Anathema by Harnatano - Lithenna

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Memory Vaults

After this succession of disappointments, it's time for a decisive shift in Curufin's motivations.

[Quite a short and experimental chapter in terms of narrative pattern since it relies mostly on flashbacks. I hope it's not too confusing - partly based on this thing i posted a few days ago.] [Besides, this chapter can be read independently of the rest of the story]

There is no reason to worry. Everything is in order in Nargothrond; the borders seem safe, the people calm and confident, the Fëanorian troops have strengthened Finrod’s army with the feeling that they belong here. The Narog itself seems to mirror the peaceful atmosphere which now reigns in the kingdom, in which neither wolf nor orc has stepped during the past few months: an absence of meaningful event which, even though it frustrates Tyelkormo’s thirst for action, should leave everyone with a sweet if not joyful taste on their lips.

But in the depths of the caves, his gaze glued onto the piece of velum in front of him, Curufinwë seems immune to the latent peace carried by the late autumn gale. His mind cannot rest, and throttled by his agitated thoughts, he finds himself unable to relax, deprived of sleep and uncapable to work. For, although the engine of his mind – never halting, always labouring - keeps on feeding his heart with troubles nurtured by doubts and an excess of intrusive reflexions, he can’t grasp it. The very core of his worries, the source of this anxiety – if he could just unveil the tormenting cause of his unrest…

But not on this night. On this night he has to work, to try. Again. Trembling fingers on a dripping quill, he knows there is nothing to fear. No worry. Tyelperinquar is still working in the smithies. Tyelkormo is probably drinking his share of liquor somewhere in the caves, Huan at his side. The news from Himring are good.  His brothers are safe. What should Curufinwë fear?

The quill falls back in the inkpot, and the Ñoldo falls back into his chair, arms crossed and grey eyes staring at an invisible spot on the wall. Only his jaw moves, agitated by the tension in his nerves, by the never-ending cycle of doubts in his mind. He can hear a few laughter in the adjacent rooms, but he pays no heed to the noise. All he feels is this mysterious force that seems to hinder him, freezing his thoughts, and like a rat in a cage, he can but follow his own tail. And threading the yarns of his own tale. His fingers find the quill again, and soon the silence of the room is replaced with the scratching sound of ink on velum. He allows his mind to wander back in history, and forgets his hand for moment, eyes half-closed and his heart following a path which he has always been afraid to tread. Retrieving his own footsteps, ignored for too long for all they could unleash.

On the parchment a drawing, a few uncertain lines, a draft too much like those he made as a child, huddled in his father’s workshop, too impressed to talk and too fascinated to not absorb all that he could see. Curufinwë smiles, and he no longer resists the urge to close his eyes… Hoping for an oblivious slumber.   

--

Tirion. How old can he be? Young. Very young. But his diction is perfect, and his eyes already inquisitive. He sits at the dinner table, in front of his brothers. On his right, his mother, but his eyes stare intently at his father, sitting on his left. Fëanáro seems joyful. He smiles and laughs enthusiastically at something… Kano just made one of his usual puns. Curvo laughs too, although he is not sure he has understood. Now, Nelyo says something, but Curvo doesn’t care. He stares at his father. Fëanáro picks up a piece of bread, brings it to his mouth and eats it. So does Curvo, who struggles to swallow it (too focused on his father, the child has not noticed it was much too big for his young teeth). Fëanáro grabs his cup and takes a sip of his drink. So does Curvo, who finds himself released from the barely bitten piece of bread which was blocked in his throat. It seems nobody has noticed. Good. Curvo’s observation of his father continues.

 “Nerdanel dear, can you give me some more wine, please?” asks Fëanáro with a smile.

Curvo watches his father’s cup being refilled and turns to his mother. “Nerdanel dear, can you give me some,more wine please?” He asks, adopting his father’s tone - although the voice is that of a child - his smile reflecting his father’s smile, his own small cup clasped in his tiny hand with a confidence which leaves everyone speechless. Silence in the room. Tyelkormo bites back a laugh. Kano and Moryo look at each other, barely trying to hide their growing smirk. Fëanáro’s gaze falls on his younger son, half-amused, half-confused, but he says nothing. Nerdanel glances confusingly at her oldest son - as if he had anything to do with it - and frowns, but she cannot totally hide her amusement.  The child doesn’t lose his ground, and with an admirable determination, he holds his cup higher.

“My dear son,” Nerdanel begins, trying her best to not giggle and to give her voice a reproachful pitch, “I believe you are a bit too young for the wine, but you can have grape juice instead. Besides, need I remind you that I am your mother and expect you to call me accordingly?”

After a quick look toward his father who struggles to keep an impassive face, Curvo gives a nod. Nelyo snorts and Fëanáro is uselessly hiding his amusement by burying his face into his cup. Curvo, who has taken up his observation, buries his face in his cup as well, caring not for the squash tickling his nostrils, and when Fëanáro puts his glass back on the table, Curvo’s own cup joins it at the very same time. Fëanáro freezes and observes his son from the corner on his eyes. So does Curvo. Fëanáro, who pretends to not see (he is now exchanging a cunning look with his older sons) runs an absent-minded hand through his hair. So does Curvo.

“You know I can see you, Curvo.” Says Fëanáro, with a tone that is supposed to be disapproving.

“You know can see you too, father.”

 --

Curufinwë smiles as the memory unfolds. Its sweetness takes hold of his heart and he prays for the vision to go on. He doesn’t want it to fade, he craves the delicate taste of the past, the light of Tirion on his father’s face, his brother’s remorseless smiles, the delicate scent of his mother and the touch of her fingers in his hair. He doesn’t only want to keep these memories, he also wants them to keep him.

 --

“Nerdanel,” Fëanáro kisses his wife’s cheek and gently entwines his fingers with hers. ‘”I think we have a small problem.”

Stepping next to his mother, Curvo takes hold of Nerdanel’s free hand, but he cannot reach her cheek, and instead, drops a clumsy kiss on her finger. “I think we have a small problem.” He repeats, looking up at her.

“Not a small one…” Nerdanel laughs as she picks up her son. “A tiny one.”

Curvo cannot conceal his childish consternation, and he glances at his father, waiting for him to react – but Fëanáro has anticipated it, and decided to not to do anything. He stares back at his son, inexpressive, quiet and still. So, does Curvo. The staring contest lasts a minute or two, until Nerdanel stops it by placing her son in her husband’s arms.

“As long as he does not call me 'Nerdanel' again, it is your tiny problem, Fëanáro. Just make sure he does not offend anyone by trying to impersonate you.”

“Why would he offend anyone?”

“Why would he offend anyone?”

Nerdanel’s smile widens. “And since he is so good at repeating everything you say, avoid any sort of obscenities.”

“He has four older brothers, it would be vain to keep him from learning obscenities. Besides, he needs to enrich his vocabulary.”

Oh. That’s a lot of words to repeat. The child frowns as he focuses but he does not give up,  and shows no sign of disarray. “He has four brothers and… he is learning obs---curity…  to keep his vocabulary rich.”

“After all, I could turn this new fancy of his into the most efficient lexical teaching.”

“After all, I could turn this new fancy of his into the most efficient lexical teaching.” The child repeats, proudly remembering the entire sentence, even though he isn’t sure what ‘lexical’ means.

Nerdanel shakes her head, but her smile seems glued to her lips. “So I believe it is not a problem anymore?”

But Fëanáro is already heading towards the door, and the child in his arms has never felt so happy before.

 --

If only he could drown into this memory and linger in its currents, as the warm waves of forgotten joy drench his fëa and purify his heart. So he clings to the images that pass too swiftly in his mind, and tries, uselessly, to capture them. Instead of a quill, he holds now a piece of chalk and scrambles like a madman on the parchment in front of him: a sketch of his father’s face, a few lines supposed to convey a vision of his father’s workshop in Tirion – and his name, again and again.

--

It is late, the court is almost empty, and Fëanáro is bowing in front of king Finwë. Behind him, the young Ñoldo mimics his father and gives a long respectful bow which doesn’t fail at impressing Finwë. The child is even more impressed, as he has always been, by his grandfather. The king. But he doesn’t want to show it.

“Well, is my young grandson already planning to become the most diligent courtier of Tirion?” Asks Finwë with a smile that betrays his amused affection.

“Your grandson has decided to do everything I do…”, Fëanáro explains.

“Your grandson has decided to do everything…”

“…And to repeat everything I say.”

“…And to repeat everything I say.”

“Therefore, I daresay he will never disappoint you in terms of affection and devotion.”

“Therefore I daresay he shall never disappoint you terms of affection and devotion.”

Eyes wide open and surprise burning in the grey depths of iris, Finwë observes the strange pair in front of him. Strange but not as grotesque as it could seem. In fact, it makes sense, the child appearing as a fragmented part of Fëanáro, not a seedling but a very portion of him. A midget one. The boy wears his hair just like his father, the same expression floats on his face, the same flame in his eyes and the same determination in his chin. The king is speechless for a moment, until a loud laughter falls from his lips and echoes in the court.

“So what do we have here?” Finwë asks, kneeling down in front of his grandson to better look at the youthful face. “A midget prince? A pocket Curufinwë?”.

With his grandfather’s gentle fingers wrapped delicately around his chin, and his benevolent eyes on his face, Curvo doesn’t dare to move. Puzzled and no less impressed, he casts an eye toward his father whose features display pride and amusement. ‘Pocket Curufinwë’ is a naming which doesn’t remain unnoticed.

 --

“Pocket Curufinwë”.

The words draw a smile from his lips, but the chalk has already stopped its labour. The piece of parchment is ruined, words scribbled upon words, names upon names, portraits merging with tengwar, ink and specks of chalk mixed together to form thick, sooty spots on what used to be an immaculate promise. As in a trance, Curufinwë has paid no attention to his hands’ movements, and as he looks at them now, he finally notices the stains, like traces of his own mistakes. Ungrateful, unworthy heir – his devotion to his father should have opened the way, it should have brightened up the path that his determined footsteps have been treading. Instead, it closed the doors to enlightenment and left him confused, shameful and utterly lost under the vaults of his fate, which is yet obscured by his own fears. He closes his eyes and remembers his grandfather’s laughing voice.

 “Be careful Fëanáro, soon, he will be able to anticipate each of your word and action.”

Finwë was right. For long, Curufinwë had been able to see, feel, sense, understand and almost foretell his father’s thoughts, reactions, decisions. But It seems to him that the connection between father and son died with the father, and Curufinwë has been left powerless, yet blinded by his determination to cling to his father’s image. An image which he cannot grasp. What would Fëanáro do? What would he think of him?

He buries his head between his arms – unwilling to look reality in the face.

--

 The young child is focused on the position of his fingers on the quill, right beside his father’s desk. Fëanáro has allowed him to have his own small desk in his study. And as the father works, so does Curvo, who tirelessly tries to improve his handwriting. It is still clumsy, he can see it – it looks terrible, and has nothing in common with his father’s handwriting – but what he doesn’t see is how proud it makes Fëanáro. The latter’s eyes have left his own work, and he silently observes his son, touched by the child’s devotion and impressed by his quiet determination. But there is something wrong, isn't it? Eventually, Fëanáro calls his son and after a moment of perplexity during which the child doesn’t know what to do with his quill, his father takes him on his lap.

“Your handwriting is improving, my child. This is very good”

Curvo is about to repeat his father’s words when Fëanáro, with a smile, put a finger on his lips. “Let me speak. There is something important I need to tell you.”  The young Ñoldo nods respectfully, his two grey eyes wide open with the anticipation of an eager pupil. “Curvo, I want to make deal with you. Do you know what it means?”

The child frowns, pinches his lips, engaged in a solid reflexion. “Like a bargain?”

“Well, yes almost. What we call a deal is when someone promises to do something for someone else and receives a promise in return. Does it sound right?

“Yes father! We should do this!”

The child’s enthusiasm happens to be contagious, and Fëanáro chuckles as his son claps his hands. But he is soon serious again and gently takes his son’s agitated hand between his fingers. “First and foremost, Curvo, you must wait for the conditions and be sure you agree, alright? So here is what I offer:  I promise you to teach you everything I know about anything you want to know.”

The child’s eyes widen, and he is speechless for a moment. “Really…? About the beautiful rocks?”

“Yes, my son, if this is what you want.”

“..And I will know how to make shiny jewels?”

“If you want to become a jewel-smith, you shall become a jewel-smith.”

“And the complicated words? Will you tell me about all the complicated words?

“About the complicated words, their origins and evolution.”

“Even the words we don’t use anymore?”

“All the words.”

“All the words?”

Fëanaro nods solemnly, but not without uttering another chuckle.

“And I’ll be just like you, father?” There were sparkles in Curvo’s eyes, and the father could only wish for his son to never lose this enthusiasm.

“This is when your own promise comes into the deal.” The child stares at him, greedy eyes begging for more. “In exchange, you must promise me that you will always try to follow your own desires, to listen to your heart and to be yourself. Can you do that, my child?”

Curvo ponders the offer: his face betrays his confusion, but the way he rubs his chin with his fingers can only amuse his father. “I do not know who is myself , father.” He eventually says, suddenly bashful.

“Do not worry about that, Curvo. You have all the time you need to discover it ; you will eventually know yourself and your own heart. If I did, you can surely do it as well, don’t you think?"

“I guess... I can try, father.”

“Do we have a deal?”

The child gives a determined nod. “I promise father. I promise I will find myself.”

--

When Curufinwë raises his head, he is gasping, struggling for air. So he failed in that too…

With a few clumsy movements, he leaves his chair and stumbles toward a basin. The fresh water on his face doesn’t relieve the tension. His own heartbeats echo in his head, in his stomach, in his limbs. He tries to calm his nerves, but his airways are still blocked by a shameful and rotten feeling which he cannot decipher.

He failed. Yes. But it is not too late, is it? His mind sharpens - or so he thinks – as he furtively meets his own reflect in the mirror hanging on the wall. He must ignore it. Avoid it.

Must he become someone else? Must he step away from the path which he has been treading for so many years? Must he stop clinging to the mirror image which has always led his footsteps?

He can

He must

Be someone

Different.

He didn’t live up to his father’s memory. He could neither anticipate, nor foretell. He could not even guess what his father would have done…. He failed. But now. Now he remembers. He was wrong all the way. Now it is time to be someone else. Himself, whoever that is.

He must act according to his own desires….which are yet to be defined.

To protect his son.

To retrieve the Silmarili.

To muster the required strength to fight the Enemy. Oh but not now not yet.

First, he must care after his people, here, in Nargothrond. To keep Nargothrond safe.

Nargothrond. As his new stronghold. And to protect it, he needs influence. he needs… power.

“If I can be you father, I shall be who you expected me to be…My own master.”

A king.

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