Falling/Rising by sallysavestheday

Falling/Rising

Caranthir isn’t troubled by Maedhros’ sharp teeth, or by the fire in his eyes as he kicks and snarls. Far better fury than silence, he thinks, already planning. His brother’s convalescence will be a matter of intricate management: an area in which Caranthir knows himself to excel. This will be his penance, then, for the years of passivity and shame. He steps back out of range as Maedhros swipes at him, growling. It is all to the good; a formidable foundation. Maedhros is white-hot and blazing with rage. Recovery will be a question of harnessing that flame.

Within a week, Caranthir has Maglor corralled into weapons drills. A daily flail in the practice yard will let Maedhros work off some of his ire (and give Maglor the furious blows the former regent feels he deserves). Maedhros' stronger left arm and balance and accuracy are by-products they will all applaud in the end.

He tasks Curufin with crafting braces and walking sticks, left-handed utensils and ink that won’t smear. Lets his younger brother's guilt be channeled into elegant contrivances that make work simpler and ease Maedhros’ discomfort -- all hidden, invisible to any eye searching for weakness, but perfectly balanced and padded and articulated to maximize function and minimize pain.

Celegorm and the twins he sends to hunt and forage: for protein to rebuild wasted muscles and herbs to speed healing. Wandering purposefully under Caranthir’s instructions, they map and survey and report on the movements of friend and foe alike, engaging Maedhros in strategy as the first blur of terror passes and his focus returns. They know better than to plead or apologize. Hangdog lurking in the command tent is not tolerated: neither Maedhros nor Caranthir has patience for fools.

Slowly, the pieces slip back together, and Maedhros grows stronger, more balanced, less strained. But still he cannot write with his left hand, or hold a fork easily, or braid his own hair. The fine control escapes him, and it tips him, often, toward rage.

Caranthir finds him simmering in front of the fire on a rainy night, eyes bright and shoulders curled against some lingering pain. He draws up a second chair and hands Maedhros an embroidery hoop, fabric stretched taut and empty across the frame.

Maedhros stares at it, incredulous.

“What do you suggest I do with this, Moryo?” There is a rumble of danger in the question, but Caranthir brushes it aside. He draws out a collection of fine silk threads, chooses a brilliant red, and loops it through a needle, carefully. He debates cutting the floss himself, then holds it out to Maedhros with his eyebrow crooked in a request.

“Bite, please.” The snap of Maedhros’ teeth is vicious, but it serves Caranthir’s purpose in severing the thread. He knots the end for ease of work and places the needle in Maedhros’ left hand.

“I suggest you do as any grandchild of Míriel cannot help but do. Train yourself. Use her craft. Create.” At Maedhros’ helpless glare, he softens. “Small, repetitive motions, Nelyo. It will school your hand.”

Caranthir rises, watching Maedhros as he considers the task. “I will leave you with a stack of them if you would rather work in private. Only try it for a week and see what happens.” Greatly daring, he leans in to kiss his brother’s ravaged cheek. “It need not be beautiful. But I know you: it will be.”

Maedhros spoils the first hoop, pricking his own fingers and staining the cloth.

The second he abandons when his clumsy stitches snag and tear, but they are stitches, and for all the ache in his wrist and the cramp in his fingers, it is a victory.

By the time he has finished the third, he has devised a strategy for holding the hoop with his stump and a raised knee, and the needle moves more smoothly in his hand. He lays out the silks in their rainbow, assessing the colors and plotting a new design.

He remembers the sun on the mountain: the terror of the new light and the unspeakable relief it sparked as the Enemy’s creatures left off their torments, gibbering and scuttling back into the dark. The welcome warmth, as the cold stone softened under its rays. Then the unbearable heat, drying and burning as he hung, exposed. Every sundown's bleak pinch of fear. The softness of each dawn over the surrounding peaks, welcomed even as it added to the unending count of the days. And, through the smoke, the blaze of reflected glory from the gold in Fingon’s hair.

Let it be gold, then, and yellow, and orange, and red: all the variations of heat and light, remembered. Blue and grey for the endless range below him where he hung. Maedhros twists out the threads with his single hand, bites the ends, fumbles with the needle until the hole aligns. He slips the floss through the eye.

He has pushed through another night. The rising sunlight falls over his shoulder, buttery and sweet.

Maedhros draws a breath and begins again.