50 Prompts: AU Silmarillion by Urloth

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Prompt: Correction (Curufin and family)

Warnings: transgenderphobic comments, sexism, spousal abuse implied.

Also Curufin being Curufin. 

Written with the best of my skills and ability, not offence or insult mean

Summary: There are seven princes in the House of Feanaro. There never was a princess.

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They all say she looks so much like her grandmother.

Just like Míriel; Jewel woman.

Mírinke her mother calls her; Little Jewel.

No, Curufinwendë wants to say, it is her father that she looks like. Her father looks like Grandmother Míriel, and Curufinwendë looks like her father and she…

She…

She?

The dresses never fit, even when tailored perfectly.

Hands meant to be focused on embroidery turn to metal work, enjoy the finicky details of setting a fine jewel, and most of all yearn for a soft female hand to hold; instead of being held by the strong grip of a male’s.

The shoes never quite seem right. Where are the sturdy work boots?

Where are the leggings?

The tunics?

Something is wrong here, thinks the person inside the body, trailing hands over the flesh shell.

Something is wrong here.

What is wrong?

What hasn’t been made correctly?

A skilled craftman's eyes are unable to find what that illusive flaw is.

“Every woman wants to marry,” they say. “Every woman wants to be a mother.”

There are men who come to the door, wanting a wife; wanting the sole princess of the Fëanárii by their side.

It’s only a matter of time before it happens. And then it does, passionlessly, and with a sense of despairing resignation that nothing will ever be right.

Despite the grandeur of the even, the marriage lasts barely five seasonal cycles before bags packed, Mírinkë returns to the house of Fëanáro, son’s hand in hers, the nightmare of a pregnancy left behind with the complaints from Curufinwendë’s husband that she does not act as a woman should; that she leads and is not docile enough; that she acts like a man.

Which is the catalyst as Mirinkë finds a cold pack for her face, cheek stinging and eye throbbing, to realising that it has never been a woman staring back beneath delicately plucked and groomed eyebrows.

Which is the catalyst to ordering the servants to pack every belonging, striking those that hesitate, and marching away without looking back.

Marriage wrecked and ruined behind…him, Curufinwendë sets about making things right.

The dresses find their way into charity shops.

Six brothers mean there are plentiful tunics lying around, and leggings galore.

Curufinwendë takes a deep breath and feels less uncomfortable once they’ve found the right clothing.

Better.

Not perfect.

Deft hands unpick the garland braid of an unmarried woman, and replace it with the twisted braids the Princes of the House of Finwë wear.

Better.

Not perfect.

“Ammë?” asks Tyelperinquar, watching his mother turn and twist before the mirror.

“No, Atar…. Please.”

Atar.

Father.

Atarinkë.

Little Father.

Because he looks like his father, not his grandmother.

It is slow going, and hard work, to bend his family to understanding this.

His mother will not look at him. His father retreats into his forge for days, hammering out his confusion on pieces of poor metal.

His brothers react differently. The twins try their hardest, because that is what will please him, Matimo is not sure what to say or do; unable to censure him because that would make Matimo more than a hypocrite. If Curufinwendë is unnatural, what is Matimo who lies with men and loves it?

Makalaurë more than makes up for Matimo's silence, right up until the day their mother goes into their father’s forge, argues with him and leaves, Makalaurë accompanying her.

Carnistir looks him up and down, and then asks snidely "why do you have breasts then?"

Curufinwend…. Curufinwë gives him a black eye as an answer.

Tyelkormo...

Tyelkormo rides away, into the woods where his Master lingers, and returns a week later, bedraggled, but calling him brother like it’s been that way all his life.

“Better. Not perfect.”

Curufinwë looks in the mirror, feels lighter and heavier at the same time, and then picks up the large roll of material and takes care of the two extraneous lumps of issue on his chest the best he can.

No pain, not gain.

He grits his teeth, eyes watering, pulls the cloth tighter every morning, and watches his chest slowly subside into its proper shape.

People come looking for the Princess of the House of Fëanáro, once the stigma of her swift separation fades away.

But there is no princess. There are seven princes living in the house of Fëanáro.

Society refuses to accept the truth; society calls him unnatural, a pervert, and a sick minded woman. A man he might have once known attempts to take his son away.

Tyelperinquar won’t go, the man is a stranger to him after so long away from the other house, and so Tyelpe clings to his atar’s hand with a defiant tilt to his little chin, and there might be pain in that man’s face but Curufinwë does not care.

Curufinwë has never cared. He should never have married the man, who wanted a pretty doll woman full of dainty, feminine mannerisms, and sweet girlish charm.

“You can’t just take my son away.”

“You let me take my son away and did not bother to visit until people began to ask why. You said you did not care for a child as ornery as the bitch who bred him,” Curufinwë tilts his chin and bares his teeth, “you don’t have a child. This is Tyelperinquar Curufinwion, the son of Curufinwë Fëanárion, Prince of the House of Finwë. I am his father.”

“You’d best leave,” Matimo says from the doorway, skin pale and face grim,“I believe my….I ….I believe Curufinwen -…Curufinwë has made his point quite clear.”

 A prince of the House of Fëanáro is above what society cares.

His father finally emerges from his forge one blustery day when Curufinwë is teaching his son how to write joined tengwar. He presents Curufinwë with a coronet like his brother’s wear, a smaller one for Tyeperinquar accompanying it, ruffles the twisted braids of a prince in two coal dark heads of hair, and then goes searching for food.

“Where is your mother?”

“She left.”

“Oh.”

Fëanáro stares at the pantry unseeing then sighs and shrugs.

"After four sons she was overjoyed to have a daughter. To find this is not so will be heavy upon her," there is no censure to his tone despite the words, "she will come around. What mother could reject her own son?"

And those are the last words his father speaks to him of his mother.

He never sees his mother again.

“Curufinwë is it then?” his father asks when his hunger is sated.

“And Atarinkë,” he replies with his throat full of his own heart.

“Just take care of those names,” is all his father, once also called Curufinwë, says, “and don’t let them get too heavy.”

“They could never be too heavy,” Curufinwë replies stiffly.

"Spoken like only my son could understand," his father chuckles, "stay strong Atarinkë, I know you will make me proud."

“Atarinkë,” Tyelkormo muses later, helping him pick leaves, and twigs out of Tyeperinquar’s hair after Curufinwë’s son went diving into the overgrown herb garden after Tyelkormo’s dog, “fits you better.”

“Don’t say things just to please me,” Curufinwë snaps.

“But is does,” Tyelkormo insists, hurt, “it suits you better. You smile when someone calls you it, and you’re happier. You never smiled when you were called Mírinkë.”

“Oh, I did not know that,” Curufinwë thinks; had he really detested the name that much? It seems disrespectful to his grandmother whom he has no issue with.

“I like it when you smile Curufinwë. I like it when you are happy brother. Please do it more often.”

Curufinwë scowls at him on purpose. Does Tyelkormo think he can just demand Curufinwë’s good mood?

“Ahhhh no Atarinkë don’t do that” Tyelkormo whines, while Tyelpe giggles, “you look just like father when I’ve done something wrong. Stop it!”

Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanárion smiles, as happy as it is possible to be in his circumstances.

“Better,” Tyelkormo says, “not perfect, but better.”