Chapter Text
Maitimo knows he is not in his own bed even before he is fully awake. He is cold, freezing cold, as no elf in Aman could ever be. It doesn’t get cold in blessed Valinórë and yet Maitimo shivers, reaching out for a blanket that is not there. His right forearm hits hard, icy stone. His right hand hits nothing.
There is a quality to the light in Aman that must be a product of the Trees, though he has never had anything to compare it to. It is soft, like looking through a frosted window or an ever present haze of mist. It wreathes the beauty of the elves in a halo, rendering them bright, holy things. Because that is what they are. The first children of the Gods. The first perfect creation.
Maitimo never had anything to compare that light to. Not until now, when he opens his eyes. The ceiling above him is grey, cracked stone, a brutal structure, made even harsher by a sweep of cobweb hanging from its corners. The webs are abandoned as if even a spider wouldn’t deign to live here.
Maitimo shivers again, sitting up quickly only to cry out when his shoulder seizes with pain. His left hand goes to the shoulder immediately. He is not wearing the tunic he wore last night when he went to sleep. He is not in his own bed, he is not in his own bedroom.
The light is wrong, it is cold and thick, as a heavy fog laid over Laurelin, blinding its brilliance and setting the world to dimness.
His body feels wrong too. It isn’t just his shoulder that hurts. Now that he is fully awake and aware, he realizes that his spine feels stiff and tense, his ribcage is tight around his lungs as he breathes in. His right hand feels like it is on fire. He brings his hand to his lips, as if he might suck the pain from his fingers as he had once when he was young and would burn himself in his father’s forge.
That is when the panic that has been steadily building since he felt the unfamiliar stone beneath his spine reaches its zenith and he lets out a rough scream. He is off the floor in a second, throwing his body against the wall, unable to tear his eyes from the place where his hand should have been. He takes in his surroundings once more. It is a bedroom, but only because there is a bed in it, otherwise it might as well be one of the museums in Tirion where the old armor of the unbegotten who had made the crossing so many years ago now languishes unused. There are more weapons than furnishings in this room. Swords laid out over a large wooden chair and a pile of shields and jagged hooks laying in a corner on top of a rolled up carpet. A stack of armor has been tossed haphazardly atop the bed.
The window is open, a breeze blowing languidly through the ragged curtains. Someone must have done this to him, someone must have taken him here. The questions of who and how and why have no immediate answer, as unheard of as such violence is in Valinórë, but there is no other explanation. He breathes and counts to ten, gathering his bearings, willing his mind to return to rationality, to the analytical prowess that has made him so trusted within his grandfather’s court.
Someone cut off his hand (Oh Eru. Oh Eru no, no no NO no no! One. Two. Three.) Someone has taken him prisoner here, likely someone who holds a grudge against Fëanaro (plenty of possibilities there but violence is unheard of in Valinórë ).
But whoever brought him here left weapons in the room with him. Whoever brought him here left the window open.
Maitimo approaches the door and sees that it locks from the inside. He twists the lock and then hesitates, returning to the pile of swords atop the chair. They are well crafted and cared for, the blades engraved with faded designs that he wishes he could take the time to examine. They are also useless to him without a right hand. He curses silently and begins opening the desk drawers at random. There are stacks of meticulously kept parchment covered in horrifically illegible Tengwar that he could maybe read if he took the time, but he instinctually cringes at the ugliness of it.
Finally he finds a small dagger in between the pages of a journal. That he can easily use with his left hand. The door opens easily for him and he makes his way to the hall, opening doors at random. None offer a way out. Each is empty, though they look lived in. One of them is filled with what looks like children’s toys. He frowns at the implications of that. He might have kept searching like that for hours had he not spotted a flash of red in one of the rooms. He does a double take and watches the red hair move with him. Just his reflection.
… his reflection…
…his reflection…
…his reflection…
He approaches slowly, coming closer and closer to the figure in the mirror. The blood rushes so loud in his ears that he couldn’t hear anyone in the hallway if they came up behind him. The elf in front of him goes blurry and then he shatters completely.
Nelyo
N
E
L
Y
O
“Nelyo! Look at me.”
The blood stops rushing and he realizes that he is screaming again, panting for breath on the floor of the strange room. But the voice is familiar and he blinks himself out of his spiraling panic long enough to recognize the soft grey eyes and delicate pallor of the elf holding him in his arms as he shakes.
“Macalaure?”
Macalaure smiles at him, not an expression of joy so much as one of indulgence, an expression that Maitimo usually reserves for his very youngest brothers. His annoyance snaps him out of his haze long enough to remember what brought it on in the first place. He twists in his brother's hold and looks back into the mirror.
It is cracked now, but enough of the glass holds in place for him to see what he truly wishes he had never seen.
The differences are there and they are vast. Only three scars on his face. Just three but they are large, and they are enough. One cuts across the bridge of his nose down to his jawline. Another pulls up at the corner of his mouth, transforming it into a permanent grimace. The third starts on the left side of his forehead and cuts all the way down his right cheek. He is missing the tips of both of his ears like they were purposefully cut off. His nose is very subtly crooked.
But it’s the similarities that make him want to start screaming, to keep screaming and never stop. It’s the cheekbones, prominent and angular like his grandmother’s had been, the sharp pointed jaw that made him his father’s son. It’s the copper hair, too much gold in it to be exactly like his mother’s. It’s the eyes, the silver of Telperion still glowing from within.
It’s him. It’s him and something has been done to him. And it’s clear from the scars, yes, even those on the stump of his wrist, which yes of course he had known even when he saw before, that something had been done to him a long time ago.
Macalaure is still rubbing his shoulder, humming softly to him as Maitimo ( oh and had he not known how lucky he was to be able to fit such a name?) catches his breath.
“That’s right, calm now, Nelyo. Calm. You know who I am, that is good. Can you tell me your name?”
Maitimo breathes in deep. “Nelyafinwë Maitimo.”
Macalaure blinks, looking at him strangely. “Yes… and can you tell me where you are?”
Maitimo hesitates only briefly. His brother clearly recognizes where they are. He is not surprised either by Maitimo’s appearance or by his actions and Maitimo is becoming increasingly agitated by his lack of information.
He despises ignorance more than he despises ugliness.
He shakes his head.
Macalaure frowns. “I see… alright… can you tell me the last thing you remember? The last place you remember being.”
“I was… I was in my room. In Tirion… in my bed. I was… I was reading a letter from Findekáno.”
Macalaure’s skin has gone ashen pale and his eyes glitter wetly under the foggy, corrupted light. “I see,” he says softly, hand going to Maitimo’s hair. “There now, there now Nelyo. All will be well.”
He begins to sing and a sense of calm flows through through Maitimo’s body, vanishing all the little pains, all the little fears, dulling his racing thoughts… and….
“A song of power… Macalaure you …. No, no don’t. You don’t understand, this is- it isn’t -“
“There now Nelyo, all will be well when you wake up.”
Maitimo wants to tell Macalaure that he doesn’t exactly look like the little brother he spoke to only last night either.
——————-
In a far too soft bed, under the pure golden light of Laurelin in a Tirion of many years ago, Maedhros opens his eyes. He digs his right hand into the folds of unfamiliar bedsheets, and knows immediately that something is wrong.