The Healing Hand by Cirdan

The Healing Hand

Read The Healing Hand

            By the Mereth Aderthad, the Feast of Reuniting, Finrod had already begun to notice that something was wrong.  But he told himself that he didn’t see it and that he didn’t care even if it were real and not imagined.

            And, after all, there was the Dagor Aglareb, the Glorious Battle.  In it, the armies of Fingolfin and Maedhros utterly destroyed the servants of Morgoth.  The Siege of Angband was strong.  The hearts of the Noldor were high and full of hope.  There was joy beneath the new Sun and Moon, and all the land was glad.  Why then, should there be any cause for doubt in these Years of Long Peace?

            Finrod came out of Nargothrond, as he did now and again, and went to visit his cousins in the east.  Maglor was in the middle of a composition and kindly declined Finrod’s offer to hunt in Ossiriand.  That was just as well.  After over three hundred years, any lingering resentment that Finrod had originally felt towards Maedhros had faded with the prosperity of the times.  It would just be him and Maedhros, and perhaps this time he would actually help to heal his kinsman.

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            When little over two years of the slain Trees (twenty years by the reckoning of the Sun that was to rise) had passed, Morgoth himself came before Maedhros.  Already, the eldest son of Feanor had endured torment at the hands and claws of the highest captains in Morgoth’s army.  When his term of punishment had begun, things unimaginable were done to him, and now that he’d been in Angband for so long, there was little left that he could not imagine.  What, then, would the Dark Lord himself do?  Would he strike him but with more power than Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs?  Or would he take him like Sauron the Abhorred?  Morgoth watched him with black eyes for many long moments, and there were many who would not have been able to endure even that and would have been cowed by the power, evil thought it might be, they felt behind those fell eyes.

            And then Morgoth laughed.  It was a horrible laugh, as deep as the darkest recesses of the earth but without an echo, filled with mockery and malicious glee.  Maedhros said nothing and continued to meet the gaze of his captor.  He would explain himself soon enough.  They always did.

            “I have sent well nigh a hundred of my servants to break your spirit, son of Feanor.  At last, I understand why none have been able to do so.”  Morgoth placed his hand around Maedhros’s neck, and that hand burned like hot ashes.  Still, Maedhros did not scream or flinch.  Perhaps the Dark Lord would soon turn to cruel caresses or perhaps he would tighten his hold and choke him.

            “I need not torment you further,” Morgoth said.  “My work has been done for me.  I will leave you with this last then: it is all true.”  Morgoth smiled cruelly, and having decided that there was no further need to try to break his spirit, Maedhros was instead hung from the face of a precipice.

            As he hung there, Morgoth’s last words echoed in his mind louder than even the fiercest winds.

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            It did not take long for Maedhros and Finrod to renew their acquaintance and again feel comfortable in each other’s company.  Despite being the head of a family of kinslayers and traitors, Maedhros was very personable and charismatic.  Besides, they’d been friends in Aman.

            On the seventh night of their hunting trip, Finrod finally spoke.  “There’s been something that’s been bothering me for some time now, Rossdol.”¹

            “If it’s about my hair, I didn’t color it.”  Maedhros shrugged.  “It’s been this way since Ang-- since we first came to Beleriand.”  Finrod hadn’t given it much thought, but Maedhros’s hair did look very bright red.  It was not even coppery or russet.  It was red.  “And it’s been getting more pronounced every year until it’s become impossible not to notice.  You’ve never visited me so late in the seasons, so you’ve probably never seen this hue of my hair.”  Maedhros frowned briefly.  “For some reason, it becomes brilliant and red in the winter, almost the very color of fresh blood, but as spring and summer sets in, my hair almost seems to ‘dry’ and become darker, more copper and then red-brown.”

            “Amrod’s hair also darkened when he became older, so it’s not a new phenomenon.  I’m sure it’s just something about the lands of our birth,” Finrod said and made a show of thinking nothing at all of the matter.  In truth, now that Maedhros had brought it up, Finrod really had never visited so late in the autumn season, had never known that Maedhros ‘bled’ through the winter in Himring.  What might this add?  “Surely this is not why you doubt yourself?”

            Maedhros raised an eyebrow.  “What mean you, cousin?”

            “You know that my sister and I have the ability to see people’s thoughts, though this is less true of our kind than the newly found Aftercomers.  I thought it my imagination at first, but I’ve watched you for some time now, Rossdol, and I know that there is a shadow that lurks still in your heart.”

            Maedhros stared at him for a moment then broke out into laughter.  “Oh, Finrod, sometimes I forget how much younger you are than me.  Yes, that sounded very deep, cousin.”  Maedhros chuckled some more and then became serious.  “It’s said that the shadow of pain has never departed from my heart and that it can be seen in the light of my eyes.”  He smiled wryly.  “I suspect that if that’s what the rumor mill says, then what you perceive is not at all wrong.”

            Finrod smiled along with him but did not let Maedhros’s manner put him off from his pursuit.  “No, I do not speak of that.  You’re right: that pain can be seen in your eyes.  But there is something else, something deeper…  You are as you’ve always been and yet you are not.  Once, you would’ve fought your self-doubts.  What is it?  What is it about you that tells you that you are unlikable, unlovable?  What is it that tells you that you are worthless?  Surely you do not believe the words of Morgoth, Master of Lies!”

            Maedhros flinched.  “It’s nothing.”  He drew himself up.  “I may be Dispossessed, but I am still a Prince of the Noldor.  I hold my own realm and have earned the following of many of the Grey Elves in addition to those Noldor who have obey my commands.  Unlikable?  And even Morgoth is wary of me.  For this reason, he is more prone to attack the west than the east.  By my vigilance, Beleriand is kept safe.  Why, then, would I be worthless?  I know not of what you speak.”

            “Neither do I.  I cannot wholly read your mind.”  Finrod frowned.  “You say all these things, and they are all true.  In addition, you were forgiven for the desertion in Araman after magnanimously waiving your claim to kingship over all the Noldor.  You endured torment unimaginable in Angband.  You do not cower from your memories but stand strong and fight the Dark Lord.  Why, then, would you believe otherwise?  You tell me.”

            “I have no idea what there is to tell,” Maedhros said with a shrug.  Finrod shrugged as well and turned to his dinner.  They ate in silence for many long moments.  “Have you ever heard the origins of my name?” Maedhros asked suddenly.

            “Which one?” Finrod said without jest.

            “Maitimo.”

            Finrod nodded.  “Well-shaped one.”

            “But do you know what it means?” Maedhros insisted with a sudden intensity.  Finrod, at a loss, shook his head.  He’d just stated the meaning of the name.  “There is a joke among the Aftercomers.  ‘A face that only his mother would love.’  That’s what my name means.”

            Finrod looked at Maedhros curiously.  “I don’t understand.”

            Maedhros shrugged.  “Never mind.  I was only trying to share something that I’d learned from Amlach.”

            They fell into other conversation, but Finrod did not forget Maedhros’s words and thought much upon the matter of Maitimo, the Well-shaped One.

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            It was many days later before Finrod turned back to that subject.  Maedhros simply leaned back and said, “It’s true, Morgoth did try to impress upon me his greatness and my relative worthlessness, but that’s the nature of torment.”  He shrugged.  “He sent all his captains to break my spirit, yet here I sit before you now.  I must have done something right.”

            “You’ve done many things right,” Finrod said with eager face.

            Maedhros shook his head at Finrod’s display of youth.  “Thanks.”

            “So why do you lack faith in yourself?”  Maedhros rolled his eyes at Finrod’s question.  “I don’t understand, Rossdol.  You are mighty in all parts of body and mind, in valour, in endurance, in beauty, in understanding, in skill, in strength…  What is it that you seek but cannot have?”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Maedhros decided to change the subject.  “I heard something else from the Aftercomers recently.  It would seem that some bear red hair among them, but these people are looked down upon as peasants because it is believed that their hair, originally brown or some other hue, must’ve become reddish after too much sun exposure from toiling in the fields.”

            Finrod fell quiet, and it was for the better.  His insistence had begun to annoy Maedhros.  After they dined, they stared thoughtfully into the crackling campfire.  Then, Finrod rose unexpectedly and came to stand before Maedhros.  Maedhros looked up at him and said nothing, tried to think nothing.  Finrod knelt down before him and took his right arm.  So gentle was he that Maedhros did not protest.

            “It is no mere joke that you were named Maitimo,” Finrod said as he held the end of the severed arm in both of his hands.

            Maedhros laughed bitterly.  “I shouldn’t have bothered telling you that story.  You just don’t get it.”

            “I do.  At last, I understand.”  Finrod began to hum a melody, choosing to express himself in song rather than words.  Maedhros’s brow furrowed, and he frowned as he heard Finrod’s message in music: “You are beautiful.  You are lovable.  You are good.”

            Maedhros pulled his arm away.  “Enough of this, Finrod,” he said sharply.  “I dare think you begin to mock me.”

            “It is no mockery,” Finrod said with that earnest face and earnest voice.  “Whatever your father told you, it’s not true.  You are not Curufin; you are not the replica of your father that he perhaps wanted, but that does not make you any less wonderful of a person.  Whatever your mother might have said, I do not think she said in irony or jest.  Your body is not mere consolation for your red hair.  You are not less worthy as a prince because you do not look the part.  In fact, you do look the part.  You act the part.  You are more noble and have held yourself better during these times in Beleriand than any of us, even Fingolfin.”

            “Yeah, yeah.  That’s fine, I know.”  Maedhros waved Finrod away, but Finrod didn’t budge from his place.  Instead, Finrod took his right arm into his hands again.

            “I see the shadow clearly now,” Finrod said.  “You do, indeed, play the part.  You are a mighty prince and a handsome Elf.  The problem is that you don’t believe it deep down inside.  You may profess to understanding that these self-doubts are mere doubts, but you still believe, somehow, that you are marred, ugly, worthless, and I know not what else.  So what could Morgoth or his servants have done to you to torment you?  When you were whipped, you believed it just, for you were a kinslayer.  When they burned you, you thought it right because you deserved it.  I have always marveled at your strength, Maitimo, and wondered if I could possibly have endured similar torment.  I don’t think I could have.  You did only because, unknown to all, your spirit had been broken long before by your father.”

            Maedhros bit his lower lip.  What was he to say?  That Finrod was right?  That he truly was a bad person?  That Morgoth had said so as well, and that, even as he spat at the Dark Lord’s face and called him liar, a part of him knew that Morgoth was right, that he needed only the truth to defeat Maedhros.  He alone was captured because it was his fate, and it was his fate because he was a bad person and had been even before the kinslaying.  In his very birth, he had defied his parents.  It was Curufin who should have been born, not him.

            Finrod shook his head.  “None of it is true.  You are a good person.  And you’re beautiful, inside and out.”

            Maedhros looked to where his hand was severed and then shut his eyes to the sight.  Unprincely, red-haired, ill-proportioned, but hey, at least he had all four limbs, ten fingers, and two eyes, a nose, and a mouth.  Yeah, he was well-formed.

            Finrod began to sing again, another one of his infernal “you are so beautiful” songs.  Maedhros shook his head and clenched his fist.  No matter who said it, it didn’t matter.  At times, even he could believe it.  But then he always returned to not believing it, to the hard truth of the matter: that he was some mistake and should never have even been born.  Feanor had been young when he’d wed, and so he’d inadvertently fathered a pathetic first son, one who was far from what he’d wanted.  By the fifth try, Feanor had learned to forge a child in his own image.

            Maedhros tightened his fist until the knuckles turned white and his nails dug into the flesh of his palm and almost drew blood.  Then he looked in surprise.  Though he had learned to be left-handed, it was his right hand that he clenched.  He opened his hand and watched in amazement as his fingers stretched out.  He was like a child seeing his body do such things for the first time.  There was a faint glow to his hand, and he was quick to understand.  The hand was an illusion created by Finrod’s song.  He looked at Finrod, whose eyes were large and bright, then looked again at his hand with wonder.

            After a time, Finrod took Maedhros’s right hand into his hands again.  He kissed Maedhros’s palm, and Maedhros could feel those lips on his illusory flesh.  Finrod kissed each fingertip in turn then balled Maedhros’s hand and kissed the top of his fist.  All the while, Finrod continued to hum his song.

            Maedhros closed his eyes.  Still, he could feel his hand even though he could not see it.  Tears slipped unchecked down his cheeks.  And though he could not say it aloud because he could scarcely believe it himself, he thought, I believe you, Finrod.  And he felt Finrod open his hand and nuzzle his cheek against his palm in answer.

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Chapter End Notes

¹ Rossdol: Sindarin version of Russandol, nickname for Maedhros.