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The steady clop of hooves began to buzz in Curufin’s ears as the banks of the Narog turned stony. The land reached upward marginally, like a feeble hand longing to touch the sky. Even the small gradient felt a great imposition to Curufin’s way-worn feet. Yet it was this change in terrain that heralded the approach of Taur-en-Faroth, the wooded hills that Felagund called home, and hence some small hope. Not far… he thought. Just a little longer…
Behind, Celebrimbor’s mare snorted and pulled against her lead, irritable after too many days of hard riding along Doriath’s marches and across the guarded plain. All their steeds had been cruelly pressed nearly to exhaustion; it was kinder, though, than the fate that awaited the beasts had the remainder of Himlad’s forces been overtaken: flame and orc fodder. As if Curufin’s thoughts could be plainly read, his own destrier flattened his ears and started forward suddenly, pulling violently on the rope resting in Curufin’s nerveless fingers. He stumbled, and, damn it, his shaking legs had become too weak to right him from the fall. Pain lanced sharply up from his knees as they hit the rocky ground.
“Father!”
Up, curse you! Curufin willed himself, but his aching, exhausted body would not obey.
“Father…” the young man uttered uncertainly as his great hand came to rest gently on Curufin’s shoulder. He knew better than to utter those dreaded three words: ‘are you well?’ Curufin turned his face away. The shame of it! He couldn’t do that to Celebrimbor: force him to keep his father as a father should his son. Fëanor had sucked all of them into his orbit, Curufin most of all. Though he had appeared to all of Tirion the greatest of elves, the most skilled, with passion and fire running through his veins where instead should be blood, Curufin knew the truth: Fëanor had been a black hole, consuming all that any of them could afford to give and then more, in his unappeasable need to be wanted. Oh, his sons had loved him with a love and loyalty as desperate as it was fierce, and Fëanor had sucked them dry. He would not do that to Celebrimbor.
“Fuck.” How had Celegorm gotten so close to his face without his noticing? His big brother took his chin in his rough grasp and forced Curufin to look into cold eyes that usually softened for him. They didn’t, today. “Tyelpë, when did he last eat?” he barked.
How dare you speak to my son so! Curufin thought. “Turko—”
“No, shut up,” Celegorm snarled. “I don’t want to hear your Eru-damned, self-righteous excuses. Tyelpë?” He had, at least, to Curufin’s satisfaction, softened the tone with which he addressed the lad.
Celebrimbor’s eyes flitted nervously between them. “More than a day ago,” he said in the end, with an air of confession about his words as if he were worried they would be taken as a betrayal. Oh, Tyelpë…
“And sleep?” Celegorm pressed.
“I don’t think he has. Not since we began our flight.” Celebrimbor’s voice hitched.
Sleep? How could one sleep with danger biting at their very heels? He needed full alertness, not the half-aware dreaming of walking slumber! And how could he eat with the stench of burnt hair and rotting flesh forever cloying in his nose.
“You cannot do that wounded, idiot,” Celegorm chided, pressing a flask to his lips. The miruvórë was precious: Celegorm should not be wasting it on him. There were far more badly wounded that must be kept on their feet.
“They’re only scratches,” Curufin tried to protest.
“Nine, Curvo! That’s how many bloody stitches I put in your arm.” An orc blade had slipped between his gauntlet and byrnie, there. Celegorm’s voice was quiet, but implacable. “Do not forget, either, that I know precisely how many square inches of your skin are blue from that mace blow, and which ribs cracked.” Merciless, Celegorm tipped the flask and stroked Curufin’s throat until his treacherous body swallowed, then he pressed a lump of hard cheese into his palm. “Eat!”
The cheese was salty and dry on his tongue. He choked it down.
“Uncle?” Celebrimbor’s voice still wavered uncertainly. “I…I don’t understand.”
“What’s there to understand? He’s dead on his feet, Tyelpë.”
“But…we never hear the end of even the smallest burn in the forge, yet father hasn’t uttered one word of plaint this past week.”
“Your father,” Celegorm declared, “is a damned fool. On your feet, Curvo.” The strong arms his brother wrapped about his chest in order to haul him up did not spare his abused ribs. Eru, had war turned his brother cruel! Curufin groaned, bit his tongue, and looked away up at the smoke clouds towering to the north so that he wouldn’t have to look into the worried eyes of his son.
“What are we going to do?” Celebrimbor asked.
Don’t force him to take charge of me, Curufin willed, attempting to step out from Celegorm’s hold and falling back, useless, as strength, again, failed him. The boy has seen enough of this damnable feebleness.
“You are going to take his horse,” Celegorm ordered, handing over the halter lead that had slipped from Curufin’s hand, “and your father is going to walk at the head, with me.” He shifted Curufin so that their hips touched, and the support he gave was more subtle. Celegorm still reserved some pity in his heart, then.
As Curufin stumbled along, keeping his chin high and proud, though he was more than half propped upright by his older brother, he resolutely refused to pray to all the gods who would no longer listen. The Noldor were their own gods now, and the only strength to be found would have to come from within. Just a little farther, he willed his aching feet.