[Introduction] And cursed be thy name ! (From ashes to flesh)

[i_hate_valar]

He went down cursing the Dark Lord - the Enemy, and reminding his sons of their Sacred Duty, now sacred twice over.  He went, then, out to a place unnamed, and his spirit for a time remained in an unexplored and untold limbo.

When Feanaro Finwion finds himself suddenly in a forest, he is quite lost, though loath to admit it, even to himself.

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[time_willdecide]

Presumably sometime after encountering their no-longer-dead big brother the Twins did go out for a ride to blow off some steam. They're on their way back when they see a figure moving toward the Mansion that is all too familiar. There is an explanation of surprise in Quenya, a muttered curse in Sindarin, and two identical mounted Elves starting at him when as far as he knows there should only be one. It takes a moment for either of them to speak to him. "...Father?"

[i_hate_valar]

He wheels around instinctively, though, ready to pounce. But... it takes him a moment to register the voice - but Feanor Does Not Hallucinate, so clearly, this has to be an illusion from that inane Vala. After all, the past few -- years? Centuries? The afterlife was hard to quantify -- have been spent in unreliable surroundings.

"What ---" And really, the thought that his two youngest sons are there together really does jar him. Pityafinwe can't be dead. He --- just can't.

[time_willdecide]

And what do you say to the father you haven't seen in centuries who killed you/killed your twin brother? They really have no idea.

"...Hi."

[i_hate_valar]

-- and Feanor's legendary eloquence fails him just a little, and the obvious question tumbles out.

"What are you doing here?"

[mostcraftiest]

Curufin is still trying to reconcile two sets of conflicting (sort of) memories, though he's getting more stable - gathering that yes, he died there but also here, although he doesn't think about that former at all, because if he lives here than he might well live there, somehow, no matter what memories may be trying to tell him.

However, that's one memory he knows well. Kneeling beside his father's body and crying his first, last, and only tears as he watches death come for him. If he were holding anything, it would drop from his nerveless fingers. Standing just in front of the Mansion, Curufin's expression goes from astonished to awed in barely moments.

"--Ata?"

[i_hate_valar]

.... "Curufinwe." A pause, and he looks at his son again. "What are you doing here, boy?" His tone is gentler than to any other of his sons - but not by any means gentle. Likely, Curufin can recognize that nuance, though.

He's certainly more corporeal than last time Curufin saw him - as his body turned to ashes, disintegrating as Feanor's fiery spirit left Beleriand forever.

[mostcraftiest]

Curufin recognizes it, and ohEru, that name he hasn't used since that last time - he kneels, bows his head, even more respectful than the usual and he almost can't keep from shaking. An emotional response? From this one? Well, this is one of the few people who can get one, and he's -

The shock is inexpressible. "--I know not, father. I came here without intention and have been seeking for an answer to that question since." The dying bit can come later. This is not lying, just putting things off.

[i_hate_valar]

-- Weakness. Unbecoming and unacceptable, particularly from our favorite boyo. "Rise, son. Mandos' tricks are not something you may be blamed for." He sniffs at the air, scornfully. "Yet another treachery of the Valar, no doubt. Rise, son."

He'll even so much as lean and drag him to his feet by the tunic, if need be. Father is that nice. Well. To his pet, anyway. And his pet's kid.

[ofdoriath]

Sitting on the porch with his chin in his hands, Daeron isn't really doing much. He doesn't know what to do. Still doesn't know how he's going to proceed with his instrument broken. However.

However.

He watches the figure coming out of the woods without comprehension, for a while, and when he understands, or allows himself to realize, the color drains out of his face at once. "Oh," he says, a little faintly. "Shit."

[i_hate_valar]

We're going to assume that Feanor is bit more aware of his surroundings by the time he reaches the porch. He doesn't recognize Daeron, in fact - after all, to the High King of the Noldor, he was just another lowly entertainer.

"You, Sinda," he calls, cold and very business like.

[ofdoriath]

Daeron winces. Possibly visibly. Oh dammit dammit dammit. This does not make his day, in fact, this pretty much blows his day out of the water with the equivalent of an atomic bomb, and he can think in those terms.

"...ah. Yes?" Oh, damn. Manages to duck his head. "--my lord."

[i_hate_valar]

"Take me to the lord of this place at once." I have business to attend, and I'm not doing it with any lowly Sinda like you. Ffff, not even a warrior. Useless little elves.

[thenotsofair]

And another son, because sons are - they do that. And this one was in the woods too, and nearly froze when he heard something moving around off in the brush, but the sound isn't right for what he's afraid of. Tracking toward it cautiously all the same, eyes narrowed, and not at all aware of just who it is he's stalking, so to speak. Because after so long, he's come not to expect it. That's just how things work, isn't it.

[i_hate_valar]

And of course, Feanor will not hear his son immediately - Celegorm is quite the tracker, after all. It takes a bit longer than with any other, but after a while, a nagging feeling of being observed prompts him into action.

Feanor will deliberately pause and circle around in a wide arch, aiming to turn the tables on his (for now) unidentified surveyor.

[thenotsofair]

Celegorm is still listening, keenly, and he hears Feanor pause, but at this distance - keeping some, that is - he's mostly following just tracks rather than actual sound, though his hand remains on the long hunting knife at his belt, just in case.

And there's something nagging about - something. Celegorm pauses, too, and rubs his fingers against a bent leaf, frowning.

[i_hate_valar]

That's just enough for Feanor to recognize his son - and he'll sigh, loudly, shake his head and step out from behind the foliage.

"You've grown rusty, boy."

[valiantfinwe]

Well then.

Fingon plants his feet and turns to face his uncle head on, because he is not about to turn his back on this one. While his father may be forgiving and attempted to mend things, Fingon is not quite so understanding. Not quite. And he wishes, again, that his hair were long enough to braid.

His expression stony, Fingon brings his head up almost defiantly, simply watching Feanor's approach without comment. At least for now. We're sure his silence won't last long.

He's likely grown since his uncle saw him last, and certainly matured. Of course, some would argue, only a little.

[i_hate_valar]

Uncle Fëanáro doesn't care about your braid, little boy. It would mean nothing to him - nothing at all, really. As he nears the place where Fingon is lurking, he pauses, examining his welcome committee.

He could almost mistake him for his brother -- but not quite. After a pause, he wanders over, casually enough.

"Is that the way to greet the High King, my nephew?"

Typist finds the use of this particular icon quite ironic. >.>

[valiantfinwe]

Yes, but Fingon cares. His chin very nearly goes up further at that comment, back straightening, proud as ever. Not quite arrogant. But it may well be a near thing. "From present High King to past, yes, my uncle."

[i_hate_valar]

Feanor is too elegant to snort - but he would otherwise. He does sneer, though. "Certainly, my brother's brood would not sit on the throne. I made sure to have enough descendants for that."