Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion, but some of these characters are mine, so if they aren't familiar, that's why--read the stories mentioned above or don't if you don't want to know or don't care
Pairings: Curufin x Lindalórë, Fëanor x Nerdanel (in the b/g)
Characters: Lindalórë (OFC), Curufin, Teldanno (OMC) (mentions Celebrimbor, Fëanor, Nerdanel, Morgoth and other random noldor)
Warning: almost canon-compliant, OMC, OFC, spontaneous children, mild violence, a tiny bit of blood here and here, impulsive punching, faintly sexual undertone in a couple places, dysfunctional family
Song: Judas
Words: 1,285
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
temperamental (adjective): marked by excessive sensitivity and impulsive mood changes; unpredictable in behavior or performance
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/temperamental
One minute, Atarinkë could be a mild-mannered charmer with a smile that could swoon a maiden from across the room, and the next he could be a raging thunderstorm of fury and flying, stone fists.
It was, most knew, the result of his parentage.
The Crown Prince had never been considered particularly docile--most would have considered Fëanáro the exact opposite: frightfully impulsive, a bundle of dangerous curiosity and insatiable wonder and white-hot fury all tangled up like an unrolled ball of yarn strewn at random about the floor and combed back together haphazardly. As his progeny, one moment he could be delivering a sultry grin unto his wife's darkening eyes, and the next he could be yelling and cussing up a storm at something as simple as a splinter or broken glass or a stubbed toe.
And it was not as if Nerdanel the Wise was any less at fault for the wild sour flavor hidden in the sweet nectar of the fruit of their sacred union. Kind-hearted and patient though she might be, every woman had a line that could not be crossed, and the unfortunate reality of having a man as recklessly passionate as Fëanáro for a husband was plainly that boundaries were crossed without thought to the consequences.
Anyone who knew the woman well knew that she could be more terrifying than her husband when angered or scorned--when pushed past that invisible line of the tolerance of masculine stupidity--with a voice that shook the Pelóri to their foundations and had Fëanáro frantically scrambling for forgiveness, lest he spend several hours beneath the heavy, bloodthirsty lash of her barbed tongue (and several nights locked out of their shared bedchambers to huddle by the warmth of the fire in the sitting room like a pet). It seemed that her hair--the wreaths of fiery curls that Fëanáro found so delightfully entrancing--really did symbolize her inner wildcat.
The result:
Curufinwë Atarinkë. From the top of his head to the tip of his toes to his narrowed eyes to his seductive voice to his gorgeous face--and his crazy emoting, impossible to forecast, a flashes of lightening from blue, clear skies. Even his name played upon the reflective pattern plain for anyone with two eyes and a brain to see.
All his father's talent in the forge, the hot fury coupled along with thousands of hours pounding a hammer to metal in the depths of the dark and fire. The ability to concentrate until the world was drowned out completely. The natural elegance of the tongue notable in any prince. The instinctive charmer hidden underneath his father's sharp, powerful features.
It only took one experience with his unpredictable blood to understand.
And Lindalórë could well remember.
It was all because some ridiculous courtier across the room had insulted the Crown Prince and his wife in the presence of his fifth son. In retrospect, it was foolish to believe that there would be no retaliation--physical or otherwise--when the older brothers were as accomplished politicians as the younger brother was a craftsman. She didn't suppose the man had expected the result.
Like a gentleman, Atarinkë had his arm entwined with hers, a glass of wine offered at her flushed lips as she giggled in embarrassment at the delightfully forward gesture. Even now, she could picture his charming grin, stretched wide over straight, white teeth as he stared down at her with undisguised fondness. And then a voice across the room--and why the words she could recall, but did not even want to repeat in her mind! Suffice to say, it had been reprehensible!
The grin froze and morphed before her very eyes, lip curling upwards until those straight white teeth were no longer bared in a wide smile, but rather a deadly snarl.
And Atarinkë had exploded.
She could not even remember seeing him cross the room. Suddenly he was there, his hand knocking the wine from his adversary's smarting fingers, the tinkling of glass following as the delicate crystalline glassware shattered on hardwood floors. There was a shout and the sound of a fist against flesh and bone--a dull thud beneath the smack of skin on skin--and the fool who had opened his mouth so unwisely was suddenly on the floor, nose leaking thin trails of red between his clutching hands and his pathetic groans.
Though she would later claim that it was horrible behavior--what kind of wife would encourage such impulsive violence?--standing red-faced and panting over the downed courtier, Atarinkë had looked like an ainu in the flesh, glowing with his fury, absolutely beautiful.
And then, as though nothing had happened, the light drained from his body and he had stepped over the sod rolling on the floor in agony as if the imbecile had not even been present. Slightly bruised knuckles picked up his wife's hand, and his lips brushed in a butterfly kiss over her skin. "Forgive the interruption, my lady. Where were we?" His bangs and fallen over his eyes, ruffled, and she couldn't help but recall how wonderfully bright and fey those orbs were.
Even now, it still made her heart flutter like an untried maiden.
And in her son, she could see so much of the father and grandfather and grandmother. In those eyes and that face--unforgettable, strong gravitas--she could see Fëanáro staring out at her, his vehemence writhing just beneath the surface, waiting for the wrong words, the wrong action, waiting to burst forth in a towering spire of ash and vicious, toxic words. In the smile, she could see Atarinkë, could see the impulsiveness in its transition from a silvered moon-crescent of affection to a biting frown of revulsion and disgust with only a word or an action. In the static quiet, she could sense Nerdanel's hidden temper lurking in the shadows, veiled with layer upon layer of patience, but every once in a while a strong breeze would blow back the diaphanous sheens of fabric to reveal the monster growling underneath.
And, as clear as daylight, she saw it when Atarinkë and Telperinquar appeared on their doorstep without a word in advance after walking out on their family. The shouting had drawn her from her solitary knitting endeavor, and her first sight of her wayward husband after almost six thousand years as a purpling bruise blooming upon his jaw, spreading into an eye-socket until it was ringed in black, and streams of crimson escaping from beneath the hand plastered over a slightly crooked nose.
And Teldanno with bruised knuckles, chest heaving in fury as he blocked the doorway, staring down his sire as though Atarinkë were the Black Enemy himself. Looking exactly like his father in a snit with exactly his grandfather's wild expression and exactly his grandmother's wicked tongue slithering from between his vicious lips in black clouds of deadly rhetoric.
It was--dare she even think it--endearing. It was just so utterly Fëanorean.
With a sigh, she had invited her husband and elder son back inside their abode and wondered how many more broken noses, bruised cheeks and deafening swearing matches would fill her once quiet household as a result of that temperamental streak a hundred leagues wide.
Yet, she knew there was naught to be done about it now. Lindalórë had married into a line of flash-flooding torrential downpours and sudden freak thunderstorms breaking out over the calm plains. And she did not think she could have loved her family more for it. They were her boys. Even their ridiculous tempers shadowed under deceptive, crooked grins.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Perhaps I should start out saying that the song is not very applicable at all to the story. It actually makes me giggle a bit to think about the implications. In any case, this is the result of reading all of the gospels for my bible class this week; forgive me for being an obsessive dork who is pleased that she finally understands the damn references well enough to say "I know what the hell is going on!" in the song Judas by Lady GaGa. And yes, I do occasionally listen to her music. Frightening, huh?
Anyway, forgive me for once again focusing on my OFC. I originally was only going to write this study on Curufin, but then I realized that all of the fathers and sons have this temperamental behavior in common. Curufin's first reaction is to get violent when insulted--and Celebrimbor and Teldanno do exactly the same thing in their respective stories. Is the family resemblance not adorable? Let's blame Fëanor; he's a convenient scapegoat.
Sorry, having fun. :D This has at least kept me busy for a while. Now I'm off to register for classes next semester. Wish me luck!
PS: Curufinwë is Fëanor's father-name as well (Poor Celebrimbor: Naming Creativity by ~kittykatkanie on dA. I may already have posted this, but it just fits so well LOL). Atarinkë means "little father". Poor baby, might as well have been named "Clone Specimen 005".
No comments:
Post a Comment