Show Us by Luxa

Chapter 1

I used Quenya names for the characters, so I'll do a key here:

Macalaurë- Maglor

Maitimo- Maedhros

Pitya/Ambarussa- Amrod

Atani/Secondborn- Men

Read Chapter 1

"Brother," he said cautiously. "I'm not sure this is a good idea."

"Of course it's a good idea," replied Maitimo, his great deep rasp of a voice struggling to come to terms with its owner's uncharacteristic cheeriness. "I had it."

Macalaurë took in the sight of his usually stoic, brooding brother haphazardly packing Macalaurë's saddlebag. If his throat had been up to it, he would have bet Maitimo would be humming.

"I'm not diplomatic. I'm not like you. There is no reason for me to come with you."

"Don't you have any curiosity?" asked Maitimo, throwing his packed saddlebag at him. "I'd have thought you, of all people, would want to come and meet the Secondborn."

"Whatever for?" asked Macalaurë, pleasantly exasperated.

"To write a song about it, of course."

---

After several days hard riding, Macalaurë was even less amused by his brother's whim of taking him to meet the Atani. His back was sore, Maitimo had severely under-packed his bags, and he was riding next to Ambarussa, who, for all he loved his brother, had the propensity to never shut up.

"We're almost there," he heard Maitimo say. He rarely raised his voice; the thick, roping scar cutting into his neck saw to that, and Macalaurë worried what would become of his brother's throat in years to come.

Maitimo's squire, who had been young and frightened during Losgar and had grown up to become the capable, humble adult Maitimo needed, one who could both cut meat and yell to troops, announced it to the handful of Elves Maitimo had brought from the hill to meet the Atani.

Macalaurë spotted a break in the trees on either side of the road ahead and called out to the others. To be honest, he was excited to meet the Secondborn.

Until about two minutes later, when he actually saw some.

Why were they so dirty? Macalaurë had known from Findaráto's reports that the Atani were mostly unlearned and uncivilized, but he hadn't expected them to be so...so unhygienic. He looked around and saw that almost all the Elves were wrinkling their noses with varying expressions of distaste. Maitimo and Pitya were the exceptions; Pitya had stumbled across the Atani before, and Macalaurë had to assume Maitimo had known what to expect.

They were shepherded into a large clearing, where a man who was obviously the leader of the Atani stepped forward. His long, tangled black hair was streaked with gray, and his skin was leathery and tan, not unlike Maitimo's had become since Thangorodrim. He smiled as they approached, revealing a mouthful of broken, yellow teeth.

Maitimo dismounted from his horse, and all the men gathered around their leader took a step back as Maitimo straightened to his full height, towering over the Atani. To be fair, he towered over the Eldar, too.

Then something happened that Macalaurë could not explain. The leader of the men narrowed his eyes, rudely pointing in the direction of Maitimo's missing hand. A loud murmur of dissention rippled through the group, and they collectively stared to glare at Maitimo.

Macalaurë dismounted his horse too and walked up next to Maitimo. "What's wrong?"

"I thought this might happen," said Maitimo calmly, his facade of cheeriness fading. "Findaráto warned me in a letter around the same time as the reports came. That's why I brought you, brother. You can stand in for leader if need be."

"But...why?" asked Macalaurë, still confused. "I'll admit you're a bit of a startling sight at first," (Maitimo laughed at this), "But they must have had injuries like this before."

"Isn't it obvious? In their culture, thieves and other criminals are often punished through amputation. They think I have committed a crime."

"But...that's ridiculous! You haven't done anything!"

"Brother's right," said Pitya. "I learned a little of their language during my hunting trips, and they mentioned that form of punishment when we exchanged details of our cultures. Do you want me to talk to them, Maitimo?"

"No," said Maitimo decisively. "I think I'll take Findaráto's approach first. If they prove unresponsive because of my hand, you or Macalaurë can do it."

Maitimo turned to the Atani and said, in clear mind-speak, "We are the Noldor. We have come to exchange cultures and talk about making treaties and agreements. Thank you for graciously accepting us into your lands."

The Atani seemed to get the gist of Maitimo's words, and their brows furrowed in distrust even further.

"I am Bór. We do not talk with criminals. Tell your people to send us a real leader."

The Elves bristled with anger, all except Maitimo, whose face remained impassive. Macalaurë was surprised by the steel in Bór's mind; he hadn't expected him to be able to communicate so well.

Macalaurë glanced over and saw that Pitya's face was purple with rage, making him look rather like a radish.

"I am my people's leader. I am no criminal. These Elves can vouch for me."

"Maitimo should not have to be vouched for," hissed Pitya, but Macalaurë was too busy watching his brother to reply.

The men did not seem convinced, muttering among themselves before Bór replied tersely, "Then why do your people let a cripple lead them?"

"I lead because I have strength," replied Maitimo. "It is my birthright, and capture and torture by our common enemy did not deter me from that path."

Macalaurë smiled; the words "our common enemy" had gotten their attention. Several of the Atani looked embarrassed or ashamed, but Bór's expression did not change.

"Show us," said Bór.

The Elvish party was escorted to a camp of the Atani, where they got a close-up view of their culture in its full glory. The latrines were detectable by the horrible stench you could smell fifty feet off, but Macalaurë had to admit their buildings were well structured, if simple, and their clothes and tools were sturdy and reliable. They were ushered onto a large fur mat of some sort while their horses were cared for and Maitimo (with Pitya translating, as Maitimo had thought it best to switch to non-mystical means of communication) figured out how Bór wanted him to "show his strength."

Eventually Maitimo returned to them, looking thoughtful.

"It is to be an arm-wrestling match," he said. "Bór is confident his warriors can best me in that particular strength; he wants me to prove my left arm can make up for what I lack in my right."

No one had been expecting this; mouths dropped and the Elves looked at each other as though it were the sun rising for the first time all over again.

"And you agreed to it?" asked Macalaurë, completely floored.

"It is their land, brother. We must be polite; we need their allegiance if we are to defeat Moringotto. Laegon, come here please."

His squire scrambled up from the ground and stood there, obviously wondering what Maitimo wanted him to do.

"You too, Macalaurë. Bór has informed me that I may prepare with two others."

They were led to a small separated area where Maitimo promptly began doing something Macalaurë had never expected to see him do; he began taking his clothes off. By the look on his face, Laegon was equally surprised.

"I was advised by the Atani to strip down to minimal layers for this," said Maitimo, smirking. "Laegon, could you put my hair in a ponytail? A high one please."

Laegon, who, more than anyone else in the world, knew Maitimo's worst disfigurements and deepest scars, watched in shock as Maitimo shed his cloak, outer tunic, and hauberk, leaving him in his travel-stained undershirt. It hit Macalaurë that he had not seem the bare arms of his brother since before his capture by Moringotto, and that he truly had had no idea how badly his brother's body had been marred by his time in Angband. He hid his body well.

That's why it was so shocking that Maitimo would discard his protective layers so quickly and so easily. Macalaurë worried what the long term effects of this day would be, especially if his brother lost.

"Laegon," repeated Maitimo, his scratchy voice laced with amusement, the scar that caused it now fully visible as it wound its way around his neck and down his back. "My hair?"

"Of course, sire," said Laegon quickly, pulling a thick lace out of his deep pockets and wrapping it securely around Maitimo's bushy hair.

"No," said Maitimo sharply. "Higher."

Laegon did not hesitate as he pulled Maitimo's hair high, revealing his scarred neck and, horrifyingly, Maitimo's ears, which had been hacked off to their base. Macalaurë's gaze fell to where the comparatively minor scars of Maitimo's neck met his back, which was entirely scarred over with what looked like one large mass of pink tissue, but, when examined closely, were actually the marks of thousands upon thousands of whip lashes. You could see several inches of it before Maitimo's shirt began, and Macalaurë wondered desperately why Maitimo hadn't kept his hair down.

Unless...Maitimo wanted to show off his scars.

Yes, Macalaurë decided as Maitimo walked back into the public area, where his opponent was waiting. That had to be his plan.

He wanted them to see.

When Maitimo walked back where others could see him, everyone stared. The Atani were visually shocked, many of them looking appalled or, is a few cases, impressed. The Eldar present were outwardly unchanged, but Macalaurë could sense their horror. Maitimo's opponent stopped talking to his friends and openly gawked at Maitimo, who cut an impressive figure, two heads taller than everyone else, his chest filling out his thin undershirt with hard muscles, his body toned and strengthened by hard work and fighting.

Bór's, unlike the other men, did not seem disturbed by Maitimo's scars. Instead, his face held a most peculiar expression of relief.

Maitimo's opponent, who had obviously been chosen for his hulking strength in both arms (as he would be arm-wrestling with Maitimo left-handed), swaggered to the middle of the clearing prepared for them. Maitimo, face calm, met him halfway, and they sat down on rough stumps that had been dragged onto either side of a large rough table that had been placed there.

Maitimo placed his arm on the table, and Macalaurë was pleased to see that his brother's arm strength seen about equal to his opponent's.

Bór said some words in the Atani's native language that Macalaurë couldn't even pretend to understand, and the match began.

Two or three minutes in, Pitya sidled up to Macalaurë and whispered, "It's quite kind of brother to pretend to have to try, isn't it?"

Macalaurë laughed as he watched sweat trail from Maitimo's forehead to his chin, his arm tightly gripped with the Atani's. "Pitya, I don't think he's pretending."

"But..." said Pitya carefully. "They can't be as strong...I mean, they're the Secondborn for a reason..."

"Don't talk like that," said Macalaurë quietly. "We don't know much about them. They are very different than us; we don't know what they're capable of."

"Er-sorry," said Pitya, embarrassed. "Look, brother's winning! Wait, no-"

Maitimo had taken the lead for a split second, the muscles in his arm visibly straining, only for the man to pull his arm in the opposite direction two or three inches.

"Barbaric," commented Macalaurë. "But entertaining."

As they watched, Maitimo took a deep breath and grappled with the Atani even harder, sweat running in rivulets down his arms and staining his shirt. He had gained several inches, his opponent's arm halfway to the table, when the crowd heard a sickening crack.

Maitimo's face whitened and there was a split second where Macalaurë thought he would let go, but he steeled himself instead and kept going, pushing his opponent's fist down against the table, his chest heaving.

Bór, looking surprisingly pleased, grabbed Maitimo's hand and raised it in the air, not seeming to notice as Maitimo's already white face paled further. He shouted something that clearly meant 'Victory!' and the Atani whooped, cheering Maitimo on. Even Maitimo's opponent slapped Maitimo on the back before joining the throng of chanting Atani.

Maitimo nodded a lot when Bór turned to him, so Macalaurë figured they must be talking in mind-speak. When Maitimo finally came back to them, he was still sweating heavily but his face was triumphant.

"Bór has agreed to a treaty," he said, his voice deceptively calm as he completely ignored their horrified stares directed at the large lump in his upper arm. "He says I have proved exceptionally strong-willed and admirable and apologizes for the way he and his people treated me."

"T-That's good," managed Macalaurë. "Brother, are you-"

Maitimo shook his head very slightly, and Macalaurë swallowed.

"This is part of it," said Maitimo, only so his brother could hear. To the others, it looked as if he'd merely smiled and walked away. "Bór is still testing me."

Macalaurë glanced at Laegon, who nodded ever so slightly.

Several days later, when they were on their way back to Himring, Maitimo finally allowed his bone to be set. Pale, but his jaw firm and his eyes hard, Maitimo did not scream.

Macalaurë decided, yes, he did want to write a song, but it wasn't about the Secondborn after all.

---

Chapter End Notes

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