Disclaimer: I don’t own Middle-earth, however much I’d like to live there.
Maedhros stared at the bandaged stump where once his hand had been. Beneath the cloth, flesh and skin slowly worked to knit together over his wrist in tough scar tissue. But there was no replacing his right hand, and he had to relearn everything now - writing, swordsmanship; even eating was a clumsy endeavor.
His gaze strayed to his left hand, still pale and thin - like the rest of him - from his long captivity. It rested on the table, almost waxy in the candlelight.
He rose and picked up his sword. He would relearn everything, and he would learn it better.