Maglor trudged wearily toward two of his brothers were. He heard news just now that Maedhros was wounded, and worry curled a cold fist inside his guts, and he shoved elven soldiers out of his path in his hurry to get to where Maedhros was. It wasn’t fatal, he hoped – and by now Maglor knew that no simple orc blade could kill Maedhros, but still, the very news alone that someone managed to injure the strongest of the brothers was ill-taken.
He found Celegorm already with Maedhros, both on the ground. Maedhros had two arrows lodged into his person; one by his right flank, and another by the left side of his chest, far enough from the heart but surely pierced the ribs. Celegorm sat behind him and was already cradling him in preparation for the pulling out of the arrowheads; it was not going to be a pretty thing.
Maedhros himself was pale not with pain, but rage. These days, whenever rage or some other such strong emotion distorted his already scarred face, the silver-gray of his irises become tinged with red, or else melt into red entirely. Of course, the first time this happened, this had terrified his brothers in differing levels. Maglor admittedly, and to his eternal shame, had been scared half to death. Celegorm took it in stride and made no comment about it, while Caranthir took it most calmly of them all. Curufin and the twins were afraid, not just for their brother but also for themselves, though whatever comments they had, they kept to themselves. And so there it was – Maedhros pale with blood loss and rage, his eyes red, gnashing his teeth as Celegorm wrapped his arms tighter around his torso.
Celegorm began to sing a song, of soothing hurts and healing and recovery. Attempting to put Maedhros at ease.
“Do it, godsdamn it, just do it already,” Maedhros hissed just as Caranthir, Curufin and the twins arrived. He snarls, not much different from a true orc, challenging his brothers.
Maglor took one look at his brother’s half-monstrous face, and he declared: “I’ll hold him, you do it,” he tells Caranthir, and he proceeded to avoid the ugly task ahead by grabbing Maedhros’s legs.
Caranthir’s ruddy face darkened. His jaw tightened, and he shot Amrod a look. The elder of the twins quickly scrambled around, found a piece of wood, and he gingerly darted forward and bade Maedhros bite down on it. Maedhros obeyed; he bit down, and Celegorm sings louder and tightens his hold around his torso. Curufin and Amras ran forward to secure his arms, and Caranthir removed his gauntlets and doused his hands with disinfectant that a healer gave.
The fourth son of Fëanor got distracted by this; he managed to glare at the healer, who could only look away. It took the bravest and most obstinate of healers to treat Maedhros with injuries sustained from combat; otherwise he frightened them all off anyway, and none can look into his half-elf, half-orc face, nor bear to have the Lord of Himring snarling at them with the voice of a monster made in Angband.
Right.
Now for the first arrow.
Caranthir grasped the arrow by Maedhros’s chest first, and he met his brother’s feral gaze, and mentally, they both counted by their breaths: one, two, three—and the rest of their brothers braced, and Caranthir pulled, and Maedhros growled like a creature from Udûn, and the wood between his teeth cracked.
There was the ugly sound of ripping flesh—the arrowhead was barbed, and Caranthir put all his strength to it, and it came loose, and dark blood, darker than normal, spilled forth from the wound. The healer quickly clasped a clean cloth over the first wound, and Caranthir turned his attention to the next arrowhead.
Maedhros breathed and panted and huffed and puffed like a trapped monster. The growl came from the depths of his chest, and his irises bled into outright crimson now, and the healer’s fear spiked and batted against Caranthir’s mental barriers, and Caranthir for a moment entertained the idea of backhanding the healer across the face to get the ellon to get a grip on himself.
“Alright, hanno?” Caranthir asked their brother. “Just one more. Just one more.”
Maedhros, red-eyed and snarling and growling, nodded. Celegorm sang louder, and this time Maglor’s more powerful voice melded with his, and Curufin and Amrod and Amras grasped what limb of their eldest brother they could to hold him down with all their strength.
Caranthir grasped the second arrow, and pulled.
The sound torn from Maedhros could not have been made by an elf. He growled, deep and sinister, and he gnashed his teeth so hard the wood between his teeth broke and splintered. He roared.
Caranthir and the healer were quick on their feet and jumped away as far as possible first, the second arrow in Caranthir’s hand. In a burst of monstrous strength Maedhros pulled free from Celegorm’s hold, and headbutted the nearest brother in reach who wasn’t fast enough to escape him: Maglor. There followed the crack of skull and against skull, and Maglor’s own pained shout.
Still growling and roaring, Maedhros got to his feet, blindly grabbed for another within his reach, and the unfortunate bastard to get trapped next is Curufin, captured by his ponytail. “Ai, ai!” Curufin yelled as he tried to pull the clasp holding his cape in place, but he isn’t quick enough, and Maedhros’s flesh-and-bone fist crashes against his brother’s cheek, and the blow knocked out Curufin, and he crumpled to the earth like a puppet whose strings were cut.
“Nelyo! Calm down!”
“Nelyo!”
“Ai! My nose!”
Amras scrambled forward, ducked low, and pulled Curufin away to safety. Maglor was crouched nearby, clutching his bleeding nose.
Maedhros growled, still seeing red, and he rounded on his brothers, who skirted him, leaping away from his grabbing hands. Blood frothed on the Lord of Himring’s mouth.
“Stop it, Nelyo!” Celegorm yelled. “Stop!”
Maedhros took several heaved breaths. As they watched, slowly, the red began to retreat from his irises to reveal silver-gray once more. The snarling and growling stopped. When the Lord of Himring fell to his knees, Amrod braved darting forward. Caranthir followed, and together they quickly got Maedhros out of his armor plates, then out of his chain mail, then followed removing his tunic. The healer crept forward last, armed with disinfectant and more cloths.
Maedhros dwindled more after that. Celegorm returned to holding him propped up from behind, as his wounds were cleaned out and potential poisoned flesh carved out. The bleeding was staunched, and nobody dared comment on his darker blood, almost black. Then the healer would have stitched his wounds closed too, if not for Caranthir shooing away the healer from the task, and doing the job himself. The healer instead tended to Maglor and Curufin.
Celegorm smoothed back Maedhros’s grimy, matted red hair from his face. Then kissed his cheeks. “Well done, hanno. Well done,” Celegorm murmured. Now he was mostly hugging Maedhros into his chest. Caranthir wiped their brother’s scarred flesh clean for a final time, and barked at a nearby soldier to bring a fresh tunic for their lord. The soldier ran to obey.
Caranthir then observed his stitchwork. Convinced they’re perfect, he nodded, then picked up one of Celegorm’s abandoned wineskins. He popped it open and drank, then pressed it to Maedhros’s lips, and he too, drank three deep swigs. He sagged in Celegorm’s hold.
“Just another day in Beleriand,” Maedhros muttered, his voice still ragged with his recent hurt.
“Yeah,” Celegorm agreed. He took his wineskin back and drank deeply from it. “Just another day.”
Caranthir sat beside them, and stretched out his legs, his weight down his arms. He let out a long sigh. The healer returned to his side now, and made to look at the bloodied gash by his left temple, but Caranthir slapped the healer’s hands away. “Get thee gone and look at Makalaurë’s nose instead. If it heals crooked, he will have your head.” Yet his voice has no real hostility in it; just exhaustion.
Above the battlefield, victorious though it was, carrion-birds circled.
