The Tempered Steel by Lyra

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Part I, Chapter IX*

In which the cliffhanger situation is finally resolved. End of Part One.

* Extra warning for reasonably graphic description of injuries and impromptu field operations. May not be suitable for the blood-phobic.


His cousin's skin felt like paper under his lips, dry and brittle. Findekáno was reminded of the lanterns he had made as a child, translucent paper stretched tight over a wooden frame, a candle or light-stone placed within. The bones were visible under the dirty skin just as the wooden ribs of the lantern-frame had stuck out beneath the hide of his childhood lampions. The eyes were sunken, the lips torn; there were dozens of abrasions and sores, bruises and cuts. If he had not known this to be his cousin, Findekáno knew, he would have been appalled and disgusted. As it was, he felt only a profound pity.

Maitimo seemed to have guessed his thoughts, for when his fit of laughter and sobbing had passed, he said, hoarsely, "You shouldn't have come. Not to see me like this."
Findekáno shook his head. "Are you not glad to see me, then?" he asked, half in jest, half in worried earnest.
Maitimo grimaced; perhaps it was supposed to be a smile. "I cannot put into words how glad I am to see you," he said, pausing for air every few words. Findekáno felt Maitimo's heart beat against him, irregularly and faintly. "Yet you should not have come."
"Well, I'm here," Findekáno replied almost irritably, "and I'm going to take you home."
Maitimo closed his eyes; a wistful expression flew over his drawn features. "Home… the closest to home I can ever be now is Mandos."
"Don't talk like that. You're not going there if I can help it. Can you hold on to me?"
A skeletal arm crept around Findekáno's shoulders, the blood-smeared fingers of Maitimo's free hand clutching the fabric of his cloak. Findekáno doubted that there was much strength in them.
"I'll try," said Maitimo nonetheless. "I don't think it'll do much good."
"Hush," said Findekáno, trying to better balance himself. He moved his right hand further around his cousin's back so he could clasp the steel band with it; Maitimo groaned again, trying but failing not to show the pain it caused him to be pinned to the rock like this. "It won't be long," Findekáno promised, drawing his sword with his right hand.

It wasn't easy to manoeuvre in this awkward position, but nonetheless the blow that rang on the gyve was hard and strong.
And entirely fruitless.
Findekáno swung again, and again. At the third stroke his sword burst. The shards fell into the nothingness below, clattering faintly on the distant rocks. Findekáno looked at the bladeless hilt in his hand and cursed in dismay. Maitimo, who could not see what was going on, whimpered at that, and Findekáno felt a violent stab of pity at that desperate sound.
"My sword broke," he told Maitimo, letting the useless remains drop into the deep. He needed his hand free to regain his grip. Already his muscles were burning; his sympathy for Maitimo, who had hung like this for a far longer time, grew immeasurably.
"I'll try the dagger," he announced, reaching for it. "It was made by your father himself; it had better hold, or I'll have words with the smith." It was supposed to be a joke, but his cousin did not laugh.
"No!" he cried instead, alarmed. "It won't hold either, and then you'll have no weapon left!" His breathing quickened, hitched helplessly. "Please, Findekáno, just end it. I can't bear it anymore. Please..."
"I can't," said Findekáno furiously.
"You must," replied Maitimo, growing ever more agitated, "please! It will do no good if you stay. You cannot free me, and you cannot hold on forever. You must save yourself!" He turned his head to look at Findekáno, bloodshot eyes wide and desperate. "Tell…" his voice broke. "Tell my brothers that I love them, and your father that I am sorry." He took another shaking breath. "But please, Findekáno, end it. Slay me, and leave. I beg you."

Findekáno shook his head, weeping. He leaned his forehead against the mountain wall, staring dully at the accursed gyve. It was cruelly tight and had cut into flesh and skin mercilessly, but the arm was now thinner than the width of the iron band. If only the hand weren't in the way…

He suppressed a gasp, chewing his lip unconsciously while he thought. "It will hurt, though," he said softly, more to himself. But Maitimo heard him and sighed, drawn and slow.
"I do not fear pain, as long as it ends," he whispered hoarsely. "Please?"
Findekáno set his jaw, determined. "I've come to find you and free you. Found you I have, and free you I will. Not just in spirit! I'll take you home. I won't give up, not now that I am here. Do you understand?" His free hand caressed Maitimo's cold right arm, stopping at the wrist. His cousin stared at him, then gasped as the meaning of Findekáno's words dawned on him. He clenched his eyes shut, fighting against another fit of crippling sobs.
Finally he nodded.
Findekáno kissed his forehead, then leaned against the rock again, thinking frantically how to go about this. He stroked the poor chained arm again; fragile though it looked and felt, he suspected that it would not be easy to cut through it. He closed his eyes, shuddering. Every possible move was horrible, unimaginable.
Maitimo in his arms was still, trying to await his fate patiently, but Findekáno felt him tense and shiver in apprehension. His eyes were burning; the arm that held his and Maitimo's weight was protesting fiercely. And it was growing dark. He knew that he would have to hurry.

Drawing his dagger, he cut a long stripe of cloth from his warm cloak, wrapping it tightly around his cousin's arm. He was not sure how much blood he should expect, as the arm had been held up for so long; perhaps all the blood had already flowed out of it long ago? But he figured that it was better to be safe than sorry.
He took a deep steadying breath.
Then he brought the pommel of his dagger down hard, several times, feeling the bones shatter under his strokes. Russandol's body convulsed in uncontrollable spasms, his muscles tensing involuntarily with far more strength than he could ever have mustered by will; he almost threw Findekáno off-balance. His face was buried in the crook of Findekáno's neck, teeth clamping down on the cloak in order to keep from screaming, but a high keening sound escaped his throat, chilling to the bone.

Findekáno paused, chest heaving, stomach turning. He was grateful now that he hadn't eaten anything that day. "Please forgive me," he whispered to Maitimo, kissing his face, muttering soothing words that meant nothing, apologising over and over.
With a great effort, Maitimo wrenched his head back, staring at Findekáno with wide, mad eyes. "Get on with it," he hissed between clenched teeth.
Findekáno scrambled to comply. Clutching his cousin yet tighter, clamping him between his right arm and his chest, he began to draw the blade through the emaciated flesh.
Now that the bones could no longer obstruct him, it was not so difficult to cut through the arm – technically. But the sense that what he was doing was fundamentally wrong, even though he knew (or hoped at any rate) that it was for good, was so overwhelming that his head spun and he could hardly force his hand to keep on sawing. And there was so much blood! Findekáno was glad that he'd thought of the makeshift tourniquet, but even so the wound welled up strongly, blood running down his own and Maitimo's arm, surprisingly warm from so cold a body.
Maitimo's tense form suddenly went limp. At first Findekáno thought that he had killed him after all; but he could still feel a heartbeat, though faint and fluttering. Gritting his teeth, panting, he cut through the last strained tendons. Then Maitimo's arm fell free. Findekáno sheathed his blood-smeared dagger – no time to clean it now – and struggled to better balance his unconscious cousin, his hands slippery with hot blood. Breathlessly he turned to seek for Sorontar.

The great Eagle had circled over their heads. Now as he caught Findekáno's gaze he turned and flew right below them. The furthest feathers of his wing brushed the rock wall, but Findekáno dared not jump then; it was now doubly important that he did not miss. He counted his heartbeats until Sorontar came around again, and again he let him pass, waiting, counting. On the third time, he placed his feet firmly against the rock and extended his right arm until he hung as far from the wall as he could without letting go, clutching Russandol with his left arm. When the Eagle neared again, he pushed off the rock with all his strength.
For a moment he was convinced that he would fall to his and Russandol's certain death, but then he felt his legs land on the great bird's back. Sorontar sagged under the additional weight, but caught himself easily and headed off towards the south. With a relieved sigh, Findekáno sat astride the Eagle's back, cradling Russandol tightly. He worked his travel- and bloodstained cloak free and wrapped his cousin's bare body in it. With his spare shirt he tried to staunch the bleeding and bandaged the stump, although the fabric was drenched within a few moments.
Occasionally he loosened the tourniquet, hoping so to save what was left of the arm, and the blood rushed forth with renewed force. He was terrified at the thought that Russandol might bleed to death – it would have been cruel irony if he had survived the years of torment only to die as soon as he was freed, Findekáno thought bitterly, hugging the motionless body against his chest.

Maitimo woke once, though Findekáno did not know whether he was aware of his surroundings. He tried to give him the remains of his water, but Russandol's throat was so parched that it refused the unfamiliar liquid, making him cough and splutter. The water dribbled down his chin, useless, mingling with ash and blood. Findekáno began to cry freely then, exhaustion, pain and the fear for his cousin's life finally overwhelming him. He bent over, his aching body shaking with sobs while Maitimo drifted back into unconsciousness, and while Sorontar bore them back towards Mistaringë through the darkening sky.


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