Chapter Text
Elrond was upset, to say the very least. That admittedly wasn’t a common sight since between him and Elros, most often remarked that he was the calmer twin: more mature, more composed, most likely from having inherited - if you can use that verb in the complicated context of their relationship - Maglor’s even temper and gentler disposition. For one, he prided himself on this reputation that the people of hise adoptive fathers seemed to unanimously bestow upon him. He had just turned seventeen, after all, and was quickly growing into the rather large shoes he felt he had to fill now that the cusp of war was closer than ever.
Maglor had tried to shelter him and Elros at first. That was simply the way he was, washing over them with a sad love that filled the emotional void that the absence of their parents left. Maedhros had always been the more grounded of the two. In no way was he the tyrant to Maglor’s saint, but the differences in their levels of life experiences - many on the elder Feanorian’s end that nobody ever elaborated on - had left him far more cynical. He was unrelenting in his insistence that the two boys take up some form of wartime skill for their own sakes, and eventually Maglor yielded. Swordsmanship was their chosen endeavour with Maedhros himself overseeing their training, and adept indeed they both became.
So why in the name of Yavanna’s bountiful rolling green plains had they left Elrond behind while everyone else went to go fight?
“Don’t fret too much, little lord,” One of the Noldorin blacksmiths passing by the corner where Elrond sat brooding offered sympathetically. “You did sprain your arm not too long ago in that accident at the border. I’m sure Lord Kanafinwë doesn’t want to take that risk bringing you into battle so soon.”
“But he took Elros,” Elrond grumbled. “And Elros is always getting scrapes and sprains every week that I have to heal for him. Maybe it’s just their way of telling me I’m just a lousy swordsman compared to him.”
“Yes, it’s precisely that!” The blacksmith exclaimed. When Elrond stared at him with somewhat of a hurt expression creasing his features, he did a frantic double take. “Oh no- no, I wasn’t referring to the swordsman bit. Before that! You’ve been taking lessons from Lord Kanafinwë learning how to heal, haven’t you?”
“It’s been two years now,” Elrond affirmed with a frustrated sigh.
“Precisely that! Perhaps they want you back here with the rest of the healers so you can help out when they get back all scuffed up. You know how it always is.” The blacksmith offered. “The aftermath is always bad, little lord. Even more so than the actual battle.”
“They didn’t say anything about that,” The Peredhel frowned, “And Maedhros is strict about these things. If he meant that, I’m sure he would've told me…”
“Ah, you know how the lords can be. They’ve always been an unpredictable pair, so you shouldn’t worry too much about it. Everything’ll work out in the end,” The blacksmith reached out, ruffling Elrond’s hair, “Well probably, at least. But- oh dear! I really must get going soon...”
The blacksmith’s words did end up ringing true. It wasn’t long after their impromptu chat when the familiar grating scream of bells began to resonate throughout the citadel, signalling the return of the Feanorian host. Elrond sprung to his feet and raced to the great hall where battered Elves covered in Orc blood were spilling out onto any bit of empty space that would accommodate them. Individuals wearing the familiar white garments of the healers were already among the fray, laying those with the severest injuries down on rolls of cloth and spreading their medical supplies about them. Above the shouting Elrond could hardly tell what was being barked in instruction, but he strained his eyes in his desperate search for the three that mattered most to him.
Thank Eru, there was Elros limping in with the support of another blood-soaked Elf, nothing entirely wrong with him save for the common gash or two across the bits of skin his armour didn’t quite cover. And there!- a bit more scanning revealed Maglor by some benches who, despite his exhausted bedraggled appearance, had already knelt down beside a soldier with his entire left arm cleaved off to sing one of his restorative Songs of Power. Maedhros’ presence was undeniable; the redhead always commanded power wherever he went, and he had already occupied himself directing healers to their wings, servants to see to the horses, so on so forth. Relief flooded through Elrond like a tidal wave, one that seemed to wash away what lingering bitterness he had previously harboured about getting delegated to the anxiety-inducing duty of waiting.
“Elrond!” Maglor called out when he caught sight of the younger boy hurrying through the hall towards him. “Come and lend me a hand. We’re taking the more serious casualties to the East wing, so those who remain here only have minor injuries that need tending to. Can you see to them in my stead?”
“Of course,” Elrond nodded fervently, rolling up his sleeves with enthusiastic flourish and quickly donning an apron that a passing healer threw at him. Maglor could do little except offer him a tired smile of gratitude before disappearing into the swarm of those hurrying to the medical wing.
As the Peredhel worked he often found that his mind entered a stage of blankness, which he didn’t mind so much since it awarded him the added bonus of concentrating solely on what he had to do. When he first started his training, he was prone to overthinking, and oftentimes his hands shook so much he could hardly perform his duties without feeling the urge to regurgitate whatever he had eaten prior. But perhaps the art of restoration was something Elrond had grown strong in - though he would never admit it - for it wasn’t long before the minor injuries of the dozen or so injured Elves had been mostly tended to.
The veteran healer he’d assisted heaped praises upon him, and although she had plenty more patients awaiting her assistance, she seemed not to want to overexert the younger Peredhel. He was frustratedly indignant when she sent him off to the kitchens to fetch a pail of water. Every apprentice knew it was a polite way of saying “I-don’t-want-you-here-anymore-but-don’t-wish-to-offend-you-by-telling-you-to-get-lost”, but with the gravity of the situation they were in, he reluctantly obliged. Every other healer seemed to have their work cut out for them though, and as Elrond traversed down the stone corridor to the kitchens, he felt a little guilty that he wasn’t pitching in as much as he felt he could.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” He muttered quietly, feeling his nails dig into the blood-caked skin of his palms. Behind him, the cacophonous onslaught of yelling, groaning and chatter grew fainter the further he traveled.
But something caught his eye as he traversed down the hallway: a trail of blood, dark and scarlet against the dusty grey cobblestone. As if enthralled by the sudden discovery, Elrond let the dark liquid lead him until he reached a door to one of the many supply rooms the Feanorian citadel boasted. It was almost deathly quiet now. The only things that he could hear were his own anxious breathing, the cautious shuffle of his bare feet against stone, and what sounded like a soft whimper coming from beyond. Hesitantly, he pressed his palm against the door, teased it open, and was greeted with the sight of Maedhros slumped against a shelf of supplies.
“Maedhros!” He cried out, rushing to the Noldo’s side. Maedhros’ breathing was laboured, and his eyes flickered weakly in recognition as they took in Elrond’s sudden appearance.
“Nothing…. wrong…” He grunted, but he was obviously struggling to form coherent words. Although he then tried to elaborate, the redhead could only let out a pained groan before tensing up.
Elrond saw the blood pooling below his legs; he was losing it at an alarming rate, if the extreme whiteness of his face wasn’t a clear enough indicator, and the Peredhel feared any more would result in death. He needed to act now. Thinking quickly, he removed the apron he’d been given not too long ago as well as the thick wool robe he’d taken to wearing over his usual clothes now that the weather was getting chillier. Once he was satisfied they formed an impromptu bedroll on the ground, he very gingerly turned to Maedhros, who had been watching with his eyes half-closed.
“You need medical attention now, but every other healer has their hands full. I- I know I might not be the most qualified, but I’ll do what I can until I can get someone else,” He offered shakily.
On a normal day, he was more than aware that Maedhros would have turned him down. He had returned from expeditions injured on countless occasions before (although none of these included him passing out alone in secluded locations) and it was a known fact among their small community of healers that the only one he would allow to tend to him was Maglor. But Maglor was in the East Wing, and they were in a supply room pervaded by the metallic smell of blood for pity’s sake, and the pain searing through Maedhros’ entire body seemed not unlike a fire rippling upon him— so—
“...right,” He whispered, and relief flooded Elrond for the second time that night.
The first thing the healer-in-training noticed after he shrugged the heavy fur cloak that Maedhros always seemed to don off his shoulders was the hole in his cuirass. It wasn’t a large hole, and that perhaps was the reason nobody earlier had seemed to notice it under the thick cloak- but with one glance, Elrond had an inkling that only a forceful thrust from a polearm could have made that sort of impact. He didn’t want to think any further of what injury could possibly lie underneath, but he forced himself to proceed. Once he eased the cuirass off, undid the shoulderplates and removed his iron gauntlets, he helped Maedhros slowly slide onto the bedroll.
Taking out a knife, he cut through the thin undershirt and pulled it apart, uncovering Maedhros’ bare chest. A large split in the skin of his abdomen that exposed the scarlet mass of muscle below it glared back at him, seething and abhorrent. It was caked in both dried blood that clung to the skin around it like an insistent parasite and fresh blood that continued to trickle onto the cloth below.
“Oh, Merciful Illuvatar, you’ve been stabbed!” Elrond gasped, and Maedhros managed out a weak grunt, as if to say Excellent deduction, Mr. Obvious.
“...not as bad… as it…” Is what he wheezed out instead, but it came as no surprise when he failed to finish his train of thought.
The Peredhel immediately set to work. Out of instinct, he grabbed some nearby rags from the closest shelf and pressed down hard on the wound. He needed to stop the bleeding, that was a serious priority… then he would need to irrigate it… were there any saline solutions around that he could use?... then after irrigation came the cleaning of the wound... then following that he would need to stitch the wound closed…
But suddenly his eyes land on something - no, several things - that bring the incessant whirring of his overworking brain to a sudden halt. There, carved upon the skin of Maedhros’ bare body are scars unnumbered. Some are long and shimmer a pale satiny white as they catch flicks of daylight, curving around his arms like cruel intricate tattoos. Others are shorter and fatter, yet Elrond just knows by estimation that the force used to hack them into the skin they now sat upon must have been brutally excessive. Snaking across his right shoulder are scar tissue protrusions that look all-too-much like whip lashes; in stark contrast, the entirety of his right forearm is covered in burn marks that leave its skin crinkled and discoloured, like old yellowed tissue paper abandoned to harden in the cold.
Elrond tries to look away. His body is frigid, and bile bubbles to the top of his dry throat. He feels like he’s stumbled headfirst into something he should never have laid eyes open, but wherever his vision attempts to flee, there seems to be no inch of Maedhros’ body that isn’t marred by a hideous mark of obvious torture. It hits him all at once: why Maedhros never joined the rest of them in the communal bath, why he always chose to change his clothes in the seclusion of his own chambers even if the trip he had to make to them was hardly worth the effort, why it was always Maglor and Maglor alone that he let tend to his wounds in private…
Maedhros noticed the sudden shift in the boy’s demeanour and when words failed him, he seemed only to stiffen in response. Guilt immediately filled Elrond. The last thing he had wanted to do was destroy the privacy his adoptive father seemed to value so dearly for apparent good reason- oh, god, he had not intended that at all!- for he had just wanted to do something for him, and he’d panicked upon seeing his injured state and, and also Maedhros’d been bleeding out so badly that he feared he would die… but… but still…
The warm sensation of blood seeping through the white press-cloth licks the skin of his trembling fingers, rousing him back to reality. He has to remain calm. He discards the blood-soaked cloth and replaces it with a fresh one, hoping this will be the last one he needs before he can get started on the other procedures. There are more pressing matters at hand. He grits his teeth and returns to pressing hard on the wound, noting with relief that the blood flow has eased. Maedhros’ life is in your hands, Elrond!
He looked down at the wound, determined to focus only on that, but once again he found his eyes wandering. They landed on the stretch of skin near Maedhros’ abdomen just slightly below his bellybutton, where a peculiar array of old burnished scars seemed to settle into a perfect line. On closer inspection, he noted with a sinking feeling in his stomach that they formed words in the Quenyan script - words that had been painstakingly carved into skin, stroke by excruciating stroke. Elrond did not have a perfect grasp of the outlawed language yet, but a hobby of his that Elros didn’t quite share involved delving into Maglor’s old books that he’d probably brought with him from Valinor. Per the fruits of his studious labour, he could vaguely make out the words that danced upon the skin of the eldest son of Fëanor.
Nossë, meaning family, house, kindred. Nahta, an alternate variant ending of nehtar, meaning slayer.
Nossënahta. He’d heard that word echoed around the citadel on occasion before by gossiping scribes and nosy historians. If he reached into the recesses of his earliest memories, he’d probably be able to recall hearing his mother whispering the Sindarin equivalent under her breath when she’d first read the letter the sons of Fëanor had sent to Sirion.
He doesn’t want to. He can’t afford to, not right now for the love of Eru and everything good and pure and happy in the world! Elrond gags as he forces the vomit rising up his throat back down. He blinks back the overwhelming stinging sensation in his eyes, instead choosing to focus solely on his work. A soft groan escapes Maedhros; he’s noticed the tears prickling the corner of the boy’s eyes. Weakly, he reaches out and places a reassuring hand on his wrist.
“..'s alright...” He murmurs feebly, voice barely above a whisper.
Elrond sniffs, but he seems newly invigorated by his foster father’s encouragement. To his relief, the bleeding has mostly stopped. He seizes this opportunity to grab the necessary tools for the next stage of procedures, scanning the shelves at top speeds and praying they would be there. Fortunately enough, they were; what were the odds that their emergency operation would end up being performed in their citadel's medical supply room, of all places? He briefly entertains the idea that he found Maedhros collapsed here because he’d attempted to see to his own wounds without troubling his already-overwhelmed subjects. The more he ponders it the more tangible it becomes, much to his horror.
“That’s so stupid, Adar,” He mumbles incredulously. He doesn’t even seem to notice the unconscious title that slips through his teeth. “What on Eä were you thinking...?”
But his arms are full with the new supplies he picked from the shelves - saline solution, silk thread, gauze, so on so forth - and he lays them next to Maedhros and his scarred body, mentally preparing himself for what he must do next. The worst is yet to come, and in the confines of their small supply closet, both Noldóran and Peredhel brace themselves for what they will have to endure.