By Elvenwanderer
"There are certain things that you have to accept ... in life, and then you have to go about your life and lead it." – Rudy Giuliani
I never thought about how different things would be for me. Why would I have needed to? No one would consciously plan what they would do if they lost a hand or a foot. It just is too ludicrous, too morbid, of an idea.
Though I have long been able to wield a weapon in my left hand – it is indeed an important skill to learn for when in battle – I would always switch to my right if I had a chance. It was simply easier; I had better coordination with my right.
The muscles in one's arm that are developed from fighting with a sword are completely different than the ones needed for everyday tasks. One normally does not notice, not until they must develop all of those muscles again, quite a difficult task. It seems so pointless to even try to write again – my hand aches terribly, even from this small amount of writing, and my muscles are screaming at me to set the quill down. And for the pain I receive nothing, as I cannot read my own pitiful handwriting (though, granted, it has improved somewhat to this point in the page).
Yet I am determined, and I am now learning to cope. It is almost a welcome challenge in a formerly boring life, though I look at this challenge quite differently than I would had I kept both hands. But that luxury is no longer an available option for me.
When Findekáno first brought me here, my body was weak both from loss of blood and malnourishment. And as for my mind... I do not even know. I did not comprehend where I was, what happened to me, or even who I was. I was fully dependent on other people for everything. I was in effect a fully- grown infant, unable to fend for myself, and yet conscious of the world around me. I hated that I needed others so desperately. Other elves fed me, dressed me, and even went so far as to read to me. When I spoke, my caretakers listened to my words as if they came from a child, commenting in the condescending tone reserved for the same. I soon felt shameful for speaking in their presence, always feeling myself criticized by them. My pride was hurting more than my hand, well, arm was.
But my dear Findekáno did not act like that with me. He treated me as myself, for I think he is the only one who knew that I could heal and come back. No, they all knew, but Káno was the only one who believed. He was the only one who truly cared. I love him so much more for that. Having faith in someone can do huge them amounts of good.
After nearly a month, despite Findekáno's constant care and concern, I was at an all time moral low. It was impossible not to be. I had begun to sleep longer and longer during the day, just to get away from the monotony of it all. Be woken, be fed, be dressed, be moved to change linens on the bed, be replaced on new linens, be read to, be fed again.... That was when I realized that this situation wasn't going to change, much less get any better if I did not do anything to encourage that change. The help I was receiving would not prove or amount to anything unless I chose to help myself. My hand was not going to come back. There is no point in praying that it would, nor is there any good to come from mourning for an appendage. I still had one hand after all, why not put it to good use?
One evening in late fall I made a decision: I would learn to do everything again. It would be hard, I knew, but I could do it. I would do it.
For my own good, I had no choice.
The next day, I began to assist with my personal care, first doing only menial things like pulling on a sleeve, or combing my hair. After a few weeks, I would attempt to dress myself, but would still need some assistance with many of the minor garments. Eventually I needed no one to help me dress and bathe in the morning.
All that was well and good, but my body was still extremely weak and fragile. I was wearing clothes half the size I used to and even then they were too large for me, as all my muscles were now gone. I could not stand for much longer than a few minutes at a time, and walking was impossible... at first. I must have looked quite terrible as emaciated as I was. But all of those things improved and vanished as time went by. A healer showed me exercises with weights and such that I could do with both arms to help their strength return, as well as different movements to help with my coordination. Much of this was painful. Although I knew it was a pain that would end soon, it was a pain that meant I was recovering. I was slowly getting back to a somewhat normal lifestyle. I was proud of myself for doing this, and I knew that Káno was also proud of me, which made me even more pleased with what I was doing.
There were some things that I could never do again. Tie laces, or use a bow, for example. Those problems could be easily evaded, though I found I did not care much anymore. I had boots made to fit my feet so that they needed no adjusting once pulled on, as well as leggings made with a strip of fabric around the waist to secure them, instead of strings up the sides. I did not need to use a bow, and I do not think that I ever owned one - even as a child.
Sometimes through all of this work and rebuilding of my body, my hand would hurt. The missing one. Yes, I realize how strange that sounds, but that is all I can describe it as: shooting pains where my hand had been as if someone were sticking it with a searing hot pin. To my surprise, the healers told me that this effect was normal for those warriors who had lost appendages. It would probably go away with time, they said, as I adjusted to only having a left hand and as I gradually forgot about my right hand's former uses.
But I do not want to forget. I do not wish for these "phantom pains" to disappear. Losing my hand to Morgoth only personalizes this battle for me. Save for the Oath, I had no reason to fight in this land, nothing to motivate me that much. I never wished to rule a people so volatile such as ours. I would have made a miserable High King. I was one who was easy to roll over and impose on; Morgoth did not think of me as a threat to him.
He should from now on think of me as a threat. He thought he broke me on Thangorodrim, but he was wrong. What does not kill one only makes them that much stronger. And I am stronger.
Morgoth will learn just how dangerous a one-handed elf can be.
Notes:
Findekáno: Fingon (aka Káno, this is not Maglor's nickname in this case) Nelyafinwë Fëanorian: Maedhros' given name and surname
"There [in Mithrim] Maedhros in time was healed; for the fire of life was hot within him, and his strength was of the ancient world, such as those possessed who were nurtured in Valinor. His body recovered from his torment and became hale, but the shadow of his pain was in his heart; and he lived to wield his sword with left hand more deadly than his right had been." – Quenta Silmarillion, Of The Return Of The Noldor
Just see my other fics (Truly Repentant and The Best Of Us All) about notes on characters, 'specially Maglor and Maedhos. I don't wish to repeat myself.
I was attacked... I swear. Two Maedhros fics in three days. I never do that much. Oh, and Arhuaine, I wrote this on Sunday the 27th, and I really didn't mean to make it sound like yours... I'm sorry... it just does. Hope you don't mind.... :-)
Overall, this was probably the most interesting fic that I have done from a writing aspect. All day on Sunday I made myself be left handed, and I couldn't use my right hand at all (well, didn't let myself use it). It really is quite hard, so I guess much of what Maedhros is saying about writing is from my first-hand experience. And I did feel sort of "stupid" when I was writing this, as my handwriting was terrible at the top of the front page, barely even legible. But near the bottom of the back, it was almost the same as my right hand from a style perspective. It still wasn't easy to read. I felt like I needed to use that paper with the spaced double lines with dotted lines between (so I suck at descriptions, sue me). And it's true that it's different muscle groups, cause my hand killed. Not to mention coordination is weird, just trying to move my fingers to hold a pen correctly is a major brain exercise. But, I digress. I had a lot of fun writing this, and Maedhros seems to be a good muse for assessments and contemplation. He's very down-to-earth, and, may I add, quite muscular (not that that has anything to do with his disposition). But he's also a very sweet elf.