gift!fic round two: [Silmarillion]: War Games
Title: War Games
Fandom: Silmarillion
For: dame_grise
Summary: The Feanorian children have some fun and games, until someone gets hurt. Of course, some someones are almost gleeful about this event. Fluuuuffy.
It was not stealing, Curufin assured them, if they were planning to put the things back. Maedhros got a tin pot, Maglor found a good sized bowl, Curufin resorted to a square pan, and the rest were left to fend for themselves (Celegorm gave up his right to the pan, saying that he wasn’t afraid to get hit in the head, it wasn’t like any of them could hurt him anyway.)
This was, of course, practically an invitation, and they weren’t even outside before the Twins and Caranthir started bombarding the back of his head with pebbles. Celegorm found this somewhat less amusing than they did.
The next challenge came when actually choosing the game.
“Valar versus Melkor,” suggested Maglor, but they shouted that one down.
“Nolofinwëans versus Fëanorians,” ventured one of the Twins, and Curufin snorted.
“Who’d want to be the Nolofinwëans?”
“And besides,” Caranthir added, “We know who would win.” Maedhros put the pot on his head, handle toward the back, and paced back and forth, thinking seriously. All six of his brother’s watched him, knowing that sooner or later he would think of something.
“I’ve got it,” he said, finally, with a grin. “Elves versus dwarves.”
This would have been a good idea, except that no one wanted to be the dwarves. Eventually they settled, with some contention, on redheads and Caranthir versus Maglor, Celegorm, and Curufin. It was fair because even though they were fewer they were still older.
Having found their weapons, largely sizeable sticks, they took up their posts at opposite ends of the battlefield and attacked. The air was filled almost at once with the cries and yells of what sounded like thirty-seven boys and the solid sounds of sticks hitting bodies.
The clang of pots, the ring of pans, the crack of a broken nose-
Everybody froze and turned to look at Caranthir, who was staggering and holding his nose, looking more stunned, and then tentatively proud, than hurt. “My nose broke,” he said in the distinctly nasal tones of the broken-nosed, and Curufin, who had lost his pan somewhere in the melee, looked a little surprised.
“That’s not a good thing, you idiot,” he said, and then Maedhros was shoving his smaller siblings out of the way and pulling Caranthir’s hands away from his nose, now dripping copious gobbets of blood.
“Oh - damn,” he said, and everybody gasped, because Maedhros never swore. Caranthir perked up even more.
“Is it broken?”
“Stop talking,” Maedhros said peevishly. “Yes, it’s broken, what happened?”
“My pan came off,” Curufin said, having the grace to look embarrassed - but only a little. “And hit him in the face. It wasn’t my fault, he was whacking me at the time.”
“And I was winning,” Caranthir said proudly, and Curufin whacked him again.
“Were not.”
“Stop it,” said Maedhros, putting on his best big-brother frown. “It’s not all right and we have to go home and get your nose fixed, or it’ll look funny.”
“It’ll look like I broke it. I want everyone to know I broke it. And we’re not done fighting! Nobody’s won!” Bloody snot sprayed from Caranthir’s nose as he tried to stand up, and everyone winced.
“Our side forfeits,” said Maglor, quickly, though both Celegorm and Curufin glared at him. “You four win.”
“But that’s not-“
Maedhros gave up and picked up Caranthir, who was still little enough that he could manage. “No, that’s enough. Curufin, pick up the pots and things. We’d better go find mother.” Caranthir continued to attempt to struggle feebly.
“You’re all grown up, now,” Celegorm said, bounding after his big brother like an overgrown puppy. “I remember the first time I broke something, but I fell out of a tree. I’m not very good at climbing.” He frowned, slightly.
“You’re not very good at anything,” Curufin said, nudging Celegorm’s shoulder. “’Cept hunting.” Celegorm flushed.
“I am so-“
“Oh, stop it,” Maedhros said. “Curufin, didn’t you get the pots?”
“I have them,” Maglor said, sounding resigned. “They don’t look good, though.”
“We can stuff them in a back cabinet,” said one of the twins, and the other chimed in, “Where no one’ll find them.” There was a brief pause in which they all considered this, and it was unanimously, and silently, decided that this was a good idea.
After stuffing the pots and pans away in a clatter that should have woken the dead, they trooped back indoors in varying degrees of messy, sticky, or (in Caranthir’s case) bloody. Nerdanel started to her feet, looking alarmed, and then horrified.
“Eru, what happened?”
“Oh,” Maedhros started to say, but Caranthir cut him off, pulling the shirt down from his nose to show where it was bent.
“Curufin broke my nose!” He exclaimed with glee, and the other six of his brothers winced, knowing from the gathering stormcloud on their mother’s face that it was not destined to be an enjoyable afternoon.
Fandom: Silmarillion
For: dame_grise
Summary: The Feanorian children have some fun and games, until someone gets hurt. Of course, some someones are almost gleeful about this event. Fluuuuffy.
It was not stealing, Curufin assured them, if they were planning to put the things back. Maedhros got a tin pot, Maglor found a good sized bowl, Curufin resorted to a square pan, and the rest were left to fend for themselves (Celegorm gave up his right to the pan, saying that he wasn’t afraid to get hit in the head, it wasn’t like any of them could hurt him anyway.)
This was, of course, practically an invitation, and they weren’t even outside before the Twins and Caranthir started bombarding the back of his head with pebbles. Celegorm found this somewhat less amusing than they did.
The next challenge came when actually choosing the game.
“Valar versus Melkor,” suggested Maglor, but they shouted that one down.
“Nolofinwëans versus Fëanorians,” ventured one of the Twins, and Curufin snorted.
“Who’d want to be the Nolofinwëans?”
“And besides,” Caranthir added, “We know who would win.” Maedhros put the pot on his head, handle toward the back, and paced back and forth, thinking seriously. All six of his brother’s watched him, knowing that sooner or later he would think of something.
“I’ve got it,” he said, finally, with a grin. “Elves versus dwarves.”
This would have been a good idea, except that no one wanted to be the dwarves. Eventually they settled, with some contention, on redheads and Caranthir versus Maglor, Celegorm, and Curufin. It was fair because even though they were fewer they were still older.
Having found their weapons, largely sizeable sticks, they took up their posts at opposite ends of the battlefield and attacked. The air was filled almost at once with the cries and yells of what sounded like thirty-seven boys and the solid sounds of sticks hitting bodies.
The clang of pots, the ring of pans, the crack of a broken nose-
Everybody froze and turned to look at Caranthir, who was staggering and holding his nose, looking more stunned, and then tentatively proud, than hurt. “My nose broke,” he said in the distinctly nasal tones of the broken-nosed, and Curufin, who had lost his pan somewhere in the melee, looked a little surprised.
“That’s not a good thing, you idiot,” he said, and then Maedhros was shoving his smaller siblings out of the way and pulling Caranthir’s hands away from his nose, now dripping copious gobbets of blood.
“Oh - damn,” he said, and everybody gasped, because Maedhros never swore. Caranthir perked up even more.
“Is it broken?”
“Stop talking,” Maedhros said peevishly. “Yes, it’s broken, what happened?”
“My pan came off,” Curufin said, having the grace to look embarrassed - but only a little. “And hit him in the face. It wasn’t my fault, he was whacking me at the time.”
“And I was winning,” Caranthir said proudly, and Curufin whacked him again.
“Were not.”
“Stop it,” said Maedhros, putting on his best big-brother frown. “It’s not all right and we have to go home and get your nose fixed, or it’ll look funny.”
“It’ll look like I broke it. I want everyone to know I broke it. And we’re not done fighting! Nobody’s won!” Bloody snot sprayed from Caranthir’s nose as he tried to stand up, and everyone winced.
“Our side forfeits,” said Maglor, quickly, though both Celegorm and Curufin glared at him. “You four win.”
“But that’s not-“
Maedhros gave up and picked up Caranthir, who was still little enough that he could manage. “No, that’s enough. Curufin, pick up the pots and things. We’d better go find mother.” Caranthir continued to attempt to struggle feebly.
“You’re all grown up, now,” Celegorm said, bounding after his big brother like an overgrown puppy. “I remember the first time I broke something, but I fell out of a tree. I’m not very good at climbing.” He frowned, slightly.
“You’re not very good at anything,” Curufin said, nudging Celegorm’s shoulder. “’Cept hunting.” Celegorm flushed.
“I am so-“
“Oh, stop it,” Maedhros said. “Curufin, didn’t you get the pots?”
“I have them,” Maglor said, sounding resigned. “They don’t look good, though.”
“We can stuff them in a back cabinet,” said one of the twins, and the other chimed in, “Where no one’ll find them.” There was a brief pause in which they all considered this, and it was unanimously, and silently, decided that this was a good idea.
After stuffing the pots and pans away in a clatter that should have woken the dead, they trooped back indoors in varying degrees of messy, sticky, or (in Caranthir’s case) bloody. Nerdanel started to her feet, looking alarmed, and then horrified.
“Eru, what happened?”
“Oh,” Maedhros started to say, but Caranthir cut him off, pulling the shirt down from his nose to show where it was bent.
“Curufin broke my nose!” He exclaimed with glee, and the other six of his brothers winced, knowing from the gathering stormcloud on their mother’s face that it was not destined to be an enjoyable afternoon.