A Different Kind of Hell [ Silmarillion ] 3

Chapter 24: Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

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.