Taking the Sword by Ithilwen

Chapter 1

As this story is set in Aman, I've chosen to use the characters' Quenya names, which are as follows:

Maitimo or Nelyafinwë - Maedhros
Makalaurë or Kanafinwë- Maglor
Tyelkormo - Celegorm
Carnistir - Caranthir
Curufinwë - Curufin (he shares Fëanor's father-name)
Ambarussa – Amrod and Amras (they share this name)
Findekáno - Fingon
Angaráto - Angrod
Aikanáro - Aegnor
Nolofinwë - Fingolfin
Arafinwë – Finarfin

The meaning of these names can be found in the Author's Notes at the end of the story.

I would like to thank Deborah for her helpful comments, and for suggesting the name of this story.

Read Chapter 1

Taking the Sword

"What is it, Father?"

Nelyafinwë looked upon his father's latest creation with a vague sense of unease. Nothing my father makes should surprise me, he thought, for is he not the greatest craftsman of our people? Truly, Fëanáro's genius was unrivalled - his most praised creations, the Silmarils, were even admired by the Valar themselves. But Nelyafinwë had never seen anything like this, and was not sure what to make of it.

It looked like a type of knife - a very long knife, about as long as Nelyafinwë's arm. But the blade was nearly a hand's-width broad, and the strange knife carried an edge on both sides of the blade, quite unlike the kitchen knives and hunting knives Nelyafinwë was used to. The handle was peculiar, too; it had two flat metal projections jutting out perpendicular to the blade at the point where the handle and blade joined - very different from the handle of a kitchen knife.

"That's right - I've forgotten that you have never seen one before," Fëanáro laughed grimly. "This is a sword, Nelyafinwë. I've forged swords and armor for all seven of you, as well as for myself. Melkor has been busy spreading lies about our family; I fear that some of the Noldor who listen to him and to my so-called loyal brothers will eventually believe those lies, and act upon them. Our lives may depend on these weapons one day. That is why I want you to learn how to use this."

"You wish me to learn how to wield a sword? How to... how to..." Nelyafinwë couldn't bring himself to finish. After a moment, he composed himself and continued, speaking more calmly. "But this is Aman, Father! The Valar brought us here to keep us safe, and in all the time our people have dwelt with them, there has been no need for violence. No one has ever ended the life of another here! This... sword... is a relic of the past; the Valar taught our people how to make such weapons that we might defend ourselves from the violence of the debased creatures of -"

"Melkor," his father interrupted, "who walks freely among us, poisoning and twisting the hearts of the Noldor here as he once corrupted the bodies of creatures of Arda ages ago. Oh, he says he's reformed; he wants to help us, teach us, be our friend - but I am wiser than he knows, and I see through his mask of repentance to the black heart he hides beneath it. Aman is safe, you say. I say it is no safer than the Waters of Awakening were, not as long as the one who has ever hated our kind is free to go where he wills. If you value your life, and the lives of your family, you will learn how to use this." Fëanáro held the sword out to his son. "Take it, Nelyafinwë. It belongs to you now. Learn to wield it well."

Nelyafinwë reached out, and grasping the sword in his right hand, held it up, turning it so the Treelight shining through the nearby window glittered on the blade like flames. It was heavy, although not as heavy as it had promised to be from its size, and oddly, it felt as if it were a part of him already, as though the grip had fused to his palm - a strange metal extension of his arm and his spirit. He shuddered and forced his hand open, and the sword fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

"I have killed many times, with my brother Turkafinwë when we've gone hunting. Beasts. It is one thing to slay a beast out of need, for food, quite another to take the life of a person. I refuse to do this thing - I will not take up a sword."

Fëanáro reached down and carefully picked up the discarded sword, then gently placed it down on a nearby table. "I've spoken with my father's men, ones I know are loyal to me as eldest son and rightful heir. One of them was born at Cuiviénen; he will be coming soon to train all of you in the use of this weapon."

"Did you hear nothing I said, Father?" Nelyafinwë responded in frustration. "You cannot make me take up that sword."

"Perhaps not," Fëanáro responded, "but I can insist that you watch your brothers' lessons." And then he looked into his eldest son's eyes, and Nelyafinwë was startled at the intensity of his father's gaze. "In the end, Nelyafinwë, you will wield this weapon, and wield it well. You will do it, eventually, because I have asked you to do it. You will do it for me."

*******

"I hate to say it, Maitimo, but Father may be right," Kanafinwë said. "You know that I go into Tirion frequently -"

"Yes, and I also know why you go, little brother," Nelyafinwë teased. "Tell me - what does Aurel think of having such a pretty filit singing outside her window? Does she want to catch it and put it in a gilded cage to sing for her pleasure?" Kanafinwë looked away, but not before his brother saw the deep blush spread across his face. Laughing, Nelyafinwë placed his hand on his younger brother's shoulder. "She's a lovely girl, really she is, Kana, and I'm sure you'll be very happy together - that is, once you convince her to say yes to your proposals."

"She did - yesterday. Now I just have to work up the nerve to talk to her parents," Kanafinwë replied. He turned again to face his older brother, eyes shining. "I can't believe she's agreed to become betrothed to me at last. How did I get so lucky?"

"I can believe it," Nelyafinwë replied as he gently stroked his brother's glossy black hair. "She's the lucky one, Makalaurë - she'll be getting you. I'm happy for you both." And I am, he thought sadly, but I'm going to miss having you here, little brother. We've been together all your life; it's going to be strange to be separated at last. After a long moment of companionable silence, Kanafinwë spoke again.

"As I was saying, I go into Tirion a lot - more often than any of you, you all seem to prefer trooping around the countryside with Father or working here at his forge rather than meeting other people - and anyway, the last few times I've gone into town, I've seen people wearing badges, or carrying shields with devices on them. It's as if they want to let everyone know where their loyalties lie, although they can't say anything verbally, since Grandfather is, after all, still the undisputed ruler of our people. Increasingly, it seems that those badges are those of our half-uncles Nolofinwë and Arafinwë, and not Father's. And Aurel's told me she's heard ugly whispers; most people think our family is over-proud, and seeks to dispossess Father's half-brothers of their rightful share of Grandfather's love and drive them out of Tirion."

"But that's nonsense! Father may have his quarrels with his younger half-brothers, true, but surely people don't believe our family would ever do anything to actually harm them. Most of us are friends with our cousins, after all, although I'll admit that Carnistir doesn't particularly like Arafinwë's sons. And everyone knows how close Findekáno and I are - he's practically my seventh brother! Once they stop to think about it, they'll realize how foolish these rumors are."

"Will they? I'm not so sure, Maitimo. Certainly the way Father talks about his brothers only adds credence to these wild ideas; we know he'd never hurt either of them, no matter how he sounds, but other people don't. I wish Grandfather would step in and put and end to all of this," Kanafinwë said quietly, "but he's done nothing so far. I wonder if he's even heard the ugly talk; people are probably careful of what they say in his presence, they know Father is his favorite child. I'm afraid, Maitimo; I don't want to see anyone harmed, but all it would take is some hothead drinking too much wine and listening to stories best ignored, and you, or one of my other brothers, or Aurel, could be hurt or perhaps even killed, and right now there wouldn't be anything I could do to protect any of you. I'm going to learn how to use my sword."

"I don't believe I'm hearing this," Nelyafinwë replied. "Kana, you've always been the gentlest of us. You've never liked wrestling, or roughhousing, or hunting very much - I still remember how much you shuddered the first time you slit a deer's throat, I thought you were going to be sick - and now you're going to learn how to hurt people, possibly even kill people? Do you realize what you're saying, little brother?"

"Yes, and I wish I didn't," Kanafinwë responded firmly. "I hate the very thought of fighting. But I hate the thought of anyone I love being harmed even more. So I'll learn how to use this sword, and I'll pray to Manwë and Varda that I'll never need to wield it in earnest. And you, Maitimo? What have you decided to do?"

"I haven't decided anything yet. I told Father I wouldn't learn this craft, and I'm inclined to stand behind that decision, but your words have made me uneasy, little brother. If you are willing to do this, the situation must be more serious than I thought," Nelyafinwë admitted. "Perhaps I should talk to Findekáno, and maybe some of our other cousins, and go into Tirion to find out for myself what the situation is."

"Perhaps you should, assuming of course that any of our cousins will still speak to you," Kanafinwë replied; at Nelyafinwë's look of shock, he continued, "It's time you come out and see for yourself what is going on, brother. Come into Tirion with me before you make a final decision. You may find yourself changing your mind."

*******

The visit to Tirion had been a shock. Following the departure of Nerdanel, Nelyafinwë had gradually taken on more and more of his mother’s former duties. Over time he had slowly become the person who managed the daily running of the household; now he rarely assisted his father Fëanáro with his labors at the forge (his younger brothers, and especially Curufinwë, now filled that role), spending his time instead with the never-ending work of performing or organizing the cooking, cleaning, gardening, and other chores needed to keep the household functioning smoothly and its members clothed and fed. What little free time he had, he preferred to spend in the company of his cousins Findekáno, Angaráto, and Aikanáro, hunting, racing their horses, or exploring the countryside of Aman. It had been a very long time indeed since Nelyafinwë had last visited the city; and on the day he finally returned to Tirion with his brother, he had found it so changed as to be nearly unrecognizable.

The city itself was not much altered, of course. It still stood atop the hill of Túna, as it had since before Nelyafinwë was born. The streets were laid out much as Nelyafinwë remembered, the walls remained white, and the beautiful Mindon Eldaliéva still soared skyward. But these things were merely a facade; it was the aura of the place, more than its appearance, which was different. The doors of many of the houses now sported large crests - and in most sections of the city, those crests were the red and orange rayed flower-star of Arafinwë or the bold blue and silver pattern of Nolofinwë, not the Silmaril of Fëanáro. Many of the Noldor had also taken to wearing embroidered badges on their clothes, and some now even carried shields emblazoned with the devices of Fëanáro's half-brothers, though (so far as Nelyafinwë could see) none were carrying swords. Hostility burned in many people's eyes when they recognized the sons of Fëanáro, and though they held their tongues when facing the two brothers, Nelyafinwë heard ugly whispers as he and Kanafinwë passed by - "Be careful! Aren't those two Fëanáro's get? Why do you suppose they've come here? What errand of their father's do you suppose they're on?" The tension only eased when they neared the palace of their grandfather Finwë; the surrounding neighborhood apparently supported their father's position as heir, and the people living there almost seemed relieved at Nelyafinwë's and Kanafinwë's presence among them. Talking with them, Nelyafinwë learned that though there had yet been no serious altercations, a drunken brawl had broken out between several of the younger followers of Nolofinwë and Fëanáro only two days before. Fortunately, no one had been injured, and no serious property damage had occurred. The participants on behalf of the House of Fëanáro were currently confined to their homes; Nolofinwë had apparently done the same with the combatants championing his name, but rumor had it that King Finwë might soon be calling for a council meeting to discuss this growing unrest among his people. Nelyafinwë had been very glad to return home at the end of the day - the house he'd previously begun to view as a shrinking prison now felt more like a sanctuary from the madness blossoming in Tirion nearby.

Kanafinwë was right; I had no idea how dangerous this unrest has become. Quendi fighting with Quendi - such a thing should be unthinkable, and yet it happened, only two days ago! Perhaps Quendi killing other Quendi isn't as impossible a thing as I'd once thought? Nelyafinwë had reflected somberly during the ride back from Tirion. All the Quendi knew that their hröar, though of course much sturdier, were in essence no different from the hröar of other creatures, and could succumb to violence; though such a thing had never happened in Aman, it had happened before, many times, when their people had been living by the waters of Cuiviénen. All children born in Aman had heard those dark tales, even if they had not experienced those horrors firsthand. When we dwelled at Cuiviénen, we were attacked by Melkor's foul creations - and now Melkor himself is free. Could he corrupt the hearts of my people so that they would willingly perform such a vile act as slaughtering our own kind? I don't know. I'm still not sure I should learn the craft of wielding a sword, but I do not think it would be unwise to watch Kanafinwë's lessons, since he is determined to learn this skill, while I consider the matter more carefully at length.

And so it was that Nelyafinwë found himself standing in the dusty back courtyard, watching as his younger brothers, blunted practice blades held firmly in their strong hands, thrust and stabbed and parried at the air, while the man Fëanáro had engaged as their instructor called out directions. "No, you're using too much wrist," he told Kanafinwë. "You need to allow your whole arm to follow through on that stroke." To Curufinwë, following a violent thrust that left his brother slightly off-balance - "You opened your defenses up too much just now; if you'd been facing a real orc, he'd have cut you in two. Don't be so eager to attack that you become reckless." He watched as Kanafinwë and Tyelkormo, paired together in a practice bout, thrust and parried, advanced and retreated; almost to Nelyafinwë it seemed a dance, a beautiful, lethal dance of steel and flesh. Nelyafinwë felt his breath quickening, his body tensing ever so slightly as his vision narrowed until the world consisted only of the two combatants and their swords, advancing and retreating, thrusting forward and withdrawing, the echoing sound of steel against steel reverberating through the sultry air...

Suddenly, Nelyafinwë was jarred from his reverie by his brother Kanafinwë's sudden exclamation, and Tyelkormo's almost simultaneous cry, "Gotchya!" Tyelkormo's attack had been almost too quick to follow, the sudden stab of the blunted blade into Kanafinwë's briefly unguarded chest nearly too quick for the eye to follow. One instant of carelessness, and Kanafinwë had lost the match. And if that blade had not been dull, my brother would have lost far more than this sparring match, Nelyafinwë realized in shock. The same thought had apparently occurred to his brother, who was now looking at Tyelkormo with a somewhat dazed expression on his face. "A very good attack, Tyelkormo," their instructor said matter-of-factly. "You followed through on that opening beautifully, with no hesitation. Kanafinwë, you were doing well until you tried to press that attack against your brother - you became so focused on it that you allowed your defenses to slip. Next time, don't try to force the moment - wait until it comes to you. The trick is not so much to create an opening as to exploit the ones that inevitably occur as you opponent tires or grows careless. Now, try again..."

Late that day, in the privacy of his room, Nelyafinwë stood contemplating the sword his father has forged for him, the sword he had not touched since that day when Fëanáro had ordered him to learn to wield it. It had been lying in the corner, forgotten and unused; now Nelyafinwë found himself fascinated by its lines, so elegant and clean and deadly. The metal of the blade glittered in the silvery light of Telperion; almost it seemed to him a living thing, calling out to be held. Take me in your hand, for I am yours, it seemed to whisper. Almost without realizing it, Nelyafinwë found himself reaching out and grasping the hilt, lifting the sword up. Again he felt that odd, electrifying connection between himself and this creation of his father's hand, the sense that in some indescribable way the sword was an extension of himself. Without thinking, he began to swing it in the patterns he had seen his brothers practicing in the courtyard earlier that day, slowly at first, then faster - forward and back, thrust and parry... At last he began to tire, and finally stopped, flushed with a strange sense of excitement. He put the sword away, this time carefully placing it next to his clothes chest rather than tossing it back into the corner, and finally prepared for bed; when at last he slept, his dreams were filled with shining blades and the clamor of steel.

*******

For many days Nelyafinwë continued to observe his brothers' lessons and practice sessions, concentrating intently on the lessons but not actively participating, while later practicing for hours in secret in his room before retiring to sleep. He felt torn - a part of him still remembered that this graceful dance was intended to bring death to another living person, and was revolted, but increasingly this part of himself was engaged in a battle against a growing desire to join his brothers in mastering this lethal craft. Just because I choose to learn this art does not mean that I will ever choose to use my skill to end the life of another, he found himself thinking. The sword is a tool, after all, and nothing more - and it is the will of the craftsman that controls the tool, not the other way around. If I choose not to learn this craft, does that not mean that on some level I do not trust myself to use a sword wisely? Should I not think better of myself than that? When have I ever chosen to willfully harm another person? But though he felt the desire to participate in the lessons growing ever stronger, something still held him back from coming out and requesting permission to join his younger brothers in their sessions. And so he remained on the sidelines, watching and yearning, until the fateful moment that finally ended his fence-sitting arrived.

It was Curufinwë who inadvertently brought about the change. The youngest of them all save for the twins (who had not yet reached their age of majority), his brilliance was already apparent - the quality of his smithywork and gemcraft, while not yet at their father Fëanáro's level, already exceeded that of his older brothers who had been apprenticed for much longer. He had their father's striking looks as well, and his skill with words, and though only just past his majority, Curufinwë had already attracted the attentions of several young ladies; privately, Nelyafinwë was certain that Kanafinwë was not the only one of his brothers who would soon be wed. Curufinwë was also proving to be talented at swordplay as well; thought his technique was somewhat flashy, he regularly defeated the twins, Kanafinwë, and Tyelkormo in their practice bouts, and generally managed to defeat Carnistir as well. There seemed to be nothing he did not excel at, save prudence - for though skilled with words when he chose to be, Curufinwë often spoke without thinking.

On that day, Curufinwë was again sparring with Kanafinwë, who was meeting his younger brother's attacks with stolid determination but no particular enthusiasm. Of all my brothers, Kanafinwë is the least fond of physical pursuits, and it shows, Nelyafinwë had thought to himself while watching the bout. He's just too gentle for this, though his instructor says he's competent; and I suppose his judgment is accurate enough, or Father would not have employed him to teach us. Oh, Kana - you should be dancing with Aurel in your hands, not a steel blade! Nelyafinwë did not need to observe closely to know what the outcome of this day's match would be, and he was watching idly, his mind partially lost in a private reverie, when his younger brother finally, inevitably, slipped past Kanafinwë's guard to land the decisive blow. Nelyafinwë was only half-listening to the subsequent conversation, when his attention was suddenly focused by Curufinwë's taunting words to his dejected older brother - "Perhaps you should try sparring with Maitimo next time - he might be more your level of opponent."

Curufinwë's jibe, so flippantly delivered, delivered a blow to equal his sword's; Kanafinwë looked stunned, and both Tyelkormo and Carnistir stared at their younger brother in amazement. Brother, you grow too arrogant! Nelyafinwe thought angrily. Just because you fancy yourself skilled does not give you the right to be insolent. He remembered the way Curufinwë had condescended to him the last few times he had dared to venture into their father’s forge, and a smoldering heat began to build in his heart. Casually, he walked over to Kanafinwë, and placing his hand on his brother’s shoulder, said, "Don't be upset, filit – our brother has paid you a compliment!" Then he turned towards Curufinwë, who had begun to saunter away towards the courtyard doorway, apparently finished with his practice for the day, and called out, "Little brother, pityanárë – care for a match?"

Surprised, Curufinwë turned to face Nelyafinwë, a look of disbelief written plainly on his face. "Did I hear what I thought I heard? You want to spar with me? You've never even held a sword! Why don't you practice with Makalaurë or Ambarussa; they can show you the basics, and they'll have more patience with your beginner's clumsiness than I will," he concluded dismissively.

"Afraid you'll lose?" Nelyafinwë responded evenly. "I never thought you a coward before, brother."

With those words, Curufinwë flushed, and he angrily stalked back into the courtyard. "Have it your way then, Maitimo. Just remember – you're the one who chose this public humiliation," he replied in a low voice.

"Maitimo, don't –" Kanafinwë began to say, but Nelyafinwë cut him off, smiling. "It's all right, filit," he reassured his anxious brother. "Curufinwë and I are just going to have a nice friendly sparring match. May I borrow your sword?" Silently, Kanafinwë handed his practice weapon to his brother. When Nelyafinwë took the sword into his hand, he was surprised to notice that the odd connection he always experienced between himself and the blade his father had gifted him with was absent – this sword was merely a piece of metal, it did not feel like a part of himself. Father said he'd made my sword for me, Nelyafinwë thought, bemused. Does that mean it's somehow…fitted…to me? Or is it in some way alive – like the Silmarils? For a brief moment, he felt uneasy – he’d grown accustomed to his own blade, and this felt so different. But it was well-balanced weapon, even if not the one he was accustomed to, and after a moment’s hesitation Nelyafinwë walked forward, stopped, and nodded to his angry younger brother. "Whenever you're ready, pityanárë."

The first few passes were disconcerting, and Nelyafinwë was forced into retreat. Nothing in his shadow-sparring had prepared Nelyafinwë for the sheer physicality of swordfighting, the blade vibrating in his hand when it contacted the other's edge, the shudder in his flesh as the force of each blocked blow was transmitted down his arm, the soft cloud of dust kicked up by scuffling feet, the scent of his brother's sweat. But as he began to settle into a rhythm and relax, Nelyafinwë felt a surge of savage joy building in his heart. So this is what it feels like to be truly alive, he thought. Is this what Father feels when he crafts his wonders? When he made the Silmarils? Is this how it feels to have a gift – to have a secret fire blazing inside, to burn without being consumed? Is this what I am made for? He felt his lips pull back from his teeth in a feral grin; suddenly, his limbs felt light, his movements nearly effortless. Almost casually, he continued to block his brother's increasingly determined efforts to penetrate his defenses, watching for him to grow careless, waiting for him to tire. Curufinwë had clearly been surprised when his initial sally had failed to swiftly end the bout with his supposedly inexperienced brother; now it seemed to Nelyafinwë that his little brother was beginning to grow desperate. His movements, formerly smooth, were becoming more ragged, and at one point his eyes met Nelyafinwë's, and he blanched and quickly looked away. Do you regret your boasting now, pityanárë? Nelyafinwë thought in satisfaction as he began to press his attack more insistently. You may think yourself a master of other crafts, but it is I who will be the undisputed master of this one – not you. For once, it will not be you!

Suddenly, Nelyafinwë saw the opening he'd been waiting for. Reacting almost too quickly for thought, he brought the blunted edge of his blade down hard on his brother's wrist, causing him to cry out in pain and drop his sword; then, before Curufinwë had recovered, Nelyafinwë had the edge of his blade pressed firmly into the side of Curufinwë's neck. Curufinwë stood frozen in shock, seemingly unable to believe what had happened to him. "I believe you owe our brother Kanafinwë an apology, pityanárë," Nelyafinwë said coldly; but as he saw the shock beginning to fade from his younger brother's face, to be replaced by a mixture of pain and embarrassment, Nelyafinwë felt his own anger begin to fade. Dropping his sword, he walked over to his brother's side and placed his arm around Curufinwë's shoulders. "Come on, little brother," Nelyafinwë said. "We're even now. Let’s go join the others – it's nearly time for dinner." And with that, he began to walk with Curufinwë, his arm still draped reassuringly around his younger brother, back to where the others were still standing in stunned amazement.

*******

For the rest of that day, Nelyafinwë found himself dwelling on his confrontation with Curufinwë. He'd obviously upset his brother, for Curufinwë had been unusually quiet during dinner, and afterwards had retreated to the privacy of his room. Nelyafinwë soon followed his brother's example; although his other brothers were eager to learn how he'd managed to gain his skill in the absence of formal lessons, he found himself strangely reluctant to speak about his secret practice sessions and his unsettling talent, and, pleading fatigue, soon slipped away to his own sleeping quarters. Once he was in the privacy of his own room, he quickly found himself remembering the sensations that had surged through his mind and body during his confrontation with his brother. He remembered the joy he'd felt as he had repelled Curufinwë’s increasingly frantic sallies, the cold pleasure he experienced when he'd pressed the dull edge of his blade into the vulnerable flesh of his brother's neck. Sickened, he recalled the flash of elation that had run through him when he'd struck his brother's wrist and heard his cry of pain. If I had been wielding the sword Father gave me, and not that practice blade, that blow would have severed my brother's hand, Nelyafinwë realized in horror. But I did not even consider that for a heartbeat before I struck. He remembered Curufinwë's sudden pallor when their eyes had briefly locked, his brother's unwillingness to meet Nelyafinwë's gaze. Or was it inability? Nelyafinwë wondered. What terrible thing did he see, when he looked into my eyes?

His gaze fell on the sword Fëanáro had gifted to him, still lying where he'd so carefully placed it the day before. The Treelight shone on the blade, mingled silver and gold shimmering and flashing across the bright steel; for an instant, the beauty of it caught at Nelyafinwë's heart, and he felt a deep longing rising up inside him, the desire to once more take it up in his hand and become one with it, flesh and metal fused into a living weapon. He began to reach out, but before he touched the hilt, he forced his hand into a fist and turned away, remembering his brother's pain. I do not care if this terrible skill is my gift! It is not the gift I desired. I have always longed to be a creator, like Father and Makalaurë and Curufinwë, not a destroyer! "No," he whispered as he gazed at the beautiful, lethal blade, "I will not wield you again."

"Not even if I asked you to?" a voice behind him said quietly; startled, Nelyafinwë turned to see Curufinwë standing in the doorway. "May I come in?" his brother asked. When Nelyafinwë nodded, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "I came to apologize, Maitimo," Curufinwë said.

"You don’t need to –" Nelyafinwë began to say, but his brother gestured impatiently, silencing him.

"Yes, I do. I should never have said those things to you, or to Makalaurë. You're my brothers; and brothers are supposed to love each other, not hurt each other. I know I've always been proud; but today my pride made me cruel, and you were right to strip it from me." Curufinwë paused and looked down for a moment, seemingly ashamed, then continued, "I've always loved you, Maitimo, but I don't think I ever really respected you – not until today. And I am sorry for that."

"If the only way I can gain your respect is by hurting you, little brother, than I don't want to have it," Nelyafinwë replied. "I was proud myself when I defeated you today – and what cause did I have for my pride? What kind of person is proud of his ability to inflict pain on another? Proud of his ability to kill? I will not become a murderer, Curufinwë!"

"Not a murderer, Maitimo – a protector. That’s your true gift, brother, not killing. When you fought me today, you acted on behalf of our brother Kanafinwë, and the only thing slain was my bravado. I'm afraid, though, that soon the skill you revealed today will be needed to safeguard all of us. Maitimo, I've had disturbing dreams of late. Something bad will happen soon, I can feel it. I don't know what it will be, I'm no seer. Father feels it too, I think, and that's why he gave us these swords – so we can protect each other in the dark times to come." Curufinwë walked over to his brother's side, and placing his hand on his older brother's shoulder, said, "Wield your sword, brother – for all our sakes."

Nelyafinwë looked again at the gift he'd received from his father; Telperion was waxing, and in its light the long blade burned with a cold, bright fire. It shines like a Silmaril; a Silmaril of steel, Nelyafinwë marveled. The terrible yearning once more burned inside his heart, and his reluctance melted away in the heat of it; he felt his arm begin to stretch forward towards his father's gift. I am yours in the end, he said in his mind, speaking both to the sword and to his fearsome talent. Use me well. And reaching out, he surrendered to his heart and at last took up the sword.

---

Chapter End Notes

Filit – "small bird"; a childhood nickname Maedhros gave to his brother Maglor

Pityanárë – "small flame"; used by Maedhros in reference to Curufin's mental and physical resemblance to their father Fëanor

Tolkien devised many heraldic symbols for both Elves and Men. The symbols for the Houses of the Noldor can be seen at http://www.forodrim.org/gobennas/heraldry/heraldry.htm

The meanings of everyone's Quenya names are as follows (most of these are taken from "The Shibboleth of Fëanor" in The Peoples of Middle Earth (History of Middle Earth, volume 12)):

Maitimo - "Well-shaped One"; Maedhros's mother-name, given to him because "he was of beautiful bodily form."

Nelyafinwë - "Third Finwë (in succession)"; Maedhros's father-name, given to him since he is the first of Finwë's grandchildren.

Kanafinwë – "Commanding or Strong-voiced Finwë"; Maglor's father-name

Makalaurë - "Forging Gold" (referring to light or the color, not the metal); Maglor's mother-name. The name is prophetic, referring to his ability as a musician.

Tyelkormo - "Hasty Riser"; Celegorm's mother-name, possibly given in reference to his quick temper and his habit of leaping up when suddenly angered.

Carnistir - "Red-Face"; Caranthir's mother name, given because he had the ruddy complexion of his mother Nerdanel (and possibly freckles?), although he lacked her reddish hair - his was dark brown.

Curufinwë – "Skilled Finwë"; Curufin's father-name. He shares this name with his father Fëanor, who gave his own father-name to his favorite son.

Ambarussa – "Top-russet"; the mother-name of both Amrod and Amras, who both had reddish hair; the twin sons or Fëanor shared this same mother-name.

Angaráto - "Iron Eminent-One"; Angrod's mother-name

Aikanáro - "Fell Fire"; Aegnor's mother-name

Nolofinwë - "Wise/Knowledgeable Finwë"; Fingolfin's father-name

Arafinwë - "Noble Finwë"; Finarfin's father-name

Thanks to Artanis for suggesting the name of Maglor's betrothed; the name Aurel means "Morning Star".