The Tempered Steel by Lyra

Part II, Chapter I*

In which the Fingolfinian healers have a busy night.

*Warning for blood and some medical detail.

Many thanks to SurgicalSteel for her invaluable advice on how not to have Maedhros killed by unskilled healers.

They landed in the dead of night, but their coming did not pass unnoticed. The keen eyes of the guards had seen the great Eagle while he was still far off. By the time Findekáno could make out more than the outlines of the camp, he was surprised by how many people seemed to be about.
Nolofinwë, roused from restless sleep, had a strange foreboding feeling that he could not explain when he heard that Sorontar was nearing. "A message from the Valar," some said as he joined the gathering crowd consisting of his family, the guards, and those who had been woken by the running, whispering, and shouting. "Another curse, or allegations," returned some others, "and what good could messages do us anyway?"
Nolofinwë said nothing but stood waiting, seemingly unperturbed. But when Sorontar was nearly upon the watchers and he could see that there were strange shapes, like humps, upon the Eagle's back, his composure faded.
"Wake the healers," he ordered the nearest guardsman, "and have a bath prepared!" Then he made his way to the head of the group.

Sorontar landed softly, but a terrible groan could be heard from his back. It made people shudder and draw back. For a moment there was silence; nobody dared to speak or move. Then Nolofinwë sprang forward. "Findekáno," he asked, breathless with hope, "is it you?"
"Yes," said Findekáno, sounding weary.
Nolofinwë's eyes widened with apprehension. "And are you all right?"
"I am fine," Findekáno said in a strangled voice. As Nolofinwë lifted his lamp, light fell on the hunched figure on the Eagle's back, and on the limp shape wrapped in a bloodied cloak. "But Russandol..." Findekáno swallowed. Murmuring arose around.
Nolofinwë gasped. "You found him."
"Yes. I found him," said Findekáno and broke into tears. Findaráto ran towards Sorontar, followed by Irissë; they reached up, motioning Findekáno to lower their cousin into their arms. Cautiously, somewhat awkwardly, limbs stiff after clinging to the Eagle for so long, he did so. "Oh! Be careful!" he cried, fighting against his tears. But Findaráto, when faced with Maitimo's mangled body, almost dropped him, turning his face away in shock. The camp's healers, bleary-eyed and nervous, came pushing through the crowd. To Findekáno, everything moved slowly and with astonishing clarity, yet somehow unreal - as though he were dreaming and knew that he was dreaming, but had no way of waking up.

When he tried to dismount, his aching limbs refused to cooperate, and he found himself descending rather quicker than planned to land sprawling on the ground. He looked up at the no longer silent crowd. Many faces were averted or covered with hands; others were grim and dark with anger, though whether at him or at Maitimo or at what had been done to him Findekáno did not care to guess. He struggled to his feet. "Be careful," he repeated softly, now to the healers who had taken Maitimo from Findaráto and Irissë and bore him up, using the soiled cloak as a bier. For a brief moment Findekáno felt the urge to lie down and sleep on the spot. Now that the responsibility had been taken from his shoulders, it was tempting no longer to fight against exhaustion. Then he shook the feeling off. The responsibility was still with him, he decided; sleep must wait. Gathering his thoughts, Findekáno turned to Sorontar and bowed, murmuring words of praise and gratitude to him and the Lord that had sent him. The words felt awkward and too weak, the farewell overly hasty, but they were the best he could do. Then he hurried after the healers.

He was stopped by Nolofinwë, who wordlessly pulled him into a tight embrace.
Findekáno could feel his father's arms tremble. He returned the hug as firmly as he could, feeling relieved and afraid at once. He longed to remain where he was, safe in his father's arms, until he might be convinced that everything had been nothing but a nightmare, but he had to look after Russandol!
"Father," he said warily, "I am sorry that I caused you grief." He waited. There was no reply. "I know this is not enough, and we will talk about it later. But now..." He swallowed. "Now I have to make sure that the healers take good care of him."
After a long, long moment, Nolofinwë nodded. "Yes. All in its time." He gave Findekáno another tight squeeze, then released him, smiling sadly. "That was a very brave deed, dearest, but I am not certain it was worth the heartbreak." He sighed. "For your sake I hope he can be saved, but not for his."
"It is not his fault," mumbled Findekáno. "He did not burn the ships. He even fought Uncle Fëanáro about it."
"What do you mean?" said Nolofinwë, narrowing his eyes.
"He opposed the ship-burning, Father. Macalaurë told me. So do not blame him - not for that." Findekáno rubbed his eyes; he found it increasingly difficult to stay awake, though he knew he must. The crowd had dispersed by now. Only the guards lingered behind them.

"I see," his father finally said. He looked about to say more, but then stopped himself, shaking his head. "Look to him," he only said. "We will speak later."
Findekáno dashed off after the healers.

- - -

There was only one bathing-house in the camp, a remainder of their predecessors: barely more than two rooms built close to the lakeshore, one holding a stove on which the water could be heated, the other containing a great circular bathtub made of oak-wood and iron rings that was placed upon a dais of burnt clay. Ordinarily it was a place of rest, muffled conversation taking place amid the steam and soap, dim light streaming in through small windows set high in the walls. Now the curtains had been pulled shut over the windows, but many lanterns had been put up to brighten the room, and there was a steady coming and going of healers and servants bringing water and unguents, herbs and candles, bandages and mysterious healer's tools wrapped in leather.

Findekáno held his hand into the bathtub; the water was hardly more than lukewarm. "More hot water," he shouted.
The chief healer, Istimë, came over to join him. She was one of the oldest people Findekáno knew, of about the same age as his grandfathers, and she had been apprenticed to Estë herself. He knew that it had been she who had helped his grandmother deliver both his father and his uncle Arafinwë and their sisters, and who had been there when he and his brothers and sister had been born in their turns, and the children of Arafinwë as well. He wondered now whether she had also been with his aunt Nerdanel for Russandol's birth, and if so, how she was feeling now.
Whatever she was feeling, she kept it to herself. In reply to his request, she held her elbow into the water and shook her head. "Nay, it should be no warmer than that." She caught his confused glance and explained. "I have no experience with injuries that grave, but that's what you have to pay attention to when bathing small children. Their skin is very thin and tender, and if the water is too hot, you'll scald them. I suspect it's similar with him."
"Oh," said Findekáno.

She patted his shoulder and returned to the cot where Russandol had been placed under a thick cover of blankets to keep him warm. He was surrounded by silent healers, staring down at the miserable, pale face protruding from the blankets. When Istimë joined them, they shifted uneasily. Findekáno followed her.
"Right," Istimë said, addressing the others. "We have a night's hard work ahead, so we better get started. If there is anyone among you who, for whatever reason, doesn't wish to heal him, I suggest they leave now. I understand that it will be difficult, and I will not hold it against you if you leave. If, however, any among you will do less than their best for him once we begin, I will be very angry. We are healers. It doesn't matter who the patient is. Is that clear?"
Two of the healers, after some glances at the others, bowed to Istimë and, after another nervous look at Findekáno, left hurriedly. He said nothing. One of them, he knew, had lost both his sons on the Ice. The other probably had a similar reason.
"Good," Istimë said to the remaining three. "I suggest we take care of the hand first, then clean him up and see what else there is to do. And someone cut his hair..."
"No," Findekáno cried. It was absurd, he told himself, but the thought of cutting off Russandol's once-beautiful hair – even if it was a tangled, dirty, stinking mass now – made his stomach clench. Russandol had been punished enough; humiliating him yet more was unthinkable.

"We have no time for discussions, my lord," Istimë said sternly, "and we have no time to fight that tangle. You won't manage to comb that in a dozen years. And it's in the way. If he is to live, his hair will grow again. If not... well, I don't think it will matter much to him."
He gave her a reproachful look, but saw that her eyes were full of pity despite her merciless words. Then he nodded, dully. "I'll do it."
"Good," she said. "And the rest of you..." She pushed the blanket back, revealing the atrophied right arm with its missing hand, wrapped inadequately with Findekáno's blood-soaked shirt. Findekáno was surprised at how much blood a person could lose without being empty. When Istimë removed the shirt, one of the younger healers ran outside in a hurry, and the others could hear retching noises. They exchanged unhappy looks. Istimë sharply told them to keep working without even looking up; she was in the process of tying off the ends of the dripping arteries. Then she told one of her colleagues to remove the tourniquet. Findekáno was relieved to see that there was no renewed bleeding.

He could not bring himself to shear his cousin's hair off entirely, so he cut it to just below his ears, then took a comb and began to try untangling the felted tresses without tearing the remaining hair out. But soon he paused to watch the proceedings. The other healers tried to make themselves useful while Istimë removed dirt and bone splinters from the terrible wound, trimmed the rough edges of the remaining bones and the torn muscles, and cleaned the paper-like skin. Occasionally she called for clean water and, finally, for silk thread, which she used to fix the skin over the open wrist. When she was done, she cleaned her hands while one of the others bandaged the no longer bleeding arm with water-soaked gauze. Findekáno was torn between horror and fascination, and his admiration for Istimë rose beyond measure.
She caught his look and gave him a lopsided smile. "That's one problem dealt with," she said. "I wish there weren't so many others."
Findekáno nodded. "Do you think you can save him?" he asked.
She looked at him, her dark eyes sympathetic. "I am not sure. I have healed many wounds and know how to care for them, but I've never had to deal with so many at once. He must have suffered horribly... nor will it get better any time soon, I'm afraid. We will have to break his leg again to set it –"
One of the healers whimpered, and Findekáno said at once, "No. You cannot hurt him even more."
"If we don't, he'll limp for the rest of time," Istimë said gently. "If he can ever walk again at all. Sometimes something terrible has to be done to set things right."
In his state of grief and exhaustion, Findekáno found that extremely profound and strangely descriptive of his family's history. He looked at the ground, saying nothing.
"Well," Istimë said, "let's see what we can do."

They carried Russandol over to the bathtub. His cousin writhed and moaned weakly when his sore skin came into contact with the luke-warm water, but he showed no sign of waking. Findekáno bit his lip to keep from crying.
He had hoped that, with the worst of the dry blood and dirt and ashes gone, the damage might perhaps prove to be not so bad after all, but the contrary was the case. When the muck was washed away, the sores and bruises, cuts and lacerations were revealed in all their dreadful glory: There was hardly a stretch of skin not marked with some kind of injury, although the sore back and the right shoulder, bruised to a blackish purple, were the worst. Some wounds had scarred over, others had barely begun to heal. Moreover, starvation had turned Russandol's body into a grotesque landscape, all deep sunken valleys and steep mountain ridges. The Nolofinwëans had all grown thin on their march across the Ice, but they had kept their muscle. Russandol, on the other hand, was so meagre that one could see every single bone pressing through his skin, a brutal lesson in anatomy. Findekáno suspected that he could have circled his cousin's thigh with his thumb and forefinger.

He knelt beside the tub, making sure that Russandol's shoulders and head remained above he water while the healers took care of the rest. Even when the clear water turned to muddy red, Istimë did not lose her air of calm efficiency. The younger healers didn't always manage to hide their disgust and dismay so well. Still they were as gentle as they could be while gingerly cleaning the remaining skin. They progressed slowly; the rising sun was sending its first beams through the cracks in the curtains before they were done. Findekáno felt stiff and worn out, but he continued to hold Russandol and to work the knots out of his hair so it could be washed, and afterwards combed properly. He stayed after the bath, too, when the healers moved Russandol back to the cot to take further care of the cleaned wounds, stitching up what could be stitched, and applying sweet-smelling ointments and salves.
Russandol woke briefly towards the morning, but his eyes remained unfocused. He didn't react when addressed, unable to do more than groan pitifully. However, he was able to suckle some water and some broth from a clean rag Istimë had given Findekáno, although he drifted back into unconsciousness swiftly. Findekáno whispered soothing things while the healers withdrew tactfully.

When mid-day approached, they were done with all but the cruellest part: the re-setting of the crooked leg. Findekáno hoped desperately that his cousin wouldn't wake again just now. Despite the Fëanorian's fragile look, it took three strong guards to help with the breaking of the bone, and they were shaking with horror at what they had to do. Findekáno couldn't blame them. The dull crack of the badly-healed bones, and the scraping as the healers carefully pulled them into place, were enough to make him feel thoroughly sick. The leg was then splinted and bandaged firmly, and Russandol was dressed in an old nightshirt that had once belonged to Nolofinwë. It was a little too short for Maitimo, but made up for it by being much too wide.
They carried him to Findekáno's chamber and covered him in blankets and furs. His forehead was glistening with sweat, but he made no noise now, and his breath came flat but evenly. Istimë advised Findekáno to get some food and rest.
He didn't budge.

Russandol's fever mounted over the course of the day, and he tossed weakly in his sleep, whimpering and moaning. Findekáno tried to comfort him, but it did not seem as though anything he said or did could reach through his cousin's tormented dreams. The healers came again to put cooling compresses on Maitimo's forehead, and once tried to feed him some broth, which only made him cough and spit. The younger healers’ gazes were downright hostile by now. Istimë shook her head sadly and again told Findekáno that he ought to sleep. Findekáno continued his vigil.

When the door opened again, much later, it was not the healer but Nolofinwë who entered. He was perfectly composed, but there were dark shadows under his eyes that Findekáno preferred to ignore. He did not know what to say, thus limiting his reaction to a nod in greeting.
"How is he?" asked Nolofinwë.
Findekáno shrugged his aching shoulders, sighing. "I don't know. Asleep."
His father nodded. "As you should be. You've been on your feet for far too long, I daresay. You can sleep in my room while he needs your bed..."
"I cannot leave him," Findekáno protested.
Nolofinwë's face grew stern. "You need rest. One of the healers can take care of him as well as you."
"They hate him."
His father raised an eyebrow. "Not so much they'd kill him in his sleep." He looked at Maitimo, who lay curled up on his side, trembling even underneath the warm blankets.
"Nonetheless," Findekáno began, but he was stopped short.
"No, Findekáno, not 'nonetheless'. You need sleep, and you'll get it. If you are not reasonable enough to rest for your own sake, I must command you - as your father, or if that will not do, as your lord. I can appoint a guard for him or send a healer, but you will eat, take a bath and get a few hours' sleep. Obey me – at least this once."

Findekáno rose. His lip was threatening to tremble; he did not look at his father. He felt exhausted, and he knew that he did need rest, but how could his father demand that Findekáno leave his cousin alone in this state?
But there was no point in discussing things with his father when he began to play on his authority, and thus Findekáno rose, and marched to the door, saying "As you wish, my lord," just barely resisting the urge to slam the door shut for Russandol's sake.
Nolofinwë stayed behind unhappily, looking at his nephew's helpless form. Before he went to inform the healers and write a letter to the Fëanorians, his hand came to rest on Maitimo's shoulder for a moment.

- - -

The message reached the other camp late the next day. It was delivered just as the sons of Fëanáro had finished their supper, the one time of day Macalaurë insisted they share. Orecalo, who had accepted the message at the gate, entered nervously. "A letter for King Macalaurë", he announced.
Macalaurë stared at the rolled-up parchment for a moment. Curufinwë sat up. "That's Nolofinwë's seal," he noted. "What does he want now?"
"You make it sound as though he wrote letters to us constantly," Macalaurë admonished him distractedly, accepting the letter. Orecalo stood back expectantly. Macalaurë didn't look at his brothers, but he knew that they were watching him curiously as well. He broke the seal and silently read the lines penned down in Nolofinwë's elegant handwriting. A gasp escaped him, and a trembling hand rose to cover his lips.
"What is it?" Tyelkormo asked sharply, half-sprawled across the table. "What insults does he send?"
Macalaurë shook his head, blinking back the tears that began to rise to his eyes.
"He writes that Nelyo is alive, and that Findekáno found and freed him."

For a moment there was silence, followed by the sound of wood scraping on wood as his brothers jumped to their feet, pushing over chairs and rushing forward to look at the letter, hovering behind Macalaurë's back like hungry crows.
"'He is gravely injured and cannot be moved from our camp before he recovers'," Macalaurë went on.
"Poor Nelyo," cried Ambarussa, "but hurrah for Cousin Findekáno!"
"Indeed," Macalaurë said softly, and then he fell silent.
"'Considering the current state of affairs between your host and mine, you will doubtlessly understand that you cannot visit him'," Curufinwë read on in his place. "Well doubtlessly I don't understand! He is our brother; how can he believe we don't want to see him at once?"
"We have not tried to see him for the past twelve years," said Carnistir matter-of-factly.
His brothers reacted in shock. "How dare you say that? If we had known that he could be freed so easily, we would have done so immediately," Tyelkormo said harshly.

Macalaurë raised an eyebrow. "How do you know it was easy?" he asked.
Tyelkormo's eyebrows mirrored his. "Why, if Findekáno did it all on his own, it cannot have been too hard. If it had been that hard, all our host would not have sufficed, after all." Macalaurë understood the barb very well and looked down. "'I will write to you again when there are new developments'," he read the concluding line of the letter. "That's it."
"No blessings or regards? Tsk," commented Tyelkormo, accepting the distraction.
"Very impolite," Curufinwë agreed.
"Who cares?" said Ambarussa, his cheeks glowing with excitement, rivalling Carnistir's. "Nelyo's safe!"
"Nonetheless Nolofinwë could come off his high horse," said Curufinwë stubbornly. "I have half a mind to ride over and teach him some basic manners. What is he thinking, holding Nelyo hostage like that?!"
"Peace," said Macalaurë, rolling the letter back up. "He didn't demand anything –"
"Yet," Curufinwë interrupted and gained himself a stern look.
"He didn't demand anything. He merely said that Nelyo is in his camp to recover. Of course we want to see him. I cannot say how much I want to see him. But we have waited for a long time. I am as impatient as you are, but I think we'll manage to wait a bit more." He sighed.
Curufinwë rolled his eyes, but finally he smiled wryly. "Well, I suppose it is easier to wait knowing that Nelyo is in Nolofinwë's care than it was when he was in Moringotto's care."
None of them could argue with that.