Chapter 4 – Blood and Steel

I loved my father, I love him still, but I was not 'his' son.

True, I had my father's graceful form, his commanding voice and skillful hands, but I cared little for objects of metal or stone. What I created lived in the hearts and souls of those who listened, but vanished quickly once the melody was done. No amount of esteem, no level of excellence in my craft was enough to please him.

I created nothing of worth. This is what my father told me.

If it were not for mother's encouragement, and Maedhros' praise I might have abandoned my harp for the forge. Not that it would have mattered, I had not my brothers' skill. Maedhros and Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin, even young Amrod and Amras created works of beauty by fire; creations that stand even now as monuments to a forgotten time. I was the odd son, the one most readily forgotten.

But one day all of that changed.

I became a favored son … and not for some work of art or immortal creation formed by my hands. I took up the sword, and surpassed my brothers in its art. For this, I won my father's love.

A regret I shall carry to eternity.


Valinor
Age of Trees

Maedhros always knew where to find his brother. When Maglor was not in the library reading or playing strategy games with friends, he was practicing with his harp. Maedhros stopped first at his brother's bedroom, and finding Maglor's harp missing, headed for the east courtyard. Maedhros could hear the music before the two harpers came into sight. Maglor and Elemmírë often practiced together. The ebony Noldo and the golden Vanya were the two greatest bards in all of Aman and were fiercely competitive on the stage. Off-stage they were the closest of friends.

Maedhros stepped out into the open sun.

"What about this?" Elemmírë played several chords for Maglor.

"Yes, that works," Maglor echoed the tune on his own harp.

Maedhros cleared his throat to catch the ellyn's attention.

Maglor's eyes flew to the archway at the sound. "Maitimo," he said with a smile.

"Practicing something new?" Maedhros asked.

Maglor nodded. "For the bard's contest tomorrow evening."

Maedhros' gaze shifted to Elemmírë before returning to his brother. "Should you be revealing all your secrets to the competition?"

Elemmírë laughed.

Maglor shook his head. "I am not concerned," he replied. "It is my turn to win."

"Is it, indeed?" Elemmírë's brow rose in challenge.

Maedhros smiled, he was often amused by the friends' banter. "I hate to interrupt your practice Makalaurë," he said, his expression turning serious, "but father wishes an audience."

Maglor's eyes widened with surprise. "Has he finally left his workshop?" he asked. It had been many weeks since Fëanor locked himself inside. No one, not even their brother Curufin, was allowed entry while he worked.

"He has," Maedhros answered.

"What is he working on now?" Elemmírë asked. He could not imagine any creation surpassing Prince Fëanor's Silmarils. Elemmírë had only seen them once, but the sight of them would live forever in his memory.

"He will not say," Maedhros replied, "until all of his sons are present."

Maglor sighed. He would have preferred to continue practicing for the following night's performance, rather than waste time marveling over his father's newest trinket – not that he had a choice. Maglor stood, handing his harp off to Elemmírë. "One more lecture on smithing I will have to suffer through," he said to his friend.

Elemmírë only smiled.

Maglor turned back to his brother. "Promise you will punch me if I start to nod off," he said.

"It will be my pleasure," Maedhros said with a grin.

Maglor was less than thrilled by his brother's eagerness and his expression soured.

Maedhros draped his arm comfortingly around Maglor's shoulder, leading his reluctant brother inside.

"Try and hit him in his strumming arm if you can, Maitimo," Elemmírë called after the brothers as they disappeared from sight. "I will take all the help I can get!"


"Finally, we can begin," Fëanor announced upon the arrival of his eldest sons.

Maedhros and Maglor nodded their greetings to their brothers and asked with silent expressions if they had learned anything new about why they had been called together. While his sons looked on, Fëanor disappeared into his workshop and emerged shortly thereafter rolling a cloth-draped 'something' out into the private courtyard at the center of his smithy. It was rectangular in shape and stood five feet or so in height.

"Father, what is that?" Amras, Fëanor's youngest asked. The same question formed on the tips of his brothers' tongues, but they were slower to question their father.

"Gifts," Fëanor announced, "one for each of my sons."

Excitement blossomed on the faces of each of the Fëanorions, save one. Maglor's expression registered only surprise. It was not often that he was gifted with something made by his father's hands. Fëanor was not the type of ellon to shower his children with gifts, but from time to time, he would present one of his sons with a tool made especially for him, something needed – or wanted – so that a work of art might come to life.

Maglor had no use for tools to shape metal or wood and he was not at all certain he would share his brothers' appreciation of this 'gift'.

Fëanor rested a hand upon the draped form. His expression darkened as he traced the star emblem woven into the cloth. Fëanor's thoughts were not on the fabric, but what lay beneath it.

"A shadow grows in my mind," he said to his sons. "I see darkness falling on Valinor. I see deceit and treachery everywhere. We must prepare."

"Prepare for what, father?" Maedhros asked, startled by his father's ominous words.

"To defend our house from our enemies," Fëanor answered. "And throw down those who would claim lordship over us."

"Who in Valinor would wish us harm?" Amrod, the second youngest, asked.

The older sons held their breath in anticipation of their father's answer. They were all well aware of the whispers spreading through the city of their uncles' treachery and the lies of the Valar.

Fëanor did not offer his son an answer; instead, he unveiled his creations, removing the cloth with a fluid sweep of his arm.

Seven pairs of eyes beheld seven swords of shining steel cradled in an elegantly carved wooden stand. Each blade bore an inscription to strengthen it and the elf that wielded it, each inscription contained the name of one of Fëanor's sons.

None of the ellyn had ever seen weapons such as these, for there was little need for them in Valinor. The blades were, in form, similar to a hunting knife, but these were clearly not meant for gutting deer.

Fëanor lifted the first of his treasures lovingly from its cradle and turned back to his sons.

"Step forward, Maitimo," he said.

Maedhros complied, and his father handed the blade to his eldest son with great ceremony. This was repeated six more times until each of Fëanor's sons held a sword crafted specifically for him.

"You will need these in the years to come," Fëanor said to them, his voice grave and dark with meaning. "Learn to use them well."

Maglor studied the sword his father gave him for a long while, testing its weight in his hand. He did not know what to think of his father's gift. Perhaps these very thoughts were visible on Maglor's face, for his father came to stand before him. Maglor's eyes lifted from the blade to meet his father's appraising gaze.

"I expect you to apply yourself, Kana," Fëanor said, but his tone told all present that he expected little from his second-born.

Maglor fought hard not to reveal the pain his father's words caused him. "Yes, father," he said. "I will do my best."

"You will do better than that." Fëanor spoke loud enough for all his sons to hear, before turning next to Celegorm.

An arm came around Maglor's shoulders once Fëanor departed and a familiar voice whispered in his ear. "We will show him, Maka," Maedhros assured him and he gave his brother a gentle squeeze.


The sons of Fëanor practiced daily in the courtyard of their father's secret forge. Fëanor wanted none outside his House to learn of his most recent creations. The brothers sparred with one another and those loyal to their father, growing ever greater in speed and skill. One son progressed faster than the others, possessing an instinct for the dance his brothers lacked.

Maglor stood at the center of the courtyard sparring with both Ambarussa at once. The youngest sons of Fëanor were no match for their elder and Maglor easily parried their overhasty and ill-conceived blows. Maglor corrected their stance and form as they practiced. The four remaining brothers stood aside, each one looking upon Maglor with a difference – Maedhros was proud of his younger brother's skill, Celegorm and Curufin amazed, and Caranthir, bitter at being bested by a musician.

Maglor disarmed Amras and Amrod in rapid succession knocking both ellyn to the ground. The Ambarussa lay sprawled on the grass looking rather flustered, but smiling. Maglor helped his little brothers back to their feet and kissed the tops of their heads as he had done since they were small.

A voice from the doorway interrupted their practice. "Good afternoon, my sons."

"Father," seven voices answered in unison.

"I believe you have had enough practice for today," Fëanor said. It was clearly a dismissal and the ellyn wasted no time following their father's command. They placed their swords back in their resting places on the stand.

"Kana, stay," Fëanor called as his son was nearly to the door. Maglor cast a worried look at Maedhros before turning back to his father. "Go on Maitimo," Fëanor said to his eldest. "I wish to speak with Kana alone."

"Someone's in trouble," Caranthir hissed at his brother as he passed. He was in a spiteful mood after having been beaten earlier by Maglor in less than ten moves.

Maglor soon found himself alone in the courtyard with Fëanor. "Father?" Maglor voice rose in question.

Fëanor regarded his son with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. He'd seen Maglor's match against his youngest sons. It was impressive enough, but nothing like he'd heard tell from the lips of his eldest.

"Maitimo tells me he can no longer defeat you," Fëanor stated simply. "How is it my gentle son has such skill with a sword?"

Maglor swallowed hard. He had an answer, but he feared Fëanor would laugh at him, or worse, not listen at all. Maglor searched for a way to explain that his father would understand, finding none, he settled for the explanation he understood. "It … sings to me," Maglor said.

"Sings?" Fëanor asked. His tone was not without a hint of mockery.

Maglor knew his father would not appreciate the allusion, so he hastened to explain. "When the blade cuts the air I can hear it hum, the sound changes with its speed, the direction of its fall. It has its own music."

For the first time in centuries Fëanor listened to every word Maglor uttered. He considered his son's explanation for some time before responding. "You can sense the pattern in the tune," he mused. Fëanor studied his son a moment longer before posing his next question. "Is this also how you win at games?"

"Games?" Maglor repeated. He was not quite following his father's train of thought. This was by far the strangest conversation he and Fëanor had ever had and something within Maglor urged caution. His father had never before taken an interest in his hobbies. Maglor was not even aware that Fëanor knew he competed in the tournaments.

Maglor thought on his father's question, connecting his fondness for games with his skill with a sword. "The pattern on a gaming board is similar to the music of the sword," Maglor conceded. "There are only so many moves one can make, and each one leads to only so many others." He'd never really thought of his skill at composition, swordplay and strategy being connected in any way, but the importance of patterns to all three was obvious to him now.

"And you know the move your opponent will make before he makes it," Fëanor added.

"I know the moves he can make, and how to counter them," Maglor corrected.

"A useful skill," Fëanor said, more to himself than his son.

Maglor merely shrugged.

Fëanor's gaze returned to his son. "Will you sing for me now, Kana?" he asked, lifting his and Maglor's swords from their place on the stand.

"If you wish," Maglor answered.

Maglor took his sword from his father's hand and waited for Fëanor to begin. Fëanor started slowly, testing first his son's form and balance. It did not take long for him to note Maglor's skill and precision, so he picked up the pace, wielding his blade with greater force. Maglor continued to match him in strength and speed, but Fëanor could tell his son held back. Every time Fëanor stepped up the pace Maglor met him, matching his father blow for blow – but that was all. Maglor never attacked, never pushed beyond what his father's force demanded. It was clear to Fëanor that his son was not trying to win. He would have to change that. Fëanor attacked his son with greater speed; carrying out a maneuver that would result in sure victory for Maglor if he deflected it, defeat if he failed.

Maglor anticipated Fëanor's next move, but could not parry the blade without injuring his father. He hesitated, and a moment's pause was all Fëanor required to disarm his son, slashing Maglor's forearm in the process.

Maglor hissed in pain when the blade cut him and dropped his sword. He clutched his arm, shock clear on his face.

Fëanor's eyes held no pity for Maglor's injury. "I thought the steel sang to you?" Fëanor scoffed.

"It does," Maglor bit back, the pain in his arm fueling his anger.

"Then why did you miss the block?" Fëanor asked sharply.

"I would have injured you," Maglor shouted, unsure how could his father could be blind to the obvious.

"I see," Fëanor's voice dripped with distain. "So instead of protecting yourself, you allowed a lesser opponent to defeat you."

Maglor, shaking his head, tried to explain. "You are my father…"

"No, Kana," Fëanor cut him off, his words sharp and unyielding, "there is no family or friend in a contest such as this. I should think that you, above all, would understand."

But it was clear to Fëanor his son did not understand. The Prince's thoughts turned inward, seeking a way to make Maglor see the logic behind his words. He found it in the most unlikely of places – his son's passion for music.

"Elemmírë is your friend, is he not?" Fëanor asked.

Maglor, confused by his father's abrupt shift in conversation, chose his answer carefully. "Of course he is."

"And yet you do not give way to him on the stage," Fëanor said.

Maglor hardly believed that besting a competitor with song and gutting him with a sword was an appropriate comparison. "It is different," Maglor replied.

"It is the same!" Fëanor exclaimed. "I am not your father when I lift a blade against you. I am your opponent and you must defeat me. Do you understand?"

Maglor understood his father's reasoning, but he was not certain he agreed. "Yes," Maglor answered with notable hesitation.

"Shall we find out?" Fëanor asked, and without warning, attacked his son with deadly force.

Fëanor's spiteful words fueled his son's anger and they hurt him more than the cut on his arm. The pain and frustration he felt was enough to bait him. This time Maglor did not wait for his father to set the pace. He wished to end their match quickly and escape Fëanor's sight. Maglor waited patiently for an opening and when it came he took it. Fëanor missed the parry and hissed as the tip of his son's blade made contact with his shoulder. Maglor disarmed Fëanor before he had time to recover.

It was all over in an instant.

Maglor could not believe he had actually drawn his father's blood. His first instinct was to beg forgiveness, but something in Fëanor's expression stopped him. His father looked at him in the most unsettling way, as though he gazed upon one of his Silmarils or some other treasure formed by his hands.

Maglor was not prepared for what happened next.

Fëanor smiled – the warmest, most sincere expression of affection he had ever offered his second son. He closed the distance between them and pulled Maglor into his arms, laughing with delight. Pulling back slightly, Fëanor pressed his forehead to Maglor's, looking deep into his son's eyes.

"You have made your father proud this day, Kana," Fëanor told him.

It was years since Fëanor showered Maglor with such simple words of praise, and they were wielded as pointedly as the sword in his hands. The words hit their mark, and with them, the walls Maglor built to protect himself from his father's indifference crumbled.


A/N:

Makalaurë: Maglor's mother-name in Quenya
Maitimo: Maedhros' mother-name in Quenya
Ambarussa: the mother-name of both Amrod and Amras in Quenya