Flying

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Of the naming traditions of the House of Fëanor.  Quenya names used (Curufin = Curufinwë, Celebrimbor = Telperinquar, Fëanor = Fëanáro, Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Caranthir = Morifinwë).  This is, of course, more characterization and once more delves into the family dynamics of the House of Fëanor.  I would say that this story is most closely paired with "Temperamental", but can be crammed in with all the characterization stories of the brothers.  Takes place in the Years of the Trees in Valinor.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion

Pairings: Curufin x Lindalórë (because Celebrimbor was not born like a strawberry plant)

Characters: Curufin, Celebrimbor, Fëanor, Nerdanel (mentions Maedhros, Celegorm and Caranthir specifically but refers to all six brothers, Lindalórë, random other elves)

Warning: rather AU, OFC, possibly somewhat cliche, past unintentional child neglect/abuse, self-esteem issues

Song: Ever Flow

Words: 1,051
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fly (intransitive verb): to move in or pass through the air with wings; to move through the air or before the wind or through outer space; to float, wave, or soar in the air
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/flying

With joy, Curufinwë lifted his young son into his arms and spun the child until sweet bells of laughter rang through the clearing, mixing with soft golden light and gentle warmth.  Tiny arms gripped tightly around his neck, and little one squealed at the playful twirling and dipping, feet not even touching the ground.  The fifth son of Fëanáro did not think he had ever felt more content than when he hefted the child upwards to press a sloppy kiss to one chubby, grinning cheek, when he felt an equally messy kiss on his cheekbone in return.

When his son called him atto and asked to play.  And Curufinwë obliged.  He would have it no other way, in truth.

Most might find that surprising, considering who his sire was and how his sire had raised his hefty brood of seven.  Bitterly, he thought of the estate far removed from Tirion, the place of his father's exile and the place he had spent most of his young life hating.

Formenos was little more than a prison cell.

Curufinwë did not think his brothers could understand this analogy from his supposedly blessed lips, and he had never attempted to explain to any one of them, for he did not think they would listen.

Far be he from an idiot.  He knew that Morifinwë was jealous of usurped attention and fatherly pride.  He knew that Turkafinwë resented what he perceived as weak-willed acquiescence.  He knew that Nelyafinwë would have given almost anything to have his intrinsic skill with the forge and the fire.  But none of them, not a one, knew what it truly was that they coveted in their younger brother.

They did not hear the words.  "Curufinwë, just exactly as his father, with the same temperament and the same skill, the same mind and body, a son to be proud of..."

"Atarinkë you shall be called, my son, for I perceive your sire in your spirit..."

It was a curse.  Nothing more and nothing less.  The curse of clipped wings and stifled individuality.  What his brothers had, their innate uniqueness, their personal visage and their fingerprints of talent and interests, those were what Curufinwë desired most.

It was half the reason he almost never came home, half the reason he built with his own two hands a house for he and his beloved to reside within as they started their new family, far away from the place of his father's exile, far away from any forge billowing smoke and any eager, prideful star-eyes in the darkness.  In the open air, with none but his wife and child at his side, with no princely duties or heavy expectations, he was not the second coming of Fëanáro, some washed-out doppelganger of an impossibly distant peak of power and skill.

Away from his father's heavy gaze, Curufinwë could pretend that he did not possess a name at all, could be called only husband and father while flying on the intoxicating heights of freedom, of being himself and no one else besides.

The other reason he never went "home" was, of course, his son, and the fear of what awaited any heir of Fëanáro's perfect child in the complex social and political atmosphere that surrounded the Crown Prince wherever he went, even into the distant countryside.  The last thing that Curufinwë desired was to see his son taken away day after day into the stifling hot darkness of the forge to be taught the skill of metallurgy and craftsmanship by the master of masters amongst the Eruhíni, to be shaped and wrought as skillfully and wickedly as any dagger or sword into yet another perfect but somehow incomplete, lacking copy of the original.

And it was this reason he gave no father-name to his son, whose mother provided him with a mother-name prophetic enough to make Curufinwë wince.  It was not, he admitted, quite as terrible as being named "Little Father", but alluded to the skills of the House of Fëanáro nonetheless.  Telperinquar.

That was enough of a name for the boy, who already received compliments that teetered dangerously on the edge of being insults in the mind of the father.

"He is glorious.  Were it not for the eyes, I would say he looks just like you--just like his father and just like his grandfather.  What a visage he will have!"

"Tell me, then, cousin, what have you named your son?  Curufinwë?  Surely it would be a good omen, the passing of talent from father to son."

"I suppose he will be a master of the forge.  One would expect nothing else!"

He wanted to strangle them all.  For it was exactly these sorts of assumptions, these conceited, thoughtless comments, that had stolen away any identity Curufinwë may ever have possessed in his own right, left him with nothing but his father's shadow.

And when he set his son down in the grass and tickled the boy and rolled through weeds like rambunctious puppies until they were both covered in green stains and smeared with dirt, he did not perceive even a droplet of his fey and terrible sire in the child.  He perceived only something individual and unique, something that could not be copied and that should not be changed or molded, something attributed only to the life created by the sacred joining between he and his wife.  This was no doppelganger.

He wanted Telperinquar to have a chance to grow and learn unhindered.  He would not be the father he always despised and clip his son's spiritual wings.

Let the others think what they might of the sanctity of bloodlines and the silhouettes of kings.  Let them dream of another set of skillful hands to build them unimaginable treasures and provide them with ingenious contraptions and designs.  Let them wait and be disappointed when no third coming of Fëanáro, no third Curufinwë, emerged from the nest as a shadow of his predecessors.

Let his child shine as his own star, flying on the winds of freedom, choosing his own course.  The father could think of nothing more beautiful.
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This was definitely inspired by Celebrimbor's lack of a second name.  I know technically Telperinquar is supposed to be his father-name, but I decided to change it up and make it his mother-name instead because I think it's more interesting to see Curufin's motivations for not giving him a father-name than to make up a mother-name to go with the father-name.  Maybe I'm lazy.

In any case, I don't know about you, but if I was Curufin, I'd be pretty pissed off with the naming issue.  Seriously, Fëanor, you couldn't think of anything more creative than naming the kid after yourself?  One thing he's definitely not accomplished at is naming children.  I mean, seriously, Maedhros' father-name is "Third Finwë".  And then Nerdanel, who usually does a little better, goes and names Curufin "Little Father" on top of that--yes, that is what it translates to--and that's just asking for childhood issues.

But enough naming conventions.  Was listening to a song called Ever Flow.  I can't actually tell you who did this song or what OST it's from without doing a little research, so maybe I'll get back to it.  Whoever posted this video was too lazy to put in a proper disclaimer, which makes my job much harder, since this is an obscure song with no discernible lyrics.  Clearly trailer music, as if that narrows the list... Anyway, it's lovely, and you should listen to it if you haven't already, and then click on a few more links and find something else pretty to listen to afterwards.

Vocabulary:
atto = daddy