Diplomacy
The air is stale, motionless, dead. It was around noon on a cloudless summer day and sweat glued my tunic to my skin. Despite this, I am happy; Uncle Maedhros arranged to spar an old friend today, and I, who am rarely allowed in town, was invited to watch.
On the way to main sparing field, we passed a sulking boy sitting in the shade of the equipment shack. He is not especially noteworthy, considering of the bustle of town and its numerous intrigues, but Maedhros stopped.
"Would you deign to spar with me, young Master?" Maedhros bowed, and inquired with his stately voice. It was a voice I am not accustomed to hear. It was not the voice that calls me into supper, nor laughs while chasing me around Maglor's cabin, nor whispers soothing words after frightening dreams. It was, for lack of a better name, his "Lord" voice. The voice that welcomes dignitaries, awes his generals, and inspires intense trust. Why he speaks thus to this elfling? I scarcely know.
The boy's head swiveled around, searching for whom Maedhros addresses, until, astonished, he realizes the imposing red-haired warrior had asked him.
"Uh…yes, Mister, uh, Sir, uh, Lord!"
"But Maedhros-"
"Quiet, Elros!"
With the flick of the Feanorion's hand, I fall silent. I take a seat on the meadow, and alternate between watching the mismatched duel and the sky. The boy, although sloppy at times, was naturally gifted; however, Maedhros easily routs the boy. Maedhros skill with the sword, even left handed, is legendary, his movements memorizing. But that steel has tasted the blood of both orc and kin. I push the unwanted thought out of mind, for Maedhros has been nothing but kind to me and there is a more important matter at hand: When the two finally finished, the sun's position in the sky declares Maedhros an hour late to his previous engagement.
"Well fought, Master Sarn son Spalatin."
"Thank you, my Lord!" Sarn beamed, eyes shining in unconcealed admiration, as Maedhros fondly bid the boy farewell.
As we restart our journey, I questioned Maedhros. "You are an hour late, Uncle. Your friend will be angry, will he not?"
"Perhaps, a little upset," Maedhros conceded.
"Then why did you stop to spar with that insignificant boy?"
Maedhros stopped walking. He turned around, and kneeling on the ground touched my shoulder, He shook his head and sighed amused, "Diplomacy, little one. If you are to remain under my brother's care then you must learn a little about Lordship!"
"How is sparing diplomacy?" Sparing could be battle training, sure. Leadership even. But council-infused, vague word plagued, ritual and regulation adorned diplomacy?
"No one is insignificant, Elros. Everyone has their use. That boy's father is my Master Blacksmith and I know scant few better swordsmen. Sarn is Spalatin's only son, yet the boy lacks the same passion for swordplay. Sarn is talented but woefully undevoted to practice. By sparing with Sarn for an hour, he and his sword will be inseparable and I shall gain his father's, nay his entire family's, gratitude.'
"But your friend; he will still be upset."
Maedhros shrugs. "In the end, that is inconsequential. If you are late to spar with Elrond, he would forgive you, because you two are close, would he not?"
I nod.
"So, too, with Arato. Our friendship was forged under the light of the two trees and is strong enough to survive my tardiness today. However, through a simple spar, I have reinsured my Master Blacksmith's loyalty and have guaranteed the unswerving devotion of young Sarn. In few years, he will be one of my soldiers and will surely follow me wherever I led and to whatever end. Glory or death."
Or cursed kinslaying, the thought pops into my head unbidden, and I dare not speak the words aloud; Maedhros is ignorant of the fact I know about his horrendous deeds, that I know why I am rarely allowed in town, that I overhear the rumors he hopes I do not, that he and his brother's care is more than generous fostering; it's captivity.
"This is diplomacy," Maedhros smiles kindly at me, but I am wary. I scrutinize his features, desperate to discover chink in his impenetrable façade. Is he manipulating me, too? But I could not discern if Maedhros was feigning or genuine.
"Now, let us not keep Arato waiting any longer," He stands and proceeds down the path. I wait and watch him walk, his gait exuberating authority while somehow nonthreatening. An intangible majesty crowns his fiery hair, swaying hypnotically. He turns around and sees that I fall behind, "You stuck, elfling?" He laughs, and waves me along, "Hurry up, Elros,"
I hesitate. Part of me is repelled by knowledge of his past actions, his calculated kindness, his deceitful methods, but like a fly to the flickering candle flames, a bear to a beehive, I am drawn in by his glowing smile, honeyed words and his aura of likeability. Finally, I succumb to his charisma and follow.