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Aiteisi wrapped Maedhros’s bandages around his stump with expert hands. “From one to ten, how terrible is the pain?”
“Tis a five when you press it,” Maedhros grumbled. The small room was empty except for the two of them. Maedhros was leaning against a pile of pillows in the bed, a light sheet over his legs.
Aiteisi, a tall blonde lady with broad hips, strong hands, and a permanent smell of aloe and athelas, gently tweaked his nose. “I can’t bandage it well if I don’t press it. And how is the shoulder?”
“Weak, but better than it was. I still cannot move it well, and I wake up with it above my head. Still.” In the first months of his healing, it had caused him constant terrible pain. Now, three months later, the pain had subsided to a dull ache when he was cold or tired or when it would rain or snow. Needless to say, he was not looking forward to going back to Himring.
She gently moved her hands, cupping and rubbing over stretched and damaged muscle. “That will unlearn itself in time, I suspect.”
Maedhros stayed silent.
“How is the breathing? Is it still uneasy at night?”
Maedhros nodded. That had been something else. He had been shocked at how difficult it had been to draw a simple breath once he’d been unchained. He’d had to keep his arm above his head for several weeks. It had been a new form of torment.
“... Hmm.” She pulled her hands away. “... Well, that’s an improvement from it being difficult all the time. There are still one or two more things I could try.” Sweeping across the room, she picked up a large red garment. “Oh, and I brought you a new robe. Nice and clean, for your freshly washed self.” A kind smile graced her round face. “Fingo-- Prince Fingon sent it especially for you. He told me to make you look nice today.”
Maedhros flinched hard. His speech wouldn’t come. Tears bit at the corners of his eyes. Look nice. Look nice. Make him look nice. Make him look pretty. So pretty. A pretty boy. A pretty princeling. A pretty piece of--
“--at me. Look at me, Maedhros. In my eyes. You are here now, and you are safe. Wherever you think you are, you are not there. I promise.”
Right. It was just Aiteisi. Not him. He’d never have to see him again. “... I am… so sorry.”
Aiteisi smiled, kindly and motherly. “At least you did not strike me this time. You are doing better.”
“... May I dress myself?” The thought of foreign hands coursing over his skin made him want to tear his flesh to ribbons.
“When have I, or anyone else, ever denied you that?”
Maedhros couldn’t answer that. “... Please give me my robe.”
She obliged, turning while Maedhros cast off his sheet and pulled the soft silk tunic over his naked skin. It fell to his knees, leaving his scarred calves visible. “Finished.”
“Good. It fits well. Now sit.”
Once he had obliged, she bustled over to him and sat on the edge of his bed. “I have to go check on the other wounded now. Don’t let me catch you running around in here, you hear me?”
Maedhros smiled slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”
Someone tapped on the door. Aiteisi looked up. “Can I let him in?”
“See who he is, first,” Maedhros responded. Anxiety still flared behind his breastbone when people knocked on his door, the thought that any moment Morgoth or one of his foul lieutenants could walk through the door, pick him up and swoop him back into a lifetime of torment.
Aiteisi swept across the room and looked through the peephole. “Tis Prince Fingon. I can see his eyes, and his ribbons.”
The anxiety left Maedhros all at once, leaving him feeling heavy and empty. “Oh, thank the Valar. Let him in.”
The door opened and Fingon entered, the golden ribbons in his crown braid shining brightly. “Hullo, Russo! Are you well today?”
Maedhros couldn’t help but smile. “As well as I ever am, Finno.”
Fingon smoothed the sheets over Maedhros’s legs. “There are some people who want to speak to you, if you are willing to have them.”
The anxiety must have shown on Maedhros’s face because Fingon continued with a, “It is a good thing, Russo, do not fret.” Fingon gently tucked Maedhros’s hair behind his ear. “No one will hurt you here, dear cousin.”
Maedhros stared at the blanket, once crisp, now rumpled from three months of bed rest, blood, sweat, snot and tears, and hasty washes. His words choked in his throat, so he only nodded. A flash of anger bubbled in his chest; why was he so fragile? He was royalty! Sure, the crown was no longer his, but there was still no excuse to cry like a brat. “Yes, of course. I did not think anyone would bring me to injury here.”
A smile graced Fingon’s handsome face. “Good.” He took Maedhros’s one remaining hand, kissing the knuckles reverently. “May I bring in your visitors now?”
“... Yes.”
Fingon left the room. Maedhros could hear him talking for a second before he stepped aside and the visitors were finally allowed in.
Maedhros’s heart seized. He studied each of them in turn, stifling tears. “... Maglor. Amrod. Amras. Caranthir. Celegorm. Curufin.”
Their eyes focused in on him, still too thin and bandaged, somehow small in a bed bedecked in white sheets, his hair clean and brushed but too short, too thin, his skin knitted together by scars ranging from pure white to a rich fuchsia. Maedhros had never felt any real shame regarding his appearance before--he knew he was beautiful before his torment, and even after, Fingon and Aiteisi had never let him say a negative word about himself--but now, sitting before all of his brothers, he wanted to disappear. He could see the shock in their faces, the dismay, all the pain and the worry.
“... I will wring the Moringotto’s neck,” growled Caranthir, breaking the silence.
Amrod tiptoed forwards and took Maedhros’s stump in trembling fingers. “... Your hand,” he managed numbly.
Maedhros could only nod.
Curufin bustled across the room. “I can make a new one of these.” He studied Maedhros with an impassive expression. “You wouldn’t be able to control it, of course, but it would protect the stump, and I could give you a hand, or a hook, or even a sword. Do you want a sword for an arm?”
“It is… not necessary,” Maedhros managed.
Curufin nodded sharply and sat down in a small desk in the corner, grabbing what had been Maedhros and Aiteisi’s shared pen and parchments and furiously starting a sketch.
Celegorm cleared his throat. “I brought you a present.” He pulled a large, rolled up furry thing from a pack on his back. “Tis a bearskin. Very soft, very warm. I thought it would be nice for… you know. A convalescent.” He draped it over Maedhros’s shoulders.
Ai Valar, it is soft. He rubbed his cheek against it. “... Well, it kept a bear warm enough,” managed Maedhros. “Thank you. I mean it.”
“Always welcome,” Celegorm grinned.
Amras and Amrod chose then to collapse against Maedhros’s chest, bury their faces in his tunic and cry. Maedhros put his arms around them. “Babes, babes, I am here now. Do not weep. I am safe now. I am recovering. Do not weep for me, please, I am not worth your tears.”
Amras could only whimper, but Amrod found his voice. “We thought you were dead! We hoped you were dead!”
Amras hiccuped. “We prayed every day that he had just… just…”
Maedhros kissed the top of each of their heads in turn before turning to the others. “Is this true?”
Maglor swallowed. “... I told them that you were probably dead. It was… I am so, so sorry, Mae, I really am.” His voice cracked. He practically ran across the room, slipping behind Maedhros and taking him in his arms. “I am not worthy of your forgiveness for that, but if your heart is still able…”
“You made the right choice,” Maedhros nodded. He leaned his head on Maglor’s shoulder. “If you had tried to rescue me, you would have all been taken too. He expects us to try and infiltrate. He was not expecting Fingon, and that is how Fingon succeeded.”
“I am so sorry,” Maglor whispered. “I am so, so sorry.”
Maedhros shifted his hand from where it was holding Amras to take Maglor’s hand, rubbing his knuckles, feeling where the strings of his harp had toughened his fingers. “You are forgiven, dear Maglor. Do not let it torment you.”
Maglor managed a nod.
Caranthir shifted from where he’d been scowling intently at the floor. “I wanted to fight.”
All eyes drifted to him.
“I wanted to fight,” he repeated. “Damn it all, I tried to go on my own. I could not find a way in that was not too guarded for me to sneak in.”
There was complete silence for a long time.
Maglor spoke first. “I did not know that.”
Caranthir met his eyes. “I know. It was purposeful. Not even my closest advisors and servants knew. The only one who knew was Darkthorn, my horse, who bore me there.”
“Did any more of you…?” Maedhros managed.
“I thought you were dead,” Maglor said faintly. “I really did.”
The Ambarussa shook their heads.
“... I thought you were dead, or so heavily guarded it was hopeless,” Celegorm admitted.
“And I thought the same,” Curufin sighed.
Caranthir’s shoulders slouched. “In all honesty, I had no plan. I had no idea what I was doing. I just… I could not bear to sit there doing nothing. That was… it was killing me.”
Tears stung Maedhros’s eyes and he disentangled his arms from where they were wrapped around his brothers, extending them to Caranthir. “Come here.”
Caranthir snuggled against Maedhros’s chest between the Ambarussa, adding to the tangle of warm arms and limbs in Maedhros’s bed. His hair, ink-dark, tickled against Maedhros’s chin.
Maedhros opened his mouth, fully intending to thank Caranthir from the bottom of his heart, but nothing came out. He blinked hard. No. He was the big brother. He would not collapse snivelling and bawling like a child. Even though his heart was swelling so hard it felt like it would burst, even though ever since his rescue the slightest kindness was breaking him, even though the warmth of Caranthir and Maglor and the Ambarussa hurt in a way he could never have predicted before his torment, back in Valinor, back when they were happy and safe…
“Did you bring your harp by any chance, Maglor?” Curufin asked absently. “It would be nice to hear some music while I drew up these prints, not to mention that a distraction from… the latest revelations would be pleasant.”
Maglor gave a small laugh. “Alas! I did not. But I have my pipes, would vocal music suffice?”
“I suppose it would be adequate,” Curufin sighed.
“Yes, we might be able to tolerate it if Maglor were to sing,” Celegorm groaned.
Maglor blushed. “... I… I need one moment, just a moment, if you will, to think.” He cleared his throat, humming a few notes.
The vibrations coursed through Maedhros’s back as Maglor started singing, his voice a river and roses and the warmth of the sun and firelight and their mother’s calm wisdom and their father’s intense passion all at the same time.
How far have we fallen?
Walk as babes from arms of Paradise
Torn on altars of our childish mistakes
Forgive me
A dream of ill fate
You fell before my eyes
Blinded by prophecy
I left you to die
I do not deserve your forgiveness
Your tenderness, your kindness
My vain hopes dissolved to heartbreak
Sorrow sorry, sorry sorrow
Brother mine, please forgive me
I kneel on an altar of your grace
I put my heart in your hands tonight--
“Stop,” Maedhros begged. “I cannot take any more of this. You have my full forgiveness, Maglor. I do not hold anything against you.” He heaved a breath, looking at Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin and the Ambarussa, who were stirring slightly as if coming out of a trance. “I need a moment alone, if you will. All of you, please.”
The hug-pile dispersed, Amras first, then Amrod, then Caranthir, then Maglor last. Celegorm, who was on the edge but not really participatory, made sure that the bearskin was nice and snug around Maedhros’s shoulders before he left. Curufin, who had been at the desk scribbling away, was first to leave.
They were barely out the door before Maedhros broke down.
The chest heaves started first, his breath coming hard and choking, before the tears even fell, although they were close behind. He buried his face in the bearskin as heavy sobs broke from his throat. Oh, Maglor, poor babe… Caranthir, why? Why put me over yourself? I am not worthy… Breaking down like this! What is wrong with me? I am lower than a child!
Outside, Caranthir paced the main corridor of Mithrim’s Halls of Healing, his hands balled into fists. “... I need to kill something.”
“Do not be hasty, brother,” Maglor pleaded, his eyes wet. “I do not want to… see another of my kin hurt. I cannot, it would slay me.”
Caranthir sighed. Without stopping his pacing, he pulled a hanky from his robes and passed it off to Maglor. “Wipe your eyes.”
Maglor did.
A series of muffled heaving cries broke the silence and all their eyes turned to the door. There was more raw, searing desperation and pain in those sobs than they had heard out of Maedhros in their entire lives together.
Caranthir whirled around and promptly punched a hole through the thin wood of the door of a nearby storage closet. Celegorm turned to Curufin and mouthed, Oh, Eru, this is bad. Curufin’s eyes widened and he pursed his lips.
Maglor buried his face into the handkerchief, his own quiet sniffles adding to the terrible melody. Amrod and Amras wrapped Maglor in a hug, as much for their own comfort as for his. Maglor pulled them close, letting the handkerchief drop to the floor in favor of burying his face in between their red-russet mops of hair. No one spoke for a very long time.
There was nothing to say.
Eventually, once the cries had died down, Maglor quietly left, red eyed and sniffling, and came back with Aiteisi, who slipped into Maedhros’s room without a word to any of the brothers. “Maedhros, my lord? May I come in? Your brother here said you were having troubles.”
Maedhros raised his head from where it was buried in the bearskin. His eyes were red. He managed a nod.
Aiteisi moved towards him. “Physical? Emotional?”
“... The latter.”
“May I touch you?”
A little bird fluttered behind Maedhros’s ribcage. The touch starvation and the trauma from his torment and violation warred in his heart, tearing him into a thousand snarling needs. “... Yes, you may.”
She gently stroked his hair back and he nearly sobbed again. “You poor thing,” she murmured. “I bet you really needed to cry like that.”
He leaned into her touch. “... Yes,” he murmured, “... it hurt today.”
“I could tell,” she murmured. “Would you like to talk about it?”
“... Perhaps another time.,” Maedhros sighed. “... I am not sure… words are failing me.”
Aiteisi nodded. “I understand.”
“And that, dear Aiteisi, is what I love about you.”
A laugh bubbled out of Aiteisi’s lips. “I am thankful for your love, my lord.” She produced a cup of water from seemingly nowhere and pressed it into his hands. “Here, drink this. You must be dreadfully thirsty after all of that.”
He didn’t trust his words, so he just drank, swallowing slowly and evenly until the water was gone.
“Good job,” Aiteisi soothed. “Rest now, okay? You must be exhausted.”
He blinked slowly. “... Yes, I am, how could you tell?”
She smiled and folded her arms over her ample breasts. “Magic.”
Maedhros managed a small chuckle, lying back on his stack of pillows. “Of course.”
“May I bring your brothers back in, now that your laughter has returned?”
“... Yes.”
The door opened and the six of them filed in. This time, the hug pile included all seven of them. Maedhros’s head came to rest on Caranthir’s shoulder, Amrod and Amras settled in his lap on either of Caranthir’s sides, Maglor and Celegorm sat behind him, Curufin lay against his shoulder. Their bodies were warm, and Maedhros was so tired.
Maglor made a small sound. “I am so…”
“Hush,” Maedhros nagged. “No more apologies. I have forgiven you ten times over.”
“... I do not deserve this.”
“I said hush before you make me weep a second time.”
Maglor hushed.
Maedhros closed his eyes. The tide of emotion had flooded away, leaving him exhausted, his body too heavy to move. Caranthir smelled nice, a dark scent reminiscent of leather and lavender oil. It was soothing. He did not remember when he fell asleep, but it happened very quickly.
The other six carefully pulled away, Caranthir and Maglor gently helping to lie Maedhros down, Celegorm adjusting the bearskin over Maedhros’s body. Curufin carefully folded up the plans he made and tucked them into a pouch suspended on his hip. The Ambarussa sent for a glass of water and, once a servant had procured it, placed it by his bed.
Once all was done, Maglor ushered them from the room, a finger over his lips. After all, Maedhros needed every bit of peaceful rest he could get.