Anathema by Harnatano - Lithenna

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The Shadows of ancient hopes

Daddy issues and politics don't go well together.

TW : Self-harm

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Light.

How could there be so much light? A cave is not supposed to be so bright. Where were the shadows, those very shadows in which light is made brighter?

“You look awful, brother.”

Curufinwë replied with a ironic smile and snatched a cup from Turcafinwë’s hands.

“If this wine does not cheer you up, Curvo, nothing will.”

“Nothing, indeed.”

After a quick sip, Curufinwë strode in the hall, heading with a dignified air towards the chairs beside the dais. All around him, people were moving and talking, engrossed in their petty discussions. A loud laugh on his right, the sound of a lute behind him, two Noldor smiling to him on his left, and above him, one heavy pression, like that of an invisible cloud hanging over his head and threatening to break into a violent storm.
He didn’t smile back.
They should have bowed, not smile. He was a prince after all. A landless prince. But still a prince.

Once under the dais, his gaze lingered on the throne for a moment. Empty. Where was Findaráto?
A sigh, and he sat down on the closest chair. This one at least, was worthy of a prince. Not a king. He sniggered.

“What’s so funny?”

Tyelkormo, again, who, apparently had emptied a few more cups in a couple of minutes. Curufinwë shook his head. “Are you following me?”

“I’d rather keep an eye on your gloom”, said Tyelkormo, pouring more wine into his brother’s cup, more or less neatly. “Thought you’d join the party and use this opportunity to talk and…. how did you call that again? Ah, yes, 'speak in our favour'.”

“This is not a political campaign, Turco.”

“No?”

“No.”

“My bad”, shrugged Turcafinwë as he took another sip. “Should it not become one?”

Curufinwë didn’t answer, but his severe gaze never left his brother’s face. Impressive how he could talk about all this with such detachment, how he dealt with this situation in such a casual way. And his capacity to absorb so much fermented beverage without losing any of his grace… He wouldn’t even make a fool of himself.

“Come on, Curvo, why would you not relax a little and enjoy the evening?”

“What for?” he replied. “I do not understand why they would celebrate. What message the king tries to convey through such a decadent display of festivities."

“‘Tis not about celebration, but about allegiance, influence…”, Turcafinwë suggested, grabbing a chair, and pulling it closer to his brothers. Its feet rattled on the stone floor with a screeching sound, and all the Quendi around turned, to Curufinwë’s greatest displeasure. Ignoring them, Tyelkormo slouched down with the most delicate grace. “You are no stranger to politics, brother.”

A slight wince distorted Curufinwë’s face. “Sometimes I wish I were”.

The laughter which then fell from Turcafinwë’s lips was so loud that a few other Eldar standing nearby looked at him, startled.

“What sort of confession is that?” he asked. “Brother, are you already drunk or did you paddle in your stock of sulfuric powder again?”

Curufinwë gave him a look that could be described as lethal, if a look could kill, but Turcafinwë simply lowered his voice, unimpressed.

“You will not make me believe such folly”, he continued. “Not this time, Curvo”.

He sat up suddenly. “What do you mean by that?”

“You always act like this”, explained Turcafinwë who was now gesturing emphatically. “You pretend to not want something, to regret another or to despise a third one, only to make everyone – including yourself – believe that you are above those petty matters.”

“Lies.”

“Alright, perhaps not today”, added Turco. “Today you only want to make yourself more miserable than you are. Point taken.”

That was unfair. Unfair and disloyal. Turcafinwë might know him better than anyone else, but he could not speak as if he knew everything about him, specially not about the things that were still hidden to himself. Besides, he did not pretend.

“But you know what, Curvo?” asked his brother as he stood up to give a gentle slap on Curufinwë’s shoulder. “I am tired of this nonsense. Be miserable if you like, I care not. And if you cannot bring yourself to enjoy this feast, I’d strongly advise to go back to your work, your make-believes and your citadel of sulk. We shall talk when your mind will be clearer.”

On that, Tyelkormo strode away, probably looking for another bottle to open. And Curufinwë was alone again. Alone amidst the crowd of seemingly happy Quendi, flirting with the glimmering twinkles of the lamps. In the luminous aura of the room, one couldn’t distinguish between them, the Calaquendi and the Moriquendi, although Curufinwë could usually tell them apart, by the reflection in their gaze, the iridescent glint of their iris. But not here, not tonight. They were alike, sharing the same meal, the same wine and the same music. The same doom. Or maybe not. Maybe it was only what he wanted to believe. One dim hope: his fate would not be worse than theirs.

Was Tyelkormo right? Was he living on simulacres, feeding on his own illusions to better fortify this citadel of… pride?
He shook his head. The light was not so bad after all. Perhaps that was what he actually needed. He stared at the small diamond glimmering on one of his rings.
Diffracted light.

“I did not know you were still wearing that one”, said a voice.

Tyelperinquar was standing right next to him, staring, like his father, at the jewel on his finger. “It is so old. I believed you would have gotten bored of it.”

“It is not that old”, muttered Curufinwë who stood up with no hurry.

“Not that old? Father, I was only a child when you crafted it! it was probably the first time I watched you work. I remember perfectly.”

“And do you deem yourself old, son?”

A pause. Tyelperinquar frowned but Curufinwë smiled softly. It was not the most sophisticated jewel, but he liked its simplicity. There was an appeasing grace in the curves of its subtle interlaces. With one determined hand he took off the ring and gently grabbed his son’s fingers. Without a word, Curufinwë put the jewel right in the middle of Tyelperinquar’s palm before wrapping his callous fingers around the strong fist.

“I am glad you remember it”, Curufinwë whispered, caring not if Tyelperinquar could hear him over the music and the chattering.

His son stared, then frowned again, and a smile finally shone on his face. His fist moved up to rest against as he bowed his head.

“Thank you, father.”

Light on his face. Fire dancing in his heart. They were both silent for a moment, both of them staring at the crowd, but Curufinwë eventually murmured in a long breath:

"What shall we leave behind? What place for us in the tales if we do not take up our own quills and write our own story?”

“Are we not too much involved in those stories to writhe them ourselves, father?”

“Time, that is all we need… Time, and patience will be give you the eyes fit to look back and see what is hidden right now.”

Tyelperinquar frown deeply, and then shook his head in what seemed to be a frantic impulse. “Have we not been patient enough, father?”

Curufinwë reached out as to lay a hand on his son’s shoulder but he withdrawn it before his fingers could even touch him. “You still have many things to learn before – before you can apprehend the past.”

“Because you can apprehend the past properly?”, asked Tyelperinquar, and there was a sudden shift in his eyes: colder, just like his voice which now sounded like the blow of hammer. “Do you have learned how to seize and face the past?”

No answer came, and so he continued:

“Do not lecture me in that, father. For if you can indeed teach me a lot of things, it is not from you that I will learn how to face the past… You can barely face the present moment."

The taste of bile filled Curufinwë’s mouth and soon after he was biting his tongue, and the metallic flavour of his own blood came to replace the bitter taste. Tyelperinquar seemed to be expecting something from him, an answer perhaps, a reaction. His father gave him none, and the young Ñoldo turned around, shaking his head as he walked towards the heavy doors, his fingers tensed around the ring his father had given him.

Later that night, Curufinwë would blame himself for this; he shouldn’t let his son talk to him like that. He would have never talked with so much disrespect to his own father. Tyelperinquar did not talk with so much disrespect to him before. Why the change? Why did things change? Was he changing? turning into someone, something else? an impostor in his own skin, a hröa not yet corrupted but rotting slowly with the juice of its own decay.

But was not Tyelperinquar right, after all? What did he know about the past? What could he teach, now that all that remained seemed to be no more than the shadows of ancient hopes, the shadow of himself.

He felt a timid poke on his forearm and lifted up his eyes to see a Ñoldo beautifully dressed. One of the king’s closest valet whom Curufinwë would often see near his cousin, but who was always silent in his presence.

“The king wants to see you, my lord”, she said with a bow.

“The king?” he replied, and realised as he spoke that he had been holding his breath since Tyelperinquar had left. He coughed. “Where is he?”

“Waiting for you. Please, come and follow, for he will grant no delay.”

With that, she walked to a door on the opposite side of the room, in which the throne remained desperately empty, towering above the eldarin celebration like a fountain of hopes, and threats. Without any further ado, Curufinwë followed her.

---

The only light in the little room, which resembled more a personal study than the private chamber of a king, came from that one single candle on the desk. Sitting at it was the king, or, as far as Curufinwë could see, someone whose back looked like the king’s, his head bending over what could be a piece of parchment.

The valet closed the door behind the Fëanorian, living the two cousins alone in a silence only broken by the sound of a quill on vellum.

Curufinwë waited, but the king ignored him. The screeching sound was growing faster, as if the hand that held it had started to frenziedly move over the manuscript.

He gave a quiet cough, and suddenly, Felagund was on his feet in front to him, eyes gleaming and his hands moving quickly as he talked.

“Cousin, you came, at last!”

“As you asked, indeed. I was told there were… urgent matters at stake?”

“Absolutely! I am so relieved by your presence, dear cousin! I do need your help with this.

“My help?” Curufinwë asked, tilting his head as he crossed his arms on his chest.

At least, this issue, whatever it was, explained why the king had not joined the feast. But nothing explained why he had asserted that only he, Curufinwë, would be able to help.

“Please, cousin, let me show you!” said the king with the same enthusiasm, and he stepped aside to reveal the desk, the untidiness of which made Curufinwë cringe a little : vellum sheets here and there, broken quills and stains of ink were covering it, and the candle, almost completely eaten by its own flame, had spilled its wax all over the wooden table. After a confused look in the direction of the king, he carefully picked up one of the sheets and deciphered it carefully.

“You see, Curufinwë, I have been thinking a lot since Fingolfin’s death. Thinking about him, about Finwë… about my father and brothers.”

Curufinwë’s eyes left the vellum and found the king’s face, but he was quiet, waiting for a word that would explain the offensive scribbles.

“I miss them all,” Felagund admitted in a voice which was suddenly slow, and deep. “I miss them painfully. I know you understand… and I realised I need to pay tribute to our uncle and to my father’s house.”

“By spitting on my father’s name?”

There was an awkward silence which was growing in intensity with every second, until the king snatched the parchment from Curufinwë’s fingers. “Let me explain, cousin.”

“Be quick. And stop calling me this. Use my name.”

“Alright, Atarincë.”

His whole body titled, fists clenched at his side, but he didn't answer back.

“As you know, our uncle chose to adapt his name to the tongues of this land, after he had officialised the prefixion of his name with that of our grandfather…Finwë Ñolofinwë”

Oh, no, Curufinwë had not forgotten. Nor had he forgotten the anger and pain in his father’s face when he had heard about it. They had just fallen under that odious curse, and the first sprout of treachery had already been growing among them; Ñolofinwë had been complacently watering it with his provocations.

“An insult,” he simply said.

“A foresight”, corrected the king, paying no attention to his cousin’s growing anger as he started to tidy up his desk. “Anyway, although this prefixion was perfectly appropriate, he is now gone, and the elder Finwëon still alive is my father. I am saddened to see that among the Sindar who live on my lands, only a few of them know about him…”

“And you believe that adapting his name to their tongue will increase his fame in Beleriand?”

“I believe he deserves to be acknowledged by all the Eldar, as the high king of the Noldor in Valinor…”

“Which will ultimately increase your own power in Beleriand”, Curufinwë concluded sharply, his eyes observing the king every movements.

The king smiled. “My word! You are obsessed with power! Be careful, Atarincë! It might—”

“Keep your advice for yourself, Ingoldo!”

They both froze, holding their breath. The very picture of challenge and defiance. And all the while, Curufinwë could feel that heavy ball of acid, his old companion, burn in his stomach. He had to get out of this room.

“I asked you to come here tonight for your advice in the construction of my father’s name in Sindarin. And I must say I was pretty excited about it. A pity you do not share my enthusiasm.”

“I – wait… Do you really believe that I would approve of that prefixion, the same prefixion that tore my father’s heart apart many years ago?!” he shouted, pointing at the papers in his cousin’s hand.” “‘Finwë Arafinwë’? Are you trying to mock me?”

“How do you think it would be best rendered in Sindarin?” answered the king calmly, the reversed reflect of his cousin. “Fiiiin…? Finarfin, right? I think he would like it. What say you, Atarincë?

He was suffocating. His skin was itching. His guts were flaming. “I say you are stupid. Or mad. Or both. What made you believe that I would approve of any of this?”

For a second, the king looked confused, sincerely confused, and Curufinwë scoffed.

“Well, I thought you would have had grown in wisdom since the beginning of the exile”, explained Felagund. “I hoped that – no, I actually believed you would have come to understand how sound and appropriate these names –“

“Sound and appropriate? No. No, you will not entrap me with your so-called wisdom.”

“I wish not to entrap you, Atarincë. But we are allies and we need to – “

“I am Curufinwë!”

His heartfelt cry was followed by another silence, during which all the tensions seemed to bounce on them, leaving the two Noldor exhausted and out of breath.

Felagund blinked. “Are you ?”

A dark veil seemed to fall on Curufinwë’s face, but it didn’t last, and soon after he was storming out of the room, as the king smiled, his eyes on the scribbled names:

King Finrod Felagund, son of Finarfin, High-King of the Noldor.

---

Later that same night, once the feast over and the jolly warmth of wine evaporated, Turcafinwë was drumming with his fingernails on his knee.

“But he was mocking you, was he not?” he asked. “He could only be jesting… Or else, it would be a declaration of war.”

“Not of war, Turco,” answered his little brother. “He still needs us here.”

“Us?” A loud laugh fell off from Turcafinwë’s lips, thick and harsh. “You mean our warriors… And the few of his people who would gladly join our side.”

“We said there would be no side,” Curufinwë commented thoughtfully as he stared absently at the newly made astrolabe, which he found too heavy to call it well-executed. Brass could be made lighter.

“Do you know what I think this is all about, Curvo? I think he fears our power. He is terrified by our leadership skills. Hence his ridiculous attempt to gain a bit more influence with this new name for his father.”

“Ridiculous, huh? I am not so sure”, Curvo sighed.

He put the instrument back into its case. The stars could wait, but could he?

“He wanted to impress you, Curvo. That is why he so kindly ‘asked for your advice’. It was a threat in disguise, nothing else.” He paused and stared at his brother still working on the case’s lock. “Please, do not tell me it worked.”

If Turcafinwë had deserved to know what had happened in the king’s study, Curufinwë had yet found unnecessary to tell his brother about his final outburst. Insignificant.

“Of course, it did not.”

“Glad to hear it”, said Turcafinwë. “And he will not impress them, our people shall not be deceived by his mask of humility.”

Curufinwë’s mind quickly explored the vault of his memories, and he remembered Tyelperinquar… the way he would praise the king, always so eager to pay his respect…

“Oh, I hate him!” stammered Tyelkormo, and he stood up abruptly, as if driven by an impulse that would have been restrained for too long.

“I admire him”, muttered Curufinwë.

“That is not funny, brother.”

“It was a smart move. He is smart; we must acknowledge that.”

After an embarrassing moment of confusion, Turcafinwë began to chuckle scornfully, but he was stopped by his brother’s severe gaze.

“Go to bed, Curvo.”

---

He didn’t go to bed.

Long was the way, or so it seemed to him, from the throne room to the smithies, and dark were the corridors, narrower and narrower, that slithered through the earth, underneath the green lands of West Beleriand. Darker and darker too. Until nothing was left but the profound emptiness of his beating heart. Beating yes, but for how long? Someday it would be torn apart, or pierced, or it would explode under the pressure of his scorching delusions. And who would save him then? Not his brothers. Not his son.
If only his father…

What colour was the sky tonight? And the stars, did they still shine with the same peace? Did they still look on them with benevolence?
There was no sky here. No sky left at all.

“Anyë tirë, Menel!”

Embers, ashes. Dust and smoke.

The dark stream of his wishes flows backwards, swallowed by his aching heart. Follow the stream which runs deeper and deeper, follow the arteries of the earth, the arteries of his soul. There is nothing to see. Soon there will be nothing to feel.
But if he cannot be taken by the everlasting darkness, where shall he go?

Flashes of light. A bell in the wind. Spindrift on his face. He tastes the foam of the reddened waves, salt and iron. Seawater and blood.
Still no sky.

There is a moment of truth hidden in every eye, and in the face of the blessed ones shines the apathy of the world it is there always and forever but he cannot grasp it with his slippery hands fingers glistening with blood and only then he understands why the ashes only would stick to them, and his father walks to him, faceless but he knows this is Fëanáro only Fëanáro and he is voiceless too but he reaches out for his hands, red and grey like the sea, he reaches out but he is already slipping away far from him and from the world and perhaps he should cry out for him perhaps he could run and catch him or perhaps he could…

He does not.

Motionless and senseless too, he watches the silence and smells the shadow that grows over him. Huge and terrifying, a tower of dreams and hopes and wishes. An illusion as comforting as illusions can be, and as dangerous as the sweet perfume of love.
But the shadow is already swallowing him too, and he knows how painful the fall will be, but he cannot hide he cannot run he cannot fight it because the shadow has a voice and the voice is that of his son and he would not he cannot he refuses to end it.

“Tyelperinquar!”

Curufinwë woke up with a start, both hands trembling as they left the table in front of him to wipe off the sweat on his brow. He had fallen asleep in his workshop, something that never happened before.

“Good morning, Curufin.”

He jumped on his chair once more, and turned around. The king was standing in the doorway, a gentle smile on his face, but a glitter of unquietness was in his eyes. “I daresay you did not sleep well…”

“What are you doing here, what do you want?” Curufinwë mumbled as he got up, dusting his tunic and his hair.”

“After you left last night, I began to worry about you… rightly from what I just saw.”

A confused frown distorted his forehead. “What you saw…?”

“It seemed like an odious nightmare that you had. I was about to wake you up, when you...”

With a sudden brutality, Curufinwë walked toward his cousin, pointing his finger at his face. “I forbid you to sneak around me when I am asleep!”

The king didn’t move, but he lost his benevolent smile.

“You may be the king here, Felagund”, continued Curufinwë, “but that gives you no right to spy on us and to creep into my mind.”

The king looked deeply into his cousin’s eyes, and when he finally answered, he gently pushed away Curufinwë’s pointing and threatening finger.

“I did not look into dreams. I only saw you struggle alone at your table, fighting against enemies I could not see. I told you, I was worried.”

Curufinwë gave a spiteful laugh, but the king didn’t lose his bearings.

“When will you stop believing that I am your enemy, Curufin?” he asked softly. “We are on the same side. I am on your side, and if I can help you, I shall.”

Both hands now leaning on the workshop table, Curufinwë was staring thoughtfully at the stools, refusing to give the king any chance to see his eyes. He was shaking his head slowly, catching his breath silently after this succession of shocks. His mind wasn’t quite clear yet, and the blurred images of his dreams were still hanging behind his eyes, haunting the vault of his reason.

“But you need to let me help you, Curufin.”

“No.”

Felagund sighed. “You still refuse to understand.”

“Spare me your hypocritical speeches and your pity, will you?” he spat, not even trying to hide is irritation. “It is you who do not understand: there can be no further bonding to fix what happened, no fraternizing or affinity. We have to tolerate each other for the sake of victory, end of the story. And yes, this story stinks, it is hideous and obscene, an ugly mess from which neither of us can escape! And it would be sheer folly to hope for anything better!”

He had to stop to catch his breath, but he expected not his cousin to answer immediately.

“What happened to you, Curufin? I have never seen you so pessimistic.”

He turned around, hiding again from the king’s keen eyes, but it didn’t stop Felagund:

“After all, was it not hope that drove your father on those shores in the first place? And is it not hope that have been keeping you and your brothers going? At least, that is what Macalaurë told me a few years back…

“Enough, Findaráto. I shall hear no more of your sermon.”

“A sermon? Why, no Curufin. You said I did not understand so I am barely trying to help…” answered the king, stepping towards his cousin.

But Curufinwë jumped back, on his guard. “I told you I do not want your help! Besides, you could not understand.”

“You realise you are not the only one who lost something during the Sudden Flame, do you not?”

“I know this very well. Thank you.” Curufinwë spat. “And that is the only thing we have in common.”

“Wrong. We also have a common grandfather.”

“How dare you mention him here and now? Last night was not enough?”

“Your problem, Curufinwë, is that you cannot see beyond your tiny little world. And you refuse to accept that you are not the only one who suffers.”

“Nonsense. And I am fine.”

“I see”, The king sighed, and he walked back to the doorway. “I hope you will soon see it too.”

Alone at last, Curufinwë could focus on chasing away the bitterness that coated his tongue and his mind. One shake of his head was not enough. He had to get back in touch with reality. With the world as it stood.

He walked to the dying fire silently burning in the stove, and knelt with infinite care, as if approaching a treasure. Under the soft pile of ashes, a few embers were still red, warm, and comforting with their familiar shape and smell. With no hesitation, Curufinwë picked up one with his bare hand and wrapped his blackened fingers around it. He held it tightly. As tightly as he could, until the coal turned into dust under the pressure. He had kept his eyes on the painful process all along, turning it into a ritual of his own invention. To conjure more sufferings, to erase the ancient ones. There was no expression on his face, only his jaw was tenser than usual, and for the first time in months, his hands weren’t shaking. Under the ashes which now covered his skin, he could see the growing blisters, the creased, reddened skin which cried its agony through every pores. The pain was insufferable.

He closed his eyes and saw it again. The same pain, the same warmth. Only the smell was different. The ashes too were the same, or so it seemed. And if he focused more, he could almost hear them, his father’s last words as he, his dearest son, cradled his lifeless head on his knees, his father’s last breath before he turned into ashes in his own arms. The scars on his palms had remained for many years, but as they were vanishing, Curufinwë needed to keep something of them, or something which looked like them. A token if his grief, of his wishes and of his oath. He shall never forget; it is for him that they had fought. And for him he will fight again, for the hope his father had bestowed them.

Curufinwë opened his eyes.

He could see clearly now. He knew what he had to do. All he needed was a plan, and an opportunity, an open window through which he would be able to slither in.
And if the king wanted to play this little of game of his, this foul play of secret authority, soft power and concealed control, then he would indulge. There was nothing like a little challenge to assert his own mastery.
Yes, even if it meant using tools Fëanáro wouldn’t have approved of. Because after all, he was not Fëanáro, was he?