at hearing me say it. Others have pointed out to me that to understand all, is to forgive all. Rest assured that forgiveness is not so freely given.

When I was eighty years old, and had been in Ennor for little more than sixty, Morgoth decided to test the defences of the Eldar.
I remember well how we were summoned, for I was with my father in the tiltyard. It pleased him to spar with me there at times, to oversee the progress of my training with the swordmasters. He possessed near endless stamina, and had been toying with me with dulled blades for most of the day. I was swaying on my feet, and still he came at me time and time again, inflicting quick, smarting bruises for my trouble whenever he found an opportunity.

“Step lively, Telpë! Were I an orc, this would be a rip the size of my hand!”

I felt humiliated, and wroth with him at the time, but the reality of battle would soon make me grateful for his teaching.

When the messenger entered the yard in great haste all I could feel was gratitude for the unhoped-for respite, for these ordeals tended to last well into the night if my skills were deemed lacking.
The woman wore the black livery and eight-pointed star of our house, and the richness of the silver embroidery marked her as one of Maitimo’s inner circle of knights. She went to one knee before my father, for in those days we still cleaved to the elaborate formality of the one-time court of a Tirion that no longer was.

“My Prince, I bring summons from High Prince Maitimo. Moringotto is executing a surprise attack on all fronts. A large contingent of Orcs is moving south into Lothlann at speed. Your brother’s need is great, and he bids you to his side with every Elf-warrior you can spare from the defense of the pass.”

My father gave a nod, for she, too, was a noble, be it of a lesser house than ours. His tone was one of complacency.

“Rise, Canissë. Long have Prince Tyelkormo and I foreseen this day. Aglon shall muster all who can bear arms to the High Prince’s side.”

He turned to both our esquires, who stood aside, unsure whether the sparring session was officially ended and they were allowed to step onto the field to attend us. At his nod, ice water and linen towels instantly appeared. I caught Cendaro, my own body servant, staring regretfully at the mud-spattered ruin of my simple linen tunic. To my delight, my father’s clothes bore at least a few stains and slashes of their own. I was not entirely without merit as a swordsman, it seemed.
Canissë turned towards me, eying my sword with unconcealed admiration. Even having owned it for most of my life, I was still conscious of how marvelous a blade it was. Perfectly balanced, and as deadly as it was beautiful. Of course it was my father’s work. There had been one finer swordsmith once, but Fëanáro was no more.

Her voice became honey-toned as she complimented my father. “Telpë is a credit to your teaching. Both his weapon and his skill at arms do honour to your House. Many will rejoice at seeing our lord Fëanáro’s grandson test his mettle against our foes!”

For a moment Curufinwë Fëanorion, Lord and Master of Aglon, was struck dumb. I instantly knew he had intended to leave me at home, his regent in name only, to pretend I was in charge of defending a keep that could not conceivably come under attack, not with every Orc in Ennor well engaged many leagues to the north.

“All who can bear arms”, my father had only just promised with such casual generosity, and from what this canny pawn of his brother’s had just witnessed I was most certainly among those.
A feeling of delirious jubilance came over me, as can only be experienced once in a lifetime, by those blissfully innocent of the realities of war. I was to go into battle.

---

Lothlann was an ocean of grass, yellowing green speckled with wildflowers stretching from one horizon to the other. At the height of the Northern summer its blades grew to a man’s hip, and they reflected the sunlight like golden straw when waved by the ceaseless western winds off the Blue Mountains. Never since its destruction have I seen beauty quite like it.
The rich crimson tents of my uncle’s household looked like gaping wounds in the bucolic landscape.

My illustrious uncle Maitimo was very pleased to see us indeed. Even with the small skill at reading others that came with my tender age, I could tell that the dominant emotion on his face when my father and uncle Tyelkormo bowed before him, offering seven thousand cavalerists and the same number of spearmen and archers, was deep relief.
Maitimo’s decision to abdicate High Kingship of the exiled Noldor in favour of his half-uncle Nolofinwë, who called himself Fingolfin these days after the Sindarin fashion, had driven a deep rift between the sons of Fëanáro. Sharp words had been spoken upon their last parting at Lake Mithrim, and the drawing of even sharper steel only narrowly avoided. There had been talk, with my father as its chief instigator, that Maitimo’s claim to the leadership of our House was forfeit by his actions. It had come to naught in the end, but only because Makalaurë, who could then have usurped his older brother, would not hear of it. The sight of Maitimo’s rebellious brothers flocking to him like loyal vassals to their liege-lord had to be a sweet one indeed.

Eager to consolidate this new spirit of fraternal harmony, Maitimo went out of his way to be kind to me, his young nephew getting his first taste of war. Even so he made an imposing figure. Maedhros the Tall, the Sindar called him, and that was a name justly bestowed. The scars crossing his fair face seemed only to underline the pale perfection of it, crowned with a wealth of fox-auburn hair threaded with gold. At my age I had been taught better than to look down, to the strange blind end on the right sleeve of his tunic. Even here, in a war camp on the eve of battle, it was cloth-of-gold stitched with sea-pearls.

“My dear Telperinquar, all grown into a warrior. It seems only yesterday that we flew kites together.”

I knew not what to answer him, for those kites had been improvised from scraps of sailcloth, flown from the deck of a swan-ship to coax a forlorn elfling into ending the hunger strike that threatened his life.
Maitimo continued, oblivious to the slap of remembered misery he had just dealt me.

“I have heard most favourable word of your swordsmanship, Nephew.”

From the line of knights behind the camp chair from which he conducted the reception, Canissë flashed me a smile. Warmth flooded my chest. Compliments were a rare occurrence in Aglon, and I savoured them wherever they might be found.
Before I could do more than nod and smile, my father answered in my stead.

“Someone is kind. We have endeavoured to train him to the best of our abilities.”

Maitimo was undeterred. “Tell me, young kinsman, what weapons do you wield from horseback?”

“The spear, javelin and bow, Uncle.”

Maitimo shot my father a probing glance, an unspoken challenge.

“A true Elf-knight indeed. What think you, Curufinwë, is he prepared well enough to go forth among my retinue?”

And now my father was pressed between belittling my skills, and thereby his own tutoring, or relinquishing me to ride among the High Prince’s knights in the coming battle. The very thought of being counted with that fierce and noble company set my blood aflame.
For a moment I feared Maitimo had overplayed his hand, that my father would rise in anger at being manipulated over me twice.
But time and Aglon’s isolation had taught Curufinwë to value peace with his brothers, and since Mithrim he knew for a fact he lacked the leverage to unseat Maitimo.

His words dropped like stones in a still pond. “Telperinquar has been taught all my household has to offer. Only war itself can teach him more.”

A sly smile played across Maitimo’s impossibly beautiful face, but he knew better than to gloat outright.

“That is well. Tomorrow at dawn, we drive Moringotto’s spawn back to the black pits from whence they came. You will hold the line beside me, Telpë. Have no fear for your son, Brother. My personal guard will protect him as they do for me.”

He turned to his hovering esquire. “Bring the maps, and watered wine for the lords, that we may take our counsel.”

His eyes gained an uncharacteristic softness. “Come here, Nephew, sit with me.”