Soothing by Himring

Soothing

A supremely irritating thing: it isn’t just the pain—having to work out all the time how far he can push through, ignoring it, and when the price he pays will get too high. It is the itches, as well: having to take the danger of bed sores seriously, for instance, after he had almost forgotten what beds even were. And now, even at this stage when he is more capable of moving, he has to take heed of indications of discomfort, because inflammation, too, still poses a risk to his further recovery.

And, therefore, the need to speak out and ask for help and the need for lotions and to have them rubbed into his skin. He hates it. He is trying to conceal how much he hates it and he thinks that Ingolmo, the healer, probably has not noticed, but Bronadui, his senior assistant, who usually does the actual rubbing probably has, despite Maedhros’s efforts to pretend otherwise.

But, blessedly, if Bronadui has noticed, he has not brought it up. It is not a matter of pride only, for if Maglor realized how bad it was, he would insist on taking over from Bronadui, and Maglor has already taken on too much, considering he has not only an ailing older brother to deal with, but far too many other matters to stay on top of.

And so Maedhros lies still, not gritting his teeth, not allowing his muscles to knot. And Bronadui, the perfectly trustworthy Bronadui, slowly spreads the cooling lotion with gentle, careful motions of his palms and fingers down his back and his thighs. And as Bronadui soothes the surface of the irritated skin, underneath Maedhros’s skin crawls with almost unbearable tension.

Strange—or sad—to think that back in Valinor, something like this might have been a pleasurable experience, a luxury, rather than a fraught necessity. Massages were fashionable for a while, in some quarters, although Maedhros himself had indulged only rarely. However, that was before touching, almost anyone’s touch, became a subliminal threat that Maedhros’s body reacts to instinctively, forcing his quickly tiring mind to counteract those reactions.

As Bronadui’s hands move, he speaks. That is how Maedhros guesses that Bronadui is aware of his instinctive revulsion, because Bronadui is not a natural chatterbox, by any means. Yet now, as he works, he speaks, almost constantly, and, because Bronadui has almost no small talk, but is dedicated to his profession, experiences gained in Bronadui’s past medical career and speculations about the properties of new plants in Endore and unfamiliar Sindarin practices spill out, a little randomly, washing over Maedhros who grasps at them to distract himself from his oppressive bodily sensations and mostly fails. But it is the sound of Bronadui’s voice that does make a difference, his reassuringly Noldorin accent, and his apparent intention.

As Maedhros lies there, he would say that he hardly manages to listen, almost does not even hear. But later he recalls a lot more than he thought and he knows who he wants to install in Himring as his healer. Despite his virtues, it is not Ingolmo.