Black snow falls by Harnatano - Lithenna
Fanwork Notes
I've been challenged to write something which would be inspired by this song. (listen to it while reading if you can).
Warning: fire, scars.
The title is shamelessly taken from 4.48 Psychosis, Sarah Kane.
- Fanwork Information
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Summary:
Fëanor just died, his sons are silently gathered around the ashes of his body, and Curufin must face the reality of his father's death, and his legacy.
Major Characters: Curufin, Maedhros
Major Relationships:
Artwork Type: No artwork type listed
Genre: Drama
Challenges:
Rating: General
Warnings:
Chapters: 1 Word Count: 993 Posted on 17 March 2016 Updated on 17 March 2016 This fanwork is complete.
Chapter 1
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There are ashes.
Nothing remains but ashes – The remains of his fire, of his wisdom, of his glory; Ashes. The legacy of a power, of a strength, of a curse; Ashes. And a promise; the last words spoken before the flames devoured him, the last words spoken before the deep, never ending silence of a death which would bring no peace, nor to his fëa, nor to their minds.
Death is unnatural, they said. But there is no choice to make. There is no option. No decision. Death falls, takes, rapes and sentences. And behind his high walls, the judge sits and waits, condemning in the name of a holy law, of a holy hope, unspoken and unknown.
Death is unnatural. And yet so swiftly, he left. There was no peace in his eyes, no fear either.
Death is unnatural, but it seems so easy to be slain. And the greatest of the Eldar died. Hope maybe, was in his eyes, when the promise was made. It shall not be vain. Death, sacrifices, sufferings; they shall not be vain, for the oath has been spoken again, in dust and blood, through pain and flames, with the acrid taste of iron upon their tongues, they have sworn again. And with this last spark of hope, Fëanáro died.
Death is unnatural. But he died. He, who was the greastest. He who should have led them through the iron gates, to victory. He died.
There is no Valarin teaching to soothe the excruciating pain. No tear, no song, no light. Only ashes. And this promise.
Curufin looks down at his hands; burnt. But he can’t feel the pain. He can’t feel this pain, which seems to be nothing compared to the deep harrowing feeling that lingers in his wounded fëa.
He was holding his father.
He would have held his father until the last fragment had burnt. He would have held the burning flesh to the end. He would have immortalized the flames and captured the sparks. And burning with him would have been no more than fair justice - If justice still means something in this chaos. But Macalaurë and Tyelkormo are there, behind him, holding his shoulders. They had carried him away from the flames. And still now, they are keeping him away from the ashes.
None of them talk. Startled, they mourn in silence the power of their father. Of their king. The one whom they would have followed beyond the walls of Arda. In the name of trust and love, they would have faced Eru himself in his name.
Curufin was staring at his hands, at the marks on his skin, fresh and red and swollen, which seem to capture the ashes, and here they dance upon his scarred skin, swept away by the wind. No. No, he can’t let it happen. He can’t let the wind take away what remains of his father. Be it dust or ashes, it must be kept. It must be protected and honored and cherished.
With an unexpected impulse, he reaches forward, shrugging his brothers’ hands away, and crawling in the dust, Curufin tries to grasp the ashes, gathering them despite the winds and the pain, unaware of his own tears. Would he be blind he would continue, he would fight to keep what remains of Fëanáro.
He doesn’t pay attention to his brothers’ gasps, to the painful looks in their eyes as he struggles on the ground, injured hands covered with dirt. But the winds are getting stronger, and despite his efforts, the ashes fly away. Curufin growls, biting back the sobs and the pain, he tries to seize the ashes, though he grips nothing but air, the dust is slipping away from his hands, like the droplets of an heritage he cannot bring himself to accept.
Maitimo is the first to react.
“Curvo.”
His voice is firm, but Curufin can hear the tears that covers it.
“Curufinwë.”
Curufinwë.
It is his name. It was his name. And now he will have to carry it alone. Heavy it was, this name, this legacy, and yet Curufin couldn’t let it become a burden.
“Curufinwë, enough.”
No he won't stop. He can’t stop. And he will fight against the winds, be they from Manwë himself, to keep and hold the vestiges of his father’s fire.
But he can’t. They have slipt away, too far, too fast, and through his tears, upon his fingers, Curufin can see the last embers of glory. They are taking it away from him.
There is a cry, blocked in the back of his throat; Curufin refuses to let it go, but he knows he won’t be able to swallow it back any longer. It threatens to break through his lips, it threatens to blow, to explode with the intensity of his pain.
Two firm hands are pulling him away, again; pulling him away from the dust and his misery. Curufin can hear Maitimo’s voice in his ear, but the words he speaks are unclear; Curufin hears, but he cannot understand, as if his brother was speaking another tongue. The only word he can recognize is his name, his own name, his father’s name.
Curufin stuggles, shrugging, crawling away from his brother and staining his hands and armour with more dust, and at last, as he grasps the earth, as his fingers sink into the dirt, the long, aching cry leaves his throat, and it echoes around them at length. Maitimo has frozen. His other brothers, Curufin cannot see them. He knows they are here, mourning, but paralysed by his own distress. he cannot bring himself to look at them,
They all stay there a long moment, unable to talk, to move, to think. There is only the wind and the dust. The smell of the earth, the smell of a dead fire.
Curufin realises Macalaurë is singing, though he cannot tell when he has started. The song is sad, but not plaintive. There’s not only death in this song, there is life, hope and light, and a promise.
Ashes are dancing in the air, sticking to Curufin’s eyelids, to his lips and his wounds, and sitting on the ground, caring not for the dirt nor for his tears, Curufin breathes. Each breath is sharp, loud, aching in the sourness of his throat. But he breathes.
Maitimo’s hand is on his shoulder, a comforting touch, a vital presence, and in spite of himself, Curufin grips his brother’s wrist, if only to feel the life that runs in his brother’s veins.
Life.
They were still alive, and within them would survive the fire of Fëanáro, his strength and his hopes. His legacy. They would carry it, not as a burden, not as a curse nor a mere duty. They would proudly carry it as a honnor, great and as bright as the stars, and shall it be heavy, they would gather their strengths to carry it higher, to make it brighter.
On the ashes of their father’s glory, they shall stand with the pride of their blood and the light of their own inner fire, the power of their will burning brigther than the Silmarils. And beyond the Oath, beyond the spoken promises and the blood they share, they shall burn together, in life and death, through the victorious fights and the loneliness of their endless night, they will not fall, and together they will face the glorious chaos of their fates.
On the vestige of Fëanáro's greatness, Curufinwë finally finds the truth he has been seeking: No ash can ever be captured and kept, for what remains of his father is now dwelling within him, and within him he would find the courage to face the absurdity of death.
Bearers of Fëanáro’s legacy, it was now theirs to protect, to glorify and to enhance, through fire and agony, war and blood, but also through love, hope and light.
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