The Tempered Steel by Lyra

Part III, Chapter VIII

In which Spring comes, bringing along various forms of psycho- and physiotherapy as well as long-range decisions.

When Spring came at last, it began as a curse rather than a blessing. The Noldor had expected something golden and gentle, warm sunlight kissing away Winter's chill. Instead, there were unceasing rains, drizzling down day in, day out. They mingled with the melting ice and snow, turning meadows into bogs, small brooks into rivers and rivers into raging torrents. The lake's level rose threateningly, flooding cellars and outhouses built too close to the shore. The loamy ground, frozen hard not long ago, was quickly soaked so badly that it could hold no more water. Everything was aswim; the world, crisp and clear in Winter, turned into a brown-and-grey puddle. Maitimo's people grew restless, annoyed with themselves and each other and, above all, the weather and the constant mud that stuck to boots, caked in their cloaks and got carried into houses.
Still, the snow was gone, and Maitimo hoped that the water, too, would recede eventually. The weather made his joints ache and his scars sting, but worse than the physical pain was the unfulfilled longing to join the outside world again. It was not exactly boredom: He kept busy with administration, with checking accounts and speaking to guild-leaders, with council meetings and budgeting. He had long conversations and good reads. He had completed his inventory and caught up on the history of his people. No, it was not boredom. It was just impatience, like the restlessness of a dog that had been confined in a room – however cozy – for too long. He felt as though he kept bumping into walls or ceilings all the time. He had explored the house at great length ever since he had mastered the art of walking again; now he longed to see the rest of the settlement, and above all, to walk among trees again and to dip his feet into the unheated, unscented waters of the lake.

It took several weeks until the healers at last consented to a short walk outside – warmly wrapped and accompanied by not just Varnacanyo but also one of his brothers. Putting a foot into the lake was out of bounds; fortunately, the desire disappeared by itself once Maitimo saw the coastline, still covered in mud and debris. Even on the pathway, he could only feel that it had been secured with pebbles underneath the soles of his boots; the visible part was a uniform brown muck.
Instead of the lake, he turned his steps towards the communal garden. Aside from the low hedges of boxwood and juniper that had been planted to keep different patches of herbs apart, it was almost barren; here and there, tender shoots were breaking through the mud, and the berry bushes were bearing the very first hints of buds. The only trace of colour amidst the drab surroundings was the pale yellow of hazel catkins; nature was only just reawakening from hibernation.
But it was a great change from the enclosing walls of the great house, and Maitimo eagerly breathed the cold, humid air, smelling of moss and rot and – maybe – the tiniest promise of growth. His hand brushed the hard-edged boxwood leaves, the bare branches of a cherry tree. He studied the smear of dirt and lichen and tiny bark particles on his fingers at great length, before wiping it on his outer cloak. He turned around himself, taking in the sight of the settlement – his capital, he thought with a smile to himself. Compared to Tirion, it was not much, although it stretched out further than he would have guessed from the window of his room; he doubted that his strength would suffice for a walk from one end to the other.
Of course, he could not know for certain until he tried.
"Well, show me the most important buildings," he told Ambarussa and Varnacanyo. "We'll see how far we get."

It took him over a week to cover the entire settlement in this manner, and his untrained legs punished him with sore muscles and violent cramps that kept him up at night; but he was determined to get to know another part of his surroundings every day, and satisfied when he managed to walk a little further, a bit longer each time.
Once he was reasonably confident that he could find his way around the settlement, Maitimo inspected the fields and meadows that were situated within the second palisade ring. The distance was ridiculous for any grown person, but he still covered it on the back of a docile brown mare at the insistance of his healers. Varnacanyo led the friendly animal. Despite the nightly fogs, the paths had now dried enough for hooves under the Spring sun. The fields had also grown dry enough for tilling. Ambarussa suggested that over the course of the year, they should build drainage channels so they would not loose so many weeks next Spring, but for the time being, the most important business was the to and fro of horse-pulled ploughs, breaking up the compact soil and preparing the ground for sowing. Maitimo watched the proceedings for a while until he felt guilty for not contributing to the labour. He turned to Varnacanyo. "Now that I'm being carried," he said, "we may as well leave the settlement." Varnacanyo raised an eyebrow, expressing his doubt that the healers would agree; but the healers were not present, and the guards did not stop them when they passed through the gate.

They followed the grassy strip that led along the border of the forest uphill up to the little knoll that overlooked the settlement and the lake. The ground here was dry, and clearly got more sunlight: It was dotted with the tiny star-flowers of white, purple and blue anemones and golden celandine. Maitimo heaved a deep, happy sigh. "Please help me dismount," he told Varnacanyo.
He stood amidst the green glass and small flowers for a moment, and then limped towards the nearest tree.
Varnacanyo frowned. "You'll tell me when you need someone to lean on, won't you?"
Maitimo turned around with a small smile. "It's the riding, you know. My learned healers might as well have ordered a beating, because that's what my rear end feels like, and don't ask about my thighs. Clearly, they did not consider that to an untrained man, riding might be worse than walking."
"You should tell them."
Maitimo shrugged. "I do need to practice all this: Walking, and riding – properly. Running. Fighting. I expect that the beginnings will always hurt; so I must grit my teeth and get through it. If I tell my healers, they'll just tarry forever."
"Fair enough," said Varnacanyo.

His lord had by now reached the beech, putting out his hand to stroke the smooth grey bark and glancing up into the bare branches; then he turned around and sat down, rather quicker than he had meant to because his saddle-sore legs simply gave in. Varnacanyo jumped to his side at once, but Maitimo laughed. "I need to practice moving more gracefully, too! Good grief, I feel like a log of wood." He leaned against the treetrunk, brushing the ground with his hand: tender young grass and small flowers, the remains of old leaves, the occasional empty beechnut, pulverised bark, earth and moss. He scooped up a bit of it and brought it to his nose and sniffed. Then he held up his hand to Varnacanyo, who dutifully took a smell as well.
"Ah," Maitimo said, his features entirely relaxed. "What does it smell of, Varnacanyo?"
The squire raised an eyebrow. "Dirt, my lord?" he suggested.
Maitimo clucked his tongue. "In Angamando, the ground smelled of dirt," he said, suddenly hoarse although his face had not changed. "Of blood and ash and shit, acid and pain and death. This here," he brought his hand close to his face again, inhaling as if testing a lovingly composed perfume, "this smells of freedom. Of the wide world." A woodlouse suddenly reared up from the crumbs in Maitimo's hand, crawled for a bit, then fell down the tiny hill of earth and leaf. It rolled up into a small, scaly ball that bounced off his skin and fell to the ground, where after a few moments of shock the woodlouse uncurled and scuttled off into the grass, unperturbed.
Varnacanyo watched the woodlouse with a disgusted sneer, while Maitimo smiled. "Life," he said. "Everything here smells of life. Even the rot -" he let the contents of his hand fall, shaking the last leaf fragments off his fingers – "even the rot will bring forth new growth. Everything is moving, Varnacanyo, and I can move along with it." He heaved a sigh, deep and content, and tilted his head backwards, his hair rubbing against the bark. Narrowing his eyes, he thought he could discern leaf buds at the tips of the branches, waiting for just a little more light, a few more days of warmth.
"This is a living tree – not a lifeless rock wall."
"I'm afraid it holds no special meaning to me," Varnacanyo said, a note of regret in his voice. "I am not entirely certain that I understand."
Maitimo smiled again. "No matter." He heaved himself into a squatting position with some effort; Varnacanyo held out his hands to steady him, and with his aid, Maitimo stood up again. "Well, no time for resting; I have much to do."
"Spring has only begun, my lord – there is plenty of time," Varnacanyo protested.
Maitimo shook his head; but why he thought that he had no time to rest, he did not explain.

Herenyo and his colleagues discouraged Maitimo from taking up fighting practice already, and his brothers, when they heard about it, were likewise horrified at the idea. The resulting discussion threatened to grow heated until Macalaurë eventually found an argument that Maitimo was willing to accept. "Any sparring partner would be terrified of hurt you, so either you'll have none, or if you command them, they'll fight badly just so you'll win."
"And if I commanded them to fight properly?" Maitimo asked in his deceptively gentle tone.
Herenyo wrung his hands. "My King, you can command us all you will, but you cannot force us to do you harm," he said. "And I hope you will not harm yourself, either."
"I am not seeking to harm myself," Maitimo said with as much patience as he could muster. "On the contrary, I wish to defend myself. There will be battles, sooner or later -- "
"I hope you are not considering to fight in a battle in your current state?!" Macalaurë had sprung up from his seat, and Séralcar's mouth actually hung open in shock at the mere idea.
Maitimo gave both of them a very mild smile. "My current state is perfectly fine – the only thing I regret is that I move like a rock, and that I have a rock's proficiency with a blade, or a horse. If I take up practice, I will grow more agile, more endurant, faster and, I daresay, perfectly capable of facing a battle when I have to. You are aware that Moringotto may attack us at any time? Would you rather that I hide when that happens? That maybe I be captured again?"

"My King, that is not at all what I want, but I must insist that you wait!"
"Until what?"
"Until your healers agree that you are fit to fight," Macalaurë said quietly. "Please, Nelyo."
Maitimo threw up his arms in despair. "They call me King of the Noldor," he said, "and swear to follow me – to speak and be silent at my command – yet I am not free to make my own decisions."
"We will follow you in anything that you decide, Nelyo, I swear it, but in matters of health I must beg you to obey your healers," Macalaurë said, the other brothers nodding their agreement.
"What will the Noldor think when their King lumbers around like a drunk infant?" Maitimo made another attempt at protesting.
Ambarussa spoke up. "The Noldor know that you have been... sorely injured," he began.
"Tortured," Maitimo interrupted him. "The word you are looking for is 'tortured'. Injuries are something you suffer in battle. Torture is what happens when you loose the battle against dishonourable opponents, which is precisely why I should be able to fight."
Herenyo had turned away, Seralcár had turned pale, Macalaurë was chewing his lips; Ambarussa, however, took a deep breath. "As you wish, Nelyo. You have been – tortured – and maimed – and nobody expects you to move with the grace of a dancer. Nobody expects you to ride into battle again, you can appoint a household guard and let them protect you --"
"I will brave the same dangers as my people," Maitimo said. "Very well. Master Seralcár, Master Herenyo, that is all for now. Brothers, I am tired; I ask you to leave me alone."
"If you --" Macalaurë spoke up, but Maitimo shook his head, sharply, once. They filed out, some casting worried glances back at their king and brother, others clearly glad to be going. Maitimo gave in to the childish impulse that had sprung up in him, slamming the door behind them, listening in satisfaction to the loud bang it caused.
"My strength suffices for that, at least," he said, and then he slumped down on the bed.
"Show them that you have strength enough to bear the training," Varnacanyo said, "and they cannot speak against it anymore."
"One should think that I have shown that I can bear more than they can imagine. And yet they worry about my fragile health."
"I must remind my lord that none of us fully know what you have born. You say that we do not want to, and you are almost certainly right, but it does mean that we cannot imagine, let alone understand what you can or cannot bear. Have patience with those who fear for you."
"I try, I try – you know that I try, but you also know that they are not always right!"
Varnacanyo offered a cautious smile. "That is why I suggested that you find a way of showing them your strength – something less dangerous than the warrior's drills. Surely you can regain agility and endurance in some other way?"
"To become, as Telvo put it, graceful as a dancer?"
"Nobody can object to your taking dancing lessons, I am sure."
Maitimo's bad mood lifted almost at once. He sat up and smirked at his squire. "Indeed. A perfectly harmless and recreative pastime. Very well, Varnacanyo: Find me a dancing master!"

Maitimo had expected the dancing master to be at least as ridiculous as Master Encaitar, but Mistress Nacilmë made a level-headed impression when Varnacanyo introduced her. She greeted him without unnecessary flourishes, appeared calm and confident, and smiled wryly when Maitimo explained that he wished to take dancing lessons in order to improve his agility. "What shall we do about the music?" she asked when he had detailed what he had in mind. "It may not be entirely simple to get an orchestra together regularly, especially with all the work there is to do at the moment."
"Good grief, no," said Maitimo. "One musician will be perfectly sufficient. I want to practice at least twice a week, afternoons, if possible."
"My husband can play the flute," Mistress Nacilmë said, "and our daughter plays the lute: Whichever you prefer, my king."
Maitimo smiled. "Either, or both – whoever has the time," he said.
"Very well. And what dances would you prefer to learn – the ones newly invented? I expect you still know the dances of Valinor..."
Maitimo raised his eyebrows. "I have forgotten much, I am certain," he said. "Besides, I must first learn to move again. It is not enough to simply know the steps. I must ask you to be merciless, Mistress Nacilmë: You must make me practice until I can dance in a way befitting the king of the Noldor."
"Oh, I can do that," she said, measuring him with her eyes. "If that's what you want. Vanyarin court dances for discipline, then, the old dances for agility and to refresh your memory, and the new dances to bring you in touch with what you've missed. Yes?"
"Very good. And matters of etiquette?"
Mistress Nacilmë raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I can include them in your lessons, that will be no problem. But I was under the impression that you did not care much for, hm, traditional forms of etiquette?"
"Not personally. But I may still need to follow them."
She studied him for a while, her head tilted, and finally nodded. "You will let me know when something hurts too much to bear or when you are exhausted, but other than that, you will repeat motions and practice dances until I am satisfied that you are doing it right. Is that acceptable?"
Maitimo gave her a broad smile. "Thank you, Mistress Nacilmë. Yes, by all means, let me repeat things until I get them right."

Dancing proved astonishingly arduous, and Maitimo soon had no mind to regret that he was not permitted to practice fighting: He was sweating his way through the dance patterns and variations, struggled with different forms of bows and Vanyarin courtly protocol. Mistress Nacilmë indeed proved to be merciless, demanding repetition upon repetition. He often felt silly, bowing to imaginary partners or weaving his way through a longway simulated by chairs and baskets, but even when his teacher's and his own perfectionism made him grind his teeth in pain and frustration, even when he fell down exhausted after a lesson, he could not deny that his strength was steadily increasing, that the little jumps and flourishes that had been impossible at the outset became less and less daunting, that it became easier by the week to bend his legs or arms at exactly the right angle, the right speed, the right moment. Once his muscles had grown used to the regular exercise, his movements became more fluid and his body control improved: In short, his training paid off in exactly the way that he'd hoped. His brothers, too, noticed.
"See?" Macalaurë said one evening, observing the way in which Maitimo now sat down without sudden drops, rose without having to push himself up first, walked with no limp, held his back unbowed. "There was no need to exert yourself; it's all coming back by itself."
Carnistir, who had occasionally watched Maitimo's lesson without taking part, almost snorted wine out of his nose, which took some attention away from Maitimo, who only smiled mildly.
"By itself," he said. "Of course, Cáno. Just as your fingertips hardened to the harpstrings – all by themselves."

The next challenge that he tackled was horseriding. So far, his efforts in that direction had been limited to keeping himself on the old brown mare's back while somebody else led it; now he insisted on learning to command the horse himself, and on a horse that wasn't rather too short for his long legs, too. Roccalaurë was considered too wilful and dangerous, but a replacement was found: A huge and strong-boned black stallion with an untrimmed mane and equally untrimmed tufts of long hair on his lower legs. He had been bred for carrying loads rather than riders, and was extremely sweet-tempered in spite of his size – or, as Maitimo reasoned, because of it. The beast had been named Poldaxo*, a somewhat uninspired name. Ohtalmion, master of the Fëanorian's horses, suggested that Maitimo re-name his suddenly ennobled steed, but Maitimo decided that if the poor beast had to learn a new purpose, he should at least be allowed to keep his old name.
Maitimo grew fond of the impressive-looking but gentle animal as soon as he sat on Poldaxo's back. He developed a way of holding the reins with his single hand, but above all focused on teaching Poldaxo to require no reins at all. Tyelkormo, whose mastery of animals was unmatched, aided him in this endeavour. The horse cooperated well, yet Maitimo fell off regularly before he learned to balance himself on horseback. After the first such incident, which an embarrassing number of people had witnessed, Maitimo removed his practice to a clearing in the woods that Tyelkormo recommended for the purpose. By that time the trees were veiled in tender greens, and the undergrowth was likewise recovering from the frost, bringing forth new shoots and leaves.

Maitimo's life now consisted of administrative work, audiences and writing in the mornings, dancing or riding lessons in the afternoon, and the communal meal with his brothers when darkness fell; in the time that was not yet scheduled away, he began to take walks with Tyelparma or Varnacanyo. He found that his mind seemed to work a lot better when he was outside and in motion: His philosophical debates with Tyelparma grew more inspired, he felt, and when he pored over a problem in the morning, he almost always thought of a solution as soon as he was safely away from his desk, occupied – at least conciously – with something else entirely. He was not allowed to practice fighting yet, but nobody could stop him from attending and watching the warrior's drills. After three weeks, he asked to see their training master, Corintur, during what he considered his office hours. This greatly alarmed the healers, who thought that he would make arrangements for his own fighting practice after all; but Maitimo had other things in mind.
"I have not yet seen any of your recruits practice in armour," he said conversationally.
Corintur frowned. "No, my king; 'tis only practice, and they're only using wooden swords, so padded clothing is perfectly sufficient."
"I am not afraid that they'll cut themselves on their practice swords, you see," Maitimo said. "I just wonder why I never see them in their actual battle gear."
"The padded jerkins are part of that, my king," Corintur pointed out. "If you mean the metal parts, well, they're heavy and quite cumbersome, and since they really aren't necessary, why burden the poor lads?"
Maitimo tilted his head. "Why, because the armour is even heavier and more cumbersome when you are unfamiliar with wearing it. What happens if there is an actual fight – if they have to stand against more dangerous weapons than staffs and wooden swords? Will you send them without armour, too, because it is so heavy?"
"No, my king; they will wear their armour in battle, of course."
"Then they must wear it in practice, too. They must be able to perform their drills in metal plating just as well as without."
"We can practice that when war approaches, my king."
Maitimo, who had so far maintained some amusement at the training master's ideas, felt anger rise within him. "What if it approaches faster than you expect? What if it is not us who carry war to unsuspecting Teleri, but Moringotto's brood who try to overrun us? Will you tell them 'Wait another month, I have to get my recruits into shape'? No, that is not how it works. Drills are a means of preparing these people for the reality of war; and part of that reality is heavy, cumbersome armour, and the exhaustion that comes with it. These are my troups, Corintur, and I will not have them ill-prepared. So you will make them practice in their armour, and ride and run and wrestle in it. Good grief, I expect some of them may not even know how to put it on!"
Corintur folded his arms across his chest. "My ways have always been good enough for your brother, my king."
"You and my brother have always fought in battles that we've won," Maitimo said coldly. "I have seen more. I do not wish my experience on you, but I must demand that you accept my advice."
"Advice, my king?"
"Yes, advice – if you follow it. If you will not follow it, I must command it."
The training master's jaw worked angrily; he was clearly not going to give in easily. "Maybe you want to train your troups, since you've got all that experience." This suggestion was accompanied by a long, dirty look that probably meant to remind Maitimo of his less-than-fit state.

Maitimo refused to be riled. "Thank you, Corintur, I will consider your offer," he said. "Meanwhile, there's something else I would ask of you."
"Ask, or command?" Corintur said.
Maitimo smiled. "That depends on you, of course. I think it would be advisable if everybody at least learned the basics of self-defence – armed and unarmed. Don't you agree?"
"I am not certain that I understand you correctly. Your warriors are already learning armed and unarmed fighting, albeit without their armour." A slight sneer." Or do you mean everybody - milkmaids and weavers and farmers and all?"
"I am glad that you did understand me. Yes, everybody – milkmaids and weavers and whoever else may have to make a stand when all other defences have fallen. Everybody of age, at the very least, and maybe some of the younger folk, too."
Corintur now looked as though he believed Maitimo had lost his mind. "What if they don't want to?"
"I am sure they will understand the necessity of learning to defend oneself, if I make a pretty speech about it. We were victorious when we came into these lands because Father had prepared everybody for battle, and I do not think it is asking too much that we reach a comparable point again." Maitimo waved his right arm vaguely, and Corintur turned his head away uncomfortably.
"As you wish, my king," he said between gritted teeth. "Should they wear armour, too?"
With a wistful expression on his face, Maitimo said, "We do not have suits of armour enough for everybody, and I'm afraid it is not feasible to make them. So, no."
"And how long shall... everybody... be trained?"
"Until the training master – that would be you, Corintur – is satisfied that they will not simply be cut down, but at least take an enemy or two with them." Maitimo smiled again. "I rely on your expertise."
Corintur grunted, but he couldn't quite disguise that he was pleased by that last remark. "That may take a long time, for some of them," he nonetheless pointed out.
"All the more reason to begin as soon as possible, is it not?" Maitimo replied, and Corintur made no protest to that.

He did protest to Macalaurë, who came to see Maitimo one morning not long after that conversation. "Master Corintur complains that you are interfering with the warriors' training," he said.
"Interfering? My goodness, I understood the role of king completely wrong, it seems. Remind me, beloved regent, what else I should leave my hands-- my hand off?"
Macalaurë winced; Maitimo was not certain whether it was brought about by his angry tone, or by the allusion to his handicap. "I am only telling you what Master Corintur said."
Maitimo began to pace. "And what did you reply to him?"
"I told him that you want the best for your people, and that he may want to consider the possibility that you are right."
That made his brother stop in his tracks. "Hah!" Maitimo said. "Thank you. Is the matter settled, then?"
Macalaurë dared a little smile. "Not entirely. It appears that some of the people he has begun to teach at your command enjoy it too much."
"Too much? How so?"
"Well, some of the craftsmen have proved to be exceedingly talented with a blade. Not surprising, I guess, since they swing tools all the time, but now they seem to be uncertain whether to continue training as warriors or return to their trade. Some of the women, too..."
"I'm afraid that a time will come when we can use anybody who knows how to wield a blade," Maitimo said soberly. "In that respect, your news are good news."
"I understand that, but we also need carpenters and tanners and farmers."
Nodding slowly, Maitimo said, "That is true. How many are they?"
"I am not certain whether Corintur was exaggerating matters, but he spoke of several dozens."
"Then we must make it possible to be a craftsman – and yet a warrior."
Macalaurë sat down in the window-seat. "How would you go about that?"
"There are many hours in the day, and six days in the week. It must be possible to offer fighting practice in a way that allows people to still get their work done. Maybe we can form an extra regiment for the sort of people you describe – craftsfolk or farmers or whoever else they are."
"Very well." Macalaurë nodded. "I will inform Curvo that he'll have to arm a new regiment, then."
"I can do that," Maitimo said. "I had no particular destination in mind for today's walk; I shall visit Brother Curvo, then."

He realised that it had been a mistake to enter the forge as soon as the door fell shut and cut off the supply of fresh air, leaving him bewildered in the noisy gloom. Maitimo had believed that he had by now fully recovered – the nightmares had become rare now that his mind had other things to pore over, and when he was awake, he had been able keep his thoughts safely away from Angamando anyway. But the dim, reddish light, the stuffy hot air, the smell of soot and ash and iron, the sounds of hammer upon anvil, the hissing of steel stuck in a cooling bucket, the unintelligible murmur of the ancient crafting spells that the smiths used for their work: All these impressions melded into a dark, threatening fist that closed on Maitimo's throat. He stood gasping for breath, heard himself whimper, felt himself sway. Hard, heavy hands clasped his shoulders. He tore free and tried to escape, away, out, but they tripped him up; he stumbled forwards and was hit over the head with something hard and cold and greasy. His world went entirely dark.

When he returned to consciousness, he was back outside; he lay upon a hard surface, except for his head and shoulders, which were comfortably bedded on somebody's lap. The lap was covered by a dirty leather apron, and as Maitimo's eyes regained focus, he found himself looking up at a familiar face, with a proud, straight nose, firm chin, handsome high cheekbones and grey piercing eyes. The face was framed by black hair, some untidy streaks escaping from a braid in the back. Maitimo's heart clenched with loss and rejoicing. "Father!" he breathed.
His father's face blurred as the other person shook his head.
"That bump must have been harder than I would have thought," said his brother's voice. "Do you not remember where you are?"
Maitimo had by then realised his mistake. He let out a long, slow breath. "Mistaringë," he said. "You are Curvo. I am sorry."
"I'm taking it as a compliment," Curufinwë said with a small smile. His voice was uncommonly gentle, and his look worried. Maitimo now noticed that a wet rag was being pressed to his forehead.
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "What happened?"
Instead of Curufinwë, somebody answered from Maitimo's left-hand side. "You seem to have suffered a dizzy spell – I wanted to steady you, but it all happened too fast. I beg your pardon. You stumbled towards the door and fell over the steps, and hit your head on the door handle," said Varnacanyo, sounding guilty and close to tears. Maitimo tried to sit up, but was hindered by Curufinwë's hand on his temple.
"Rest," his brother said in a tone that was soft but brooked no resistance. "I'm surprised, really. After you told me that the goings-on in my forge resemble... resemble what has been done to you, I would not have thought that you'd come here any time soon."
"I had something to ask of you," said Maitimo, frowning. His head had begun to throb; he reached up, but the painful spot was hidden underneath the wet rag.
"You could have sent someone. Now you were obviously overwhelmed by ill memories..."
"Overwhelmed," Maitimo repeated. "Indeed."
Tyelperinquar joined them that moment. "Is he – oh. I have brought you some tea, Uncle Maitimo," he said sheepishly, holding up a cast-iron teapot and a chipped clay cup.
"Thank you, Tyelpo," Maitimo said, and to Curufinwë, "May I sit up?"
Curufinwë and Varnacanyo helped him to sit – they had carried him to the bench on which the smiths sat when they had time for a break and a whiff of fresh air, Maitimo now realised. Tyelperinquar's tea was strong and drove away the last lingering fogginess. Maitimo discussed his business with Curufinwë, who was cautiously enthusiastic at the idea of equipping a greater army; he apologised for having disturbed their work, which Curufinwë brushed off, and left with their best wishes for a speedy recovery.

When Varnacanyo moved closer to steady him as he walked away, he did not protest, although he was confident that he would not take another fall. His head was throbbing where he had hit it, but he had suffered worse.
"I think it might be wiser to cancel your dancing lesson today," Varnacanyo suggested cautiously. "And use the time to rest."
Maitimo nodded his agreement. "No more walks today," he said, "and no dancing. This was a bit much."
Varnacanyo smiled, relieved.
"At any rate, I have a letter to write," Maitimo said. "I may as well get it done instead of putting it off longer. And I'll need to see Master Encaitar, I'm afraid..."
"Lighter robes?" Varnacanyo asked with a smirk.
"Prettier robes," Maitimo sighed. "I'll need to look the part of king at last – at least once."
Varnacanyo tilted his head. "Oh?"
"Yes. I can't put that off much longer, either."
"Does it have anything to do with the letter you're planning to write?"
"Yes."
Blinking, Varnacanyo stopped in his tracks. "Some sweetheart that I'm not aware of?"
Maitimo stared at him wide-eyed; then he tilted his head back and laughed. "No, good Varnacanyo, nothing of the sort."
"Then to whom are you going to write?"
Maitimo had still been grinning, but now his face grew serious again.
"My uncle," he answered.

Chapter End Notes

*Poldaxo means "strong-bone" or "sturdy-bone" - suitable for what we'd today call a Friesian, but neither particularly noble nor particularly creative.