The Art of Speech Through Smithcraft by Idrils Scribe

Glory

In the aftermath we took to calling that battle the Glorious Battle, a moniker even the Sindar approved of. The name was entirely apt. 
Even to me, reared from birth in a state befitting a Prince of the House of Fëanáro, the sight of Maitimo surrounded by his household knights was awe-inspiring. His company oversaw the muster from a small hillock amidst the trampled grasses. My uncle stood out among his attendants, tall as an oak tree. His high helmet of mithril-overlayed steel bore the distinctive crimson plumes of Fëanáro’s own devising. His breastplate was inlaid with rubies and garnets, and it caught the first rays of Anar’s rising over Lothlann like a leaping flame. Even from the hilt of his sword sparkled a wealth of red gems. His personal guard was arrayed no less richly under their banners bearing the eight-pointed star picked out in mithril and diamonds on blackest sable. A glittering memory of the splendour of Tirion before the Darkening had taken shape once more on the grey shores of Ennorë.

Then Maitimo’s eyes, their deep Tree-light sharpened and refined by his torture, came to rest on mine, and the lingering wisps of that morning’s despair, coiling about my mind like bitter, ash-grey smoke from Thangorodrim, were blown away by the sheer ardour radiating from him. Fëanáro’s firstborn son was a creature of fire, a blazing, consuming flame made flesh, and the sight of him sparked a fierce blood-lust in my chest.
He appeared to have the same inspiring effect on his troops. Suddenly a roaring cry went up from every voice. The elegant, lethal phalanxes of his Noldorin cavalry, twelve-thousand strong and mounted on the spirited descendants of Oromë’s own blood-horses. His spearmen, their eyes and the keen points of their helmets and lances reflecting Anar’s rays like an army of stars fallen to earth. Even the few Sindar that could be persuaded to take service with the sons of Fëanáro, some small companies of archers looking frail and drab as wood-pigeons among the richness of the Noldor, lent their voices to the great battle-cry.

“For the Silmarils! For Finwë! For Fëanáro!”

Maitimo was the only one not overwhelmed with blood-lust. He was well aware of how he looked, and of the effect he was having.
He sat on his great destrier observing, gauging the battle-fury like a smith calculating the heat of his forge-fire by the colour of its flames. 
When he saw me approaching he brought his stallion beside mine, turning us until we stood side by side before his troops. They made a roaring, intimidating sea of blue-grey steel and white gems, twenty-thousand upturned faces drinking us in. Maitimo took my right hand in his left, a gesture that might have been tender had we not both been wearing metal gauntlets, and raised them high above our heads.

“Behold, the grandson of Fëanáro come to draw swords with you! Our House shall thrive eternally to spite the Moringotto! Today we drive that knowledge home to him like never before. For the Silmarils!”

I think it very well possible the resulting clamour was indeed heard all the way to Thangorodrim.

Remember that Maitimo was once, in the days before the Fall, a politician of unrivalled skill and cleverness. Through me, he promised the Noldor everlasting vengeance and victory where before they saw only defeat after defeat. The idea that a leader might have genuine need of heirs was a new one, born of the harsh necessities of war. Maitimo made my very existence the symbol of the endurance of the House of Fëanáro, and his warriors lapped it up.
Doubtless this had been a move long calculated, and knowing Curufinwë would refuse Maitimo the use of me for his scheme, my recalcitrant father had been made to acquiesce by clever manipulation. Canissë’s praiseful attention for me took on a new and disturbing dimension. It would seem Maitimo sent her to Aglon on more than one errand. With a stab of hot shame I recalled how unquestioningly I had basked in her regard for me. Then and there began my long education in the intimate and personal art that is diplomacy.

Maitimo must have known my thoughts in that moment, because he was genuinely kind. Taking some time to put me at ease, he placed me beside Canissë in the line of Elf-warriors that was to move northwest across the rippling ocean of golden grass, driving Orcs and Wargs before it. The thought he sent his people was readable even to me: their duty was to die for me if need be. He would see every single one of them trampled to a pulp in the bloody mire before I, the hope of his House, might come to harm. 
Before taking his leave to assume command once more, he turned to Canissë and me, whispering for our ears only.

“Telpë, my dear nephew. Canissë will remain by your side, and she will demonstrate both skill and valour for you to emulate. If all should be lost turn to her. She will spare you from the worst fate of all.”

Canissë sent me an unreadable look.
For the first uneventful hour of the ride I honestly believed that Canissë was meant to somehow keep me from being slain. Only when the sun had fully risen above the Ered Luin in a great glory of gold and madder did the realisation hit me like an avalanche. To Maitimo, the worst possible fate was not death but capture, and I was to receive the tender mercy of Canissë’s blade instead.