Curufin, son of Fëanor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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hadriel_logs2017-06-24 11:43 pm
so_dark_a_road) wrote in hadriel_logs2017-06-24 11:43 pm
Entry tags:
It’s a new Mereth Aderthad (Feast of Reuniting)! – Oh dear Eru, what will happen this time???
Who: Finwean clan members, living and dead. Maedhros, Fingon, Celebrimbor, and Curufin. Ghosts: Fëanor, Maglor, Fingolfin, Turgon, Aredhel, and Finrod. (THIS IS A MINGLER, so by all means, mingle! Just label your toplevels as to who is in the thread.)
What: A family dinner party! Good food, music, merriment, arguing, mayhem.
Where: Delight’s Housing, #06
When: June 27
Warnings: Elvish cursing and at least a couple of fistfights.
[ The Fëanorions have now been haunted by their dead relatives for a week, but now they can all see and interact with each other's ghosts -- the house is getting very crowded! Nobody can take a step without running into somebody they have mixed feelings about, and there are tears, snarls and threats as well as laughter and hugging.
Curufin is in the kitchen and cooking up a storm. The soup is stirred, the pots and pans bang on the stove, cupboard doors open and slam shut, the fish simmers, the vegetables are chopped and steamed, dishes and tableware clatter onto to the dining room table. Glasses are filled with wine from the Speakeasy. Curufin's own lethel distillation is waiting in a decanter for after dinner. (Because yes, certainly we want them all drunk and belligerent. Good idea, Curvo!)
He hustles out of the kitchen with the first platter of food, still wearing his frilly plaid pinafore apron from one of the derelict downtown stores. He shouts into the living room in a thunderous voice more suited to a battlefield than a house of loving relatives. ]
Dinner's served! Come and get it while it's hot!
[ He bangs the platter of fragrant baked fish on the table. With luck, they'll all fall upon the dinner like a pack of hungry varren and forget their resentments. (SURE THEY WILL FORGET. BECAUSE FINWEANS, YOU KNOW, ARE CHARITABLE AND FORGIVING.) ]
[ Feel free to come and help him in the kitchen, or else sit back and wait to be served like princes. (And one princess.) ]
What: A family dinner party! Good food, music, merriment, arguing, mayhem.
Where: Delight’s Housing, #06
When: June 27
Warnings: Elvish cursing and at least a couple of fistfights.
[ The Fëanorions have now been haunted by their dead relatives for a week, but now they can all see and interact with each other's ghosts -- the house is getting very crowded! Nobody can take a step without running into somebody they have mixed feelings about, and there are tears, snarls and threats as well as laughter and hugging.
Curufin is in the kitchen and cooking up a storm. The soup is stirred, the pots and pans bang on the stove, cupboard doors open and slam shut, the fish simmers, the vegetables are chopped and steamed, dishes and tableware clatter onto to the dining room table. Glasses are filled with wine from the Speakeasy. Curufin's own lethel distillation is waiting in a decanter for after dinner. (Because yes, certainly we want them all drunk and belligerent. Good idea, Curvo!)
He hustles out of the kitchen with the first platter of food, still wearing his frilly plaid pinafore apron from one of the derelict downtown stores. He shouts into the living room in a thunderous voice more suited to a battlefield than a house of loving relatives. ]
Dinner's served! Come and get it while it's hot!
[ He bangs the platter of fragrant baked fish on the table. With luck, they'll all fall upon the dinner like a pack of hungry varren and forget their resentments. (SURE THEY WILL FORGET. BECAUSE FINWEANS, YOU KNOW, ARE CHARITABLE AND FORGIVING.) ]
[ Feel free to come and help him in the kitchen, or else sit back and wait to be served like princes. (And one princess.) ]
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(Served like princes, hm? Accurate! Celebrimbor cannot possibly stay amongst the shades for longer than he must; seeing them is painful for many reasons and he is not certain what to tell them. Or how to act. His, as ever, plethora of jewelry - mainly silver ornaments as he favored them most - jingle softly as he enters the kitchen, hoping to busy himself with food preparations.
Maybe no one will notice he has gotten away for a short while? Especially not Fëanor, who seems intent on chatting with him as if they are old friends (when in reality his grandfather is, well, rather scary). As ever Celebrimbor is a gentle soul. Please leave him alone, Finweans...)
GHOSTS
(He cannot stay in the kitchen forever, unfortunately, and soon he is speaking, as politely as possible, with the spirits and trying to amend their various woes. Of course seeing them reminds him that he is, technically, one of them on Arda. As are his father, his uncle, his cousin...
It's all terribly dreary. He eventually has enough of it and he speaks in a voice as commanding as his father's:)
Do not follow me!
kitchen
My son. This must be difficult for you.
[ Poor child. His relatives are drawn to him now, as ghosts, for the same reason everyone is always drawn to Cel -- his light and sweetness. But he seems particularly wary of Fëanor. Curufin can't blame him, for he never knew his grandfather as a sane man. Curufin is thinking of breaking the rules of Elvish family etiquette and telling his father off, if he refuses to read Cel's signals and back off! ]
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You have it worse.
(In some regards. Most of the relatives are welcome sights, but Fëanor... Well he is a different story. As a child, Celebrimbor had feared him and clung to Curufin's leg or arm or any part he could reach truly. The one part of his grandfather he had always loved without judgement had been his expertise in the Forge.)
Do you know any stories to make Grandfather less intimidating?
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[ He chuckles wryly. ] I suppose it must look that way.
[ All these uneasy Finweans. Curufin can feel the tension in the house, it's so palpable that you could cut it with a knife. A knife??? -- what put that into his head? -- the last sort of image he wants in his mind right now. And where is Finrod? He's supposed to be here. He SAID he would be. He's LATE. ]
[ And this is a problem. He remembers well how Cel as a child had sought shelter from his grandfather's attention, unless it was related to their shared craftsmanship. ]
Stories of. . . ? Oh, you mean, the times when he was most human? [ He thinks. ] I can tell you a story from when I was little. [ His brain is reeling. For a moment, he can't remember any stories of the sort he is searching for. His mind is a total blank. ] Oh! -- when I was very little, I used to clamor to go with your uncles to the pond they liked to swim in. (Except for Amrod and Amras -- they weren't born yet.) But I was still a toddler, and it was a long climb down to the river, and they preferred not to have me along unless your grandmother was going. But one hot summer day, even though they were impatient to swim, they agreed to take me, and so we all went down to the waterside. . . .
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He supposes he should feel fond of the disruptions. With the vegetables cut, he moves to kneading some bread dough. Only to stop and stare at Curufin, concerned.
His poor father. Why has he never noticed...? He must have been too young...before. But now he can see Curufin's nervous energy - often mistaken for passion - and -
The story isn't all that important. Celebrimbor dusts off his hands and walks across the kitchen, pulling Curufin into an insistent hug.)
Take a breath... It isn't your duty to hold everyone together. Let them fight. (He kisses the older Elf's cheek.)
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[ Chuckle ] My wise son. I should listen to you more often.
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Celebrimbor loves him. He rests his chin on his father's shoulder once he feels him relax, smiling.)
I am not telling you anything you do not know. I refuse to leave your side this time.
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[ Another small laugh. ] True. You do well to remind me of that. [ He puts up a hand to ruffle his son's hair lightly, and then leans his cheek affectionately against Cel's head. He is well aware of the significance of Cel's words. ] We shall go together, this time. [ Into whatever fate the dinner party leads them to!!! But more seriously, into the future, and this time not mired down by dissension and by the curse of hatred wrought by the Oath. Curufin never tires of the wonder of this second chance. ]
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"Father please, his nerves fray and he needs must eat and rest!" He stood between the two once more, though Maglor hesitantly went to gently rest a hand on Celebrimbor's shoulder to lead him away.
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Glancing at Maglor, his gaze softened and he gave him a comforting smile. Then he covered Maedhros's hand on his other shoulder with his own.
"Grandfather, I love you very much, but I am not like you. I am not really like Atar either. But I hope you can accept me as I am."
Ghosts
[She tilts her head back and laughs.] I was going to ask about your ornaments. I was giving up on seeing real silver in this place- you know how my brother is about gold.
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I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. (At least she hasn't taken offense?) Most of them came with me, but I have unearthed small amounts of silver here and there. I'm not sure where it came from nor am I certain I want to know.
(His lips quirk.) Silver is better.
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"No offense taken, Celembrimbor. Plenty of people have done worse than snap when asked to dine in the same room as Uncle and Father." [She turns a keen eye to the jewelry in question] "Some of the style looks familiar-were these gifts, or have you been experimenting with dwarven techniques?"
"Of course it is, Finno simply has no taste." [Aredhel winks at that, pitching her voice just high enough so that said brother will hear.]
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Curufin wasn't spared from food being plated for him, nor was Celebrimbor or Maedhros. Maglor flustered under the attention and turned a look on the younger brother with a teasing smile that almost seemed real.
"Where did you find such a pretty apron, Curvo?" And ignored Maedhros as he was poured a healthy glass of wine.
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But he was both touched and made a little bit nervous when his father insisted on filling a plate with food and handing it to Curufin, the cook! As though he were still a child or an adolescent, and not a grown warrior. But, "Thank you, father," he said, tentatively.
And then he responded to Maglor's teasing comment, with a smile. "I bought it at the secondhand store, Macalaurë. And I must say, you are looking well." Although Maedhros is not looking so well. "Did you bring your harp?" Rhetorical question. Of course Maglor, living or dead, would take his harp with him wherever he went. This is just a hint that he might play it after dinner to help smooth out the general awkwardness of the occasion.
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Aredhel makes herself right at home at her cousin's table, laughing full-heartedly and teasing with abandon. If there's a shadow behind her eyes, sometimes, the next moment she bounces back with twice the zeal of before. She's determined to have a good time, for however long the moment lasts.
Turgon sits as far from the Feanorians as he can possibly manage, his back rigid from the tension of even that concession. Besides the bare minimum of politeness given to the host he tries to ignore his half-cousins, instead talking to his father and siblings. It mostly works. If his eyes flash just a bit too angrily and his hands clench whenever he sees Feanor, well... that can only be expected.
Fingolfin too watches his brother, although behind his icy eyes it is far more difficult to tell what he is thinking. But to his nephews he is the picture of courtesy, complementing Curufin on his cooking and prompting them all to tell him about their patrols.
And out of the corners of their eyes all three watch Fingon, sharing concerned looks as he begins to react just a hair too slow for comfort.
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He sits near Aredhel, both for the pleasure of her company and for the hopefulness she emanates. Maybe it will spread? He smiles when she teases and laughs.
He keeps Turgon in his sight, though not ostentatiously. Curufin can feel the anger coming from that end of the table. He doesn't know what to do about it. He knows he should pull himself together and go and talk to him after dinner, but it is so hard. . . and he is so tired. He can still act, as his cooking-frenzy attests, but the ghost-fatigue saps his determination.
Strangely, his uncle is very polite to his Fëanorian nephews. Curufin makes haste to return the courtesy, even though to do so, he must resist his father's cold stare. "Thank you, Uncle Fingolfin! And yes, each of us joined the Guard, as soon as we arrived. There are plenty of dangerous creatures to fight and to protect others from, and it gives us all something to do. Say, would you like some more wine? An apple or a pear? The orchard produces very good fruit."
And Fingon. . . he is bearing the weight of three ghosts on his shoulders, figuratively speaking. Curufin adds his concerned gaze to that of the other three. Findekáno? he murmurs, in mind-speech, so the others won't hear. How are you faring?
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"And also, I think this whole affair is getting to you. Are you sure you don't want help bringing things out?"
Under normal circumstances, admittedly, Fingolfin wouldn't go looking for this particular nephew's company. Feanor, the Oath, Feanor, Losgar, Feanor, the abdication, Feanor yet again- there had been a thousand good reasons to keep a bit of distance. But he has rarely wished ill of Curufin or any of Feanor's sons, and is glad to see him thriving in this strange place. And, really, if his nephew has chosen straighter moral paths of late, then it would be foolish of him to stand in the way.
Besides, Curufin is his host, and has made what seems to be a good-faith effort to do the job well. It's a miserable affair, hosting a feast of reuniting, and Fingolfin can appreciate that. "It's a worthy pursuit, and certainly one you all have more than enough experience to share. I would be glad both for another glass and a pear...and this is quite good. I would never have imagined an underground city could produce such pleasant fruit."
Not you too? Fingon responds, and more of his exhaustion leaks out than intended. Atar and Turno have been asking me the same thing all afternoon.
There's a slight pause at this, and then he admits, I don't feel quite well, no. I haven't said as much but they know it.And they're more worried than they wish to let on.
Don't tell Maitimo, he has enough to be getting on with.
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He's tried to make amends to other relatives before -- most notably Celebrimbor, and that has worked out well, and Galadhriel in that odd Fifth Age Arda he lived in before he came to Hadriel. And a few other relatives in the half-worlds, the dream worlds, and the story worlds that people find themselves in sometimes when not in the other kind. He's never asked anyone for help in this arduous task before. But this is different.
"You're right. It is getting to me. I'd appreciate your help, dear Írissë! First with Turukáno. And then, I wonder if the whole group of us should perhaps talk?" He has considerable fear that such a thing could not work, but then, this is not the old days. Who knows what may be possible now?
As he is talking to Fingolfin, he does think that of course, it was Fingolfin who pulled together the first Feast of Reuniting. Now he can appreciate his uncle for having tried, and how difficult it must have been! Though it was a good thing that Maedhros had put his foot down and told Curufin and Celegorm and Caranthir they weren't going. They'd have derailed it on purpose. But again, these are different days. He and Fingolfin are allies here, as are all who now want peace. "Indeed, we have the experience! And we are able to teach those who don't, and that's a good thing, too." He pours his uncle another glass of the refreshing wine and hands him the platter of fruit. "It is a little strange, and not only because this is a cave city. This is evidently the month of June, and we should not be seeing ripe fruit yet, let alone of this quality. But the trees here don't seem to know that." He chuckles.
When he turns to Fingon again, he can that all is not well with his cousin. He answers, still in mindspeech, I don't wonder they have been asking you! You look exhausted. Yes, me too. Finrod is trying not to drain me, but he obviously can't help it. And as for Aredhel and Turgon, they are both looking worried, though they're trying not to show it. And I won't tell Maitimo, but you know how sharp he is. I'll bet he can see for himself, when he looks at you.
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At that she gives Curufin a sharp look. "But you'll be careful with him, right? He took losing all of us hard, and you've always had sharp edges."
Fingolfin had figured as much, and there had been many sighs of relief when Maedhros had written that only he and Maglor would be in attendance. "If these gods can bring us all here, even for a time, I cannot be surprised that they can also grow fruit out of season. And certainly, without sun or stars or any natural light source such comforts be all the more welcome."
I know they are. And I know they're getting stronger from it, and they know I know- we've a very knowing family, except for most of the important things. Fingon pauses. Still...I don't wish for them to leave.
Probably, yes. But he has been distracted this week, with his own ghosts. We all have. And Feanor was probably a more distracting ghost than most, not that he'd mention it to Curufin.
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He smiles at Fingolfin's comment. "Indeed. These few fruits of the earth, grown who knows how, without sunlight and with little artificial lighting -- we would be at a loss for sustenance without them."
To Fingon: Yes, we are such a knowing family! But I don't wish them to leave either, believe it or not. This being together again, it seems like a chance that none of us may have again. Nevermind that the ghosts are not "real." They are awfully lively, for people who are not real. Curufin knows with his mind that they are just images, albeit superbly well drawn ones, but his heart says this is his family. The ones he had loved and the ones he had not. No difference now.
Maitimo has Father and Maglor to deal with, yes. I can hardly blame him for being distracted. Fingon didn't have to mention Fëanor to Curufin. Curufin found him distracting enough, and his father was not even his ghost.
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Curufin and Cel clear the table and store most of the left-over food. Curufin brings out the fine-quality whiskey and their best glasses, and ushers everybody into the living room.
AN HOUR LATER
Finrod arrives. He's been talking to Lance Sweets and doesn't want Curufin to know he consulted somebody outside the family, as regards the family dilemma. Curufin stands up, looking stressed and a bit miffed.
"Where the hell have you been?? I haven't been slaving over a hot stove all day just so you could be late for dinner! Everybody was waiting. I kept a plate warm for you; hang on, I'll go and get it. Have some liquor while you're waiting!" His voice is by turns exasperated and scathing.
He starts towards the kitchen. Finrod stares at him for a moment. Feeling the stare, Curufin stops and turns. They look at one another for a moment, a long, unreadable look. Unreadable to others, that is. The two of them understand it perfectly well. Before Curufin can react, Finrod hauls his fist back and punches his cousin in the jaw. The blonde elf may not look as strong as a Fëanorian, but this is the fist that clung to a werewolf's fur while Finrod bit the wolf's throat out. He's not to be trifled with. There is a loud CRACK! As the fist connects, Curufin goes down. On the floor, he pushes himself up on his elbows and shakes his head to clear it of the ringing in his ears.
An enormous, unaccustomed smile comes over Finrod's face, and he speaks softly but oh so emphatically. "I've been wanting to to that for a VERY LONG TIME."
Curufin jumps up, staggering a little, and they go at it. Struck again, Curufin bangs into a chair and knocks it over, reels, and then throws Finrod into a wall with a crash. A flower vase splinters on the floor. They trade blows, their faces shining with sweat and determination.
OTHER AFTER-DINNER EVENTS. MORE FIST-FIGHTS, ANYONE? ALSO WILD CARD.
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Turgon slips out midway through the drinks, claiming a need for some fresher air. It's a bad excuse and all his family knows it, but in that moment simply the absence of his half-cousins' faces is as calming as the wind of the coasts of Nevrast.
He has his eyes closed in thought when he feels a familiar presence approaching- this one loved even more than the Feanorians are loathed, and one he has been longing to see for hours.
"Ingo! You've come at last! Where have you been- and why didn't you have the decency to take me with you?"
TEN SECONDS AFTER THAT PUNCH
And the evening had been going so well, Fingolfin privately mourned.
It wasn't as though he'd expected a calm, quiet evening; centuries of family dinners on shores hither and far had taught him the folly of that. But Curufin had seemed determined to be a good host, Maedhros and Maglor had rarely been trouble on their own, and even Feanor had seemed more interested in mother-henning his boys than picking a fight.
He hadn't counted on Finrod, gentle Finarfin's kind son, to be the one to break the peace.
And neither had Fingon or Aredhel, judging from their shocked looks. (Turgon had trailed his cousin in and stifled a laugh- but knew better than to get involved. Hopefully).
"Do not intervene," he told his children, before getting up and going to do so himself. "NEPHEWS! IF YOU CANNOT SETTLE THIS LIKE ADULTS, THEN TAKE YOUR QUARREL OUTSIDE!"
The Valar knew that Curufin had earned more than a punch, if even a quarter of the tale Fingon had heard was true, but he had seemed to be growing out of this. And besides, broken bones healed. But broken furniture might be difficult to replace down here, Fingolfin hadn't asked.
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Finrod arrives late, in a hurry and looking as worried as he has been all along. But he halts when he sees Turgon standing on the walk. An eager smile breaks out on his face, and he comes near and sets a hand on his cousin's shoulder. "Turno! I'm sorry. I went to speak to a mortal who has a reputation for being a wise and compassionate counselor. I wanted a different take on our dilemma, and I thought I would take the risk of consulting someone who is not in the family."
He smiles a little wryly. "I should have asked you along. It must have been an arduous task for you, to sit amongst the Fëanorians and have no refuge from the tension." And he gives his dearly loved cousin a swift, fierce hug.
TEN SECONDS AFTER THE PUNCH:
Fingolfin comes to break it up, and Curufin simply stops swinging. He falls onto the carpet and lies there with a look that is compounded of surprise (still), a remnant of the ferocity of battle, and a little bafflement.
Finrod stands over him looking as though he would like to kick him, but he doesn't. He is breathing hard and his eyes are bright with anger. "Apologies, Uncle," he says, briefly, to Fingolfin. And then, "Curufin, are you all right?"
Curufin lifts his hand to work his jaw back and forth to make sure it isn't actually broken or dislocated, and then raises his eyes to Finrod's face. Finrod folds his arms and looks down at him in silence. The two of them are both looking rather battered.
Curufin: "Nice right cross, by the way."
"You taught me," answers Finrod. "Remember? There is a little smile on his face.
Curufin replies, "So I did." The lost days are now evoked, their childhood and adolescence in Tirion.
Finrod offers a hand to help him up, the which hand Curufin accepts. They stand for a moment, their hands still clasped, rather self-consciously, before they let go. "For Nargothrond, and for all of it, my deepest apologies," says Curufin. He'd like to make it more eloquent, but his eloquence has utterly departed.
Finrod nods, and doesn't seem to mind the brevity or the absence of detail. "Accepted," he replies.