Chapter Text
"I am no tutor for little lordlings," his brother says, crossing his arms and leaning back against the plush of the wall-tapestry. "Go find Felagund's people if you wish to play at swords. Tell them," he adds after a moment's consideration, smile glittering like an unsheathed knife, "that I sent you."
Naerchil often finds himself at a loss when treating with Ancalimon, but he has rehearsed today. "If it pleases you, Brother, I wish to learn from you. Heru Narelinta said that there is none finer with the short-blade than Heru Arantëa -" He swallows, despising the high quaver in his own voice. "Heru Istelmarta agreed, and said that you might find it ... diverting."
Before the child can blink, Ancalimon has crossed the stride between them and dropped to one knee, the hem of his mail shivering on cool tiles. "My esteemed colleagues are not wrong," he purrs, eye to Tree-lit eye. "But this does not please me."
An inquiring hand is held forth, adorned by one heavy garnet signet and many fine white scars. Uncertain, Naerchil places his own hand upon his brother's.
"I know the shortsword would suit a youth's stature. I was not one hundred when I gave my Oath," Ancalimon says slowly, considering the boy's uncalloused palm. "But you are not even fifty. Tell me," and the usual false mirth drops from his voice, power crackling in the soft words like the sudden opening of a yawning pit, "who set you to this?"
"No one. I made a promise to protect our sister," Naerchil answers, measuring his words carefully, praying that the pulse beating in his neck does not betray him. "And my lord father has none to stand by his side. If I am to be his squire in truth, I would not shame him with inadequacy! One day, like you, I will also -"
"Enough," Ancalimon snaps, rising to full height. "Very well. I shall instruct you as my sire did," he decides. "For I am bored. But I am no nursemaid and will have no crying or whimpering."
Naerchil nods, a hollow gnawing in his chest despite this victory. "Thank you, Brother."
Curufin's knight makes ready to leave, but after a moment's pause he closes the door again. "I will remind you of one more thing, little one," he says with the ghost of a smile not reaching his eyes. "By the time you come of age, we will have certainly regained the Silmarils. Your Oath of Fëanor will be needless."
Naerchil hears his laughter echoing down the cavernous hall.