The Tempered Steel by Lyra

Part II, Chapter IX

In which Maedhros is discontent, and Maglor suggests a solution.

Tyelkormo proved right; it took only two more days until the first snow fell. At first it turned into a grey slush on the sodden ground. Maitimo could hear the sound of sloshing and sliding footsteps and the occasional muffled curse or giggle. The windows in his room were almost perpetually open and the stove used for nothing beyond keeping the tea hot, despite all the protests of either his brothers or the healers.
After another day the ground had frozen hard enough so the snow no longer lost its shape, instead piling up higher and higher. Except for Macalaurë, who had his kingly duties to take care of, and Curufinwë, whose work in the forge was independent of the weather, the brothers spent most of their time in Maitimo's room. "I make Curvo attend our supper at least, and I recommend you to do the same when you take charge," Macalaurë explained once. "Otherwise we'd never see him again."
"I'd imagine he doesn't much like you to tell him what to do," Maitimo said with a wry smile.
"No indeed. But so far he's had been kind enough to do it anyway," Macalaurë said with a sigh. Maitimo looked thoughtful at that.

The snow kept falling, and most activity in the camp was confined to indoors, making the people restless. The brothers were no exception. Maitimo, howerver, grew frustrated even faster. Once he had recovered from the journey – which took unexpectedly long; he had not thought that he was still so weak – Maitimo felt exceedingly dissatisfied with his inability to move, and the healers' and his brothers' fussing about him began to annoy him. By the third day at the latest, he thought, they should have realised that he intended to do as much on his own as he could. It was little enough after all. When his fever had finally subsided and the painful heaviness had left his limbs, he grew positively irritable.
"I have rested long enough," he declared eventually, "and I won't take it any longer. I want to walk again."
Macalaurë would have none of it. As his free time was limited to the dark hours, he had moved back into the great bedroom, sleeping next to Maitimo (or, more often, waking next to Maitimo while his brother was tossing and turning in nightmares, and holding and reassuring him until the shadow left - for a while). He thus had ample chance to form his own opinion on the damage. "The last time you took a walk it did you little good. Don't deny it, we've all seen it. You need healing and rest, and I won't allow you to overtax yourself so soon – yet again."

Under different circumstances Maitimo might have found Macalaurë's resolute tone entertaining; obviously his younger brother had grown into the role of leader admirably. But he was in no mood to be amused. The healers, of course, backed Macalaurë. They declared Maitimo's leg not strong enough yet to take his weight, and his mangled shoulder barely capable of bearing the strain put on it when Maitimo sat upright; there could be no thought of standing or walking.
"My hand will never grow back," Maitimo growled when he was informed of their counsel, "does that mean that you'll keep me in bed forever?"
They looked away, unable to face his anger, and said nothing. He took this as agreement, and his spirits fell yet more. Perhaps the worst thing was that they were right; his recuperation seemed to stagnate. The shoulder, which had almost stopped aching before he had left Nolofinwë's camp, had grown very tender by the transport, and it was slow to forgive him. His leg throbbed painfully on occasion, and the end of his right arm had begun to itch horribly.
"A good sign," said Herenyo, who for Maitimo's taste was altogether too cheerful. "It means that the healing is going well."
"I'll rather have the pain again than that rotten itch," Maitimo muttered, and even Herenyo had lost his happy airs. But he removed the bandages, and Maitimo could see that the stump was indeed healing well, angry scars the only traces of the hand that had once been there. He gritted his teeth at the sight; now that it was out in the open, the loss of his hand was somehow even more undeniable. Herenyo or one of his colleagues had mixed a salve, at least, that took away the worst of the itch.

Neither pain nor weakness stopped Maitimo from moving as much as he could within his limits, flexing and stretching his long legs incessantly.
"Can't you sit still?" Carnistir had asked at some point after watching the laborious movement underneath the blanket like a cat, unable to look away.
"I've been still long enough," Maitimo snapped in reply, tired of the reprimands and warnings. "If I don't move now, I never will."
Carnistir said nothing more, instead taking Maitimo's dictation for a letter to Findekáno, but he avoided to look at anything but Maitimo's face after that. Maitimo found the constant stare of those dark eyes rather disconcerting. At that point he had driven most of his brothers from their previously frequent visits; only Carnistir and faithful Macalaurë still braved his temper. Sometimes Maitimo would feel bad about his foul mood and apologised to the two of them.
Macalaurë kissed his hand then, and said that he took it as fair punishment for abandoning him.
"I do not wish to punish you for that," Maitimo said with a frown. "It was the right thing to do."
Macalaurë sighed. "I know. But I can handle it easier if I pretend it is for that reason." Maitimo didn't know what else to say, but he felt embarrassed. Sooner or later it caused him to brood again, and from there it went downwards.

At the same time, many people – old friends and new admirers – began to ask Macalaurë to give their kindest regards and best wishes to his convalescent brother, along with gifts. After a moment's meditation, Macalaurë had suggested that they should visit Maitimo and give him their presents in person.
"He is tired of resting," he explained to the protesting healers, "and I am sure he'd welcome the distraction. And the people could give him their presents without my intermission. Perhaps that will tear him out of his dark moods."
The petitioners greeted the idea with enthusiasm, at any rate, and Macalaurë agreed to ask his brother when he would like to receive his guests.
If he had hoped that Maitimo would be delighted by the prospect of variety, his hopes were dashed at once. "I won't see anyone while I'm lying in bed," Maitimo declared categorically. "They don't need to see me like this, weak and useless and ugly."
"They would truly like to speak with you," Macalaurë said, gently but adamantly. "They have seen you arrive, and worry about you, and I assure you they won't think ill of your state."
"They may try not to, but they will. Even you do." Macalaurë shook his head in alarm, but Maitimo was angry and pushed further. "Oh, don't bother to deny it. I've seen Turko flinch, and none of you bear to look at me for long."

That was true, except in the case of Carnistir, but it was not quite fair to reproach his brothers; Maitimo himself did not bear to look at his own body for long, and he had so far refused the offer of a mirror when he washed his face or combed his hair. But Macalaurë knew better than to point this out. He only said, "Fine, I shall tell Turko not to flinch again – if you allow the people to see you."
"Not until I am recovered enough to visit them on my own," said Maitimo, turning away from his brother and curling up to mark the conversation as over.
Macalaurë ignored the signal. "They have missed you, Nelyo, and they find it hard to know you nearby without seeing you. I know what it feels like. I have born it for months while Nolofinwë kept you! I could not help it, so I was patient; now I can, and I'd be loath to keep them from seeing you regardless."
"I do not want to see them," Maitimo insisted. "And if they knew what I look like now, they wouldn't want to see me either."
"Oh, don't be silly," said Macalaurë, frustrated. "You never were so vain in the old days!"
"I didn't need it in the old days! But now they want to see Maitimo the Beautiful, and he's gone. They don't want to see this… this wreck," Maitimo said, his voice rising; he struck the mattress with his right wrist and flinched when the stump reminded him that it was still very tender.
Macalaurë rose. "They want to see you, brother. Don't you think there's more to you than your beauty? They admire your bravery and pity your pain --"
"I do not need pity," snapped Maitimo.
Macalaurë snorted. "Then why do you pity yourself so much? Now stop being obstinate. You don't have to see them for long, a smile and two or three words will do. It means so much to them."

Maitimo turned to face him again, groaning more than necessary, and gave his brother an exasperated look. "Why don't you marry and have children so you have someone else to boss around?" he growled.
Macalaurë winced as if struck; then he retaliated. "I've thought about it - but with five childish brothers to look after, I can't afford it. Now, I'd appreciate if you at least tried not to make this harder. I don't know what pleasure you gain from your anger, but I assure you that it's highly unpleasant for the rest of us. So if some poor fools wish to tell you they've missed you, you could at least try to be reasonable." He made to leave.
"Macalaurë," Maitimo called after him, and his brother stopped and turned back, although he said nothing. Maitimo reached out for him, his hand suspended in empty air. "Macalaurë, forgive me. I am being an idiot. It's just… I am so tired of all this. I'm incapable of doing anything of consequence. Even when I try to do the small things I can do, everyone seeks to hinder me. I can't wait to move again. It is so frustrating to be free, and yet confined to one room! It forces me to think about myself too much, and I am afraid of what I have become. The idea that I may be like this forever terrifies me. But it isn't your fault, and I shouldn't make you pay for it. I'm sorry."

Macalaurë's expression had softened during Maitimo's speech, and he walked back, taking the outheld hand. "I understand. I try to, anyway."
"You are doing marvellously. If I were you, I'd probably have stabbed me at night."
"Nonsense."
"No, it's true. I am annoying myself so much - it must be even worse for you."
"Ah, but at least I can walk away when it gets too bad," said Macalaurë with a regretful smile. "That's why I thought you might like to have some visitors – someone to keep your mind off... your injuries."
"Someone who'll remind me of them, more like. I can't clear my throat without people tossing a dozen remedies my way! If at least I weren't confined to bed..."
"Perhaps we can carry you down to the Hall, if that's what bothers you so much," Macalaurë offered.
Maitimo's eyes lit up. "Oh, would you? Please?" He gripped Macalaurë's hand harder and sat upright. "I could feel more normal that way."
"There's no merit in being normal; it's the extraordinary that makes us great," said Macalaurë distractedly: one of their father's common sayings. He was already pondering how to organise the visits.
Maitimo snorted, but now it was good-natured rather than bitter. "In this family, it's the extraordinary that makes us normal. Would you really carry me downstairs?"
"I'd carry you around the world if it kept you from moping – as long as it doesn't interfere with your recovery," Macalaurë retorted. "I'll ask the healers."

- - -

"I suppose it should do no harm if it is done very carefully," Herenyo ventured thoughtfully.
"We cannot be certain, however," cautioned Séralcar. "It may be that early movement delays the overall healing by weeks."
"Or it may be that it helps it along. We have no experience in a case like this," said Herenyo. The two healers had checked the signs of Maitimo's recuperation meticulously, but it hadn't helped them to find an answer to Macalaurë's question.

Macalaurë grimaced. "If we do not know, I suppose we shouldn't take the risk..."
Séralcar nodded his agreement. "That would be wiser, my lord. Maybe we can try in a couple of weeks. Until then, he should rest and take nourishment. Especially milk to strenghten the bones."
Maitimo groaned. "No, don't make me wait another couple of weeks! I shall have gone mad by then, and afterwards you'll just say you're still not sure and make me wait yet longer!"
"But if it were better for you…" said Macalaurë.
"No!" Maitimo interrupted. "Give my bones a reason to grow strong again and they'll do it. With or without milk. Or cheese," he added, winking at Carnistir, who pursed his lips and stared out of the window.

The healers exchanged a glance. "We cannot reccommend it. If you insist, however, may we suggest that you plan only one of these meetings for now, and give yourself enough time to recover afterwards? And that means at least a week."
"You may," said Maitimo with a sigh, "although a week is a terribly long time. You try to lie in bed doing nothing for a week."
"We are not in your state, my lord," said Séralcar with a frown. "I should think that your swift recovery is in your own best interest. Perhaps you would be better already if you did not insist on doing so much yourself..."
"Yes, yes, of course," said Maitimo impatiently. "I'm just not certain I believe in the kind of recovery you seem to have in mind. I'd rather learn to make do with what I've got left."
"We will give it a try," Macalaurë said, trying to soothe both sides. "If we see that it doesn't hinder your healing, it can be done more often. For now, a first try should be sufficient." He nodded to the healers, who still didn't look too convinced. But Maitimo gave him a grateful smile.
"Yes, for now it'll suffice."