Maps by grey_gazania

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Chapter 7: Fingon

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Makalaurë left a few hours later, but Carnistir insisted on staying overnight. Angry I may have been, but I didn't have the heart to turn him away. We came to a sort of truce, deciding that we would not speak of the burning of the ships or my people's time on the Helcaraxë. It was true that that left precious little for us to talk about, but it was better than fighting. Temporary voice of reason or not, Carnistir had always been more quick to throw a punch than to give a kiss.

 

Maitimo woke the next afternoon, blinking up at us with bleary eyes as we sat silent by his bedside. "Káno," he said, his voice still rough and raspy. I nodded, and he shifted his gaze to Carnistir, saying, "Little brother."

 

"I'm here," Carnistir said, reaching for his hand.

 

He was weaker than a newborn babe, too weak to even lift his head unaided, but he was cognizant of who we were, and I took that as a good sign.

 

"I did not think I would ever see you again, either of you," he said and, wincing, tried to reach for my fingers with his right arm. But he could not move easily, not with his shoulder set and wrapped, and the attempt at movement brought the bandages binding the end of his arm into view. He stared at them for a moment, looking utterly befuddled. "My hand is gone," he said slowly.

 

He didn't remember. But then, why would he? He had passed out long before I began slicing through muscle and skin.

 

"Yes," I said, trying to keep the tremor from my voice, and I saw Carnistir looking at me with worried eyes. "You were shackled to the cliff, Maitimo. I— it was the only way to free you."

 

"Hm," he said, as though this were a simple piece of gossip rather than news of a life-altering injury. "Was there a bird, Káno? Or did I dream that?" He paused and then said, "I dreamt a lot of things."

 

"There was a bird," I confirmed. "A giant eagle sent by Manwë. He carried me up to you and then bore us back here."

 

"But how did you get here?" he asked. "Atto burned the ships."

 

"We crossed the Helcaraxë."

 

"That's madness," he said flatly. "You would have died."

 

"Many of us did," I said, noticing that Carnistir was looking away, avoiding my gaze.

 

"I am sorry," Maitimo said. "I tried, but Atto was beyond reason."

 

Having heard our voices, Almarë entered the room with a stack of pillows. "Welcome back, Maitimo," she said, piling the pillows behind him and easing him up into a more elevated position. She had done her duties as a healer without complaint, but she was noticeably warmer now that she knew of Maitimo's protests against Fëanáro. "Do you know where you are?"

 

"Mithrim," he said. "The northern shore."

 

"And do you know what year it is?"

 

"No," he admitted. "I lost count of the days long ago."

 

"It's the fifth Year of the Sun," I said. "The Age of the Trees has ended."

 

"The sun," he said. "Is that one of those great orbs that hang in the sky?"

 

I nodded. "The bright one that brings daylight," I said. "The other is the moon."

 

"I remember when that one rose. I heard— someone. Trumpets. Outside the walls."

 

"That was us," I said. "Had I known…" I let my voice trail off. Would I have done anything, had I known? I had been very angry at what I thought was a betrayal.

 

Almarë had left the room while we spoke, and she returned now with a cup of broth and a straw. "Slowly," she said, holding them so that he could drink. "Go too quickly and you'll be sick."

 

He obeyed, taking small, careful sips. "This is very rich," he said, his voice less raspy now that some liquid had soothed his throat. "I don't know that I can finish it."

 

"That's all right," Almarë said, putting the cup aside. She seemed to have expected as much.

 

The idea that mere broth could be seen as rich troubled me, and I asked, "Did they feed you at all?"

 

"When they remembered," he said, his gaze going a little distant. "It was…unpleasant."

They fly, the servants he sends.

 

Carnistir's face had gone still and blank, the way it did when anyone he loved was in pain, and I wondered what it was that he sensed in Maitimo's mind. Nothing good, that much was certain.

 

Almarë broke the silence by resting her hand on Maitimo's forehead. "Your fever has gone down," she said. "Not all the way, but some. That's a good sign. Are you in any pain?"

 

"Nothing unbearable," he said, and I had to wonder how, after years of torment, his definition of unbearable might have changed.

 

Almarë, it seemed, had the same thought, for she said, "I'm going to give you a little poppy. You don't need to remain in pain, Maitimo."

 

"All right," he said, though he seemed to be humoring her. But he took it as ordered and soon drifted off to sleep.