Reflections of Curufinwë, for alassante
alassante asked for a Fëanorian drabble. Now, seeing as I wrote full stories for everyone else, it seemed a bit unappreciative of Alassante--who has become a good friend in just a few weeks--to give her a mere hundred words. So I hope you don't mind, Al, that I've expanded on your request a bit and did a drabble series for you about your favorite Elf Curufinwë and his son Celebrimbor.
(By the way, I apologize if I got his Quenya name wrong; I got it from a dubious Internet source. Please feel free to correct my spelling.)
In this series, first Curufin, then Celebrimbor, ponder their heritage and its impositions on their freedom. Indeed, I have always wondered that all of the Finwions seem their own people, but Fëanaro, Curufin, and Celebrimbor seem like slightly varied versions of each other. But that is a ramble for another time. :)
This drabble series is rated a nice safe general with no particular warnings.
Reflections of Curufinwë
I.
Curufinwë used to sit upon Fëanáro’s lap, facing the wrong way, and trace Fëanáro’s features with his still-pudgy baby fingers: lips, nose, eyelids fluttering closed in instinctive defense. They say he looks like me…. Curufinwë imagined those features transplanted to his own face, and he smiled-making Fëanáro smile too-just to see how he would look.
One day…when I am older.
Fëanáro crunched him in an embrace and Curufinwë could no longer see his face but could feel his breath tickling his ear, could smell Fëanáro’s electrical scent.
They say he is just like me….
But Curufinwë doubted it.
II.
A self-portrait: a difficult task, for one had to look upon himself as others did, loosening one’s features, peeling away defenses that rose naturally when faced with one’s reflection. Curufinwë stared into the mirror and tried to impersonate himself and could not. He was not sure who himself even was.
Raven hair tucked behind his ears; jewel-bright eyes; a strong, straight nose and chiseled lips: these things, Curufinwë could paint, but what of the spirit behind them?
Looking up from his canvas, his hands clenched reflexively at the edges, smudging the paint and ruining it.
He had painted his father.
III.
The torch flames leaped and painted Fëanáro’s features with fire and shadow, pooling in the features distorted by grief and rage until Curufinwë no longer recognized him and was afraid.
He looked up at the sliver of firelight that he’d raised: his sword. He listened to his voice swearing the Oath.
He wondered if the fire painted his face as terribly as it did his father’s.
Across the square, in Terentaulë’s arms, Tyelperinquar screamed-his hysteria cutting the oath-and momentarily, Curufinwë hesitated and glanced at his young son.
Raven hair, jewel-bright eyes, chiseled lips: the reflection of his father.
IV.
Uncle Maedhros would ask Celebrimbor to draw for him, for the youth had talent and was quiet enough to keep him company, for Maedhros was still confined to bed. “Draw me…” Maedhros would say, pondering, “you and me and uncle Maglor.”
Celebrimbor did as told, only Maedhros still had two hands and Maglor still had his wife, and they were both smiling.
But he had trouble sketching a smile upon his face, for his father never smiled since grandfather died and Celebrimbor felt he should be equally grave.
If Maedhros wondered why Celebrimbor’s face had no mouth, he never asked.
V.
Celebrimbor stood before the mirror and pretended that the reflection was Curufinwë. Or maybe Fëanáro. He held the rings, feeling their power thrumming, a feeling of energy waiting, unspent, for a touch of fire to sizzle along his nerves like lightning winding around a wire.
He touched his reflection, cold beneath his tremulous fingers: Fëanáro’s lips, Curufinwë’s eyes.
Tyelperinquar.
He slipped on all three rings and felt their power coursing like electric ecstasy through his body, and as his back arched and his eyes slipped from his reflection-
-Fëanáro’s hair, Curufinwë’s nose-
he wondered: Would they be proud of me?
(By the way, I apologize if I got his Quenya name wrong; I got it from a dubious Internet source. Please feel free to correct my spelling.)
In this series, first Curufin, then Celebrimbor, ponder their heritage and its impositions on their freedom. Indeed, I have always wondered that all of the Finwions seem their own people, but Fëanaro, Curufin, and Celebrimbor seem like slightly varied versions of each other. But that is a ramble for another time. :)
This drabble series is rated a nice safe general with no particular warnings.
Reflections of Curufinwë
I.
Curufinwë used to sit upon Fëanáro’s lap, facing the wrong way, and trace Fëanáro’s features with his still-pudgy baby fingers: lips, nose, eyelids fluttering closed in instinctive defense. They say he looks like me…. Curufinwë imagined those features transplanted to his own face, and he smiled-making Fëanáro smile too-just to see how he would look.
One day…when I am older.
Fëanáro crunched him in an embrace and Curufinwë could no longer see his face but could feel his breath tickling his ear, could smell Fëanáro’s electrical scent.
They say he is just like me….
But Curufinwë doubted it.
II.
A self-portrait: a difficult task, for one had to look upon himself as others did, loosening one’s features, peeling away defenses that rose naturally when faced with one’s reflection. Curufinwë stared into the mirror and tried to impersonate himself and could not. He was not sure who himself even was.
Raven hair tucked behind his ears; jewel-bright eyes; a strong, straight nose and chiseled lips: these things, Curufinwë could paint, but what of the spirit behind them?
Looking up from his canvas, his hands clenched reflexively at the edges, smudging the paint and ruining it.
He had painted his father.
III.
The torch flames leaped and painted Fëanáro’s features with fire and shadow, pooling in the features distorted by grief and rage until Curufinwë no longer recognized him and was afraid.
He looked up at the sliver of firelight that he’d raised: his sword. He listened to his voice swearing the Oath.
He wondered if the fire painted his face as terribly as it did his father’s.
Across the square, in Terentaulë’s arms, Tyelperinquar screamed-his hysteria cutting the oath-and momentarily, Curufinwë hesitated and glanced at his young son.
Raven hair, jewel-bright eyes, chiseled lips: the reflection of his father.
IV.
Uncle Maedhros would ask Celebrimbor to draw for him, for the youth had talent and was quiet enough to keep him company, for Maedhros was still confined to bed. “Draw me…” Maedhros would say, pondering, “you and me and uncle Maglor.”
Celebrimbor did as told, only Maedhros still had two hands and Maglor still had his wife, and they were both smiling.
But he had trouble sketching a smile upon his face, for his father never smiled since grandfather died and Celebrimbor felt he should be equally grave.
If Maedhros wondered why Celebrimbor’s face had no mouth, he never asked.
V.
Celebrimbor stood before the mirror and pretended that the reflection was Curufinwë. Or maybe Fëanáro. He held the rings, feeling their power thrumming, a feeling of energy waiting, unspent, for a touch of fire to sizzle along his nerves like lightning winding around a wire.
He touched his reflection, cold beneath his tremulous fingers: Fëanáro’s lips, Curufinwë’s eyes.
Tyelperinquar.
He slipped on all three rings and felt their power coursing like electric ecstasy through his body, and as his back arched and his eyes slipped from his reflection-
-Fëanáro’s hair, Curufinwë’s nose-
he wondered: Would they be proud of me?