It was few weeks after his rescue by Fingon from Thangorodrim. He was still adapting to his new "hand", a steel hook replacing his right hand

Maedhros was in his quarter after days of hard work and strategizing. He throws his cloaks on a seat, sighing deeply. His left hand rubs the back of his neck, rolling his head back. Before grabbing the helm of his dark red tunics, with this same left hand, to lifts it up, still not used to use his right "hand" hook...

Tho, he stops his movements and rose his eyes to the door, hearing knocks.

"Yes? What is it for?" He asks his voice tired but keeping a certain commanding tone.

He hoped it wasn't another issues, he just needed a bit of rest.