The Mirror Crack'd by AdmirableMonster  

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Without the Hands of a Healer

LAST TIME on The Mirror Crack'd: Anniavas went with Hemmoril and Celegorm to save Maedhros from a group of revenants, but Maedhros was stabbed with a dark blade.

THIS TIME on The Mirror Crack'd: Anniavas begs to be allowed to help; Maedhros's husband is summoned.

Chapter warnings: Gore, description of injuries, altered mental states, drugs, surgical procedures

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Anniavas sat tiredly in the dog-pen, knees drawn into his chest, Limral curled in his lap.  Her little sleeping form kept him from clenching his muscles too tight, lest he injure her, kept him from screaming, lest he wake her.  He felt as if the pain in his chest must claw itself out of him any moment.

Lord Maglor had not said no, he reminded himself.  After Maedhros had collapsed, Anniavas thought Celegorm was going to kill him—and to see that look on the face of the humorous kennel-master he had taken for a friend would be a wound long-healing, but he hardly cared at the moment.

Please, let me help, he had tried to say, but no one was listening.  Lord Maglor was too busy yelling at Celegorm to stand down if he didn’t want to be taken down, Hemmoril had interposed herself and her mount between Anniavas and Celegorm, and the healers had immediately swarmed to Maedhros’s side.  The time it took to remove Maedhros’s armor and cut the tunic away from his shoulder must have been measured in moments, but it felt like nine eternities back to back.

The injury should have been fresh—there was fresh blood on Maedhros’s tunic, still wet in spots—but it was swollen shut, and ugly black lines radiated outward from it, snaking inwards in the direction of Maedhros’s heart.  The shoulder was white, and Eirien, stooping beside the master healer, reported that it was cold to the touch outside of the immediate area of the wound.

“You see?” Anniavas pleaded.

“I saw him save Lord Maedhros,” one of the other warriors cut in, a broad-shouldered woman whose name Anniavas did not know.  “He braved a whole crowd of those monsters to pull him to his feet.  Why would he do that if he was trying to harm him?”

Celegorm’s anguished gaze went to Anniavas and back to Maedhros in a convulsive flutter.

Anniavas watched as Lord Maglor’s eyes traced the same pattern, as all his body language transformed into something—something that looked like the lord of Himring, down to the dull monotone that overtook the voice that had until then been wandering all over its register.  “No one could dig a piece of metal out of my brother’s body.”  He looked at Anniavas.  “He would kill if you tried.”

“I can do it,” Anniavas said immediately, trying to keep Lord Maglor’s gaze locked to his.  “I am not afraid.  I owe him everything.”

An agonizingly long pause followed.

“Send for Fingon,” Lord Maglor had commanded.  “Tell him it’s urgent. Make Maedhros comfortable until he arrives.”

“Anniavas, you need to sleep.”  Anniavas started upright.  Echeleb and Dernodhos were looking down at him solemnly.  “We—heard,” Echeleb said roughly, and Dernodhos nodded, twisting her hands together without using them to speak.

“I can’t, I couldn’t,” Anniavas answered automatically.

“You cannot stay awake until Lord Fingon arrives.  It will be three days at least.”

“I can’t,” Anniavas whispered.  Limral woke up and began to whine, pawing at his chest until he put his face against her fur and dripped tears onto her back.  

“Oh, Anniavas.”  Echeleb clambered clumsily over the side of the pen and hugged him.  Dernodhos, who rarely touched anyone, put one skinny, claw-like hand on his shoulder.  “You must rest.”

“Is it true?” Dernodhos asked, taking back her hand, staring down at him with her wildfire eyes.

“Is what true?”

“That you said you would perform surgery on Lord Maedhros.”

Anniavas nodded jerkily, feeling the steady cold flow of tears running in a rivulet down the righthand side of his face.  “I know that—I can do it.”

Echeleb and Dernodhos exchanged a look.  Echeleb laughed, a sharp staccato noise, then closed their mouth.

“Then you must certainly sleep,” Dernodhos said, her face carved into a fierce, fey grin.  “You’ll need all your wits about you.”

Anniavas had to admit that this was logical, but he wasn’t sure it was possible.  “I’m—awake,” he objected.

Echeleb put out a hand.  “Come with me,” they said.  “Bring the dog.  We can put a pallet in the greenhouse, and some tea will help you sleep.”

“It never has before?” Anniavas said in a way that sounded like a question.

A small, crooked smile wormed its way up Echeleb’s cheek.  “I’ve never had occasion to give you the special tea,” they said.

At any other time, Anniavas would have been offended by the implication there was knowledge he had not been trusted with in the tea gardens.  Some part of him noted this curiously: he was no one special.  He had not been here for long enough to be privy to Himring’s secrets.  He had not even been able to swear his loyalty to her lord. He was only the newest tea gardener.  

Dernodhos held out a hand, and Anniavas stared at it for too long, blinking sleepily, then sighed and took it.

He stumbled after the two others to the greenhouse, tucking Limral into his shirt front to protect her from the remnants of the tempest.  Although the wind had mostly died, it was still cold and drizzling, and his breath steamed white in the air.  The path seemed long and winding, and he had trouble seeing the other two moving ahead of him, although he could see the lit greenhouse farther on.  It seemed limned as bright as Aulë’s forge.

Eventually they arrived, and Echeleb and Dernodhos ushered Anniavas in.  Dernodhos found an old thin pallet somewhere and unrolled it on the floor, made him lie down with Limral—who had immediately perked up and started sniffing the air—and went and found them a heavy piece of cloth to use as a blanket.  The frayed and ragged edges and complex, cut-off pattern made it look as if it had once been part of a larger tapestry.  It was beautifully woven, but singed dark in places, where fire must have touched it.

“What’s this?” Anniavas asked, sleepy and curious—at least it was something to focus on other than his current fears.

Dernodhos paused, running her fingers along it, with an expression on her face he hadn’t seen before.  “A memory,” she said.  “Of a story from long ago.”  She ruffled his hair gently.  “I’ll tell you about it another time.”

In a moment, Echeleb came over, carrying a warm mug that smelled bitter and earthy.  They pressed it into his hands.  “Drink it slowly,” they instructed.

After one cautious sip, Anniavas wrinkled his nose.  It tasted even bitterer than it smelled.  “Unpleasant,” he pronounced.

“The flavor is hard to hide,” Echeleb agreed, with a shrug.  “Now finish it and go to sleep.”

Obediently, Anniavas blew on the hot liquid until it cooled enough to drink more than a sip at a time.  Then, trying not taste it, he drained the mug in two long swallows, shuddering at the bitterness.  Limral yawned and curled up with her nose on her tail.  The world seemed to waver at the edges; Anniavas lay down, but he did not really expect to—

* * *

Who are you

I know you

He is breathing, rapid and

Laughter, a gasp, a whisper

Thunder rolls in the clouds, and an eagle screams.

I told him it was a waste.

Two figures, face to face, almost nose to nose.  One tall and rugged, a creature carved by suffering from stone.  So might his mother in Valinor have sculpted him: rising from the rock that threatens to swallow hand and wrist, no expression upon his face but the tugging of his mouth slightly to the left.  He has learned not to show pain, or pleasure; sorrow, or joy.  Across from him, fire erupts from within conjoined metal, escaping despite every attempt to contain it within its frame.  The metal is dark, soot-stained and strained into misshapen, amorphous semi-crystalline patches.  Here and there, a crack, the flames licking out eagerly from within.

I am to become a symbol.  I am surprised this is not thy will.

The creature of flame hisses like water dripping onto coals.  It is a waste.  He does not understand these things.

Mirthless laughter.  And thou dost?

Cease thy disrespect at once! But words which should echo with resounding authority sound more like the sulking of a child.  

Who am I

Is he the poor creature becoming part of the stone (the eagles, the eagles, the eagles are coming, he will not be able to rest) or is he the banked fire that cannot be subdued within its metal framework?  A mirror between them reflects the trammeling performed by those who should have succored them.

We’re dreaming

A name rises to someone’s lips and then—

Cold blue light.  Metal stitches up flesh.  Ice rimes over a dream.

Anniavas sat up with a yell on his pallet.  He was shaking and sweating, yet the artifact in his spine was burning with cold.  Had he been dreaming?

* * *

The passage outside the lord of Himring’s study was drafty; the wind seemed to seep in through the very stones.  Anniavas paced back and forth, rubbing his forehead.  It had been three days now, and Maedhros still lay unconscious in the medical bay, nightmares worsening, strength slowly slipping away—according to Echeleb, who had heard it from Melweril, who had heard it from Eirien.  No one would let Anniavas in or tell him anything, and it was driving him mad.  He knew, with a certainty deeper than his bones, that it was the fragment of sword that had lodged in Maedhros’s shoulder, that it was slowly tunneling inwards towards the heart, and that once it arrived at its destination, it would kill him.  It was not that the healers did not believe this, according, once again, to the long chain of gossip, but that Lord Maglor would allow no one to cut into his brother until Lord Fingon arrived.

Anniavas wondered if he had used to get his information in this fashion.  It did not seem familiar, but it was comforting to be able to whisper among friends who were all as worried as he was, but who had different pieces of the puzzle.  Limral was a great comfort, but so were Echeleb and Dernodhos.

“I don’t understand what Lord Fingon has to do with any of this,” Anniavas had shouted at Dernodhos the day before, while she glared back.  Lord Fingon was the High King of the Noldor, but the lord of Himring—or even the Elf acting as the Lord of Himring—hardly needed his permission to try to save the life of one of its own.

“He is Lord Maedhros’s husband,” Echeleb had put in.  “No one speaks of it—I don’t understand why myself—perhaps because of the danger they would be in if Angband found out—”

Dernodhos cackled with laughter at that.  “It’s not Angband they fear, it’s Lords Celegorm and Curufin.  They’ve always been hard to manage, and ever since they rode from Nargothrond, they’ve been worse than ever.”

But Fingon had finally arrived, on the morning of the third day after he was sent for.  Hemmoril had sent word to Anniavas; she had taken the exhausted horse to the stables to be fed and watered.  Now Anniavas waited outside the study, trying to overhear the conversation, waiting to beg again for a chance to save his lord’s life—no, Maedhros’s life.  Maedhros was not his lord.  

(And why should you think yourself such a great healer? Dernodhos’s voice said scornfully in his head.)

(I am not such a great healer, but I know I can do this.  Not even Anniavas understood where that stubborn certainty came from, but he could not afford to doubt it.)

The door opened, and Lord Maglor exited the study, frowning; close on his heels was a short Elf whom Anniavas recognized instantly, torchlight glittering off the golden ribbons woven into his dark braids.

“Fin—”

Finno.  Anniavas’s mind helpfully supplied the various Quenya rules for diminutives.  Finno for Fingon Fingolfinion—the High King of the Noldor.  Anniavas’s knees nearly gave out and deposited him on the ground.  A moment later, he wondered if he should have gone down deliberately—prostrated himself.  But then King Fingon favored him with an exhausted smile, his dark eyes gleaming with welcome.

“Anniavas.  You think you can help Maedhros?”

With a clench of his fists, he nodded.  “I know I can.”

“You are no healer,” Lord Maglor said doubtfully.

“Agreed,” Anniavas replied.  “But I—” He paused, swallowed.  “I know of dark things. I can find the metal in him, and I can draw it out.”  Or carve it out, if I have to.

“I will not lose Russandol,” King Fingon said, voice utterly calm and steady.  “Not now.  Not like this.  If Anniavas says he can help, we will let him.”

Lord Maglor looked from one of them to the other.  “I cannot stop you,” he said, frowning.  “But you know that Maedhros will try to kill anyone who takes a knife to him.”

“I don’t care,” Anniavas said at the same moment that King Fingon replied, “He will not hurt me, and I won’t let him hurt anyone else.”

“Well,” said Lord Maglor.  “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

King Fingon gave him a courteous nod.  Anniavas, not knowing what to say, just bowed awkwardly. Lord Maglor threw his hands into the air.  

“Come along,” King Fingon said to Anniavas.  “Let’s not lose any more time.”

* * *

The sickroom smelled of the kind of alcohol that was unpalatable to incarnates, and it was brightly lit by a series of Fëanorian lamps.  The bed on which Maedhros lay felt slightly too high, though Anniavas did not know why.  Maedhros himself was white and still, breathing shallow.  He was stripped to the waist.  The black lines had spread, like deadly roots climbing up along the side of Maedhros’s throat and inwards from the shoulder to the chest.  It was not too late, Anniavas told himself sternly.

“He’s been drugged,” Lord Maglor said thinly, as the first healer came over to meet them.  “I doubt it will do much if you start digging around in there with a knife, but he’s been given enough laudanum to put down a horse.”

It would be inelegant and damaging to do this with a knife, Anniavas thought but did not say.  Instead, he moved to Maedhros’s side and looked down at him, then began to unpack the small, soft leather bag he had brought.  It was fortunate that he had spent a few days trying rather ineffectively to improve the efficiency of the Fëanorian lamps, because it meant he was familiar with their insides and had been able to cannibalize one for its energetic coil.  He could use it to take hold of the metal fragment without touching it, and, if he was careful, coax it back out.

Of course, before he could do that, he had to find the fragment.  To do that, he was very much hoping he would be able to rely on the chain in his own back.  Like called to like, and, although he did not understand why they were alike—why would an artifact sealing an Elf’s memory be similar to the dark metal that bound a spirit into a corpse?—he knew, from his close encounter with the revenant that had tried to throttle him, that they were.

He bent over Maedhros’s supine form.  The metal must be somewhere beneath those black lines, and Anniavas knew it was trying to reach his heart, so it was very likely to be beneath the ones crawling inward from the puffy, swollen wound in his shoulder.  His other shoulder was a little crooked, but this one was—or had been—uninjured, with no disturbance to the joint or musculature.  Anniavas gently ran two fingers over the area, and to his relief, he felt the queer coldness of the artifact in his back increase as he did so.

A careful examination from several angles, running his hand over Maedhros’s chest and along his side above his ribs and noting the increase and decrease in cold as he did so, told him that the fragment was not terribly deep beneath the surface of the chest, but it was dangerously close to being seated just above the heart.

With hands that did not shake at all, Anniavas lifted the small energetic coil and connected it to its power source.  A soft hum filled the chamber as he positioned it over the location of the fragment.  Now the fragment could not bury itself deeper, at least.  Now, though, he faced the difficult challenge of extracting it.  Because he had had to wait for the High King’s arrival, the flesh had likely knit and swollen behind the fragment as it worked its way inward.  Even with the fragment removed, it would be an ugly injury, but one that, Anniavas reminded himself, Eirien and the other healers would be capable of doing something with.

As long as they were willing to cut into it and expose the damage and possible infection to their cleansing solutions and songs.

It would be clumsy and inelegant to do this with a knife.  Anniavas’s cheeks burned, even though he had not said the thought aloud.  Even if he managed to remove the fragment cleanly, the wound needed to be opened up for the healers to clean out—and they had already made it quite clear that they would not be willing to do so, that they did not think Maedhros would let them.  A cool, quiet part of Anniavas’s brain whispered that this was an expected traumatic reaction to one too many experiences on another surgical table.

First things first.  The fragment needed to be removed with as little opportunity to touch uninjured flesh as possible.  Using his left hand to gently trace its motion, Anniavas slowly lowered the coil towards Maedhros’s chest, hoping that the force of it would be strong enough to dislodge the fragment before it was impossible to get it any closer.  He could hardly believe it, but his hand remained firmly steady, as if someone else were guiding it, someone who was not in the least bit anxious.

He had about half an inch of clearance remaining when he felt the fragment wobble.  Enough.  That was enough.  It would be somewhat complex work, but he was more than capable of coaxing some metal out of an incarnate form.  It would only take a little finesse.  As he thought this, the chain twinged with cold, and he had to pause and take a very deep breath.

Very carefully, continuing to use his fingers to keep tabs on the location of the fragment, he began to use the coil as he might have used a pair of tweezers.  He seesawed the fragment back and forth, slow, careful, and deliberate, trying to work it out through areas that were already injured.  He did not want to cause additional pain, and it was particularly tricky when he only had the use of one eye.  His mind noted that this was an unusual restriction, which Anniavas found he did not like, but had no time to worry about.

Finally, the fragment lodged beneath the knot of inflamed flesh at the shoulder.  The injury had knitted up—badly—and in order to remove it entirely, it would need to come through  the puffy, oozing, sealed-over injury.  He would need to use a knife, or the point of the metal, and the knife would be cleaner.

“Hand me a knife, please,” he said to Eirien, who was waiting quietly nearby.

“This is clean,” she told him, holding it out.  Then she took quite a long step backwards.

Anniavas waited to ensure that his hands remained steady.  He wondered, momentarily, why Maedhros had not been restrained, but answered his own question almost immediately: not only would it be cruel for someone with his history, it would be useless for someone with his strength.  Even the laudanum was a surprising choice; perhaps Maedhros himself had requested it.  Anniavas steadied himself, let his hand take over, and made a quick incision, pushing the coil as close to the shoulder as possible as he did so, and drawing the line of the knife right down through the ugly area the metal had infected.

There was a soft clang as the shard struck the coil.  Anniavas smelled blood and pus, as the shoulder opened to release a gushing flood of yellow-black ichor.  For an instant, he thought he had succeeded perfectly—and then Maedhros’s eyes snapped open, and his hand closed around Anniavas’s wrist.

Anniavas dropped the coil and the knife.  The cool certainty that had carried him through the proceedings evaporated like a drop of water on a hot stove.  Fear sent him stumbling backwards several paces, an innate, instinctual reaction.  Despite his injury, Maedhros caught the knife as it fell, and Anniavas cried out, flinging up his hands to shield his face.  He tripped over his own foot and fell back against the wall with a mewling little whimper.

Well, what did you expect to happen? said a cool, dead voice from far away.  What else do you deserve for such a failure?

“RUSSANDOL!”

Nothing happened.  Anniavas’s breath pumped in and out of his lungs, his heart beating at a terrible pace.

“It’s all right,” said the High King’s voice.  “Hush.  Thou’rt all right.  No one will harm thee, hush, Russandol, thou’rt safe, it was a necessary surgery.  Thou’rt in Himring.  I am here, I am here, I am here.”

At once trembling and scornful of the fear he had been so certain he would not evince, Anniavas opened his eye. What he could see was mostly the blue-clad back of the High King, his arms spread.  Maedhros must be on his other side.  Fingon had put himself between the two of them, and Maedhros had—he had stopped.  Anniavas blinked a few times; his vision was wavering and blurring.  Slowly, he let himself slump back against the wall, because his trembling legs would not support him.

He had not truly believed that Maedhros would hurt him until the moment that he had plucked the knife from mid-air and honed in on Anniavas as a threat.  His face had changed, for that one instant, from a wild terror to a focused hatred, and Anniavas did not know why.  It did not seem to make sense, and yet there was something—but the memory slid away, as they always did, falling beneath the sand of his mind without a whisper or a trace remaining.

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Chapter End Notes

Interestingly, on reread, I realized that the description of the behavior of the knife was not only influenced (obviously) by Morgul knives in LOTR but also by Garth Nix's sliver of Orannis the Destroyer in the Old Kingdom series.