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Fëanor didn’t notice Maedhros’s missing hand at all, the first time they spoke after his rebirth.
In his defence, there were rather more pressing matters at hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said, all the planned and perfect words of his apology vanishing at the grief and anger on his son’s face.
“Why?” Maedhros asked. He was gripping the door very tightly, holding it partially open as he leant against the frame.
The question gave Fëanor time to remember himself. He’d been thinking about this apology - all the apologies - throughout his time staying with his mother and Indis. He had asked for their approval of his words. It didn’t seem like best practices to trust himself, after everything.
“You were more important.”
“Than…”
“The Silmarils. My revenge. My pride. And you were right too, at Losgar.”
Maedhros’s knuckles were white on the door. “Is that everything?”
“I was too hard on you before that, about politics and court. And I shouldn’t have expected you to act as a parent to your brothers. You had a right to a childhood wholly your own. And I should never have been as controlling as I was about your friendship with Fingon. I’m sorry.”
Maedhros nodded once, jerkily. “He lives here. Will that be a problem if I invite you in?”
Fëanor had a sense that the wrong answer to that question would mean that Fëanor was disinvited not just from his son’s house, but from his life entirely.
“I’ll have to move his apology further up the list, I suppose.”
“Alright,” he said, slowly, “You can come inside, but I don’t… just because you’re sorry doesn’t fix what happened. I’m not sure anything can.”
It stung at Fëanor’s pride, but he said, “I know,” and Maedhros stepped out of the doorway to let him in, for an hour or two, and Fëanor didn’t notice the hand. He had more important things to worry about than the odd fashion statement of wearing a single glove.
--
They were standing in the kitchen together at Nerdanel’s house months later, making dinner and attempting normalcy, when Fëanor finally realized.
“I thought you used to favour your right,” Fëanor said, as Maedhros peeled a potato with the blade in his left hand.
“Celebrimbor’s prosthetics are good,” he said, putting the potato in the pot and showing Fëanor his right hand, “but the dexterity is still limited.”
Misinterpreting the look on Fëanor’s face completely he added, “don’t get competitive about it. He’s done a brilliant job. Elrond helped too. There’s a little more magic in it than is strictly possible, I think, though neither of them will fess up to having asked one of the Ainur about it.”
“Can I see?”
Maedhros put down his knife, and pulled off his glove, revealing polished brass. Gears and wires showed in some places, in an artful, deliberate way. The soft leather of the glove no doubt prevented damage to the delicate craftsmanship.
“It really is very well done,” he said, “Elrond has theories about further improvements allowing me to move it with as much ease as the other by tricking the mind, taking advantage of the blurriness of the fëa-hröa relationship. Personally, I’m simply happy that it has enough dexterity and grip strength for things like holding potatoes and doesn’t hurt to wear. It’s even light, which may be what the magic is for.”
“It is for the weight,” Fëanor said, smith’s brain acting by reflex, “and to prevent breakage or degradation. It’s Aulë’s work, but I think he spelled the metals rather than participating in the making itself.”
He let Maedhros pull his hand away and return to his task, but could not resist asking, “how-”
“Nienna said she couldn’t restore it,” Maedhros said, willfully misunderstanding the question, “because when I tried to remember it as part of myself, I remembered worse things too. I don’t mind missing it, to lose that pain.”
What had Fëanor done to his boy? He’d heard about the Silmarils burning them, had seen Maglor’s scars, stark even after years of Elrond’s care, but the idea that Maedhros, reborn, still wore the wounds was still devastating. “I’m sorry.”
Maedhros shook his head, went back to his potatoes. “I never blamed you for that.”
Fëanor was rather sure it was his fault, Silmaril-given or not. He knew what his legacy had done to the child who’d lived. But he was learning to take no for an answer, and congratulated himself for not interrogating Maedhros for further details.
--
“You know,” Maedhros said, “I am grateful that you never took it upon yourself to try and give Fingon a ‘shovel talk’. Apparently, Curufin has been menacing Gelmir, and I think Celebrimbor is half a hair away from disowning him again out of sheer frustration.”
They were back in Maedhros and Fingon’s sitting room, and the conversation between them had been shockingly easy. If not for the sunlight through the window, it could have been a glimpse of another world, where Fëanor hadn’t twisted his eldest into knots with conflicting responsibilities and where Morgoth had never darkened their doorstep.
After a slight diversion for Maedhros to explain this imported idiom, Fëanor said, “I spent enough time trying to intimidate him out of being your friend long before you decided to marry him. I don’t actually enjoy engaging in fruitless endeavours, you know.”
“I know it wouldn’t have worked, but it matters to me that you respect my choice in this even though I know you don’t like him.”
“Fingon is alright,” Fëanor conceded, winning a small smile from his son. Maedhros had never been one for grinning, but Fëanor found his smiles were even rarer now than they had been before. “At the very least, I don’t believe he would ever hurt you.”
“That’s true,” agreed Maedhros, “except for the obvious time, of course.”
He waved his right hand.
Fëanor had been learning to control his temper, and he was a very good student. He set his teacup down calmly and said, in a very controlled tone, “Fingon cut off your hand?”
Maedhros stared at him. “Yes?”
He considered it common knowledge, the sort of thing Fëanor should have known without being told, which could be referenced in casual conversation. “Fingon cut off your hand and everyone knows?”
‘Shovel talk’ nothing. Why hadn’t Nerdanel done anything? Why hadn’t any of his younger sons done anything? They were all letting Maedhros live with someone who’d cut off his hand!
Unless it wasn’t a question of letting Maedhros make bad decisions and more a question of being unable to resist that which was forced upon them. Maedhros had been worried about Fingon’s reaction when Fëanor first returned, hadn’t he? Would the Valar really allow Fëanor and his sons to walk free without some kind of condition? They had not allowed Fëanor’s mother unconditional mercy.
“It was necessary,” Maedhros said, defensively.
“Fingon thought that was necessary?” Fëanor was aware of his voice rising in pitch, of the shimmering of the air around him.
“Well my solution was for him to put an arrow in my heart so I hoped you might like his better!”
It was as good as a slap, shaking Fëanor from his incandescent rage. “Nelyo. What happened?”
Maedhros deflated, and only then did Fëanor realize that he too had been drawing power to him, preparing for a fight. The lights in the room brightened as Maedhros released his grip.
“No one told you?”
“Mandos is not, traditionally, known for its news bulletins.”
Maedhros nodded, shakily, in remembrance of his own time there.
“He’s not hurting you?” Fëanor needed to ask. “You know there’s nothing you can’t ask of me, if-”
“No. Never, like you said. This wasn’t even… it wasn’t to hurt me. It was to save my life. I think the only person who’s ever been angry was Curufin. He’s always said he would have carried bolt cutters. Oh, and Celegorm said he could have made the cut cleaner, but I think that was just to be dickish.”
Fëanor was a smith, and could imagine all sorts of accidents that would necessitate an emergency amputation. But the mention of bolt cutters left a horrible, sinking feeling in his gut.
“I’m not explaining well,” Maedhros said, “though in my defence, I’m not sure I’ve ever had to tell the story before. Most people knew in Beleriand, and I remember Maglor told Elrond and Elros, when they asked about my hand. Come to that, why didn’t you ask about my hand?”
“It seemed like you didn’t want to talk about it. Having already caused the harm I thought the least I could do was try not to aggravate the wound. I can ask someone else too, if you need.”
“It’s very strange to hear you say things like that,” Maedhros admitted, putting a knife between Fëanor’s ribs with the reminder of the way he’d treated his eldest son. Fëanor remembered holding him and thinking he was the most precious thing in the world. Why had he ever stopped? It should have been an eight-way tie between all his children and his grandson.
“I’m trying.”
“You’re doing well,” he assured, “and I am very glad of it. But I’ll tell it myself, this time. I would rather you have a version without speculation or editorializing.”
“Thank you.”
“I think I should ask first… if you didn’t know about this, did anyone tell you that I renounced the crown in favour of Fingolfin?”
“I knew,” Fëanor said, “Námo was sure to mention that.”
He’d assumed initially that Fingolfin had stolen it, and later, more rationally, had remembered that Maedhros was a fine political strategist and probably had another aim in mind. Now his mind whirled with possibilities. What, exactly, had left Maedhros badly injured enough to need an amputation and with only Fingon present?
“This isn’t why,” Maedhros said, taking the kindling away before a blaze could begin, “though most people will tell you it was. This is why the others let me do it. They all felt guilty and couldn’t say a word against me. But I would have done it regardless, because it was the only way to prevent a war that would have allowed Morgoth to sweep through us like so much dust.”
“I know,” Fëanor said, receiving a look of real surprise. “You’re clever about politics and people. You would have considered all the options..”
“You may be the first to think so, though of course, you don’t know the bit of the story that would have you think otherwise.”
“I think you’re avoiding it, a bit.”
“Probably. Alright, I’ll begin, but don’t interrupt me as I go. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it twice.”
“I’ll try.”
“Just after you died,” Maedhros said, throwing Fëanor’s assumed timeline out the window, “Morgoth sent us a request for parlay. I went myself. I knew it was dangerous, but I thought that if there was a chance – any chance – of settling this without further bloodshed, I needed to take it.”
Fëanor would have been so angry about that, at the time, but he saw now that it was right. If there was any chance at preventing the way Maglor flinched at loud noises and recoiled even from handling kitchen knives, he would have taken it.
“It was a trap. He killed those who’d come with me, but me… well, I was more useful alive than dead, so they took me back with them into Angband.”
Fëanor dug his fingers hard into his palm to still his tongue, as Maedhros had requested.
“Some details are still hazy, and I’m not sure I want to tell you more than everyone knows. There was torture. I saw Morgoth, but he rarely participated. That was Sauron’s domain. And then one day, maybe because I’d given them everything they wanted or just because they got bored, they changed strategies. They wanted an intimidation tactic. So they took me to the very top of Thangorodrim, and they put a bolt through my wrist, twisted it back into the stone, and left me hanging there.”
“How long?” Fëanor asked, though he knew he should have been silent.
“I was captured just after you died, and Fingon was there to rescue me. You’d have to ask Maglor to tell you how long between the parlay and Thangorodrim. Time stopped meaning anything, after a while.”
Maedhros’s shields had slipped down a little, and Fëanor could see old pain scarred across his spirit. As he had when the children were small and couldn’t yet protect their own minds, Fëanor wrapped his own fëa around Maedhros’s. Maedhros relaxed into the contact, trusting Fëanor to guard him, and Fëanor warmed himself on the fact.
“Alright. I can do this. This is the good bit. The only good bit, really. Because when they arrived in Beleriand, and learned what had happened, Fingon decided he was going after me. He didn’t even know I’d been against leaving them behind, and he still went.” Raising his voice, he added, “it was the stupidest thing he’s ever done.”
“It was not!”
“Eavesdroppers hear little good about themselves.”
Fingon poked his head up over the windowsill, wearing gardening gloves and a sun hat atop his braids, and took them both in. “Don’t let him make you think he didn’t deserve it,” he told Fëanor, and to Maedhros, “let me know if you need me.”
“Shoo,” Maedhros said fondly, but it was like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders by the interruption, and when Fingon had gone back to his gardening, he said to Fëanor, “I never blamed the others for not coming. If they’d asked me I would have told them not to, because nothing scared me more than the idea of them being there too. Even seeing Fingon there, looking up at me, I wanted nothing in the world more than for him to be elsewhere. He had a bow and a harp and gold in his hair, and he’d gotten wiry on the ice, a physique of desperation that I was glad to see vanish in the months after. I asked him to shoot me. I thought that it would all be over, that way.”
“But he didn’t.”
“He would have. I’m grateful for that, too. It would have cost him a piece of his soul, and he would have done it to save me. But first he gave up his pride. He begged for help, and Manwë sent an eagle.”
It was the only thing the Valar had ever done for Fëanor that mattered. “And so Fingon…”
“So he came up to me. There wasn’t much time, and there was the bolt through my hand, holding me there. The truth is that, for all Curufin’s griping, I never could have used it again. The nerves were long dead and that shoulder was always weak, after. Fingon cried when he did it, he felt so guilty. I didn’t. He caught me, and held me the whole flight back. I passed out before we landed. Maglor would say I swooned. They were both there when I woke up. Maglor was playing and Fingon was holding my hand. They left Celegorm in charge because they didn’t think he’d start a war with Aredhel on the other side. Fingon could have had me prisoner – it would have been more strategically sensible to go back to his own camp. But he hadn’t. He’d taken me home and stayed.”
“And so you married him.”
He nodded. “That came later, but yes. I loved him then too.”
Fëanor nodded along. It made sense, in a strange way. Maedhros deserved someone remarkable, and Fingon never had been. He didn’t have any particular gifts; he wasn’t especially beautiful. But this… Even the infamous Lúthien, the only person who came close to an act like this, had not faced the enemy alone.
“And so you don’t mind that Nienna couldn’t return your hand.”
“No,” Maedhros agreed, surely remembering that conversation. “It means I’m free. He came for me. It’s real. She was able to take away all the pain, so now it’s just this reminder. I think Fingon minds a little, sometimes, but I never have. Besides, Celebrimbor and Elrond would both go mad if they didn’t have some problem to puzzle over, and I’m happy to provide.”
“Fingon minds?”
“Not for my looks! He’s seen and loved worse. He minds the reminder that he hurt me, even if it was necessary.”
Fëanor resolved that he was going to stop assuming the worst of Fingon. Apparently, Maedhros had been right in his wild assertions at Losgar of Fingon’s courage and virtue.
“I’m surprised you haven’t said ‘I told you so’ yet.”
Maedhros laughed, and then abruptly looked at Fëanor with a brightness in his eyes. “You told me I was right at Losgar before even knowing about this.”
“I did. You were right that they wouldn’t have betrayed us, and we needed them.”
“And you apologized to Fingon without knowing.”
“I didn’t have to know he’d challenged a Vala for you to know that you loved him.”
It was a surprise to receive Maedhros’s embrace then. Fëanor held him tight, grateful for the assurance that Maedhros was here now, with him.
“I love you,” he said, and Maedhros shuddered a little. “I said, didn’t I? You’re more important.”
“He used to tell me,” Maedhros whispered, with such hatred attached to the pronoun that it left little room for misunderstanding, “that you’d be ashamed to see me like that. That I wasn’t… that you would not call that broken thrall your son.”
“There is nothing Morgoth, nor any of his minions, could do to make you any less my son. If you have ever caused me shame it is because you have shown me the shame in my own failures. Your wisdom shames my mistakes.”
“I’ve done things you should be ashamed of.”
“I don’t care. You’re mine. Any fault is mine. I know I lost sight of you, when you were growing up, but there’s nothing about you that shames me, least of all your resilience.”
“Okay.”
“My Maitimo.” He shuddered again. “Your mother’s not the only one who thinks you’re perfect, you know. The best thing either of us ever made. Your fëa was so bright, even then.”
“I thought I was named for my looks.”
“You were a newborn. You were as wrinkly and squished as all the rest. We just adored you. And we still do.”
“The hand’s not a problem?”
Fëanor pulled back to look at him at that. He took his son’s hand in his, put his other hand on Maedhros’s elbow, and said, “Nelyo, are you happy?”
“More than I deserve or hoped for,” he admitted.
“Then it’s not a problem. I was intrigued by Elrond’s suggestion of fëa-integrated prosthetics, though. I have some ideas about-”
He laughed. “You are still yourself, you know. That you’ve become more thoughtful hasn’t made you any less yourself.”
Sometimes Fëanor felt like he was pretending, but had excused it because it didn’t matter if he had to spend the rest of time pretending, as long as he was here, with them. “You think so?”
“I do,” he said. “I think I’m more myself too.”
“Then I’m very proud of that.”