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The Steel  by Aldwen

Fëanáro’s explanations about the palantír have just crossed the borderline where I could still understand them, when suddenly we hear a sound of voices and hurried steps in the hallway. In a moment, the door is thrust open, and Pityafinwë rushes inside. His eyes are wide, full of fear.

“Father, Aldanwë, help! Telvo is injured!” he gasps.

Morifinwë strides after him, holding his youngest brother in his arms. Telufinwë’s eyes are closed, his face – pale. There is a bandage on his right leg above the knee, but the cloth is drenched in blood, and red drops fall to the floor.

“Lay him down!” Swiftly I gather my wits.

With a single quick motion Fëanáro sweeps to the floor everything that litters the table. The palantír falls down with a loud crack shattering several tiles and rolls into the corner. Morifinwë lays his brother on the table. Cautiously I untie the bandage, and blood spurts at once from the wound. I press the injury close, desperately looking around for anything I could use to staunch it. The blood-soaked cloth is not enough.

“That tablecloth! Fold it and give it to me! And those cushions!”

More things fall to the floor as Pityafinwë at once does as I say. I remove the old bandage and press the folded cloth to Telufinwë’s wound. Then I motion his twin to hold it firmly in place and set the cushions under the leg, raising the wounded limb up. The sight of the injury has brought cold to my heart. I have never seen anything like this. This is no bruise or shallow cut. Something terribly sharp has sliced through the flesh and blood vessels nearly to the bone. And, despite the bleeding has grown less, the new bandage becomes red too swiftly. Telvo’s face takes on a greyish hue. He has already lost much blood and is still losing it.

“Bring water! And the brown leather bag from my room; it stands in the corner! At once!”

“Yes!”

They do not need a reminder that haste is needed. Morifinwë rushes away. Pityafinwë is still holding the bandage to the wound, and his face is nearly as pale as that of his twin.

“Forgive me, Telvo, forgive me!” he repeats, tears streaming over his cheeks. “It was my fault. I was careless. It was not my intent to endanger you!”

At his words, Fëanáro turns and meets his son’s eyes. Pityafinwë lowers his head at the unspoken question.

“Forgive me, father,” he whispers. “I know we were not allowed to take them.”

A cloud of swift anger crosses Fëanáro’s face.

“I am at fault as much as my brother.”

Telvo has opened his eyes, full of pain and fear, his voice is quiet and laboured. His father’s face softens, and worry instead of anger appears in his eyes.

“At least you understand that now,” Fëanáro says quietly. “A cruel way to learn the cost of carelessness and disobedience.” He squeezes Pityafinwë’s shoulder reassuringly, then takes his youngest son’s hand. “All will be well. Your brother will be back with the remedies, and Aldanwë will treat your wound. All will be well.”

His voice trembles slightly. Despite the attempt, it lacks its usual certainty. Fëanáro is trying to comfort not only his children but also himself.

After what seems the hours but is probably only moments, Morifinwë returns, and after him his mother storms into the room. They have my bag with remedies, water and clean bandages.

Already at the door Nerdanel’s gaze falls on Fëanáro, and her eyes glint. “You and your wild fancies!”

Then she says no more, hastens to her son and takes his other hand, deliberately avoiding her husband’s eyes.

“I am sorry, Amil.” Telvo’ voice is weak and failing. “We did not want to…”

“Do not speak now, darling.” She interrupts him softly. “Save your strength. All will be well.” But there is no more conviction in her voice than in that of her husband.

During this exchange I have made a poultice that should stop the bleeding. Should. Whether it will, I do not know; I have never before treated a wound as deep as this one. Yet suddenly I recall something else I have learned in Lórien, a long time ago.

“Lady Nerdanel, have you a needle and a fine thread?”

Confusion appears on her face at first, but then she nods and hurries from the room, to return almost at once with a threaded needle.

“Telvo, I will stitch together the edges of the injury,” I say. “This will hurt, but I must do it at once, to stop the bleeding.” There is no time to make anything for the pain.

He blanches a little more but nods resolutely, and I remove the bandage and swiftly clean the wound. Then, willing my hands to remain steady, I take up the needle.

Telufinwë gasps as it first pierces his skin, but no other sound passes his lips. His hand clasps tightly his father’s fingers, but when I put the last stitches, his eyes close, and he goes limp. His parents and brothers raise terrified faces towards me.

“He is merely senseless. Because of pain.” I keep my voice as calm as I can. I put the poultice I have made over the stitches and bandage the leg. “He needs peace and rest now. And something to help renew the blood he has lost. I will make an infusion. He should drink it as soon as he wakes.”

“Thank you, Aldanwë!” There are tears in Nerdanel’s eyes. Her husband and sons echo her words.

“He will recover,” I say firmly. “Let us take him to his room.”

When Morifinwë lays his brother in bed, I note with immense relief that the bleeding has ceased and Telufinwë is breathing calmly and deeply.

“All will be well.” Now I can say that with conviction.

When the infusion is ready and set on the bedside table, I look around the room for a place to sit and wait for Telufinwë to wake. But Nerdanel restrains me.

“I will stay with my son, Aldanwë,” she says resolutely. “I will give him the draught and do whatever else is needed, you only have to tell me. You have done enough. We would be poor hosts to draw a guest into our misfortunes. Doubtlessly you did not imagine that during your stay here you will have to practice needlework.”

“That I did not, lady,” I reply with a smile. “Yet I think it was a fortunate thought and a good way to treat a wound so deep. Very well, if you would remain, I can leave, for a time. There is only the draught for now when he wakes; I will look to the injury later.”

Nerdanel nods, pulls a chair and sits down beside the bed. Then she starts to sing softly, a lullaby that I remember her singing to all her children. Morifinwë briefly lays a reassuring hand on her shoulder, then quietly leaves, but Pityafinwë settles in another chair in the corner; he will not be parted from his twin brother now.

As I turn to leave, I see Fëanáro hesitating, as if he were torn between a desire to remain with his son and a desire to flee his wife’s anger. At length he decides on going and follows me closely, as I step outside into the hallway. We walk in silence at first, but when we have passed around the corner I halt and look closely at my friend.

“What injured your son?”





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