Spark by GoldSeven

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Chapter 4

Maedhros finds out what has been successfully kept from him until now, and Fingon is being his loyal and honest self.

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Maimed

His broken shoulder was finally healing. The healers had expressed their amazement at the fact, but for Maedhros, it didn’t bring much of a change for the better. Progress and healing were still slow. He could turn his head without passing out from dizziness, and he found he could even move his right arm again, but it felt so strange, alien, and raw, that he mostly remained lying the way he was, still enduring them doing almost everything for him. And there was something else, a nagging fear of something unspoken. He had not had a look at his right hand in all this time.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he finally found the courage to ask Fingon one evening, after the bandages were changed and the healer had left.

Fingon became just a bit too preoccupied with rearranging the covers. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“My hand won’t heal, will it?”

Fingon looked down at his hands. It was slightly more difficult to read his face when he was not meeting Maedhros’ eyes.

“Don’t lie to me. I hear you talking, you and Aramon. I see Maglor looking at the blankets over my right arm, as though he was mortally afraid of something. And I have a feeling it’s not the blankets. The way you still hold me when Aramon changes the bandages even though I’ve long been able to bear it, not letting me look. The way my arm… is starting to feel like an arm again. But my hand still doesn’t feel like a hand.”

Fingon made no reply. Maedhros could tell that this was the conversation – however one-sided – that he had been dreading, and that was all the answer he needed.

“It’s crippled,” Maedhros surmised, bluntly.

Fingon rose with a jerk. “I won’t lie to you. No, it won’t heal.”

Maedhros lay awake for a long time that night, biting his lip and staring into the darkness, fighting a definite feeling of ingratitude.

Even aside from his injuries, conversation topics were limited. Maedhros refused to talk about Angband. Fingon refused to talk about the Helcaraxë, and Maglor seemed determined to talk about nothing consequential at all whenever he visited, even though this infuriated Maedhros. In retaliation, Maedhros had developed an almost vicious sense of humour that was the only way he had of feeling in control, and he was not particularly selective in who took the brunt of it.

Someone who brought a welcome change was Aredhel. She was the only one among Fingolfin’s people who seemed utterly unperturbed by the feud dividing their houses, or by Maedhros’ alleged need to rest, or her family’s bitterness. She was the one least bothered by the bluntness of his words. She did not come often, but when she did, she brought topics of conversation that were as harmless as they were honest. And she didn’t pity. She talked to him exactly as she would have long ago, before Fëanor’s banishment to Formenos, when they had ridden far and wide over the plains of Valinor, as if they were just reclining in the grass after a long day’s hunt, ready to jump up and ride on any minute. Mostly, she talked about the plants and animals of Middle-earth, comparing them to what they had known in Valinor, and the changes that Sun and Moon had brought to the world. Maedhros found her presence refreshing.

“Do you still go riding, and hunting, little sister?” he asked her. All his brothers had called her that, much to their father’s dislike. “Are any of the beasts of Middle-earth safe from you?”

She then gave him a strange look, a wistful smile.

“Riding is so much more fun with a horse, cousin.”

She touched his forehead, and left.

 Maedhros was in a foul mood when Fingon came a little while later with a cup of broth.

He eyed the cup crossly and looked up at Fingon with a defiant expression. “Help me sit up.”

Fingon raised his eyebrows. “Aredhel has certainly taught you manners again.”

“Please,” Maedhros added, no less defiantly.

Fingon looked him over. “I’d really like to give your shoulder another week or two before….”

“Well, I don’t. My shoulder has had six months. I don’t want your pity, and I don’t want you having to feed me. I do think I’m strong enough to hold a cup of broth.”

Fingon set down the cup. “If I didn’t help you, am I right in assuming you’d do it without my help?”

“Yes.”

Fingon heaved a sigh as he snatched up several pillows. “Aramon is going to kill me.”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the wrath of a healer, Fingon the Valiant armed with pillows.”

“What I’m afraid of is undoing all the progress you’ve made so far, Russandol the Irresponsible armed with a tongue that’s fouler than an Orc’s.” Fingon slipped an arm behind Maedhros’ back, careful not to jostle his shoulder, and gently sat him up, propping the pillows behind his back. Maedhros clenched his teeth against the pain all down his right arm, knowing that Fingon was looking for any sign of weakness – that, and the very plain “I told you so” on his face. He was breathing hard as he signalled for the cup, but holding it himself and drinking unaided was worth every bit of pain.

“Feeling better?” Fingon asked, somewhat dubious.

“Invincible. I’ve drunk a cup of broth without help. I’ll be challenging Morgoth to single combat next.”

Fingon looked at him sharply for a moment. Maedhros could tell that he was hurt, and he felt vaguely sorry, but was too proud to admit it.

“Well, it’s nice that your fighting spirits are returning.” Fingon took the empty cup from Maedhros. “I’ll take that.”

Maedhros watched him go, feeling light-headed. It felt as though all the blood had suddenly rushed from his head and was pooling in his right arm. His hand was throbbing almost unbearably. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the covers and pulled them back, looking for a pillow to prop up his hand  and relieve some of the pain, and stared down at his arm in shock.

He didn’t know what he had expected. What he had not expected was the sight of his heavily bandaged right arm, ending in a stump.

 Dizzily, he cradled his right elbow with his left hand and brought it up. Despite all that had happened, he had not been able to imagine something like this. He had seen prisoners in the dungeons of Angband with their feet hacked off, still alive, crawling around on their hands and knees. The first time, his captors had made a point of throwing him in cells with those as his neighbours. He had seen a lot of Orcs with eyes burned out or ears chopped off (probably in sport). Seeing his own maimed arm in front of his eyes was something he had never imagined possible, something grotesquely out of place. Even as he stared at the place where his right hand had been, he felt it throbbing with pain, every single finger, though there was nothing there.

He now realised he had never wondered how Fingon had freed him.

He became aware that Fingon had come back, and was standing motionlessly in the door. Maedhros looked up sharply, and the sudden movement sent black specks dancing in front of his eyes. He caught himself with his left elbow, falling back into the pillows just as Fingon rushed to his side to catch him. Maedhros weakly pushed him away, but Fingon held his hand and refused to let go.

“I’m sorry, Russandol,” he said, his voice firm. “It was the only way.”

Maedhros didn’t answer.

“Don’t think I didn’t try everything else first. Forgive me.”

“I asked you to kill me.” Maedhros’ voice was barely a whisper, and he was shaking.

Fingon looked at him for a few heartbeats, his eyes suddenly hard. He released Maedhros’ hand with a jerk and stood.

“Fine,” he said. “That can be arranged. Not that it doesn’t seem like a waste. Shall I get my bow?”

Maedhros said nothing, half-lying, half-sitting in his pillows, staring at his cousin, his whole body shaking. They faced each other, neither of them speaking or relenting for a long while. Finally, Fingon sat down on his chair again, gripping his cousin’s left hand, his eyes never leaving Maedhros’.

“You just said you didn’t want my pity. So you won’t have any of it. Stop pitying yourself. You’re alive. You’re free. And you’ve drunk a cup of broth without help. What happened to your fighting spirit?”

Maedhros was breathing hard, furious with Fingon for using his own words against him. “How shall I fight, if I can’t hold a sword?” he hissed.

“You’re strong enough to hold a cup of broth. In time, you will be strong enough to hold a sword. Not today, not tomorrow, but you will. And you will wield it. Everyone here gave you up, Maitimo. Including me, at times. You proved us all wrong by sitting here. Do not let that beat you.”

“Don’t call me that,” Maedhros whispered.

“Yes, I do. I don’t care how many hands you have, or how long it’ll take your hair to grow back. Because that doesn’t matter.” Fingon looked at his friend’s maimed arm, and cast around for another pillow. “Maybe it would help to put something under it. It probably hurts when you sit up.”

Maedhros watched wordlessly as Fingon picked up a pillow, gently lifted his right arm by the elbow, and set the pillow under it, carefully easing the arm down. He searched Fingon’s face for any sign of revulsion, but couldn’t discern any.

“Better?” Fingon asked.

Maedhros nodded mutely. The throbbing abated slightly as the blood was able to flow back more easily.

“Good. You need some rest, I think. Are you comfortable? Can I leave you like that without you doing anything rash?”

Maedhros nodded again.

Fingon reached up to brush a strand of hair out of Maedhros’ eyes. “I’ll be back later. Get some sleep.” He rose, and headed for the door.

Maedhros closed his eyes, pressing his hand against his forehead, wishing he could stop shaking.