Reconciliation by Ariana

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Chapter XIII

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Chapter XIII

Convincing Maedhros to let them cut his hair proved to be easy. The sick elf accepted the fact that he needed to look decent if he started moving more freely and going outside.

“What do you think?” asked Amras, combing his brother’s damp hair.

Cutting the ends made the longest strands wave by the ears. Amras cut as little as he could, seeing how unhappy Maedhros was, but he had little choice. As the result the haircut was a bit more regular than earlier, but still far from ideal.

Maedhros combed his hair with his fingers and brushed them from his forehead. He watched himself in the mirror and Amras caught his brother’s reflection staring at him.

“It’s short,” sighed the sick elf, barely containing his bitterness.

“I can’t do much more,” claimed Amras. “Soon we’ll get rid of those dull endings. Look how nice they grow now,” he caressed the hair on the top of his brother’s head.

“Mmm... Yes, I suppose.” Maedhros made an effort to show some enthusiasm and failed.

“You don’t like it.” Amras leaned and embraced him from behind, resting his chin on his head and looking at the reflection. “That’s good,” he said suddenly and smiled.

Maedhros in the mirror looked at him, puzzled, then grabbed one of Amras’s long braids hanging down up to his ribcage. He entwined it around his fingers, examining carefully the bead on its end.

“Tyelpe made those,” said Amras, as if answering an unvoiced question. “Curvo teaches him well, Russo.”

Maedhros stirred hearing the name no one had called him in a long time. He let go of the braid, not really hiding his longing look, and Amras leaned forward to reach for the scissors.

“What do you intend to do?” asked Maedhros at once, glaring at his hand.

“Cut it,” Amras just shrugged. If his brother felt bad seeing his long hair, he was willing to shorten them.

“No!” Maedhros stopped him. “You look good this way, don’t do that...”

“Are you sure?” Asked the youngest son of Feanor, glancing at his brother’s hand, then at his reflection. “Alright, alright!” He surrendered, for Maedhros fished the scissors from his grasp.

“Don’t even think of that!” The elder brother shook the scissors and placed them as far as he could.

Instead, Amras removed a few beads from his braids and examined his brother’s hair. There was no way for him to braid them, but he could put the jewellery on them. Maedhros kept his eyes on the reflection and watched him with interest.

“What would you say?”

Maedhros carefully shook his head, but the beads didn’t fall. He smiled uncertainly to his brother and nodded. Amras hastily tied his loosened braids behind.

“Breakfast?”

xxx

“Curufinwe, wait.” Maedhros called after his brother as he was already at the doorstep.

Curufin stopped obediently, not really hiding his impatience; his son was waiting for him.

“What is it, Maitimo?”

“Take me to the forge with you,” asked the eldest brother, pushing himself from the table.

“Of course, if you wish so.” Astonished, Curufin waited for his brother to rise and join him.

Maedhros caught Curufin glancing at his feet, as he was probably going to say he would not take him to the forge barefoot, and then the surprise on the smith’s face as he saw the shoes. The idea of going to the forge was not spontaneous; Maedhros decided  few days earlier that he would have to confront the noises that troubled him so.

“Why the sudden interest?” asked Curufin and supported his brother, as they were going for a longer walk.

“I want to see what you’re doing.” Maedhros watched the floor closely, as he felt a bit unsteady in shoes; walking barefoot was much easier.

“Right now? I’m about to finish hinges for the main gate. Moryo wished them to be more decorative,” replied the smith. “Are you sure you want to go there?” he worried as his brother stopped by the main door and leaned against the doorframe to rest a bit. “It’s stuffy there.”

“I have to see what you are doing,” repeated Maedhros. He hoped that once he saw what his brother was doing with his son in the forge, the urge to run away would disappear. It had been embarrassing enough when he had sat with Fingon and his fingers had clenched convulsively at his cousin’s hand with every bang of an anvil.

They didn’t make half of the way through the yard when Maedhros simply stopped and leaned heavily on his brother.

“No rush,” muttered Curufin, adjusting his grasp. Celebrimbor calling from the forge that everything was ready contradicted him.

Maedhros looked at the distance to the forge door and decided he had overestimated his strength. There was a bench by the well only few steps away; it was Caranthir’s idea to put those heavy, solid benches with high backrests all around the yard. They looked as if someone had abandoned them there, but they gave Maedhros an opportunity to rest and the backrest helped him rise.

“Atto!” Celebrimbor called again and Maedhros made a choice.

“Leave me here for now,” he said, turning towards the bench.

“Are you sure? I can...”

“No,” Maedhros cut him off. He let go of Curufin and sat down. He had a deal with his brothers that outside the house he was moving on his own; if his strength failed him, he was going to try again in a week or two. ‘You will not carry me like a doll,’ he had said to his brothers and Maglor had winced at this expression.

“Off you go!” He pushed Curufin and watched him go.

His younger brother joined his son and Maedhros leaned comfortably. He knew he wasn’t going to sit there for long; it was far too hot for him and there was not even a scrap of shadow.

The first bang on the anvil took him by surprise and his heart raced. ‘Curufinwe, it’s just Curufinwe,’ he repeated, but the images lurking at the edge of his consciousness already crept on him, painting the images of Angband’s dark forges; the shoes on his feet felt like shackles. Maedhros fought the urge to curl and protect his head and his arm, he forced himself to open his eyes and stared at his brother’s smithy. He could not force his muscles, painfully pulling at his barely closed wounds on his back, to relax.

Determined not to repeat the incident from the last week, Maedhros rose on his feet. He could either try to return to the house or go to the forge. The latter was closer and it had been his initial destination.

He made a few steps, partly aware how absurd it was to escape the sun heat only to go right to the forge. Mostly he just wanted to get to his brother, to reassure himself there was no reason to become agitated.

Something fell in the forge with a loud bang. Maedhros tried to step back and lost his weak balance. He fell forward with a curse on his lips, instinctively reaching with both of his arms to soften the fall.

Celebrimbor was less busy when he and his father heard the cursing. He was first to leave his tools and run outside and he wasn’t really surprised when he saw Maedhros sitting on the ground, furious and humiliated.

“Are you alright, Maitimo?” Celebrimbor leaned and swiftly pulled his uncle up instead of giving him a hand.

“I asked you something,” hissed Maedhros, irritated. He tried to shake off his nephew’s hand keeping him upright, but Celebrimbor didn’t let him, seeing how his knees were buckling.

“That’s enough for today, isn’t it?” Curufin joined  them and examined his brother. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“No!” growled the eldest son of Feanor. He used the fact that Celebrimbor let go of him and wiped off some dust.

 Celebrimbor made some place for his father, knowing that Maedhros was more likely to accept the help from one of his brothers, but before they reached the house, he supported his uncle from the other side. Maedhros stopped by the door to his room to catch his breath, but then he firmly freed himself from their arms. His narrowed eyes were furious.

“Nelyo, are you sure you are alright?” Curufin looked at his brother worriedly and Maedhros exploded.

“I told you I am!” He pushed himself from the wall and opened the door. “Can’t you just leave me alone?!” He went in a bit unsteadily and slammed the door behind him. At the corridor, the father and son exchanged helpless glances.

Just like the wounded elf wished, nobody disturbed him for the following hours. It was Amras, being unaware of the morning incident, who came back home and was first to realise that they had made a mistake.

When he came in, at first he thought Maedhros was just sleeping, but then he noticed his unusual position. His eldest brother was lying curled on his left side with the pillow on the other and of the bed, so that he was facing the door. He kept his knees up to his chest, with shoes still on his feet; his face was tight and his cheeks flushed. He was hugging his maimed arm protectively. And first of all – he did not react to Amras’s presence, though he had been a light sleeper recently. When light shaking too did not wake him, the youngest son of Feanor went to fetch the healer.

xxx

The light hurt his eyes, bright, brighter than stars or the Trees. It didn’t allow him to open his eyes. It should not have been so bright in there... The golden gleam forced him to turn his head away, to give up. Did he know it? Had he forgotten? Because surely the dungeons were black, dark and stifling.

His ribs hurt with each breath, his back burned. His hand...? He knew not what had happened to his hand, but he curled when he was touched, feeling he needed to protect it.

The hands that were touching him tried to force him to uncurl. Strong, steady hands which tried not to cause him unnecessary  pain. A voice muttering soothingly was pleasant to listen to.

The voice... He knew it. Soft, tender, yet strong. ‘You are safe.’ It sounded as if the speaking person could protect him with the voice alone. Kano...? The light dazzled him, didn’t let him open his eyes, but the touch was nothing like torture. Whatever those known-unknown hands were doing, they wanted to help him. Moryo...? Skillful, strong hands... Tyelko perhaps? You’re safe, don’t worry. Atar...? No, he was dead. But the voices over his head sounded familiar, safe. It’s your brothers.

A stronger grasp, a jerk. Someone managed to straighten his arm, forcefully, without asking. Why...? Whoever did that, they kept him firmly and did not let him escape. Maedhros felt his panic raising. He was supposed to be safe, his brothers promised nothing could happen to him... The pain in his arm intensified as if someone was tearing the skin. What did they come up with this time?

He wanted to scream once the thought appear in his head. There were no brothers. They did not come for him. He was alone; just him and the tormentors, the blinding light and illusions.

‘Drink.’ A request at first, then an order, a mug pressed to his lips. A poison or a cure to make him live longer? He turned his head away, but the plea was repeated, calmly, urgently. All the more, he could not trust it.

He struggled, his ribs protested. He lost his breath and with the lack of air came the wave of fear.

More hands pinned him to something soft, someone forced some sour liquid down his throat. He spat as much as he could, choked with the rest. His lungs burned, his shallow breath turned into rasps. And the voice... apologized? So now they wanted to torment him with the memories from home? Surely his brother would not hurt him...?

Whoever was giving him drink, they were stubborn. The second time Maedhros gave up. They gave him the liquid in small sips, raising him high and immobilizing him. If they wanted to heal him a bit before further torture, at least he would stop hurting for a moment. And if it was poison...

xxx

Maedhros was sleeping restlessly and Maglor felt as if those horrid days from a month ago returned all over again. The wounded said nothing about the consequences of his fall on the yard and when the fever rose, he could not wake up and did not recognize the surroundings. The singer had kept him all the time when Alcarino searched for the reasons of his condition and Maedhros reacted with blind denial to any order. He calmed only after Maglor forced him to swallow some herbs. The healer agreed to stay with the wounded until the fever break, so they sat together with Maglor, chatting quietly.

Maedhros moved and opened his eyes. He looked at Maglor and immediately shut his eyes back, turning his head away.

“Nelyo?” The singer leaned over the sick. “Nelyo, do you need anything?”

“G-go away,” hissed Maedhros. “St-top it, s-stop it,” his tight voice was full of desperate plea.

“What’s going on, Maitimo? Why do you want me to leave?” asked Maglor nervously and reached for his brother’s hand. Next thing he knew was Maerhros’s fingers clenched around his wrist with surprising force.

“You are not real.” The hallow eyes of the sick elf shone when he met Maglor’s. “Go away, go away! D-don’t torment me! Leave...” His voice broke into a muffled sob. Maedhros moved his hand and turned on his right side, hugging himself.

“Maitimo, but I...” Maglor fell silent, not sure how to respond to such accusation. He backed a bit, still watching his brother.

“L-leave me alone,” muttered Maedhros into his pillow.

Maglor backed away, hurt and anxious, he sat on his heels. He sent the healer a helpless glance. Alcarino nodded slightly and took the lead.

“What is it, Nelyafinwe?” he asked calmly and sat on the right side of the bed.

Hearing another voice, Maedhros glanced vigilantly at the elf. He blinked, surprised, but mistrust did not leave his eyes, rather opposite.

“Don’t curl like that, you won’t be comfortable this way.” The healer calmly but firmly placed his hands on the sick elf’s shoulders and forced him to lay flat on his back. Maglor winced as he saw his brother’s expression, but did not interfere.

“Let me, Nelyafinwe.” Alcarino then reached for the maimed arm and placed it carefully on a pillow. “You tore some stitches, I don’t want you to lie accidentally on your arm,” he spoke smoothly as if he didn’t see the the wide, suspicious eyes of his patient.

“Don’t touch...” hissed Maedhros and he tried to cringe again, but the healer’s hands did not let him. He tried to shake them off, but he just winced and froze.

“Nelyafinwe, Nelyo. I’m not going to do anything right now,” promised Alcarino. “Careful with the arm, I know it’s tender. By the way, it was foolish not to tell us anything,” he added more sharply. “You are still weak and so are your bones. You should have told us. Yes, you have broken a rib when you fell,” he explained, seeing the puzzled look of the wounded.

Maedhros blinked again and focused his gaze on the healer. Understanding appeared in his grey eyes.

“...’Rino?” A-Alcarino?” he asked hesitantly, relief almost breaking his voice.

“Yes,” the healer smiled. “You are safe, with your brothers,” he reassured him.

“Not... dungeons...?” Maedhros stared intensively at Alcarino without blinking. “Not...?”

“No, you are by the lake, with your bothers,” the healer repeated calmly and pointed at the crouching singer.

Maglor swallowed bitterness raising in his throat when he watched as Maedhros let Alcarino convince himself, as he believed and trusted him. It hurt that his brother had escaped from him just a moment earlier, even if it was the fever messing with his thoughts and bringing again some nightmares.

Maedhros looked as Alcarino pointed him and when he crossed his eyes with Maglor, the singer made sure none of his emotions showed on his face.

“Kano... Kano...” The quiet voice of the wounded turned into a hiccupped sobs. His slim fingers, so far clenched into a fist, reached for his brother. “It’s you... you, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s me, Nelyo.” The smile on Maglor’s face was not forced as he entwined his hand with his brother’s, sitting again on the bed. He leaned and kissed his forehead, still a bit warm. “I’m real,” he promised. “And you are safe, nobody is going to touch you here. But Alcarino is right, don’t frighten us like this again, please?”

“Real...” Maedhros moved closer and buried his nose in his brother’s tunic, their fingers still curled.

Maglor sat more comfortably and placed his right arm over Maedhros’s head. He put his fingers into his brother’s hair, trying to untangle Amras’s beads from them. Maedhros did not escape his touch, just cuddled closer. The singer exchanged satisfied looks with the healer and picked one of his old melodies.