The Tempered Steel by Lyra

Part II, Chapter VI

In which Maedhros returns to his people, and there are unexpected complications.

They had hardly dismounted (Maitimo being just barely kept from unceremoniously falling onto his face by Macalaurë's and Ambarussa's combined efforts) when their brothers surged forward, followed by the eager crowd. Tyelkormo was the first who reached Maitimo, wrapping him in a bear hug before he could be stopped. Maitimo groaned, his endurance worn thin after the long day, but Tyelko did not even notice. "Well, finally!" he shouted. "We were half-tempted to start the feast without you!"
"Feast?" Maitimo managed after he had been extricated from his brother's clasp. "You have prepared a feast?"
"What did you expect, when a long-lost brother returns? At any rate you look like you need it; it seems Nolofinwë didn't feed you well!"
"Nolofinwë fed me very well," said Maitimo tersely. By now Carnistir was embracing him, silently leaning his head against Maitimo's collarbone. "It was Moringotto who forgot that Elves occasionally need nourishment."

Tyelkormo fell into embarrassed silence, but the excited babbling of the crowd swallowed it, and already Curufinwë spoke up. "Well, Carnistir, let us others have a piece of him as well," and Carnistir gave Maitimo an apologetic smile and let go of him. Curufinwë seized his shoulders at once, sending his tender right shoulder into a firework of agony. "Sweet Eru, but it is good to have you with us again!"
"Thank you," replied Maitimo, feeling soundly overwhelmed by pain and attention. Curufinwë looked so much like their father now (although a bit more wiry, and with fewer laughter lines around his eyes) that he almost added 'Father', biting it back in the last moment. It seemed to him that there was another, younger Curufinwë standing behind Curufinwë's shoulder, looking at him with a slightly worried expression. Maitimo tilted his head, confused, and the younger version of his brother hastened to smile. "Welcome home, Uncle Maitimo."
Only then did Maitimo remember the gangly youth that Curufinwë's son had been when he had last seen him. The realisation hit him harder than he would have expected, the boy's maturity making clear just how much time had passed. "Tyelperinquar!" he cried, unable to mask his surprise. "My word, you have grown up!"
Tyelperinquar's smile lost some of its nervous quality. "You are the first to acknowledge it, Uncle Maitimo," he said, "for which I thank you."
"I should have come back sooner then, huh?" said Maitimo, noticing that Curufinwë's brow was creasing threateningly.
"Not just for that reason," Tyelpo said emphatically, and Maitimo couldn't help but smile.

Now that his immediate family had had their share of his attention, all the friends and acquaintances, pages and servants in the second row demanded their turn. They'd had more time to take in Maitimo's state, and some of them had noticed the traces of pain and exhaustion, noticed that Macalaurë and Ambarussa had to keep him on his feet, and their joy was no longer unadulterated. Many now looked at him with sorrow and pity. Varnacanyo, his one-time squire, had with his sharp eyes noticed the bandaged stump, half-hidden though it was by Macalaurë's shoulder, and he broke into tears. "My lord," he cried, falling to his knees, "what have they done to you?"
"You do not want to know," said Maitimo wearily. "Please get up, Varnacanyo; it is not your fault."
"But I should have been with you," the squire protested.
"Then you would be dead or worse. I am glad for anyone who could not ride with me that day," replied Maitimo. Varnacanyo had fallen ill from a snake-bite on the day before the parley, an inconvenience to which he now owed his life. "Please get up," Maitimo said again. "I've been forced to kneel too often to bear seeing it in others."
This time, the uncomfortable silence spread to everybody. Varnacanyo rose, reluctantly, and Maitimo thought that suddenly everybody seemed to be huddling closer to each other now. The cheerful excitement had left, and in its place there was a dark cloud. He shivered.

"Well, let us not stand out here in the cold," said Macalaurë in a loud, authoritative tone that made Maitimo blink. "I should like a bath now, and I am certain Nelyo and Ambarussa feel the same; and afterwards we shall have our feast, and celebrate the future to chase away the bitter past. Make room!" The throng gave way, and they marched towards the largest house.
"Macalaurë," whispered Maitimo, dragged rather than limping along between his brothers, clinging to their shoulders with his last strength. "Macalaurë, don't make me attend a feast. I am so tired…"
His brothers frowned once more. "But we have prepared it especially for you," Ambarussa said a little helplessly. "We thought you'd be happy…"
"I am," whispered Maitimo, "oh, I am, but I cannot deal with light and feasts and all these faces just now. Please, I need to rest."

Now they stopped. The other brothers joined them quickly to find out what was wrong. Maitimo glanced at them, catching his breath: Even this short walk had been overtaxing.
"Please, have your feast, and make it joyful," he said when he trusted himself to, "but leave me out for today. I'm so exhausted, and I'd only be a shadow on your festivities anyway."
"Don't say that," Tyelkormo began, but Macalaurë nodded, sighing.
"It is reasonable that you want to rest. And we certainly wouldn't want you to get worse just because we want to celebrate your return. I'll tell the people."
"I can manage that," said Maitimo, drawing himself a little more upright with difficulty. "Turn me around?"

They did, and he faced the crowd again, seeing their eyes, filled with horror or pity or both, fixed on him.
"My dear people," Maitimo said, grasping for formulae, "my friends! I thank you for your kind and eager reception; I admit that I was worried you might be disgusted by what I have become, and I cannot say how relieved I am to be welcomed so warmly. I wish I could properly thank you, and feast with you tonight. But I am not as well as I should like, and the journey has worn me out." He hated to admit it so directly, but then it was fairly obvious anyway. "Therefore I ask you to pardon my absence, and to celebrate without me. One day I will be able to join you, but I must ask you to have patience with me until that day comes." He managed to keep his voice fairly firm, but he had to pause for breath every few words.
A brief silence followed his announcement; then Varnacanyo cried, "Hail Maitimo, our King!" The call was taken up by the crowd even as they took up their slow march to the house again, and although the brothers all took their share in guarding Maitimo now, they could not prevent that many reached out to touch his shoulders or hand or even his feet as if for good luck or blessing. Those who could followed them inside.

Despite his exhaustion the idea of a bath was enticing, and his head was aching too much now to consider his condition. Thus it was only when his brothers and the servants began to help him undress that he remembered the sight his uncovered body would offer. He grasped for the nearest hand – it happened to be Macalaurë's – and said faintly but urgently, "Send these people away. Send them away!"
The brothers looked at each other, confused, and Maitimo tried again. "Don't make them see me like this, send them away! You shouldn't have to see me either, you should go --"
Realisation sunk in for Macalaurë and Ambarussa. "Do as he says," the elder said quietly, and the room suddenly grew silent as the disappointed watchers were ushered outside. Only a few stubborn servants and steadfast Varnacanyo remained. None of the brothers were willing to leave, and Maitimo, who was having trouble keeping his eyes open, now that the determination that had kept him going for so long abated, did not try to push the matter again. Servants efficiently removed layer after layer of clothing; then they reached the bloodied undershirts and froze.
"Oh," one of them said helplessly, giving the brothers a desperate look as if hoping that one of them would know what to do. They stared back at him, their faces betraying terror.
"Nelyo? I… I think you're bleeding," Macalaurë said finally, lamely, and Curufinwë grimaced to keep from laughing at the horrible understatement.

"I might well be," Maitimo conceded, "I do that a lot."
"What do we do?" asked one of the servants, a young innocent elf with a long, pale face. There was a trace of panic in his voice.
"Go on," said Maitimo when none of the others reacted: They all seemed frozen in place. "That's normal, I'm afraid."
The servants gingerly lifted the shirt, shuddering whenever their fingers touched something sticky and wet. Then Maitimo was finally ready for his bath.
A third servant, who had brought towels and phials of scented oils, jumped back with a small cry, the bottles crashing on the tiled floor, bursting into tiny shards and spilling their sweet-smelling contents. Curufinwë swore violently. Otherwise it was dead silent, and Maitimo realised too late that he was no longer surrounded by people accustomed to his injuries. He tried to cover himself up hastily, but his movements lacked coordination. At any rate, the damage was already done. He could see the effect the sight of his wounds had on the others. Some eyes were shut in horror, some had filled with tears, some were turned away; and some were dark with anger at the enemy who had done this.
"This is my fault," Macalaurë said softly, and Maitimo noticed the glance that Tyelkormo shot him; he didn't like it.
"Don't be foolish, it's Moringotto's fault" he mumbled. He gave them a hard look, or tried to, anyway, though he feared it wasn't very convincing. "Can we please get on with this? I am very tired."

Life returned to the small group. Together they helped Maitimo into the bathtub. The cooling water bit his wounds, but he leaned back regardless, glad that he no longer had to keep himself upright, that the water held him safely, weightless. The unfortunate servant removed the shards and puddles of unguent while others took the soiled clothing away and brought a clean night-shirt instead of the festival robes that had been prepared aforehand. Nobody said much, and when they spoke, it was in hushed voices so Maitimo could not hear them. For some reason that bothered him, but he was too weary to do anything about it. At some point he was aware of somebody stepping up to him, and a shaky voice said, "I, um. If you would, I could apply some salve to those… those cuts."
Maitimo nodded his agreement.
"It's just… I've never had a case such as this…"

Maitimo opened his eyes now. He remembered the healer vaguely; the face, though blurred by his tired eyes, hadn't changed much. He seemed strangely young, although Maitimo knew that the man was older than he, almost as old as Nolofinwë. "Herenyo," he said, and the healer, dressed for the feast rather than for the job at hand, nodded uncertainly. Maitimo smiled faintly; at least he still remembered people's names. "Just don't touch the wounds themselves. Only the skin around them." Somebody made a strangled little noise, but Maitimo did not turn.
"I'll try," the healer said desperately, and Maitimo leaned forward and closed his eyes again, bracing himself.

When he was towelled dry and dressed in a nightshirt that seemed to have belonged to a different elf named Maitimo, one who deserved that name, who was strong and well-shaped and not a skeleton wrapped in torn skin, he found that his muscles had turned to jelly. However hard he tried, he could no longer command them to move or even just to be steady, and his brothers had to carry him to his room. He curled up on the large bed, hiding his face, exhausted and ashamed. He felt their presence around them and found it comforting, but he also felt their distress. "I am sorry," he said into the pillow. "I look terrible. You shouldn't have to see this. I shouldn't have come here yet."
"Are you saying that because the journey almost killed you, or are you saying it just because your... current state upsets us?" said somebody – the voice was Curufinwë's, but there was a strange tremour in it that didn't fit Maitimo's idea of Curufinwë at all. "Because if it's the former," the voice continued, and Maitimo decided that it was Curufinwë indeed, "I am tempted to agree; but if it's the latter, it's, excuse me, bollocks."
Maitimo lifted his head a little, blinking through eyelids that refused to stay open. "The journey didn't almost kill me," he protested weakly.
"So you're saying it because you think we can't bear the sight of you."
"Well, you can't," Maitimo pointed out, wishing to be back in the small room in Nolofinwë's camp with Findekáno beside him for protection.
Curufinwë was taken aback a little. "Well, perhaps we can't," he conceded. "You do look terrible."
"It's been worse."
"That is not reassuring."
Maitimo forced himself to smile, although it did not last long. "It doesn't feel as bad as it looks," he said. That was probably quite true, he thought. He was used to it after all.
"I truly hope it doesn't," said Curufinwë. "Is there anything we can do for you? Anything at all?"
"Because so far all we've done only seems to hurt you," Tyelkormo added, and there was a trace of bitterness in his voice.
"Turko!" cried Macalaurë, alarmed.
Maitimo shook his head. "No, Cáno, I understand. As I said, I'm sorry." He heaved a great sigh. "I need some sleep. It'll be better tomorrow. Go to your feast - I don't want you to mourn here. It'll do nobody any good. Tell me how it was, tomorrow." He forced another, somewhat unconvincing smile.
"Don't you want to eat something at least?" Macalaurë asked a little helplessly. "We can have everything brought up here for you. Turko's shot a lovely roe, and there's rabbit, and we've slaughtered a pig..."
"Some fresh fruit would be wonderful," Maitimo said softly, for although he had been fed well among the Nolofinwëans, they'd had no store of fruit to speak off, and he'd had to quell his desire for them with tea and dried berries so far.
There was some scrambling and then some nervous laughter that died at once (Maitimo wished that it wouldn't; he was uncomfortable at the thought that the others did not dare to laugh in his presence) as Ambarussa, Carnistir and Varnacanyo simultaneously made to comply to his request, almost running each other over. Soon they returned with a huge plate (made, as Maitimo noted with a kind of detached curiosity, not of clay or wood but of gold) which bore all the fruit the late time of the year allowed, arranged lovingly in elaborate patterns. There were crescents of sliced apples and oranges; there were thick white grapes, and medlars softened by the early frost. There were the obligatory dried berries, too, and cherries that had been kept in a marinade of rum and sugar, but it was the fresh, juicy bits that made Maitimo smile genuinely for the first time that evening. Hunger overcame his exhaustion then, and he ate greedily, chewing fruit by the handful, closing his eyes in bliss at the long-forgotten taste. It took a while until he had a thought to spare for his watching brothers were watching. When he remembered them, he stopped and looked at them, embarassedly. They were sitting or standing around him, staring as though there was nothing more fascinating than the sight of him eating. Some were biting their lips in an attempt (he assumed) to keep from crying.

"I'm sorry," he said again, resisting the urge to pop another grape in his mouth. "It's just that I haven't eaten anything like this in..." he faltered. "I don't know how long. Since I left."
His brothers exchanged unhappy glances again.
"Twelve years, Nelyo," Macalaurë said eventually, and his brave composure crumbled for good.
"It's been twelve years."