The Tempered Steel by Lyra

Part II, Chapter XI

In which Maedhros has to deal with fashion, philosophy, the past and the future. End of Part Two.

"Thus on behalf of the Guild which I represent, let me express our most heartfelt sorrow at your pain and predicament, and our eager wishes for your quick and complete convalescence. The joy we all felt when we heard about your rescue can hardly be expressed, wherefore we desire to show it in deeds rather than words, if you were so kind as to allow us..."

Maitimo found himself disliking Encaitar immediately. Perhaps it was the fact that the other wore splendid, many-layered robes of fine silks - what a waste on a day like this, when even the short walk through the settlement had sufficed to soak the hems with slush and mud! – as if attending some court function or great feast. Perhaps it was the way that he bowed too low, and with extra flourishes that would have made Maitimo's father snort audibly if this had been Tirion. Perhaps it was his rambling speech, which was predictable and repetitive and made Maitimo's tongue itch with ironic responses. The longer the speech went on, playing for too long on the same limited range of topics, the harder it became not to comment on it. Perhaps it was the self-importance of the silk-weaver's appearance that belied the humility he kept protesting. Maitimo didn't find it at all difficult to make a proper list in head while he had to listen to what seemed to him endless droning. Varnacanyo brought new tea, and they exchanged a bemused glance; beyond that, Maitimo tried not to show his annoyance although he found it hard not to tap his fingers or grind his teeth.

Finally, with another little flourish, the speech came to an end. Maitimo realised that he had stopped paying attention some time ago. He drew himself upright. "I thank you for your kind words," he said gravely, hoping that the irony wouldn't seep through, "and assure you that I will do my best to be of assistance." Then he could no longer keep it back. "I'm sorry, but what exactly did you want?"
The silk weaver looked confused, and Maitimo felt almost sorry; perhaps the man had made himself clear after all, and he just hadn't listened well enough? Then Encaitar gave a nervous little laugh and another annoyingly low bow, and Maitimo's pity subsided.
"Well, my lord, I was rather expecting it to be obvious. Now that you are returned among us – a circumstance for which I cannot express my joy and elation sufficiently – you will doubtlessly desire new robes, especially for your royal office, and I have come to assure you of our great readiness to produce whatsoever you could wish for, and secure these wishes so we may begin to work on their fulfilment forthwith."
Maitimo's eyebrows went up. "New robes? Now?" He checked himself and spoke a little more kindly. "I hardly think new robes are something I need to consider just now. After all, I require no more than a night-shirt at the moment. And when I do, I daresay my old stuff is still perfectly sufficient; it's not as if I've had much chance to outwear it..."
"But my lord!" Encaitar protested. "Your old clothing – though doubtlessly of excellent make – is hardly what you would call fashionable. The cuts are outdated, likewise the patterns; certainly you'd wish to have something more appropriate for these new days?"

"I can't say that I do," said Maitimo. "Up until now I did not even know that anything should be wrong with my old things, and frankly I still don't quite see it. All that aside, it would hardly do to measure me now; I do hope I am going to grow somewhat stronger, and then all your new robes would no longer fit."
"True, true, of course," said Encaitar, bowing yet again. Maitimo almost ground his teeth this time. "But it would take a while to dye and weave the fabrics anyway, you know, and we could prepare everything until you were ready to have the robes fitted."
"By which time you'd doubtlessly tell me that the fabrics I'd chosen were hopelessly old-fashioned, and you'd have to start over," said Maitimo. He no longer tried to keep the scorn out of his voice. "I think not. I'm sure you'll find a more promising object to wrap in your robes for now."
"But my lord, we wish to work for you," said Encaitar, his voice taking on a querulous tone. "Just think: With the right cuts and colours, you could enhance that which is left of your former beauty, and hide that which is lost..."

Maitimo's eyes narrowed. "You are very certain that I need to hide or enhance something." He was tempted to just send the man out right now. Then he thought of something better. "But now that I think about it, there are some silks that I suppose you could weave for me..." A sly smile crossed his face, and he spoke very softly - his brothers, had they been there, would have known this to be the time to take cover. Varnacanyo certainly did; he subtly moved the tea-pot out of Maitimo's reach so it would not be swept off the table, and backed off slightly.
But Encaitar did not know Maitimo, and thus he plunged straight ahead. "Yes?" he said eagerly, drawing a fine silk-bound notebook and a coal pencil from somewhere within the folds of his layered robes.
"Yes," said Maitimo, and his smile would have been enough to make even Curufinwë take flight. "First, pale gray on dark blue, swirls of clouds in the Telerin style..."
"It is called the Valinorean style now, my lord," said Encaitar with a frown.
"It was called the Telerin style when I last heard of it. You obviously know what I mean, so that'll do fine." said Maitimo. He didn't give Encaitar time to reply but went on at once. "Second, blue on blue, light on dark, diamond twill; third, light blue and silver interwoven, no pattern; fourth, a brocade, dark blue base with plum and apple blossoms..."
"But these are Nolofinwëan colours, my lord," Encaitar finally protested when he could get a word in.
"Is that so, Master Encaitar?" said Maitimo, still smiling. "How surprising. Don't you think that some fine silks would be the perfect gift to the lords Findekáno and Nolofinwë, in token of my gratitude?"
"Well, yes, my lord, but truly we were hoping to make something for you!"

Maitimo had risen halfway to his feet before his legs gave way. He fell back into his seat; it did nothing to improve his mood. "Why, first you complain that I give you nothing to do and try to tell me what to want. Now I am giving you a chance to do me a service, and you complain again? Then send me some weaver of less obsequiousness and more conscience that I may ask it of him!" Varnacanyo stood by his shoulder again. Whether to help him if he chose to stand or to make sure he wouldn't try it again, Maitimo didn't know. He did not care much either way.
"No, no, my lord," Encaitar hastened to say. "I assure you that I am not complaining at all. And I shall personally see to it that your request will be fulfilled to your complete satisfaction!"
"Good," Maitimo said bluntly. "That will be all then. You may go."
Encaitar hesitated, obviously unwilling to be thrown out; but before Maitimo could lose his temper again, Varnacanyo spoke up. "I believe my lord's supper has been prepared, and we should not let it go cold," he said in a mild voice. He nodded to Encaitar, who began to realise that he had lost. "I shall accompany you outside, Lord Encaitar."
They left, and Maitimo could lean back and calm down.

Although Varnacanyo had mainly used the meal as an excuse, there was indeed a bowl of broth (and many apologies that it was nothing better on this special day, but they were preparing a small feast for the evening) and some bread for Maitimo. He ate without spirit. "Just one more, if you can arrange it," he said, remembering Macalaurë's words. "I feel worn out. I don't want to send anyone who's already arrived away, but tell the last two not to bother coming here, if you can."
Varnacanyo nodded. "Gladly. I can send the next one away as well, if you'd rather..."
"No, no, I'll manage. Who is it anyway?"
Varnacanyo glanced down at his list. "Tyelparma son of Herentára," he said. Neither name sounded familiar to Maitimo.
"Huh. Should I know him?"
"I doubt it. I hardly do. He's a young scholar, a bookworm. I'm surprised he came out of the library for long enough to request an audience."
"Is that so. Well, show him in; but if he's going to ask to write my biography, I shall not be accountable for whatever happens."
Varnacanyo looked half amused and half worried.

The young man who entered looked like the very parody of a scholar, all hastily braided hair, reasonable dark robes, ink-stained hands, and books tucked underneath his arm. His round, nervous eyes and somewhat pointy chin made him look like a mouse creeping into the cat's den. He too bowed too low, but as it was done a little awkwardly and without any silly flourishes, Maitimo was willing to overlook it. He listened for a while to the awkward speech of the youth, who kept stuttering and forgetting words and blushed fiercely whenever that happened, and he accepted the gift of a small but beautifully illuminated book graciously. Then silence fell. Maitimo waited, and the scholar fidgeted, but said nothing more, biting his lip instead. Maitimo looked at him, emptied his tea-cup, looked again; still Tyelparma stood in silence.
"Yes?" Maitimo finally said, trying to sound inviting rather than impatient. The young man flinched anyway. "Is there anything else you wish to say, or was that all?"
The youth fidgeted some more.
"Truth to tell, I do have something else, my lord, if it isn't too bold..."
"I'll decide on that once I know what it is," said Maitimo. "Let's hear it."
"Well, sir, the thing is, I have copied your essays a while back, and on the third page of your treatise on the nature of thought there's this passage which I don't quite understand..." He took a deep breath, his eyes growing even wider. "Would you be so kind as to explain it to me?"
Maitimo raised his eyebrows in surprise. This was certainly unexpected. "Why not," he said slowly.
The young man beamed and stood expectantly. Maitimo waited another moment before giving him a stern look.
"Now, surely you do not expect me to remember it by heart," he said. "I've written that, what, a hundred years ago? There's been a lot happening since then. If you could show me the passage in question, I might be more likely to be able to help you."
Tyelparma blushed furiously. "Of course, my lord," he said. "I beg your pardon." He took the second book that he'd carried in and leafed through it. "If I may?" he asked, looking anxiously at the dais.
"By all means," said Maitimo with an inviting gesture to the chair on his left. "Varnacanyo, could I ask you to bring some more tea? For yourself and young Tyelparma as well. Unless either of you would prefer wine?"
"Oh no," said the scholar, almost stepping onto the hem of his sombre robes as he ascended to the dais. "Tea would be fine."
"Tea for all of us then," said Varnacanyo, smiling.

While Tyelparma sat down reverentially, Maitimo glanced at the open book before him. On the Nature of Thought, the open page proclaimed in bold Tengwar, a study by Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion. Tirion upon Túna, 1453. Maitimo shook his head in bemusement and turned the page. "My goodness, the things we used to pass our time with," he said softly. "You have a fine hand, young Tyelparma."
"Um, this is the original, my lord," the young scholar said with another blush. "This is your own hand."
Maitimo stared at the elegant, no longer familiar Tengwar. "Are you certain?"
"Absolutely, my lord," Tyelparma said eagerly, warming up now that he could talk about a topic he felt at ease with. "The entire book is a precious original, and even if I had not been assured of this, the writing proves it. Look at the distinctive slope of the telcor, the elegant placement of the ómatehtar, the clear and consistent linearity; there can be no doubt that this was written by the lord Maitimo himself." He stopped and smiled apologetically, correcting himself, "I mean, by you."
Maitimo felt almost embarrassed. "Well," he said, "I shall read what I scribbled and then we'll see whether we can make sense of it, all right?"
Varnacanyo returned with tea and was asked to sit at Maitimo's right side. Aside from the crackling of the logs in the fireplace, the occasional distant howl of wind and the rustling of the pages it was silent until Maitimo had finished his perusal of the essay.

"Well. I think I understand what I meant back then," he said eventually. "But really I had no idea what I was talking about."
Tyelparma protested, but Maitimo stopped him short. "No, truly. See, what I seem to have meant was that thought can conquer everything, everything, and therefore any weakness or failure just meant that someone was being stupid or, at the least, weak of mind. That's what the passage you asked about means, just more politely expressed. Arrogant nonsense. That's what it boils down to." His voice had risen and grown agitated. Varnacanyo laid a hand on his arm to calm him while Tyelparma looked as if he regretted having raised the question.
Nonetheless, he bravely asked, "But you wrote it, my lord. How can you now say it's nonsense?"
"How can I contradict myself, you mean? Very easily, with all that has happened since. I have seen – and felt, good grief – things that thought couldn't conquer. I still do. Every night I dream of Angamando, and no matter how much I tell myself that I am no longer there, my mind still locks me there. Does that make me stupid? Naturally I hesitate to stamp myself so. Certainly you cannot say that my father was weak of mind - yet all his thought could not conquer his banishment, or his hatred for his brothers. Or his death." He paused. "Or is that brought about by thought, too? In that case I just neglected the dark powers of thought, the destructive side. Perhaps that's it. I wasn't entirely wrong; but I failed to consider the darkness." He shrugged. "I suppose I didn't know any better."

Tyelparma's frown deepened. "But you wrote it," he repeated as if unwilling to accept that one of his paragons of scholarship might have erred.
"Yes," Maitimo said. "I wrote it, and now I see that what I wrote is no longer sufficient. Am I not allowed to do that? Surely I can change my mind if I have just reason? Surely I may revise my opinion if it no longer matches my experience? Is that not better than pretending that my youthful idealism is the final word on the matter and has to be upheld even though it is plain to see now that I was naïve, that I didn't see all the facts?" His voice was rising again. "Isn't this the point of learning, to be able to correct our errors?" He was getting carried away. Still, the idea held some odd fascination.
"I have half a mind to rewrite it," he said to the others.
"Why only half?" said Varnacanyo with a wry smile. "Why don't you?"
Maitimo looked surprised; then he laughed. "Why not indeed? I cannot write, but other than that there is nothing to stop me." He flexed his left hand.
"I am sure you could learn using the other hand," Varnacanyo pointed out. "You've mastered more difficult arts in the past."
"Don't even try to flatter me. Yes, of course I could learn it. About time, too! Even though that'll mean scholars will have to get used to a different script. No more clarity, no more consistency, no more elegance, I'm afraid. Still..." He turned back to Tyelparma who sat in his chair, confused into wide-eyed silence. "I must thank you for bringing this to my attention, young Tyelparma. Are there by any chance further questions you have about my writings?"
"No, my lord," Tyelparma replied, smiling tentatively. "They seem to make perfect sense otherwise. To me. But if you wish to take another look to see whether I missed anything..." He gestured at the book and looked at Maitimo eagerly. "Perhaps you might be willing to explain it to me?"

By the time Macalaurë had finished his dealings around the camp, it was dark. Macalaurë went bent over by the force of the gale, snow stinging in his face and worries gnawing at his heart. He entered the house, and the howling of the wind grew dim as he closed the door. It felt unnaturally quiet after the stormy evening, until Macalaurë heard voices and something like laughter to his right. He kicked off his boots and handed his soaked cloak to Orecálo, and stepped into the great hall.

Heat from the great fire rushed over him, but more than by the fire Macalaurë felt warmed by the scene before him. Maitimo, Varnacanyo and the young scholar who had won the third visit of the day were sitting at the high table, locked in a lively discussion. The change from the brother Maclaurë had left in the morning was enormous. Even at the distance it was obvious that Maitimo was in good spirits, gesturing animatedly to underline his point, nodding eagerly, and, yes, laughing.
Macalaurë leaned against the doorframe. He would have been perfectly happy to watch and listen in secret for a while, but Varnacanyo chanced to look his way and rose at once, bowing. The scholar copied him hastily. Maitimo naturally remained sitting, but he acknowledged his brother's presence with a smile, and Macalaurë couldn't have wished for more. The corners of his mouth seemed to escape his control, creeping into a grin so broad it almost hurt.

"I have bothered you for too long, my lord," the young man said anxiously as Macalaurë stepped closer. "I beg your pardon."
"Not at all," said Maitimo, leaning back and turning to look at him. "Quite the contrary. This has been a most pleasant and enlightening afternoon, and I thank you heartily. If you must indeed leave now, may I ask that you come back soon? As soon as the healers and my warden brother permit?" There was an almost pleading quality to his voice now, but he was still smiling.
Tyelparma flushed with joy. "Oh yes, my lord, if I may!"
Macalaurë gave him a nod. "I know not yet what you have done to cheer my brother up like this, but I certainly owe you thanks as well. And I certainly don't mean to scare you away. If you have the time, please stay longer. I'm sure our supper will suffice for one more."
The young scholar's face remained beet-red, but it was crossed by a look of regret. "I should like to, my lord. But—I have been here for a long time, and I do not wish to become a nuisance, and anyway, my parents will be waiting for me..."
"I'll let that count," said Maitimo, "your parents, that is - not the nuisance part. I've kept you for a long time; we wouldn't want them to worry." He glanced at Macalaurë, who frowned, somewhat confused. Maitimo shook his head and smiled.
Tyelparma bowed again. "Then I thank you for understanding, and for bearing with me. And I'll gladly come back whenever I may." He bit his lip. "Do you wish to keep the book?"
Maitimo touched it. "Can you afford to leave it here? With your studies, I mean?"
"I copied it already. But I suppose technically I should ask my tutor before giving it away. It's hers, you see."
"Then I suggest you do that," said Maitimo with a grin. "I still have another book to read after all."
"True," said Tyelparma with a relieved smile, and packed his things remarkably less awkwardly than he had arrived. "I am looking forward to my next visit then!"
"As am I," said Maitimo. "Have a good evening, and give my regards to your parents."
"I shall, my lord. Thank you," said Tyelparma. He left with a definite spring in his step.

Macalaurë looked at his retreating figure and shook his head.
"Well, this is certainly intriguing. One of your visitors tells me that the lord Nelyafinwë is amiable and surprisingly collected, considering the circumstances; the next says that, alas, he is very unkind and his spirit is still under some dark spell; and the last is close to worshipping him. What am I to think? Did they really meet the same person?"
"Encaitar tried to interest me in glamourous robes," Maitimo said, the distaste obvious on his face and in his voice. "What should I care for those? Although you can tell him that he – or someone in his guild, anyway – can make a set of robes for me after all."
"He will be very glad to hear that."
"Wait until you've heard what kind," said Maitimo gravely. "What I want is black, woollen and sensible. Simple scholar's robes. No silk and no riotous colours."
"Ah," made Macalaurë, trying not to smile. "He may not like that after all."
"That is not my problem. Why should I cater to what he likes or not?"
Macalaurë sighed. "He's an artist, Nelyo. He wants to show his ingenuity and create marvels, not bother with something anyone could do."
"Well, then he needn't hope for any commissions from me. I don't want marvels, I just want black robes. Let some other tailor of less ingenuity take care of it, or tell Encaitar he can show his ingenuity in ensuring that I can dress and undress using only one hand."
"I doubt that fits his idea of ingenuity, but very well. I'll tell him what you said."
"Yes, do that," said Maitimo, a hint of sharpness in his voice.
Macalaurë's face fell. He had hoped the good mood might last for longer. With a grimace, he said, "I shall. But you must be tired. Do you want to go to bed?" He glanced across the table to Varnacanyo, who shook his head the tiniest bit. Macalaurë paused and frowned. "Or could I convince you to stay here for supper?"
"Do you want me to stay, or would you rather lock me back up in my room where I can be watched more closely? Why don't you ask the healers whether they can even reccommend my staying here for longer?"
Macalaurë recoiled from his brother's sudden anger. "Nelyo, of course I want you to stay. Why should I want to lock you up? I would enjoy nothing more than to have you here for supper, or forever. But I want you to heal, too!" He sighed. "Very well, let's do this without the healers. Do you think you can stay here for a bit longer? Do you feel tired?"
"I am tired," said Maitimo. "But I'd much prefer to eat here with all of you to being dragged back to bed just now."
"Then I'd be honoured if you decided to stay," said Macalaurë, smiling cautiously. "And I'm sure the others will think the same. I'll have another chair brought here."

Thus when the other brothers arrived for dinner they found an unexpected addition to their table.
"Unexpected but certainly not unwelcome," said Curufinwë, granting Maitimo the slightest of smiles.
"So you've rejoined the ranks of the living?" Tyelkormo asked with a glint in his eye.

Maitimo was spared from replying at once by the arrival of the first dishes, which caused the brothers to hurry to their places. Maitimo watched them fondly. Ambarussa kept staring at him with a fixed, urgent smile. Don't you dare to feel bad again, it said, and, you will heal, won't you? Carnistir sat lost in thought, playing with his knife. Curufinwë discussed the day's work with Tyelperinquar; his voice was now hard and his speech curt, and Maitimo surmised that they disagreed about something. Tyelkormo had apparently noticed something in his appearance that displeased him: He was combing his hair with his fingers, using his polished plate as a mirror.
Maitimo looked down at his own plate.
It was the first mirror image he saw of himself ever since the day before he had ridden off to his imprisonment, and he almost shied away from it. Staring at him from the speckless silver surface was a stranger, a grim, malnourished stranger with large eyes in sunken sockets. The cheekbones that had once been lauded as the exemplar of beauty now stuck out ridiculously, and the years of suffering had carved harsh lines around his eyes and mouth and left scars, too. The skin was very pale, making Maitimo's fiery hair and eyebrows look absurdly, unnaturally bright in contrast. His nose was crooked; Maitimo touched it with a shudder, remembering the countless beatings he had received. He was, miraculously, no longer in constant pain, and with the return of strength he had somehow assumed that his looks should have returned as well. Instead he barely recognised himself. He grimaced in dismay, and the face in the bright plate contorted; now it looked entirely orcish. Maitimo clenched his eyes shut. No wonder people were so wary around him, no wonder they sought to keep him confined to his room! If he had known that he looked so atrocious, he himself would have hidden away never to face the world again. Not like this. He thought it a miracle that his brothers, his visitors, above all Findekáno – for he must have looked even worse back then, on the mountain – had recognised him at all.
Yet they had. Perhaps there was hope. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, stared at his deformed face, and gave it a defiant smile.

The effect was startling.
The grimness gave way to astonishment, for suddenly the face was his own again. Not that his nose was any less crooked or his skin any less pale: but somehow the different parts of his face suddenly fitted together again. The smile made his cheeks look fuller, and while it deepened some of the wrinkles around his eyes, it smoothed the harsh lines that had made his mouth look so grim. Perhaps that was just his imagination. But he couldn't deny that the smile made his eyes light up, keeping the darkness that lurked at the back of his mind from manifesting on his face. He still looked dreadful, but somehow that made the smile more meaningful instead of taking away its strength, like a ray of light that crept unexpectedly into the darkest, most overgrown forest. There definitely was hope, Maitimo thought. He just had to remember it.
He looked up and found the eyes of all his brothers, and of the servants and pages, fixed on him. Slightly embarrassed, he cleared his throat.
Then he smiled – never before had he felt the movement of the small facial muscles so consciously – and returned their gazes firmly. They relaxed visibly. Obviously they, too, noticed the difference.
Maitimo took a deep breath and reached for a bowl of sweet onions.
"Yes, Tyelko," he said, remembering his brother's question. "Yes, I'm back among the living."