8
"Oh, Valar! It hurts!" Curufin moaned. "It's as though the knife keeps twisting in the wound!"
"Hold on, we're almost there," Fëanor gave his son as gentle a squeeze as he could and tried to take more of Curufin's weight as they stumbled through the accursed forest together.
Each of Curufin's cries hurt his father more than stab wounds and Fëanor winced as he felt the rigidity of the younger Elf's body. Curufin had not been wounded with a regular knife, although that would have been bad enough. The bloodied blade Gandalf had pulled out of his shoulder had been of the same make as the Nazgul swords. Only the hilt of it remained, rolled up in a piece of cloth and tucked away in one of the wizard's pockets.
But the damage inflicted by that fell weapon was extensive. The knife had almost gone through Curufin, meant for his heart but tearing in just below his collar-bone. The wound still bled in spite of all their efforts to stop it and the pressure Maedhros kept over it. Curufin's arm hung lifeless at his side and he was very pale, growing colder by the minute. But when the wizards said they should not linger in Dol Guldur a moment longer than necessary, the injured Elf had been the first one to agree.
Hanging onto his father with his good arm and grunting in pain with each step he took, Curufin had managed to stay on his feet, but they could see him growing weaker and still, the end of the forest was nowhere in sight.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Maedhros murmured, grimacing in sympathy when his blood-soaked hand pressed the bandage over Curufin's wound too hard.
"I don't get it," Curufin groaned. "What devilry is this? I've been stabbed before and it hurt, but never like this!"
Fëanor took a deep breath through his nose and his vision swam with helpless anger for a moment. But he forced himself to stay calm and guide his son into the open before night fell. Already, the scant light was failing and the wizards said they could provide no more. Whatever strength they had left would be used to heal Curufin's wound.
"They said it was a Morgul blade," Maedhros told them. "A weapon of Sauron's chief servants. Olórin believes the three cloaks we fought were Nazgul, although he cannot explain how they clothed themselves in stone to attack us."
Fëanor envied his eldest son's calm and steady voice, knowing that he could not replicate it if he opened his mouth to speak. But then, Maedhros had an Age worth of experience with such hurts and… no! Thinking of that would not help at all! Fëanor grit his teeth and peered into the gloom ahead as though the light of his eyes could tear it apart. He thought he could see the shapes of dead spiders and blasted trees, which meant they were retracing their steps and leaving the same way they had journeyed into the dangers of Sauron's fortress.
"Not long now," he whispered. "Keep talking, both of you. Try to stay awake," Fëanor said to Curufin.
"As if I could sleep with this… goddamnit, atar! I can't even… it's like I've got rusty nails eating their way through my flesh. And shards of ice digging into my bones. I don't understand how a simple flesh wound could be so hot and so cold at the same time. And I cannot move my arm at all," Curufin tried to flex the fingers of his left hand, but all he managed was a little twitch. "Must be some kind of poison," he panted, dragging his feet and grimacing when he stubbed his toes against a tree root. "But I should stop babbling and complaining and being such a baby. Turko would have my hide for it."
Fëanor bit the inside of his lip hard and his eyes welled-up, but a small smile tugged his lips nonetheless. Thank Eru Celegorm was not with them, else there would be two of them in full panic mode! Celegorm would bark orders and growl at everybody and make a spectacle of himself to hide the acute concern for his little brother. It was well that Celegorm did not know, but what of his well-being? Where was he and where were the twins and were they well or had something gone amiss with them too and… no! None of that! Fëanor shook his head and plodded on, knowing he could not afford to let his mind wander on such worrisome paths.
"No, he wouldn't," Maedhros sighed. "But Turko would freak out a lot, that I can guarantee."
"I miss him," Curufin whispered and sagged against his father even more.
"I miss him too. But the wizards will make you better once we are out of here and then we will find our brothers, alright?"
"Yes, Nelyo," Curufin laughed weakly, muttering something about being talked to as though he were a child.
All three of them were silent for a while, as they picked their path through the blasted area where spiders had attacked them. A very anxious looking Maglor offered to relieve Maedhros from keeping pressure on Curufin's wound, but Maedhros declined. And Fëanor would have no help from Caranthir, not when Caranthir walked with obvious unease and held his right side more often than not. But in true Caranthir fashion, he said nothing of any wound and at least there was no blood on him to make Fëanor's alarm mount to unbearable proportions. The way Curufin was growing heavier and more unsteady on his feet gave him enough grief as it was.
"I'm sorry, atar," Curufin sighed when his arm slipped off his father's shoulders and he wobbled dangerously, almost collapsing on the forest floor. "I'm growing numb," he mumbled. "Which would be well, except… the rest of me is growing numb and dizzy, not the wound. That one still feels like it's being crushed in a vice," Curufin panted, unable to bite back a yelp of pain when Fëanor straightened him up and set him in motion again.
"Can you still walk?" Fëanor asked, his voice broken and raw.
"I can try…," Curufin took a tentative step. "We're almost there… right?"
"Almost," Fëanor swallowed painfully and prayed for the strength to carry his son if need be. They would have done that from the very beginning, if Curufin hadn't refused, saying that being carried would jostle his shoulder more than he could bear. Fëanor could not understand how a knife-wound hurt so much and had such a devastating effect on an Elf and on a young and strong one at that!
His fear for Curufin's health grew as Curufin's speech became more broken and he kept mumbling about being cold. But somehow, Curufin managed to stay awake and at least partially aware, by the time they broke out of the forest and into the fresh evening air of the free world.
But there was no time to enjoy the relief of leaving Mirkwood behind them. With the dark line of trees still in sight, they stopped and laid Curufin on the grass as gently as they could. He had grown even paler and his eyes had taken on a glassy look that terrified Fëanor more than he could say with words. He would send both wizards back to Manwe if they did not heal his son right away and one of them would swallow the hilt of the Morgul knife if they did not tell him why it hurt Curufin in such a terrible way.
But first, a fire needed to be lit, and quickly. Fortunately, they had enough water between them to bathe Curufin's wound and nobody gave any thought to food or drink, although almost a day had passed since they'd had their last meal. Radagast brought out a tin cup from his backpack and set water to boil over the flames, adding several herbs and powders to it, while Fëanor fretted and watched him impatiently. But the Elf hurried back to Curufin's side when he heard his son calling out brokenly.
Maedhros had removed the blood-soaked cloth from Curufin's wound and Gandalf was inspecting it with a deep frown.
"What is it?" Fëanor nudged the wizard none-too-gently. "Why is he in such a bad way? Tell me you can heal him!"
"I will try my best," Gandalf sighed. "I would promise you more, but I am not myself right now and no amount of murderous looks on your part will help me," he gave Fëanor a chiding glance over his shoulder.
"You'd better…! Ah, alright. What can I do?" Fëanor shifted impatiently, his eyes never leaving Curufin's face.
"Help me take his tunic and his shirt off. Then Radagast will bathe the wound and we will ease your son's suffering."
Curufin gave a weak cry at the thought of fresh pain awaiting him. Again, Fëanor's eyes welled up and his ears rang. He felt himself growing faint and wished for a wall to bash his skull against because what was wrong with him?! He could not afford such debilitating weakness. It was unthinkable and Curufin needed him!
"Atar… breathe," Maedhros drew him aside, one of his warm hands cupping Fëanor's cheek. "Kurvo will be alright. Calm yourself and just breathe."
Fëanor took a deep breath and expelled it, eyes on his son's encouraging smile. But Maedhros' face was half covered in cuts and bruises and caked with blood and just… Fëanor tore his eyes away, gulping audibly and trying to keep breathing. Why had it not been him? Why were his sons hurt and not him in their place?!
"You should… get someone to look at your face, Nelyo," Fëanor whispered.
"After we take care of Curufinwë. Don't worry about me, I'm fine."
"Of course you are. Same as Carnistir. You both need help."
"And we will get it. Now… breathe and let us see what we can do for Kurvo."
Squaring his shoulders, Fëanor returned to his injured son and held him upright as Gandalf and Maedhros removed his tunic. They pealed his soaked shirt off and Curufin cried out softly. His teeth began to chatter right away and he shivered from head to toe. Curufin's hand felt lifeless and unbelievably cold when Fëanor touched it gingerly, making him stare at Gandalf and silently beg the wizard to do something already.
"So cold… atar… I'm so goddamned cold!" Curufin stammered, his lips colorless and icy sweat breaking out all over his skin.
Fëanor drew back and flung his own shirt and tunic off. He sat behind Curufin and pulled him against his chest, wrapping himself around his shivering son as gently as he could. Curufin yelped, but he sagged against his father, his good hand clutching Fëanor's wrist with all the strength he had left.
"Can you do what you have to do if I hold him like this?" Fëanor asked the wizards.
"Yes, but keep him steady," Radagast nodded.
"I will. I have you," Fëanor whispered in Curufin's ear, feeling the way his son tried to stop shaking in his arms and failed.
As best as he knew how, Fëanor tried to soothe his son and keep him from flinching away while Radagast cleaned his wound. Curufin's breathing grew shallow and he tensed, but hardly cried out. His grip on Fëanor's hand, however, would leave dark bruises behind. For some reason, those hateful wizards would not or could not make Curufin sleep, although Gandalf passed a hand over his face and Fëanor thought his son relaxed a fraction after that.
At some point, Caranthir approached them quietly and laid a cloak on his father's shoulders. He sat with his back against Fëanor's, propping him upright and whispering something Fëanor did not catch as Curufin grew taut and grunted against a fresh wave of pain.
"I cannot tell if there are any remains of the knife in the wound," Radagast said. "It would explain why he is in so much pain. I will do my best to draw them out."
With a shuddering sigh, Fëanor eyed the wizard pleadingly. He tried to distract Curufin by murmuring he did not even know what in his ear, while ages passed and the wizards were not done with their healing. But, under the soft blue light that glowed beneath Radagast's hand, Curufin gradually stilled and his shivering ceased.
Fëanor could not see much of what the wizards were doing and he had no wish to see either. He buried his face in Curufin's damp hair and willed all his strength to somehow pass into his son. He did not even hear it when Gandalf said they were finished and it took great effort for Fëanor to surface from his misery when the wizard shook him.
"Fëanáro… you can let go of him now. He needs to lie down and sleep," Gandalf said.
"Is he… will he be alright?" Fëanor felt Curufin's hand slip away from his wrist and his son sagged heavily against him.
"Yes, he will. The worst is over. He would be much better even now if I were not so damned weak. But after a good rest, you will have your son back. Come on, wrap him up in that cloak and let him sleep."
Fëanor let Curufin go with infinite reluctance, covering him and setting him down on the grass with Caranthir's help. Curufin's brow had finally smoothed and he seemed peacefully at rest, but Fëanor listened to his heartbeat and his breathing and he stroked Curufin's hair for a long while. The wound had been wrapped in fresh bandages and when he felt warmth returning into Curufin's arm, Fëanor could finally breathe a sigh of relief.
Exhaustion hit the Elf so hard that his vision went blank for a moment, as he rose to his feet. He shook himself and saw that Maedhros was finally being tended to. Radagast sat before him and gently picked debris out of his skin. Fëanor turned to Caranthir and ignored him when Caranthir claimed he was just fine.
Unclothed in spite of his protest, Caranthir reluctantly revealed a dark bruise on his right side, just beneath his ribs. Gandalf probed him gently and Caranthir grumbled that he hadn't broken anything and a little bruise wasn't worth all that fussing. He put his shirt back on and stalked off in search of something to eat, after Gandalf tried to take some of the discomfort away. Both he and Fëanor smiled after the grumpy Elf and his attempts to appear unaffected.
After a bite of lembas and a drink of the little water they had left, they laid themselves down to sleep, too exhausted to give their dangerous surroundings much thought. According to both Gandalf and Radagast, the great evil had been driven forth and they were both spent from the effort that feat had required. But surely that did not mean the woods had grown less perilous and for as long as he could stay awake, Fëanor scanned the night around them warily.
Still… he could not recall his last night of real, wholesome sleep and, after such a trying day, his strength was finally depleted. At first Fëanor nodded off and then, he laid himself at Curufin's side. He fell asleep wondering if he had woken Maglor up to watch over the camp or if he'd only meant to do so.