LAKE MITHRIM — THE YOUNGER HOUSES

Sweat stung Nelyo’s eyes and seared the scrape across his left cheekbone. The blade balanced perfectly in his imperfect hand. Findekáno raised his own steel. He smiled.

“Again!”

Káno’s words still rang in the air as Nelyo surged forward. Dust kicked up. The grass could not grow here. His swing missed Finno by but a hair. Nelyo didn't smile.

He could feel Eve behind him, standing while Itarillë sat on her tree stump. Nelyo tightened his grip. The new callouses helped him, but muscle memory could not be learned from books or tomes. It came from only one thing.

“Again!”

Finno waited, a lighthearted tease mere moments from being spoken aloud. Nelyo knew him well. He wouldn't let him. 

Their blunted steel connected as Finno had to block. The smile on his cousin's face fell. A grimace not of anger or frustration but concentration replaced it. Sweat beaded down his brow as well. The full force of his best friend’s strength responded.

Nelyo retreated, dodging twice. Don't trip, focus on your footwork. He let out a long breath as they separated again.

No words were spoken. Only a smile from Finno before he took a long drink from a waterskin. Nelyo did the same. Káno had joined Eve and Itarillë at the tree stump outside their makeshift ring of dirt and trampled weeds. 

The water cooled his throat and chest. Gasping, he poured what remained over his head, letting it wash the salt and blood off his skin and cropped hair.

He focused on his breath. Finno stood on the side, clumsily messing with his gold-braided hair to pull them into one long ponytail. Nelyo smirked. So he was in some trouble, then. Had to keep that pretty hair out of his eyes.

It had been Nelyo’s insistence that they hold nothing back. They trained with blunted blades but it would do no one any good if he learned combat as an art form alone. Orcs appreciated severed heads and spraying arteries, not fancy steps and careful ripostes.

“Ready?” Nelyo asked.

Finno nodded. “Always.”

They took their places once more. He could hear Itarillë giggle at something Káno said. A gnawing guilt formed a lump in his throat. 

“Go.”

Finno attacked this time. Fast as a steed of Oromë, he pushed into Nelyo, aiming always for the right side. The weak side. The maimed side. Nelyo spun away, parrying with his left. But Finno came relentlessly. Over and over and over, the blows rained down. Nelyo gritted his teeth.

The final blow came too fast. Nelyo couldn't pull his sword up in time. It lodged in the dirt. So he dropped it. 

Finno’s blade hit tempered bronze and mithril before it connected with his jaw. Crafted by Curvo, tested by Tyelko, delivered to him by Telvo, the metal fist sent his cousin reeling. An eight pointed star of liquid mithril reminded him where he came from. The bronze casting reminded him what it had cost.

“Stars above.” Finno’s chest heaved from where he struggled to sit up on the ground. “It is good to know your strength has returned. Fully, I would wager.”

Nelyo smirked. He reached down his left hand. “No little thanks to you.”

“Aye. And yet you repay me with this.” Finno massaged the already bruising skin of his chin. But then he laughed. “You're welcome.”

“Might I suggest a break!”

Nelyo turned, cringing as at her voice, he remembered Eve was watching. Hopefully she wouldn't hold a grudge over Finno’s bruised face.

“I agree,” Finno said. “At least take a few moments to rest. You've come a long way, Nelyo, but all could be undone if you do not pace yourself.”

So he said. So they all said. Nelyo didn't agree but he knew better than to argue with them all, especially with Itarillë there. If Itaril didn't win the argument herself, Eve was sure to roast him alive later on for it. Unity, not division, in front of Itáril. That was the unspoken rule.

Nelyo settled on the ground against the large log of a tree they had rolled into position. He closed his eyes. The Younger camp was so busy these days. 

Stonemasons and lumberers, artisans of all kinds worked day and night crafting the keep Nolofinwë planned to rule from, at least to start. It needed to be strong. Stalwart against the enemy, a beacon of hope for the allied. There were talks of other settlements too. Eithel Sirion would need a garrison of sorts, at the least.

Between the craftsmen and the constant training of soldiers, the tending of horses and the hometending of the women, the bustle never ended. When he closed his eyes, Nelyo could almost see Tirion. He could almost see home.

There the greatness of the Noldor could never be called into question. His grandfather had ruled in splendor. What other elven people could claim the feats of the Deep Elves? Aulë had taken them as pupils. The Falmari and the Vanyar looked to them as craftsmen. 

He wished Finwë could see what they had made for themselves upon this hither shore. Bitterly they had suffered. No pride did Nelyo hold for himself, for his bloodstained hands. But the Noldor, this people, his people.

The sun nearly blinded him when he reopened his eyes. Itaril’s golden hair glittered in the light as she showed Finno the wooden bird she’d carved. He remembered his mother’s unparalleled sculptures of marble. Elenwë would be proud of her daughter, who held the grace of a Vanya but the skill, the brilliance of a Noldo even at a young age.

He pushed himself to his feet. Káno watched him from nearby, arms folded over his chest. But his brother moved to join him.

“Again,” he said.

Nelyo nodded. He spun the blade, letting his left hand adjust a bit before the real work resumed. Káno picked up his own sword from against the log.

“You’re dropping your elbow too much,” Káno said, circling. “It's sloppy. You're not sloppy.”

In another life, another time, another place, beneath trees of gold and silver, he might've been hurt, taking such criticism from his younger brother. The brother once so devoted to music over feats of strength. But not anymore.

Káno hit harder than Finno. Each time their blades met, he felt it reverberate through his arm and into his chest. Anger, fear, and a desperate need to survive connected every one of his brothers. Nelyo had noticed it the moment he'd turned over the kingship.

What would father think? Fëanáro had pushed them all harder than any other child of the Noldor had been pushed before. Learn more, do more, achieve more. Victory took work. He never let them forget it.

Another slam, and Nelyo fell to the ground. Dust got in his mouth as he rolled away. Kano’s blade stuck into the ground where he'd been moments before.

His father would be the first one to congratulate him. The first one to raise his voice in support. His first defender. His first champion. They were family. They were the eldest of the House of Finwë, first and finest.

Nelyo pushed himself to his feet. His father had gone to the Halls in a blaze of fire. Nelyo didn't know where Fëanáro had lost his way, but something had changed that night they swore the oath. Or before. Perhaps when his father had clutched Finwë’s corpse to his chest, crying for his whole world while blood soaked his hands.

Pityo had paid the price for Fëanáro’s need to be first. First to vengeance, first to this verdant land of our ancestors. Finwë had come from this Beleriand long years ago. Had he sought that connection as much as he'd sought the Silmarils? Their Silmarils.

He used his bronze fist as a shield, as Curvo had envisioned. He caught Káno’s blade. But he wasn't caught off guard, dropping back before Nelyo could counterstrike. 

They would win this war. For Elenwë, for Arakáno, for the Silmarils. For Finwë, for Fëanáro, for Pityo. 

His arms ached. His throat ran dry. As he separated from his brother, he held up a hand. He could not continue further that day. He knew his limits, now more than ever, perhaps. And though he improved by the day, he could no longer boast about his skill with the blade.

They would win this war, but his house would not be first. The Noldor had to come first.