The Tempered Steel by Lyra

Part II, Chapter II

In which Maedhros finds that his overall situation has improved considerably.

Whereas Maitimo had often dreamed of his past life and his family whenever he had been able to catch sleep during his torment, his mind now kept returning to the cruel mountain, and his sleep was not restful but torment anew. The first days he writhed and tossed – feebly, his worn-out body incapable of actual movement - and the closest he came to waking was to drift from haunted dreams into another state of unconsciousness. In those days he knew nothing that was happening around him, locked in fear and pain and fever. Occasionally he felt touches upon his skin and heard whispers and words that he vaguely felt he should understand, but they remained alien and distant. Even trying to think was too much of an effort, and he always fell back into dark dreams swiftly.
When days later he finally woke to full consciousness, it was with a start and a suppressed scream from a nightmare full of Orcs with whips and glowing irons. When he wrenched his eyes open, he found a room in their stead. Promptly his eyes clapped shut again: This was a kind illusion, and he wanted to stay in it.

In his illusion he lay curled up on his side, on something miraculously soft and warm; light was on his face, and the smell of blood was almost overcome by a scent of wood and herbs, wool and honey. His right hand was strangely unreceptive to his commands, so he used his left to slowly explore the surface of closely woven threads that covered him, yielding underneath his fingers. Of course there was pain; there always was. His right shoulder and arm and moreover the wrist burned harshly, sending relentless jolts through his veins with every heartbeat. But beyond that there was no more than a dull ache, not nearly as acute as he was used to. Only his head was spinning. It was almost too warm. Perhaps the clouds had torn and the bright lamp was burning him again, he thought, although it seemed to be a different kind of warmth. Perhaps he had simply gone mad for good. But it was a pleasant madness - he felt better than he had in years. As he gained more and more focus, his roaming hand recognised blankets and something like an animal's pelt. For a while, he was content to lie still and breathe the sweet air without the terrible pressure on his chest that had perforce become what he considered normal. His heart beat regularly and reassuringly behind aching ribs.
Then he slowly opened his eyes.

The room was still there.
It was small and sparsely furnished: Aside from the bed on which he lay there were only a small desk, a chair and a chest. There would have been no room for further furniture. The walls were painted in white, a thin blue line of floral ornaments circling the room at about shoulder-height; otherwise it was unadorned. But sunlight was shining through the glass panes of a window over the desk, falling on its polished surface and onto the wooden boards of the floor. It was the most beautiful thing Maitimo could remember seeing in a long time.

He had never been here before, Maitimo thought wildly, so surely he wasn't imagining it? It was unthinkable that he could truly be in such a friendly place, but he longed so badly to believe it! His left hand, clutching the pillows, let go to feel the wood of the bedstead, the wool of the blankets, the soft furs; it all felt real, and during his other hallucinations he had never been able to push aside the harsh surface of the stone wall beneath his back - surely this must be real?
It was impossible, altogether impossible. He called himself to order, told himself to be realistic. Perhaps this was some trick of Moringotto's. Or perhaps the Enemy wanted him to recover a little, so his torment could begin anew? That must be it, that made sense. But he would escape this time, Maitimo thought. Perhaps he could smash a window-pane and use a shard to kill himself before the hidden guards that must doubtlessly lurk somewhere could stop him?

He tried to sit up, but the mere attempt to raise himself even just as far as his elbows made his heart race and his lungs burn without achieving anything. He was so weak that the blankets bound him as effectively as iron chains would have done. He fell back with a pained groan. As he had expected, there was a guard who came when he heard the noise.
What Maitimo had not expected was that the guard would be an Elf. The face was familiar, but it couldn't possibly be here. It was the slightly aged, somewhat thinner face of the son of one of Nolofinwë's councillors who had often played with Maitimo and his brothers before Fëanáro's exile; Lastaher, Maitimo remembered, had been his name. But why his former playfellow should be here he couldn't begin to grasp. Surely Moringotto could not have imprisoned all the Elves even in the Blessed Realm!

He stared at the guard in confusion and found his gaze returned, hostility obvious in the other's eyes. Yet they were not dull or lit only by malice as those of the Orcs had been. Hope was dangerous, misleading, bringing only new pain when it was smashed; yet Maitimo couldn't quench the hope that began to swell in his heart.
"Lastaher?" he finally croaked, fully expecting that the other would now prove to be no more than a phantom.
Instead Lastaher nodded, almost grudgingly. "You still know me."
"Yes," breathed Maitimo, dizzy with excitement. "Yes. – Where are we?" He raised his head, shaking with the effort, looking urgently at his one-time friend.
"In Hisilomë. This is the encampment of King Nolofinwë," said Lastaher, and his face was like a mask. Maitimo did not care. Surely he could not be imagining this. Had the answer been Tirion, his brothers' camp, Mandos, he might have been hallucinating, he thought; but the idea of a Nolofinwëan camp in Hisilomë had never crossed his mind, and so it could not be a trick of his brain, could it? He closed his eyes; he felt them well up even as the corners of his mouth crept into a smile.
"I am free then," he whispered, trembling at the enormity of the idea, "free," and he wept, and wept more, and whispered praises to Eru and all the Valar.

Lastaher stood and watched as though embarrassed. When Maitimo's sobs grew weaker, he said gruffly, "Forget not to praise Findekáno, for it was he who risked his life for you."
"Findekáno…" Maitimo said. Then he clenched his eyes shut again as finally the memories hit him. His right arm cramped, painfully reliving the terrible moments when it had lost its hand – that, he thought dully, explained why his right hand hadn't worked. It was not there. It was lost, gone forever; his right arm ended in nothing. The thought was dreadful enough to make his eyes well up anew while a scream rose in his throat. But with hope, Maitimo's pride had been kindled also, and he swallowed the scream and grit his teeth and fought for breath, forcing his voice to be steady. "Yes... where is he?"
If Lastaher had noticed the inner struggle or heard the pain in his voice, he did not betray it. "He scarcely left your side. This is not the first time our King had to command him to eat and sleep."
"Right your King is," said Maitimo, disinclined at the moment to react to Lastaher's obvious provocation. He tried to make light of the situation. "Findekáno has no idea what a privilege a soft bed is."
Lastaher was not amused at all. "Do you think we had soft beds on the Ice?" he snapped.
Maitimo recoiled. "The Ice?" he asked, half-offended by Lastaher's rudeness, half shocked. "Is that how you came here?"
Lastaher glowered at him furiously, and for a moment Maitimo was afraid of him. But Lastaher did not strike him. Instead he turned around, looking tired. "I will tell Prince Findekáno that you have woken," he said and walked out without waiting for an answer.
"Thank you," said Maitimo nonetheless.

He had been scared that Findekáno would be similarly hostile as Lastaher had been, but when his cousin entered the room, looking exhausted but beaming broadly when he saw that Maitimo was awake, his fear abated, and he managed to mirror Findekáno's delighted expression with a weak smile of his own.
Findekáno rushed over to the bed and knelt beside it, clasping Maitimo's skeletal fingers in his own strong hands. "Oh, Russandol, you're awake! How do you feel?"
Maitimo took a while to reply as if he had to think about the question first.
"It's so unreal," he finally said, his voice rasping a little; he was still tired, and there were so many words that wanted to be said, and his throat, still raw from screaming, felt dry and sore. "It's like the possibility that I might ever be free didn't exist, and now that it has happened I am altogether unprepared to deal with it. I cannot explain..."
Findekáno was still smiling bravely although his eyes were sad. "You've only just returned. Give it some time."
"I don't think I have returned, that's the problem. Not in full."
Findekáno looked at the floor uncomfortably. "I am sorry about your poor hand - I am! Believe me, if I had seen any other way… but I didn't, and I couldn't leave you. And I couldn't kill you. I had to do it. If you cannot forgive me, I'll understand."

"Don't be silly," said Maitimo, trying to make his voice sound firm, with little success. He laughed weakly at his unconvincing sternness before the laugh turned into a cough again. When he had regained his breath, he tried to explain. "Yes, you robbed me of my hand. But you released me from terrible torment, Findekáno, and the last thing you need to do is ask forgiveness."
He sobered, and with some difficulty he bent his head over Findekáno's hands and kissed them reverently, delighting at the smooth, healthy skin under his torn lips. "I thank you, with all my heart I thank you. There are no words for my gratitude. Though I should heal and find my life again, I will never be able to repay this debt I owe you."
"Don't do that," said Findekáno, withdrawing his hands; his face was flushed. "You owe me nothing. You would have done the same for me."
"But I didn't," said Maitimo thoughtfully.
"If our roles had been reversed…" Findekáno began, but he was interrupted.
"But they were. And I did not come to deliver you from the Ice."
Findekáno grimaced. He had been thinking these same things only a few months ago, but he'd had a lot of time to meditate on them since then. "You couldn't have. How? Taking a ship against your father's will? Likely you'd be dead now."
"Father wouldn't have done that," Maitimo protested weakly, clenching his eyes shut. "Not if he'd known that I was aboard."
Findekáno pursed his lips, but he swallowed the harsh reply that tried to escape him. Letting out a long, slow breath, he said instead, "I mean, you would not have survived the journey. How would you have steered the ship all by yourself, through the ice and the contrary winds?"
Maitimo's eyes drooped shut as he struggled to find voice for his thoughts. After a moment, he said, "Perhaps I could have convinced some more of our people to come with me."
"While your father commanded them to stay and burn the ships?" Findekáno snorted. "No, I doubt you could have helped."
"I could have tried harder," his cousin insisted. His voice was now hardly more than a whisper, and his eyes briefly lost focus, exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him. Alarmed, Findekáno reached for his hand, and with enormous effort Maitimo managed to return his attention to the present.
Findekáno felt frustrated and ashamed at once. "We don't need to discuss this now,” he said. "We're just wasting your strength, and what's done is done. All that matters now is that you heal. Now, are you hungry?" His voice still betrayed his frustration, and he winced at his sharp tone.
So did Maitimo. "I am distressing you. I didn't mean to." He sighed, laboriously turning his face to look his cousin in the eye. Findekáno did not avert his gaze, but his brow creased in dismay; Russandol's eyes held so much despair, so much fear, so little light! He forced himself to smile.
"I don't feel hungry anymore," Maitimo said after some deliberation, "but I probably should eat something."
"Indeed you should," Findekáno said, rising to his feet. "I'll get you something."

When he returned with a bowl of broth, he was accompanied by a plain woman with long braids. "This is Istimë, our finest healer," Findekáno introduced her, setting the bowl and bread down on the table. "She has taken care of your wounds so far and wishes to see how you're faring."
"Good day, Mistress Istimë," said Maitimo, determined not to show his exhaustion. "Please do not think me ill-bred when I do not rise to greet you."
The corners of Istimë's mouth twitched. "So you've got your wits back. That is a good sign." Findekáno, standing beside her, relaxed visibly; until then, Maitimo had not even noticed how tense his cousin had been.
"Well, we'll help you sit up so you can eat and drink. Also so I can check on your wounds." She indicated for Findekáno to assist her, and together they got Maitimo into a sitting position. They were extremely careful, yet both their touch and the exertion of moving sent waves of red-hot agony through his body, and he ground his teeth, eyes shut tightly, in his effort to keep silent. "Let it out, cry if you must; it'll make it easier to bear," said Istimë, but Maitimo shook his head. Through gritted teeth, his voice hitching with his fast breath, he managed to say, "I'd rather not."
She raised her eyebrows, but didn't bother to argue with him. "Neither of us will see any shame in it after what you've gone through," she commented, "and it would make it easier. But suit yourself."
Indeed he managed to keep from screaming while Istimë checked on the healing progress of his raw back and sore shoulder, and while she changed his bandages, gently cleaning his wounds and applying salves; but the pain was more than obvious in his face before he buried it in Findekáno's shoulder. His fingers were gripping the blankets so tightly that the skin over his knuckles looked ready to tear.

"Well," he gasped, struggling for breath when the ordeal was over, "at least I know it's real when it hurts like that." He wasn't certain whom he was trying to reassure, himself or the others, who exchanged a glance over his head.
"Brave fool. It'll hurt a while longer, I'm afraid," said Istimë while cleaning her hands. "You haven't healed much – which is not surprising. It's amazing enough you had the strength to wake. But we can try to give some strength back to you, hm?" She reached for the bowl of broth Findekáno had placed on the desk. "Try to eat this, and then we'll let you rest again."

Maitimo hadn't lied when he had said that he didn't feel hungry, but when the first spoon of broth filled his mouth and his starved body remembered what it was like to be fed, his hunger awoke so violently that he felt almost sick. He swallowed the broth greedily. It was a good thing that somebody else was holding the bowl and feeding him, for otherwise it would have been empty within seconds. Even so he found that the food was gone much too soon. "More," he gasped, momentarily forgetting both pride and propriety as he licked his lips for the last drops of broth.
Istimë shook her head. "No. You aren't used to sustenance yet; if we give you too much, you won't be able to digest it, and trust me, there's nothing more frustrating than losing a meal you desperately need." Her eyes darkened a little. "I've seen it often enough." Findekáno, still propping Maitimo upright, shifted uneasily.

Intellectually, Maitimo understood her words, but they did nothing to assuage his hunger. He closed his eyes. "Very well," he said with some difficulty, trying to focus on speech over the raging demands of his belly. "So what happens now?"
"Now I suggest you rest. You can have tea as much as you want; I've put some herbs in it that should help to ease the pain. Young Findekáno has learned a lot about a healer's craft these past days, so I'll take my leave for now. I'll come back to bring you some more food in a few hours. Until then, try to sleep." She rose and bowed slightly to Findekáno, then left, taking the empty bowl with her.
Maitimo curled up on his side again, sighing. "I must be a terrible burden for you," he said. "Helpless, useless, demanding…"
"You're not a burden, and if you were, it'd be my fault alone," Findekáno said, carefully stroking his shoulder.
"You shouldn't have done it. It was much too dangerous. What if they had caught you?"
"They haven't, Russandol," Findekáno reminded him, a little more sternly now. "And I couldn't not at least have tried."
"Still it was madness," Maitimo mumbled; he was growing drowsy after the eventful morning. His fingers sought Findekáno's, who silently took his hand while Maitimo continued, "You risked too much. You shouldn't have." He glanced up at Findekáno and tried a smile. "Of course, now that it went well I must admit that I am insanely grateful that you did."
Findekáno smiled, relieved. "You are most welcome. I just wish you were better."
"Better…" Maitimo said softly. His eyes fluttered shut. "Ah, but I am better. Better than I have been in ages. I am clean, I am fed, and if I'm especially lucky, I won't even be beaten today." Findekáno winced, and Maitimo grimaced apologetically. "Perhaps I'll heal." He sighed. "Perhaps I will learn to believe it."