Auta i lómë

Again, it’s post-Thangorodrim, so be aware of mature themes. Everything’s just alluded to but you may still want to skip this if that sort of topic bothers you.

———-

Maedhros stares down at the metal hand that’s just been dumped unceremoniously on his infirmary bed.

“Go on then,” Curufin says impatiently. “Try it out, if I need to make adjustments I have to do it this afternoon before Tyelperinquar gets his turn in the forge again.”

It’s made to be put on with one hand, of course. It should be easy enough for Maedhros to use. But as Curufin watches, his brother simply continues to stare blankly.

Then, slowly, he reaches out his one remaining hand to touch it. His fingertips trace the lines of the metal, interlocking plates arranged like a piece of artwork in themselves.

It’s been carefully and determinedly engraved all over. Their father’s crest takes pride of place on the back of the hand. The colours, too, are beautifully chosen: silver mixing with the gleam of chrome, speckles of gold, elegant thin lines of the darkest red. It wouldn’t do for the House of Fëanor to wear anything that wasn’t exquisite.

Maedhros is pale when he whispers, “What’s the cost?”

Curufin blinks. They’ve hardly fallen so far that their treasury has to count every penny. And even if they had, he’d spend it all on his brother. (Anything to make him better again.) “What are you talking about?”

Maedhros slowly lifts his eyes to meet Curufin’s. There’s dread in them, but he swallows and sits up a little straighter.

“What’s the price?” he asks again in the same barely-there voice.

Curufin stares. “Don’t be dense, Nelyo,” he says brusquely, trying to hide his discomfort beneath curtness. “It’s a gift.”

Maedhros shudders. His face does something awful, warping before returning to its previous blank and tattered state. “What do you want?” he asks. His body shivers and Curufin makes a mental note to bring more blankets. He hesitates, not sure how to answer the question and not sure what his brother is asking.

Maedhros picks up on the hesitation. His eyes shine and his soft terrible voice speaks again. “Something this… this much, there’s a price. What do you want?”

He leans forward, away from the pile of cushions propping him up, and begins to drag his body over the mattress towards Curufin. Arm over shaking arm he closes the distance between them with heavy breaths. He leaves a smear of blood on the mattress.

Curufin makes a startled sound and reaches out for his brother’s body before he falls. “Fool, what are you doing?” he cries, one hand grabbing Maedhros’ side (over an injury, but everywhere is over an injury) and the other arm propping up his chest before he collapses. Sure enough Maedhros wilts, all his strength gone in an instant. He falls limply into Curufin’s grasp and his forehead flops onto his brother’s thigh.

The sudden weight takes Curufin by surprise, but he tries to support the battered body, tries to figure out how he’s going to get this gangly-limbed fragile creature sitting up again without reopening any of the wounds. His heart is thumping for some reason that he doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to examine. He can hear it his ears, like a drumbeat, like a warning.

Maedhros is warm against him. Maybe feverish. He’s far too thin.

“Oh,” the soft voice mumbles into Curufin’s thigh. He tries to turn his head a little, manages to lie on one cheek with his face turned inwards. He sighs a little. “I’m.. of course.” He licks his lips, and then-

Before Curufin can try to decipher his brother’s deranged rantings, Maedhros’ head slides off his thigh and towards his crotch. With a yelp, Curufin hoists him upright again.

Maedhros cries out in pain, but it’s so soft and helpless that it sounds like a mewling kitten. He gasps rattling breaths.

There’s something terrible bubbling beneath the surface of Curufin’s thoughts, but he doesn’t listen to it. He doesn’t want to. He keeps his fear and his screaming realisations under the surface of the calm, ordered lake surface in his mind as he props his brother back up on the pillows. What’s left of thinned dull hair fans out beautifully, like a blood splatter. 

“If you’re still this weak, the healers should be doing something,” Curufin growls. His heart is still pounding. “For Eru’s sake, this simply isn’t acceptable. I’ll fetch someone.”

He stands and fumbles towards the tent flap (him, fumbling), glad to be moving away from the bedside.

“Curvo?” says a frail voice. Curufin looks back.

“I’ll repay you,” his eldest and loveliest brother whispers through ruined lips.

The bones are changed. They have been warped and reformed, and now they form traceable lines over cratered skin, a sacrilegious landscape, beneath hair that is diminished and a face that is marred.

The eyes are still the same, and their gaze is clear even as the lids fight to stay open.

"I’ll… repay you some other time,” the wasted body promises in a whisper. His skeletal fingers are curled in the sheets. “Sorry.”

The cold metal hand still sits on the bed. It glints mockingly.

Curufin swallows. “You don’t owe me anything,” he says roughly, before whatever is stuck in his throat can surface. His eyes are starting to burn.

Maeglin’s skin turns silver in the moonlight. He lies on the forest floor, and his mother lies beside him. The pine needles are soft, and the moss is soft, and the moonlight is soft, but terrifying.

Aredhel kisses his temple. The wind shifts, and the brown leaves flitter about them. They are both dressed in white, and it glows ghostly in the forest.

‘I am tired,’ she says.

She is always tired. Here she is resting. While she was resting she had a child. The child is hers and her life is hers, and she is cold and needs the sun.

Maeglin does not know why she needs the sun, but he waits for it with her in the mornings when they stay up the whole night in the clearings where the sun comes through. They cannot see it, but they can make out the golden light high above them reaching against the tangled branches.

‘Is it evil?’ he asks, for it feels more terrifying than the moonlight.

She laughs, and that is her only answer. He wonders what she thinks.

She is not tied to anything, is she?

Gandalf, arriving at Bag End: oh, hello there

Tiny Frodo, making mud pies in the garden: *little wave* hi

Gandalf: hm.

Gandalf, inside: Bilbo, are you aware that there’s an unattended child playing in your garden

Bilbo: oh that’s just Frodo, I’m watching him this afternoon

Gandalf: ah, I see

Gandalf: though you are not, in fact, watching him, as you’re in the parlour drinking tea, and he’s I’m the garden

Bilbo: he can look after himself

Gandalf: he is climbing over your garden wall

Bilbo: he’ll toddle back when he gets hungry :)

Gandalf: …

Gandalf, hoisting Frodo back over the wall: wHERE do you think you’re going

Frodo: pond.

my perfectionism and satisfaction with my current writing ability:

Eru Iluvatar: No