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When Gwindor bursts into our room, I know heaven or hell comes with him. Neither will suit me, confined as I am, to earth. But Maitimo lurches forward, bent at the waist, not minding his still-delicate leg as I wish he would, and cries,
“Is there news? I heard—”
We heard horses. Shouts from out-of-doors. Sounds that could mean living or dying, hope or despair.
“They’ve returned,” Gwindor says. “All of them. Celegorm, Aredhel. The party that went after them.”
To see Maitimo smile these days—as rarely as he does—is enough to rend my heart. Some of the tension leaches from his bones.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “It seemed too much to hope.”
“It wasn’t,” I say, reaching for his hand as I still find myself doing, before remembering by the shocking sight alone that his hand is forever gone. I rest my fingers on the blanket beside his leg instead. “Every one of us, safe tonight.”
I will even be friendly to Celegorm, for Maedhros’ sake—
—If Celegorm will deign to look at me, which he hasn’t, really, since my madness over the lake.
“I want to ask you for news,” Maedhros is saying, his voice trembling with emotion, “But that would be unfair, wouldn’t it Gwindor? You came straight here. Thank you—thank you for thinking of me. And Maglor is grateful too, I’m sure, for he’s had to listen to my worries these six or seven hours at least—however long it’s been.”
“Aye, well, and who else would I be thinking of?” Gwindor mumbles. I expect him to sit on the bench or make his obstinate bed in the matless corner, but he does nothing of the sort. He stands there, twisting his blunt, scarred hands together as if he is a schoolboy about to say a piece.
Even for a fertile imagination such as my own, it is difficult to imagine Gwindor as a schoolboy.
“What is it?” The tremor has faded from Maedhros’ tone; he sounds like himself again. Once, that would have meant lilting and self-assured, as was his manner before anybody other than me. Now, it means quiet, sober, a little strained. “Is something the matter?”
“Everyone is safe,” Gwindor says, as if repeating the idea will give us strength for what follows. “And you’ve the rights of it, Russandol. I came straight here. But not afore I seen—” He pauses, and puffs out his breath, and scratches his tangle of sun-lightened hair. “They made a rescue of their own, it seems. Celegorm and Aredhel. Or else Fingolfin was taking charity cases along the way.”
Maedhros asks, almost sharply, “They brought someone else back?”
Now my interest is piqued. Another intruder in the walls of Mithrim—a charity case—
My first guess is a girl fallen on hard times and harder professions, like Mollie. Amras’ Mollie does not make herself known very often; I confess I sometimes forget she is with us at all. I forget most of the people milling about, where I cannot see them, where Maedhros has no need of them.
“They did,” says Gwindor, in answer to Maedhros’ question. “Russandol…It’s the forge-brat. Maeglin.”
The name has no meaning to me. I ponder it for not even a second before I turn my gaze to Maedhros, trying to see what he knows.
The mask is up: his eyes wide as if almost unseeing, his lips drawn.
Then, carefully, and with unmistakable knowledge, he says, “Maeglin?”
“I saw him, with the rest, and I came at once.” Gwindor coughs. “Perhaps I should have stayed and heard a little more, but I—”
“You wanted to tell me about Celegorm,” Maedhros says. “I understand.”
“What do you want to do about him?” Gwindor asks.
Maedhros says nothing. He is staring downwards, now, at the blanket spread over his immobile legs. I understand that it will be time, soon, for Fingon to remove the brace. Then he may begin to walk again. We must hope that the gingerly stretching of his other limbs, and the tireless rubbing of his muscles that Caranthir and Gwindor and I perform in this time of Fingon’s dereliction, have done enough to ready him.
I can do nothing of any kind when I am ignorant. Since Maedhros will not answer, I answer for him.
“Who is Maeglin?” I ask.
Gwindor sucks his teeth. Taciturn and loyal as ever, to everybody but me.
“Maeglin was a captive alongside us,” Maedhros says quietly.
“Like hell he—” Gwindor interrupts, and then, catching himself, returns to stony silence.
“You never spoke of him,” I say, by which I mean, Why was he not rescued with the rest? And if you feel that you failed him, as I think you would feel with respect to anybody you left within that iron hell, why did you not tell me?
You see, I have begun to believe again that Maedhros tells me everything.
“His situation was unusual,” Maedhros says. “He was not kept with the other thralls. He was...he is skilled. Skilled at metalwork.”
He looks at me, then, and I take his meaning.
“He helped you with the guns.”
“He helped me with the guns,” Maedhros echoes. “Has he spoken to anyone, Gwindor? He must be frightened.”
“He’s not quite conscious,” Gwindor says. “No—no, he’s not at death’s door. Don’t go all frightened rabbit on me.”
Maedhros leans back against his pillows. “But he’s hurt?”
“Hurt, and exhausted, no doubt. Your cousin Aredhel looked ready to drop herself. Fingon’s there—Fingon’s seeing to them.”
“Gwindor,” Maedhros says. “I…”
“The question remains,” Gwindor counters. “What do you want to do about him?”
Maedhros says only, “He’s just a boy.”
I do not like the implications of their talk any more than I like that they continue to speak only in implications. I wish they would tell me outright who this Maeglin truly is. A skilled captive who was not kept with the other thralls? I wonder if he is scarred, and dressed in rags. If he is, he will have the sympathy of the whole damned fort.
But does he deserve it?
“Children can be used for man’s ends,” Gwindor says. “He could be a spy, Russandol. In fact, I think it—I think it more likely than any other chance, that he’s a spy.”
“All the more reason,” Maedhros says, “To look out for him. Maglor—”
“Yes?” My stomach churns.
“Please don’t speak of this to anyone.”
I wish I felt like a confidant instead of a child myself, in this moment. “Can’t you at least tell me,” I say, “What it is that you know?”
“I know that Maeglin survived a skirmish few men did,” Gwindor answers, his voice grim. “And I know that he belonged to Bauglir, and not to anybody else, seemingly.”
Beneath the blankets, Maedhros’ right knee jerks a little. “If I may,” he says, “I would point out that he is hardly the first pathetic creature to be seen as belonging to Bauglir. Keeping a human menagerie is a pastime of his with which I am intimately acquainted. For that reason alone—”
“I’m sorry,” Gwindor mutters. “I take your point. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
I wish Gwindor had kept his mouth shut a moment ago. If he hadn’t accused Maeglin the way he did, I might have been able to pose stern (though gentle) questions to Maitimo, thus ferreting out the truth of the matter.
As it is, any attempt like that now will seem like an attack on this mysterious boy he seems so bent on protecting.
“Thank you,” Maedhros says, but he is staring at me, and after a moment, I realize he is waiting for me to give him my promise, too.
“I shall not speak of this to anyone,” I assure him, and then there is no time for anything else, because Celegorm’s voice is in the corridor and a new interest and desire lights Maedhros’ face.