Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion, but if he had done the characterization I probably wouldn't be doing it now
Pairings: none
Characters: Celegorm, Fëanor (mentions Maedhros, Maglor, Caranthir, Curufin, Manwë, Yavanna and Finwë)
Warning: canon-compliant, dysfunctional family relations, daddy issues, rebellious children, rather cynical outlook on the world
Song: Touch the Sky
Words: 1,006
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rule (noun): a prescribed guide for conduct or action; an accepted procedure, custom, or habit
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/rule
More than anything. Tyelkormo hated being told what to do and what not to do. He hated being reprimanded for being "unacceptable".
The silver-haired prince could not stand the halls of his father and grandfather, pompously flamboyant and frivolous, filled to the brim with vicious whispers and shadowy rumors and fake men and women with false, mocking smiles. He hated the silent cues that seemed to slip past lips without ever having been spoken, and the eyes waiting for him to trip, to make a mistake, like vultures circling a wounded animal, waiting for it to keel over and die.
There was nothing in the world of politics, civilization and societal interaction except rules. Manners--how to speak and how to walk and how to eat salad and how to flirt and this and that. There was an unspoken code of right and wrong, but it was all backwards and upside-down and corrupted. It was not a world that the third son relished.
All of it he found to be pointless and stifling. How anyone could live under such oppression and receive any modicum of satisfaction from their boring little lives--living in fear of self-discovery day-in and day-out for years and years piled into a mountain of denial and prejudice--Tyelkormo just did not understand.
He did not understand what titillated Nelyafinwë about spending hours and hours speaking riddles coated in acid and layered in needles at helpless courtiers, outmaneuvering them in the delicate art of undertones. He did not understand how Kanafinwë could spend all his days cooped up like a pretty little pet, always listening to words without glancing away and following orders without hesitation and behaving precisely as demanded at their father's every whim. He did not understand why Morifinwë was afraid to speak his mind plainly to their sire's face, why his younger brother seemed to take every harsh word like a stab to the chest rather than a simple castigation, and why he never retaliated against the cruel blows to his pride. And he most certainly did not understand how Curufinwë could spend all morning and all afternoon and all evening locked up with their sire in the forge and not go mad from the sheer amount of bullying for which their father was infamous. "Do this, Curufinwë" and "Do that Curufinwë" and "Listen to every word I speak as though your life depends on it, Curufinwë".
Disgusting and pathetic, that was what it was. Masochistic.
It seemed that Tyelkormo was not made to be sociable, not made to fit into the boundaries of "civilized people" as his parents desired. He was not made to obey his father's every wish, but felt the undeniable urge to lift his head and sneer right back as an equal--rude and ungrateful and spiteful--whenever Fëanáro dared to order him to heel. Because how dare he presume to treat his own child as an ill-mannered dog?
No, Tyelkormo was not made for rules.
He was a creature of the endless fields of grass and the deep shadows of trees and the thrill of the wind streaking through his hair and the open sky gaping wide open over his head. Roofs felt oppressive and walls were like prisons, a cage created for the sole purpose of crippling his spirit.
The only time the third son of Fëanáro felt at peace with himself was lying beneath the blanket of the stars set in their molds of the heavens. His toes longed to feel the dew-covered blades of grass tickle between their tender joints and his nails ached to be caked and coated in rich earth. It felt like coming home to hold a bow in his hands--the curve of smooth wood and down of fletching fitting into his grip like an extension of his limbs--and focus only on his next breath and next movement. To forget everything, including rules and manners and propriety and all those unnecessary complications that did nothing but drive the fire of all freedom and happiness into the ground and smother it under layers of choking dirt until its oxygen ran dry and it sizzled into death-throes.
In his world, there was no need for shoes. There was no need for fancy ornaments of silver and gold and bronze draped around neck and head. There was no need for extravagant outfits to veil the ugly reality of each flawed spirit. All anyone needed was food and water and the clothes of their backs and dreams filling their heads, un-stifled and un-strangled, free to breathe Manwë's sweet breath and be nurtured in Yavanna's motherly embrace.
That was the code by which the wild-hearted third son shaped his life. There were no edicts about the patched holes in his frayed leggings or the mud-smears on his boots or the twigs tangled in the haphazard braids of his hair.
There was the land and the sky and the only obstacles were the limitations of the body and the perception of the mind. With sheer determination that put his sire to shame, Tyelkormo never let any hindrance stop his forward momentum, never let any boundaries hold him back from achieving whatever he set out to achieve to the fullest potential.
For the third son, there was but one rule. Dream and fulfill and never let anyone stand in your way.
Because life was not worth living under the thumb of adversity and pressure of disapproval. Because joy could not be attained through putting on a prosthetic face and dancing upon puppet-strings to the whims of a master. Because no one could ever be happy being anyone but who they were, and no amount of pretty baubles and empty flattery would ever change that single truth.
And let it never be said that Turkafinwë Tyelkormo did not know the spirit that blazed with divine life beneath his own skin. And no father's heavy words could bend his unshakable will.
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Because I feel that Fëanor would not have liked that his impressionable third son would rather run off in the company of wildlife and mangy dogs and horse-riding valar rather than spend time making trinkets in the forge or absorbing massive amounts of information into his genius brain. And because I also feel like Celegorm wouldn't give a shit about what his father thinks. The one consistency that he always has in all of my writings is that he doesn't care what others think; he's in it for himself and screw everyone else if they don't like how he is. You know, I should write more of him--maybe with Huan and Oromë thrown in there for fun.
This was half-inspired by this adorable picture on dA: every single day... by ~greenapplefreak (in which Celegorm wants to fly like a bird, and if anyone ever figures out how to do it, it'll be him and his stubbornness and determination). Tell me that's not adorable? I happen to love some of the pictures and comics by ~greenapplefreak, so if you've got time go and browse. Find something to brighten up your day (especially if yours is as bad as mine--five hour chemistry lab, enough said).
Also, I was listening to the song Touch the Sky by Alex Mandel from the Brave soundtrack--yeah, the Pixar movie Brave with Merida and the bear problems. Actually, Merida kind of reminds me of a less violent and more compassionate young Celegorm (and lately I've been having images in my head of a cross-over between the Silmarillion and Brave, because I cross the Silmarillion literally with everything I can possibly manage, from Star Wars to Disney; I'm hopelessly obsessed). Besides, I thought it fitting.
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