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shoelace-eating-gopher · 7 months

Text

Of Image and Identity

tagging @fingons-rad-harp who asked if I had any Maedhros blurbs. I do. Also on AO3 here

tw for a bit of internalized ableism

*****

Maedhros always wanted to spar. It had been like this since the Bragollach, the desperate energy, the drive to be better. The need to push everyone else around him to be better as well. He wanted to make sure they were never caught unawares again. While Maglor had to admit he was improving, he also thought it was a little unfair. With the loss of Fingolfin, Maedhros was the strongest of the Noldor still left alive and fighting, and Maglor had little chance of beating him. Still, he knew what this meant to his brother, so he tried his best.

Maglor had been living in Himring for years now, and with Fingon - King Fingon - able to visit less and less frequently, he had become a rock for his brother. While the rest of their family had been scattered to the South, so far out of reach, Maglor had fled to Himring when the fires had overwhelmed his land. He was more than happy to see his brother, to see the icy fortress still standing, but he had forgotten how paranoid Maedhros could be. Maybe with good reason.

So here they were, in a private, empty court, the rhythm of battle so achingly familiar. Maglor knew that the Sudden Flame had shaken his brother to the core, but it certainly hadn’t dampened his skills as a warrior. Back and forth they spun, swords clanging, the ground a flurry of footsteps. Maglor ducked around back, trying to take advantage of his brother’s less protected right side, but he was blocked and sent spinning. He only just managed to get his sword up in time before Maedhros countered with a blow of his own.

“You know,” Maglor said, teeth gritted, but his voice good-natured. “If you’d let me Sing, this would be a fair fight.” Maedhros spun around, pushing Maglor’s sword out of the way, exposing his chest. Quickly, Maglor ducked, rolling across the floor out of range.

“You can’t rely on your voice, Makalaurë,” Maedhros said, only using Maglor’s full name if he intended to lecture him. “You need to be prepared if something like the Bragollach happens again, if you get so much smoke clogged in your throat that you can’t Sing. This could be the difference between life and death.” He whirled after Maglor, a blur of scarlet and silver, the same fire in his eyes as always. It scared Maglor sometimes, but as long as it was there, it meant his brother was still fighting.

Maglor barely had time to get his bearings, to spin around and raise his sword, before he clashed with Maedhros again. He found himself being pushed back against the weight of his older brother, who had both the height and bulk advantage. He stepped aside, cursing when Maedhros did not so much as stumble forward, and blocked the blade coming up to his back. It seems no matter what Maglor did he couldn’t get the upper hand.

“You’re not watching me,” Maedhros told him after he had got yet another ‘blow’ in. “Predict what I’m going to do next, use my strengths against me. Maybe try some strategy of your own.” Maglor’s eyes flared and he thrust his sword forward, forcing Maedhros’ arm back. Maedhros fought his way out of the maneuver before Maglor could say anything, and delivered a swift blow to the knees which sent Maglor into a smooth roll across the floor once again.

“I’m not a child that needs instruction,” Maglor huffed, bouncing to his feet again, sword primed. “I am a seasoned warrior, you know that right?” He spun around, getting in one blow to Maedhros’ side before his blade was thrust up once more. “The problem is, you're better than just about everyone.”

“Not everyone,” Maedhros said darkly, and just like that, his sword whipped out from nowhere, twisting Maglor’s weary sword arm and sending his blade flying. Maglor grimaced. He really hated losing time and time again. He turned back to Maedhros, his sword tip fixed on his chest and resigned himself to another lecture.

“You are definitely improving,” he began, walking towards Maglor. “But the small things could save your life in battle. You need more strength, more ferocity. Don’t hold back on my behalf. You can’t afford to hold back for anything. You are also very rigid on the sword handle. It’s not a lute, Makalaurë, you don’t have to - ” At that moment Maedhros cried out, pitching forward onto one knee, face twisted in pain.

“Maedhros!” Maglor cried out, dropping down beside him. “Maedhros, what’s wrong? Are you alright?” Maedhros was trying to school his features into a grimace or less before turning back to Maglor, clutching his right thigh, sword still in hand. The whole scene unnerved Maglor. Had he actually done some damage during a routine practice? He hadn’t thought it was possible. Maedhros was always so strong.

“I’m fine,” Maedhros stuttered out, always the first words out of his mouth and always a lie. “It’s… my leg.” Maglor winced, immediately going to assess the injury. For Maedhros to be showing this much pain… it had to be bad.

“What happened?” He asked, forcing Maedhros down into a position that wouldn’t put any weight on his legs.

“It’s just an injury from the Bragollach,” Maedhros gritted out, not looking Maglor in the eye. “It shouldn’t be acting up.” Maglor nodded at Maedhros, letting him have his half-truths. Maedhros had sustained many injuries in battle since he had become Lord of Himring, and none of them had been anything more to him than temporary inconveniences. It was the echoes of Thangorodrim that still plagued his brother, even if he pretended to act otherwise. Maglor knew that this leg had taken considerable damage during Maedhros’ captivity, being both broken and slit at the muscle. He wouldn’t put it past the exertion from the Bragollach to make it flare up.

“Come on,” Maglor said, putting his arm around Maedhros’ back, and helping him to stand. “Let’s get you help. This is obviously worse than you’re letting on.” Maedhros stood with him, which in itself was a testament to how much pain he was in. As they rose, Maedhros clutched at Maglor’s arm.

“Not the infirmary.” He hissed through his teeth. Right. Maglor sighed. Maedhros, despite his high standing, would never let any of the healers in Himring get close, whether out of a desire to be perceived as strong or a developed aversion to them after all his time spent in the infirmaries of Mithrim. It could only be one of his brothers.

“Not the infirmary,” Maglor told him, until Maedhros had calmed down, his death grip on Maglor releasing. “I’m taking you to your room.” It was somewhat difficult with Maedhros’ extra height, but it was nothing Maglor hadn’t done before. He had retaught him how to walk after all. But by the time they arrived in the vast chamber and Maedhros slumped into one of his large chairs, they were both rather pale.

Maglor waited with a pointed look until slowly, Maedhros undid his armour, allowing Maglor to examine his leg. He was much slower to roll up his pant leg, revealing twisted white scars across bone that was not quite set properly. Maglor knew he hated this, but he needed to know how bad it was, and for that, he needed to see skin. Maglor sucked in a quick breath. The whole area was bruised deep purple and had swollen significantly. It showed no sign of deep burns, infection, or recent scarring, confirming Maglor’s theory of an older injury. Most likely, it was another one of Maedhros’ bad days. Just how bad though remained to be seen.

“I’ll be right back,” Maglor promised, and made a quick trip down to the infirmaries to pick up supplies. He came back with a cloth full of ice - in abundance in Himring - a roll of bandages, and two small vials of medicine. Even this long after the Bragollach, Maglor was surprised at how well-stocked Himring’s medicines were. Maedhros was ever vigilant. Maglor arrived back to find Maedhros holding the old wound, tapping his fingers in the familiar rhythm that meant he was trying to ground himself.

“Hey,” Maglor said firmly, drawing his attention back to him. “Maedhros, it’s alright. I’m here, I’m back. You’re going to be okay. It looks like you were right - just a flare-up. It should go down soon. Here, this will help.” He handed Maedhros the ice, and he held it to his inner thigh, hissing slightly at the pressure and the chill.

“I’ve got something for that,” he said, almost a joke. He made sure Maedhros could see him as he mixed four or five drops of the first vial into a steaming mug of tea. When his brother nodded, Maglor handed it to him, and Maedhros drank it rapidly, regardless of temperature. Maglor winced again. The least Maedhros could do was try not to injure himself again while they were trying to heal him.

“Careful,” he said belatedly. “It’s hot.”

“I’ve had worse,” Maedhros rasped at him, switching the ice to another point in his leg, trying to find relief. Maglor wanted to grab him by the shoulders and yell, telling him that that wasn’t the point. The point was there shouldn’t be a problem at all. He refrained from doing so. Instead, he focused on soaking the bandages in the second vial of medicine, letting the healing properties be absorbed into the cloth. From behind him, Maedhros stirred, stretching his leg to test it, crying out softly as he was met with more pain.

“How do I make sure that this never happens again?” he asked, his voice low and controlled. Maglor’s heart ached as he felt the thousands of questions that lay behind the request. How do I make sure this never happens when it could kill me? How do I purge this weakness from the body I worked so hard to strengthen? Will I ever really heal? Maglor wished he was a healer, one who could tell Maedhros that there were simple steps he could follow and he would never have to hurt again. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t.

“I - I don’t know, Nelyo,” Maglor said, his voice softening. “It could be a one-time thing. But…” he continued despite the dangerous glare from Maedhros. “It could also be that the best way to live with this is to learn how to deal with these flare-ups.” Maglor knelt beside Maedhros, waiting to wrap the bandages around Maedhros’ leg until he had been given a consenting nod. Maglor took it as a good sign that Maedhros only flinched slightly as the saturated bandages - and Maglor’s fingers - made contact with his skin.

“Very helpful, Maglor,” Maedhros spat, not making eye contact with him. His voice dripped with the dark sarcasm that had been ever-present since his rescue. “I am constantly reminded why I keep you around. When Morgoth strikes again - and he will - I’ve always wanted to collapse in the middle of the battlefield because I couldn't control my own injuries.” He exhaled angrily and tried to stretch his leg again, only causing more pain.

It broke Maglor’s heart. He knew how much of his brother’s identity relied on his own strength. How much his recovery had been dependent on his ability to defend himself, to have autonomy. How he coped by striving for more, always, and not relenting. If flare-ups like this persisted… What did it mean for Maedhros’ future?

“Nelyo,” Maglor said gently, tying off the bandages and putting a hand on his brother's arm. “You have faced worse than this. You are strong enough to get through this. I have faith that this will not be a regular occurrence. I have faith in you.” Maedhros looked at the ground, scowling.

“Not much to believe in,” he mumbled. Maglor gathered the remainder of the medical supplies, preparing to return them.

“It’s gotten me this far,” he said, smiling softly at his brother, seeking out his eyes. “Trust me on this.” Maedhros didn’t meet his gaze, but his expression softened slightly. He closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly closed, before slowly releasing all the air he had been holding in. Finally, he nodded. Not agreement, but acknowledgment. He would trust him for now. It was the only alternative they had. Maglor stood up, turning to leave for the infirmary.

“Maglor?” He heard Maedhros call from behind him.

“Yes?”

“No one knows about this, alright,” he said, a sliver of vulnerability sneaking into his guarded tone. Maglor turned back, nodding once.

“Alright,” he said, before pausing. “Fingon?” Maedhros ran his hand over his face, evidently weighing the cost of the need for his friend, and bothering the High King. Maglor raised a prompting eyebrow. Finally, Maedhros acquiesced with a nod.

“No one else,” he added, as if to make sure Maglor understood.

“No one else,” Maglor repeated, and he slipped out of the room, wishing he felt as confident as the words that came so easily to his tongue; a promise, a lie, that everything was going to be alright.

#my writing #my fic #silmarillon #the silmarillion #Silm #maedhros #maglor #so yeah I’m a writer #I have so many of these #I am just so used to being a lurker

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