Keen was the edge of the extraordinarily long gleaming blade, and flashing with carven gems was the darkened metal hilt bound with intricately tooled leather that fit his grip perfectly. It was altogether remarkable, this gift that Kanafinwë joyfully received from the hands of his father.

*****

Forged in secret and now presented, one to each of his seven sons, Fëanor had put much thought into the making and workings of each sword. Into each weapon he poured freely of his own blazing flame coupled with words of power to protect both blade and wielder. Unbeknownst to the seven before him, binding words were laid upon them, sealing weapon to possessor when first they joined warm flesh to cold metal and, as well, uniting the weapons of the sons to those their siblings and that of their father. Not easily would they be parted.

In birth order they were laid on the successively upturned palms. When the gift-blade passed from his hands to those of Kanafinwë, his second-born, Fëanor experienced a surge of exasperation with this son; never found at forge nor delving for the bright gems and shining metals. Singer, harper, given to the healing arts; the brilliant father searched in vain for the overarching passion absent in this son, though so evident in all his brothers, though most particularly in Kurufinwë, to please and emulate his sire.

In the desire to compel this errant one to his will, Fëanor added a singular compulsion; that the fire of spirit he so lacked would spring forth eagerly at the contact with opposing metal, heating blood and mind to a fervent pitch.

As his offspring examined their personal treasures with wonder, Fëanor showed them some of the steps he had devised for the dance of the elongated dagger he called a ‘sword’.

Calling Kanafinwë to him he raised his own dazzlingly bright sword in a gesture of acknowledgement which his son copied perfectly. Reaching forward Fëanor struck the metal blade with his own, the clear ringing clash of steel, alerting all present to a newly orchestrated reverberation that would echo through the great years of their lives.

*****

When first his living flesh touched the chill steel, Kanafinwë flinched ever so slightly, the tingle of power running from metal through the unresisting layer of supple skin unsettling him. Never had a thing fashioned by hands drawn him with such appeal. Running his finger carefully down the length of the alluring burnished metal awoke an answering call deep within the only son of Fëanor who had not before sought understanding of the realm of Aulë. The mysterious attraction deepened when steel met steel, igniting in him some indescribable unity with the sparklingly bejeweled hilt. Heart soaring in response to the ringing song of the metal, he eagerly met the elegantly crafted blade of his father till they were both panting from the novel exertion.

Looking about he saw a dawning respect in the eyes of his siblings. Gathering round they cheered him with words of admiration. To be so well thought of was an entirely foreign experience for this one, the Dreamer as they called him scornfully.

*****

Striding to stand before him, his father scrutinized his flushed face as he attempted to remove the sword from his son’s grasp and smiled with satisfaction to see the flare of resentment in those normally contemplative eyes. Fëanor embraced Kanafinwë whole-heartedly, such as he had not done since the raven-haired adult was a child. “At last!" Fëanor thought, “You are a son I would claim. You are mine.”

*******

Kanafinwë – Maglor