The Art of Speech Through Smithcraft by Idrils Scribe

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Descent

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When I woke from my exhausted stupor at midday the roof of one of Maitimo’s tents billowed above my head as the westerly winds of Ard-galen caught the heavy crimson canvas. The light filtering inside was the vivid poppy-red of blood, or a smith-fire.

There was no trace of my uncle or his retainers. It was Cendaro who had woken me and now hastily dressed me in my next-to-best finery, for I had been invited to the share the midday meal with none other than Crown Prince Findekáno. 
I had expected this invitation to be a rote politeness, little more than permission to join a company of lords and their attendants at some large gathering. I could not have been more mistaken. As I know now, long tables and grand but empty words are reserved for stately dinners. The truly important machinations of statecraft are engineered in small, intimate companies over simple daytime bread and wine.

As I approached the tents housing Prince Findekáno and his retinue I remember feeling exceedingly smug. Where our Fëanorian encampment was all brightness, colour and gem-studded splendour, the Nolofinwëan tents, though large, were decidedly understated in plain indigo and pearl-grey, as if the High King of the Noldor had on a whim chosen to emulate the Grey-elven drabness surrounding him in Mithrim. Even after witnessing Nolofinwë’s questionable taste in décor, I was genuinely surprised at finding myself hailed in Sindarin and led into the Crown Prince’s presence by a Sindarin servant in the Nolofinwëan livery. The Elf was whisper-quiet and slender, his alien eyes strangely devoid of Light.

Findekáno himself cut a figure nearly as imposing as Maitimo. They were matched for height, and everything about him, from the luxuriously gold-wound dark braids to his broad shoulders and the martial fire in his eyes, seemed the personification of what it meant to be a Noldo. 
It was all I could do not to startle when he rose from his camp-chair to greet me in Sindarin, the Moriquendian language flowing from his lips smooth as syrup. I had been taught the tongue’s essentials, if only to communicate with our stable-hands and huntsmen in Aglon after Thingol forbade them the use of Quenya. I had not nearly enough of it to carry on a civilized conversation or address the Crown Prince with the respect that was his due.
Even as I fumbled through my greeting I struggled to remember the correct conjugation rules for the reverent form of verbs, one I admit to having used very rarely at that point. The Sindarin servant remained present, pouring and watering wine while observing me with dispassionate curiosity.

My rescue came from an entirely unexpected source. From a side entrance Maitimo stepped into the tent, seemingly unescorted.

He gave the Grey-elf an easy smile. “That will be all, thank you, Manion.” His Sindarin was far better than I expected.

Instead of objecting to being dismissed by anyone but his lord, Findekáno’s manservant bowed and left. Maitimo clearly made himself at home wherever Findekáno was, and saw no need to pretend otherwise on my account. He sent me a look that was both searching, and a challenge of sorts. Either he was so sure of his position he no longer feared scandal, or he believed me incapable of unleashing one. 
The instant the tent-flaps fell closed behind Manion both lords gladly reverted to Quenya.

Findekáno pointed us towards a table set for three with bread and wine. His smile was warm and slightly feline.

“Welcome, Celebrimbor, if I may call you that? I have heard so much about you, it seems as if I know you already.”

I was struck with awe of this lordly figure, and so immensely relieved at being allowed to speak Quenya that I would have agreed to any name of his choosing. “Aye, my Prince.”

“There is no call for such formality, cousin. We are among family. I apologise for receiving you in Sindarin. I merely wanted to gauge your proficiency. Much of our official business is conducted in Grey-elvish these days. It is but a small deference to Elu Thingol in exchange for his continued goodwill.”

I attempted to hide my shocked indignation. Surely he did not willingly bow to the haughty decrees of this Moriquendian pretender to kingship of the Teleri even in his own household?

Maitimo and Findekáno exchanged glances, and there was a strange undercurrent, some tacit understanding between the both of them that wholly eluded me.

“There is no shame in a good compromise, Telpë, regardless of what your father would have you believe.” After the sight of him on the battlefield the day before, Maitimo’s voice was shockingly gentle even in this unveiled attack on Curufinwë.

“Which brings me to the purpose of our meeting here. I wish to discuss your prospects.”

My eyes shot to Findekáno, wondering why this conversation was taking place in his presence.

“Findekáno advises me in many things, as I do for him. It is my wish that the two of you might become friends as well.”

I acutely perceived that this was a test of some kind, and much depended on whether I would prove myself accepting of whatever Findekáno’s entanglement in Maitimo’s life entailed.

“The friendship of Prince Findekáno is an honour indeed. I will aspire to prove myself worthy.”

At the time I could have said little else, but in later years I grew to fully appreciate the value of the alliance with the future high king I gained that day. Findekáno once more smiled his cat-like smile and raised his wineglass in an almost conspiratorial salute before taking a sip. I responded in kind.

Maitimo continued. “Naturally all peoples tend to view events in the wider world from their own halls first. In Aglon, you have been raised exclusively within our sphere of influence. However much we might wish differently, the balance of power in Beleriand has shifted away from the Fëanorim of late, and we have neither the strength nor the numbers the fulfillment of our Oath requires. If we wish to recover the Silmarilli, we shall sorely need our allies. Yesterday’s shared battle has proven this is very much possible despite our differences.”

I nodded, still unable to fathom the purpose of this meeting.

“The short of our current predicament is that we need every Elf in Beleriand to take up arms against the Enemy if we want any hope of defeating him. The vast majority of those Elves are Sindar, Elu Thingol’s loyal subjects. The Fëanorim are anathema to the very people we need to accomplish our purpose here in Ennor.”

Maitimo’s eyes, blue as lapis, came to rest on mine.

“Only one among the House of Fëanáro might redeem himself sufficiently to be accepted even by our Arafinwëan cousins and the Sindar, in time. One who has sworn no Oath, and taken no part in the slaying of Elves, and therefore stands a chance of securing their swords for our cause.”

Ah. Once gained, an insight changes one’s perception of everything that went before. Maitimo had wanted me for more than simply egging on his troops.

“I am no diplomat, Uncle.”

Findekáno chuckled, but there was nothing mean-spirited about the sound. “Indeed. We would have been astonished if you were, raised in a military outpost by a hunter and a smith. It is high time your uncle took charge of your education.”

A sense of dread descended on me. “What is your intention?”

Neylafinwë leant forward. “I mean to bring you to Himring with me. There are many things I can teach you, Sindarin not the least among them. When you have learned to my satisfaction, I will send you to those places your uncles and I cannot ever hope to go, as the emissary of our House.”

Himring. The name itself sounded like a promise.

I thought of the empty, echoing hallways of Aglon, the long silences in the forge, my father’s hard-handed fencing lessons, and marvelled at the sudden possibility, never conceived of before, of not returning to them. 
This was one of Maitimo’s political masterstrokes. Stealing me away from Curufinwë was a plan as multifaceted as one of his many well-cut rubies. He would gain a useful ambassador, with the added sweetness of a sharp retaliation for Curufinwë’s attempted betrayal after Maitimo’s abdication. It was exquisitely cruel without being obvious, and for a moment I hesitated, unsure whether I wanted any part in this. 
My father loved me deeply, even if he was incapable of showing it any other way than through harsh teaching and the fruits of his labours at the forge. For a moment a vivid image of him standing alone and forlorn in the great hall of Aglon beside my empty chair at the high table made my chest contract with pain. In the next instant I remembered the last sight of my mother, the sensation of being lifted from her arms and the sound of my own incessant howling. Curufinwë seemed to forget that others had suffered, beside Finwë and Fëanaro, and to me the shadows she cast were as long as theirs.

Maitimo sent me a look of deep regret and longing, a look that turned my heart around. Things might have been so different, it said. In another world, one without Silmarils or doomed Oaths, Nelyo and Káno could have been a pair of friendly uncles who would never have sons of their own, taking a shy but beloved nephew under their sleek wings. There would be no need to steal me from my father, because Curufinwë would have approved instead of clinging to me like an oyster to its shell out of barely disguised guilt over his unspeakable deeds. 
That world existed once, and their own swords had hacked it to pieces.

“You have not forgiven him yet, and I doubt you ever will. Is that not reason enough?” Even off the battlefield Maitimo’s aim was true.

“I will not forsake my father. It would break him” Even a less skilled observer would have noticed the waver in my voice. I wholly meant it, at the time.

“I do not ask you to. To forsake your father would be to forsake our House. Consider it a period of extended tutoring, if you will. We all had those at your age. He cannot begrudge you one of your own. Yours will be the most productive of all, if you succeed.”

Suddenly a cold hand seemed to close around my heart.

“‘To evil end shall all things turn that you begin well’. Why would you attempt this at all, knowing it is a doomed undertaking?” I did not dare say: how can any endeavour succeed if it is begun by kin tormenting one another so?

A sad smile played across Maitimo’s scarred face, granting its marred beauty an almost ethereal glow. The look in Findekáno’s eyes as he watched him was unfathomable.

“Your innocence might protect us all. You never chose any of this, and neither did you share in our deeds. if the Valar presume to call themselves just, how could they possibly include you in their Doom? I know it will come to pass, Telpë. One day I will unite all Elves of Ennorë to overthrow Thangorodrim and take back our birthright, and you will help me do it. Believe me nephew. Day will come again.”