Anathema by Harnatano - Lithenna

| | |

A Silvery Dissension

Woooo! I know, I know, this is very late, but here it is at last! In this new chapter, I experiment a bit, especially with the characters' perpective, and I hope it is not too confusing for the reader. Feel free to let me know!

Curufin keeps on struggling with self-image and with what it means to be respected and admired, and loved. His mind is too full of contradicting stuff and he doesn't know what to do with it (though he keeps on pretending that he knows).

And if you want the writer's opinion: Celebrimbor's patience with him is praiseworthy.

Warning: There'll be mentions of suicide.

 

A strange disquiet was boiling through the halls of Nargothrond, and although the glimmer in the King’s eyes could easily be deciphered as a token of his anxiety, no one exactly knew how serious it was. Lord Celegorm had left the caves in the coolness of dusk, during this special moment when the winds abate and leave but a heavy haze on the land, a haze so full of its own silence that it seems about to burst with the life of nature that had not yet awoken from its winter sleep. Springtime was always deceitful in Nargothrond; one would expect flowers to blossom on the hills, the Narog to sparkle with the silver light and the breeze of the vivid awakening of nature… and indeed, at noon, one could enjoy the sweet fragrance of the flower-dust blown by the breeze. But soon, the wind would lessen until its utter disappearance, conjuring this ponderous atmosphere that left no one indifferent. It was not the feeling of a threat that it conveyed – it resembled more the portend of something which was about to spring out from the earth, from the river, or even form the most innocent flower after it had had been contained for too long. If this “something” was good or evil, nobody could tell – but it was definitely here, and the moment it would burst out - whether it was close or not – would surely be memorable. Perhaps it was this heavy atmosphere that made the whole realm so restless, or perhaps it was the fact that Lord Celegorm had insisted to take with him more men that was necessary for a common wolf-hunt. Most evidently, something was wrong.  And the tension on Lord Celebrimbor’s graceful features was but another piece of evidence.

To the communities of people that lived and mingled in the caves, the bone of contention remained hidden, even if some of them had noticed the odd absence of Lord Curufin during the king’s last feast. In fact, nobody had seen him for the past few days, but nobody worried. Lord Curufin was famous for his peculiarities, and it was not rare to see him work for days, engrossed in the many processes he devised, in the special features of the ores bought from the dwarves, in the strange light they reflected, and in the way he would enhance that light. Hence their lack of anxiety regarding his disappearance – most of them imagined that another quarrel had occurred between the king and his hot-tempered cousins, leading to a frustration which had driven Lord Curufin directly to his smithies, which he would now refuse to leave.

Basic assumptions, drawn from what was now becoming the Fëanorian lord’s habits. Yet, although these assumptions were too wrong not to be painful, Tyelperinquar had not the heart to contradict them. His father had left three nights before, without a word, without a look, like a shadow he had crept out of the caves, leaving behind people, brother and son. The most striking perhaps was that he had also left his attires, tools, jewels, all his goods and chattels. Which surely meant that he had planned to come back… eventually. Or at least, that was what Tyelperinquar wanted to believe. And so did Tyelkormo, who was certain that his little brother only wanted to escape for a few days, in search of fresh air after so many weeks inhaling nothing but smoke and ashes. Tyelperinquar silently refuted his uncle’s harsh words about the so-called suffocation in the smithies, but here again, he did not have the heart to openly object. Besides, he truly wanted to believe his uncle; after all, as far as they knew, there had been no argument, no particular frustration. He could only come back.

It is only after five days that Tyelperinquar had noticed the first twitches of anxiety on his uncle’s face, the growing tension in his jawline, the wrinkles on his forehead, and he knew the time had come for him to broach the subject. Luckily, he did not have to insist, and less than two hours later, Tyelkormo, his hounds and his henchmen were leaving the caves, Huan leading them all, while Tyelperinquar remained on the threshold, trying not to show any sign of the acrid anxiety which was bubbling in his stomach.

 

 

 

 

“Bloody fool.”

Among the chaotic echoes which were surrounding him, Curufin only managed to catch these two words, and even if the voice seemed muffled and distant, he recognized it as his brother’s. Yet, his perception remained blurred, while the different sensations seemed to merge into one vaporous mist of confusion and turmoil. Most surprisingly, he felt no fear, no anxiety, and pain, although it was there, throbbing like a violin string in his flesh, was the least of his worries. The Fëanorion did not exactly know what was happening, nor where he was, but through this anarchy of movements and sensations, he could let his mind escape from the bonds of substantiality. Reality seemed so far, so dim and hollow, that it seemed to be nothing more than a mere illusion in the mist which covered his insight.

“Bloody fool.” He heard Tyelkormo repeat, and although the voice was neither clearer, nor closer, Curufin perceived the growing tension in it. He tried to chuckle, to ease the pressure in his chest through a broken laughter, but it only triggered off a burning coughing fit. And, as he was choking, struggling for air and relief, his throat tightening with each new biting cough, he felt something warm on his forehead – warm and alive; the first real contact with life in several days. His throat untightened, his body relaxed and although he did not manage to free the stinging laughter that was lingering in his stomach, like a ball of poison stuck in his very core, he managed to catch his breath.

“We are almost there. Hold on, brother.”

Curufinwë deduced from the voice and its proximity that the living pressure on his forehead came from his brother’s strong hand, and as the rough fingertips pressed slightly against his temples, conjuring solace and ease, he allowed his mind to surrender, and fell back into a dark and deep unconsciousness.

 

 

 

 

There was no way to know if it was night or day, nor for how long he had been laying here. he could not even figure out the origin of the pain. All he was aware of was the painful weight on his chest, and the solacing warmth on his forearm. Yet, while acknowledging both elements, he could find no way to make out anything else. He remembered the taste of blood and ashen water, he remembered the grunts of the dying wolves and the terrified neighs of his horse. But none of it made sense, and it did not match with what had been his expectations. A voice above him, or what seemed to be a voice, was humming. Was it a song? Simple words? Or perhaps a spell. Curufinwë stirred but something, a gentle pressure against his shoulders, kept him still.

More words, and still this incapacity of his to decipher any of them. They sounded like a flow of irregular combinations of intentions, and although he could feel their impacts on his fëa and hröa – through the easing in his lungs and the growing peace in his mind – he found himself unable to catch any coherence.

His mouth was dry, his body heavy, and his mindfulness was soon swept away by oblivion.

 

 

 

It would be so easy to open his eyes, to give them this satisfaction. Which of course, he would not do. No matter who they were (for he could not recognize the voices), he would not give them the pleasure to witness his recovery. Hence his firm immobility, the determined fixity of an alabaster sculpture born from his mother’s hands. Another sour bubble of laughter threatened to break through his throat, and as he repressed it and discarded the image of his mother’s face and hands, the sharp sting of sarcasm pierced his heart.

How proud would you be, mother? Shall you grant me redemption now?

 … Of course, not.

He was still alive, that he knew, and that was precisely why.

“I do not understand, he should be awaking now.” The unknown voice was speaking through bewildered sighs, and Curufin felt a few movements around him, calm and slow. He kept his eyes closed, as still and cold as death itself; He could not conjure it, but he could still pretend.

Sounds of footsteps behind the door - footsteps that he knew too well - the grinding noise of the hinges and the entering was followed by this heavy sigh of his, so easily identifiable, brother. Luckily, his voice bade the others leave the room. Curufin listened to the familiar sounds of his brother’s footsteps as they got closer, forcing himself not to smirk : He knew what was about to happen.

“I reckon you find it terribly amusing, Curvo.” The voice was sharp, filled with an authority and a cynicism which only increased Curufinwë’s determination to remain motionless. Oh, he was not afraid of his brother’s impetuous ways, but Turcafinwë’s acuteness was thwarting his plans. “Stop pretending. I know you are perfectly awake. And if you were not so badly injured I would have already dragged you out of bed.”

Curufin could not prevent a sarcastic wince. He did not want to open his eyes, he did not want to see the world, to find himself face to face with a reality which he had come to despise. 

“Come on, Curvo. I have enough of your folly.”

Begrudgingly, Curufinwë opened but one eye. “Happy?” He asked with a voice which he had not expected to be so hoarse. Turcafinwë nodded, a severe stoicism covering his features. “Then, know that it is not folly that drives me.” Curufinwë added as he carefully raised himself up on his elbows, ignoring the stings of pain in his left side.

“If it is not folly, I daresay it is madn—“ before Turcafinwë could finish his sentence, a heavy pillow came hit his face. “Too weak to open your eyes but healthy enough to strike me.”  The older brother said after a deep growl.

“I shall always be healthy enough to prevent you from asserting absurdities.”

 “Whereas I cannot even prevent you from running to your own death…” There was an odd guilt in Tyelkormo’s words, a guilt which Curufinwë was not used to associate with his brother’s voice, and during the silent seconds that followed, they stared at each other, confused, bitter… and embarrassed.

“What did you exactly try to do, Curufinwë?” Tyelkormo had sat down on a chair next to his brother’s bed, and in his eyes, Curufinwë could distinctly see the thirst for answers, for understanding. But he remained silent, clutching to his secrets, thus Tyelkormo continued. “We found you unconscious – if not half-dead – on the bank of the Narog where the Gringlith meets it. The river was still red with your blood. What did you want to prove?”

Curufinwë looked absentmindedly at the lamps on the walls, his lips sealed by his stubbornness. How could he explain? How could anyone understand? How could they accept that it was not death itself that attracted him, but the consequences of it? If there had been any other way, if he could have earned the benefits without diving into the cold swamp of death… He had pondered the situation for so long, considering all alternatives, but it was plain to him that it was only through such a sacrifice that something could be achieved, and return them their dignity and the consecrated trust of the Ñoldor.

 “Alright, keep your bloody secrets, Curvo. But you should also keep in mind that I shall not always be around to save your arse.”

Curufinwë chuckled, a long, bitter chuckle, relieving at last the pressure in his stomach. “Do you want me to thank you, Turco?”

“I want you to be honest me. If you are still capable of it. Which I doubt.” Said Turcafinwë in a jolty rhythm, as if he was genuinely juxtaposing his thoughts as they came, and he raised from his seat.

With his eyes looking keenly at his brother’s tall figure, and while ignoring the stinging pain which increased with each new breath, Curufinwë swallowed back his bile. “You do not know what you are talking about, Turco”

“Tell me, then. Explain.”

“You do not need to know about it.” The statement was definitive, and after Curufinwë had uttered it, he could only witness its effect on his brother. The bitter resentment which had stemmed from Curufinwë’s utterance was painfully evident, and on Turcafinwë’s features it was spreading like a shadow, a dark wave of indignation and disillusion twisting his face into a gloomy wince. “Damn you, Curvo.” Eventually, Turcafinwë walked to the door, but he did not immediately leave, casting another disappointed look at his brother. “You should avoid moving; three of your left ribs are broken and it shall take a few days before the wound on your thigh cicatrizes. I know not what sort of poison drips from the wolves’ fangs, but it could have been lethal.”

“Mh. I see.” Curufinwë mumbled, not even surprised by his brother’s hasty departure. But there was something else he wanted to know. “Tyelkormo…? While I was unconscious, I felt… I know someone was beside me. Was it you?” Although his brother was turning his back to him, Curufinwë could perceive his bitter smirk, and in his brother’s sigh he heard exasperation.

“Curvo, while you were running towards a foolish death, did you even have a thought for your son, about what would befall him?”

The statement hit him like a blow, and as he repressed a silent gasp, the pain seemed to explode in his side.

“Of you course you did not, you selfish idiot.” Turcafinwë continued, still no looking at him. “It was him, not me, who looked after you during your convalescence, which lasted no less than a week if you want to know.” Finally, Turcafinwë turned his head, his eyes burning with aggravation. “He never left the bedside, not until I ordered him to get some sleep, a few hours ago. You should be grateful that he does not despise you yet.” With this last assessment, Turcafinwë left the room, slamming the door behind him as to emphasize, if necessary, the expression of his anger.

Alone and thoughtful in the silence of the chamber, Curufinwë looked under the bedsheets to discover the dark purple bruise on his ribcage, a bruise which was exceeding the length of the bandages wrapped around his chest. If spasms were not so painful, he would have burst into laughter. “You ran after a glorious sacrifice and you find yourself with nothing more than a bruise and a few stitches. Pathetic.” He murmured to himself, his lips barely parting as the words mingled with his breath.

That was what he had wanted. A sacrifice in due form. Himself, facing the werewolves, dying while protecting Nargothrond and its people from the monsters of the North… Then he would have been dignified. And they would have seen. Impressed by the nobility of his blood, there would have been more of them to follow his brothers, more of them to see the glory of their vows, to have faith in their fortitude and valour, to trust their greatness.

But what Curufinwë was refusing to admit, especially to himself, was his craving for a status which remained denied and out of reach: the status of a hero, and the admiration which goes with it. Ñolofinwë, Angaráto, Ambaráto… all heroes now. Even his father. Oh, many of them still resented him, but something in their speeches had changed since his death… and when Curufinwë had taken his horse and followed the Narog, riding north with the determination of a winter gale, it had been his one hope. To become a hero, to reach this statue through blood and pain and death. His uncle had sacrificed himself, they all said. Well… he could do it as well. And prove them that the courage and dignity of Finwë was also in his veins.

This death-drive had been pervasive ;  it had hammered splinters into his heart and covered his thoughts with the conviction that even the most preposterous death would bring him something. If not a new aura of sanctity, at least an illusion of redemption and dignity. Now, all that was left of it was a risible bruise, a resentful brother and a son whom he had egotistically ignored.

 

Three shy knocks on the door forced Curufinwë to open his eyes. If he had slept, he knew not for how long, and he blamed Findaráto for these caves deprived of window, deprived of the slightest arrow slit and opening.

He already knew the identity of the person who had knocked, and he waited for his own breath to reach a more regular pace before allowing him to come in. From the dim smile on Tyelperinquar’s lips, Curufinwë gathered that his son was not as resentful as he had fearfully expected, and the faint light in his eyes revealed nothing but benevolence and concern. Silently, he stepped into the room and sat on the chair previously occupied by his uncle. Curufinwë felt no haste to speak, simply glancing at his son from time to time in a pathetic attempt to decipher the enigmatic light on his pale face. Besides, there were feelings merging within him which he could not identify yet: It was not exactly shame - although it resembled it - it was surely not anger and if there were hints of disappointment, they were only aimed at himself. His mind busy with this inner contemplation, Curufinwë didn’t notice the slight shift in Tyelperinquar’s complexion, and when he eventually reached out to rest his hand on his father’s arm, a pleasant thrill ran over Curufinwë’s skin. The same touch, the same warmth that he had sensed during the painful crisis. His muscles tensed, but Tyelperinquar’s hands held on, his fingers clasped around his wrist in a gentle but determined grip.

“Father, I am so glad to see you—“

“There is no need for such words, Tyelperinquar.” Curufinwë cut off pithily, unwilling to deal with any sort of commiseration, and especially not his son’s.

“Alright.” The young Ñoldo replied with an understanding nod for which Curufinwë felt grateful. “I am relieved though.”

There were questions in the two Ñoldor’s minds, but none of them seemed neither willing nor ready to ask them, clad in an embarrassment which – Curufinwë knew – was but the upshot of his own behaviour. Eventually, and quite unexpectedly, Tyelperinquar left the seat, crossed the invisible gap which stood between them, and sat on his father’s bed, ignoring the surprised look in Curufinwë’s eyes. It was surprising, but there was also a solace in his son’s bold initiative.

During years, it had been Curufinwë who, as an anxious father, had sat beside the child Tyelperinquar used to be, chasing the nightmares away with a gentle brush of his fingers, a few words in his ears and a tender look. Or he would just sit down and it seemed his very presence sufficed to drive the fears away – Tyelperinquar would glance at him, give a soft smile, and fall back again in the childish and innocent slumber, the peaceful mist of dreams that only children could dive in.

What had happened since? Nightmares had lingered through the years, Curufinwë’s own nightmares, pouring still more acid and more bile into his fëa, and although his son did not mention the nightmares anymore, Curufinwë knew they had not released him either. The difference remained in their impacts on them, and already Tyelperinquar appeared as much tougher than his father, for he seemed to resist their acridity with a strength that Curufinwë had lost.

Now, it was the son who was sitting by the father’s side.

What for?

Although Curufinwë had not spoken the words aloud, Tyelperinquar reacted as if he had heard them, with a quick movement of his head and an inquiring look. Determined to show nothing of his pervasive doubts, Curufinwë remained impassive but already he felt that his son’s generous presence would break through the wall of glass he had built around himself. And it would not take long.

“I only hope it helped a bit.” Tyelperinquar eventually murmured.  There was no need to define the “it”, and yet, when Curufinwë nodded, he could not bring himself to look at his son.

“It was… unbearable to see you lie here. I felt so powerless, I had to—“

With slow movement of his hand Curufinwë asked for silence. “There is no need to talk about it.”

“Allow me to disagree, father. We must talk about it, if only for my sanity. And yours, if you still care about it.” Curufinwë did not reply and kept his eyes fixed on his own fingers, playing with the quilt. “Do you still care about it, father? Do you still care about anything?”

“Of course, I do!” He had not been able to repress the exasperation which had stemmed from the short inquiry. “Why do you all deem me uncaring?”

“Because there is nothing in your behaviour which would indicate that you actually care.” Tyelperinquar’s voice was surprisingly calm, as opposed to the growing indignation in his father’s tone, and it seemed to the latter that his son was gradually getting more confident. Yet, he suddenly dropped his gaze and put his eyes on his father’s agitated fingers, the only sign of his uneasiness (and that was definitely a new habit). “… if you did care, you would not have tried to kill yourself.”

Curufinwë’s exasperation did not decrease, but as he witnessed the desperate expression in his son’s face, he took a deep breath, relaxed his throat and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, yet much darker. “I did not try to kill myself…. Is it what your uncle told you?”

Tyelperinquar shook his head, and slowly raised his eyes in an attempt to catch his father’s elusive gaze. “I do not need to ask my uncles if I want to understand you.”

“I did not try to kill myself.”

Silence invaded the room, a dark thick wave of cumbersome silence which seemed to keep them stuck in its essence. Tyelperinquar’s fingers had not left his father’s arm and Curufinwë could feel them tighten, silently encouraging him to speak, and if not to confess, at least to relieve him from the burden of his enigmatic motives. And quite to his own surprise, Curufinwë yielded. Or at least, he tried, first by allowing his eyes to move up until they finally fell on his son’s face. And oh, there was something in those silver eyes which directly reached his heart, piercing it with a needle, or maybe thousands of needles, as sweet as honey and as biting as the edge of Angrist. And yet, he could not name this “something” and was unable to find any clear definition for this feeling, although it was not so alien as he imagined – but he had not yet acknowledged it.

“What was it, father?”

The following breath that Curufinwë took sent spasms of pain through his chest, like wires, gush of agony billowing in his flesh and bones.

“… please, father. I do need to know, and I daresay you need to--” Tyelperinquar stopped before the end of his sentence, and his father could only assume that his own expression was the cause of this sudden silence.

“I wanted to them to see.” He simply said, ignoring the befuddled look on Tyelperinquar’s face as he repeated his statement a second time. “… to see.”

After a few seconds of confusion, the young Ñoldo removed his hand from his father’s arm. “I am afraid I do not understand, father… What did you want them to see?” He asked, his voice as delicate and tactful as his gingerly chosen words.  But despite his thoughtfulness, his father did not reply, diving into silence and pondering the situation; how could he explain, especially when his son – he had realised it now – was one of the most important among them?

Tyelperinquar’s patience was obviously getting thinner, and Curufinwë could not ignore any longer that his stubbornness was already turning against himself, for it was now in Tyelperinquar’s attitude that exasperation could be seen; his sighs were becoming sharper, the delicate tenderness in his eyes was turning into an incisive spark, and in his gestures a new tension was replacing the carefulness. Resting his elbows on his knees, his chin pressed against his hands, Tyelperinquar seemed to try his mind at the taming of the indignation which had been asleep until this very moment. Another useless effort, as his father soon witnessed. “All that we saw was the foolishness of your pride, father.”

Curufinwë knew words could be more painful than any broken bones; had he been stamped on by his horse, the agony would not have been worse. In a reflexive movement that he had not planned, he reached out with his right hand to rest it on his son’s shoulder, a futile attempt and the upshot of an unconscious need to keep Tyelperinquar close. But the young Elda spurned his father’s effort and left the bed with a quiet hiss which delved into Curufinwë’s wounded heart. A part of him wanted to beg, to beseech his son not to judge him, to give him the benefice of the doubt, but there was the other part, the prideful, fearful one, the one that refused to show this sort of frailty, a frailty which he asserted to be no more than a plague; for, how could he protect, rule, and commit himself if there was such a weakness in him. Unfortunately, this vainglory kept the Fëanorion blind, too blind to point out the evident tension between his desire to remain the guardian of his people, of his son, and the death-drive which had led him northward a few days before, prompting him to abandon all that he cared about. All of it for one vain purpose. To be admired…

“You pretend that you care...” Tyelperinquar uttered quietly, and from his bed Curufinwë could only see his back and his bowed head, as if lowered by an emotion too heavy for him to carry. And oh, how he wished he could carry this burden for him, whatever it was.

Ignorant of his father thoughts, Tyelperinquar continued: “… And I remember you caring about me, caring about yourself, about… about everything, actually. But I am not certain I can still believe that you do.”

Biting his own tongue, Curufinwë listened and tried to discard the scream which was blocking his airways - a scream which he would not let go, and which would remain there, like a ball of sticky mud stuck in the back of his throat. Now Tyelperinquar was turning around, and Curufinwë knew he had no choice but to cope with the strange mix of resentment and pain and fear in his son’s eyes, devoid of what he had always craved. “You abandoned me, father, did you not?”

“Tyelperinquar…”

“Did you not? And I am not only talking about this absurd trip which almost killed you. You abandoned me before we reached Nargothrond.”

“Nonsense.”

“Why must you be like this?”

“Like this?” Taken aback by what he saw as an unfair assessment, Curufinwë could not repress the flow of emotions which instantly filled his voice and resonated through the room. “How dare you address me so impudently? I am your father, Tyelperinquar, and I still expect some respect and consideration from you!” the spasms which had accompanied the admonishment had also increased the ache, and Curufinwë found himself breathless and paralysed by a new wave of pain. His forehead was wet with his own sweat, with the pulsation of his torment in his temples, as whips of fire, their flames scratching his mind, and he rested his head against the pillow and closed his eyes anew. Not only was he waiting for the agony to decrease, but he was also cursing himself for his reaction; It was not what he should have said, and the spiteful words which were still echoing in his head had sounded so wrong, so utterly and sorely wrong.

And while he was writhing with pain, both emotional and physical, Tyelperinquar rushed to the bed, obviously alarmed by the wince of agony on his father’s face. Catching a piece of cloth, he carefully placed it on his father’s forehead, his free hand already taking hold of his father’s fingers again. “Please father, try to calm down and breathe.” Behind Curufinwë’s sealed eyelids, Tyelperinquar’s voice echoed so purely, the words and the tone sounded so genuine and authentic and right, that tears would have broken through if he wasn’t clinging to the chimeras which he called strength and dignity. He tried to say something, but the new heaviness of his tongue and the fatigue induced by the pain kept him quiet.

“I am right here, father.” Tyelperinquar continued, pouring into his father’s ears words of comfort that tasted sweeter than honey, but which were as vivid as the brightest summer sun. “I am not leaving your side.”

After a moment and a few other words, the pain started to decrease, and Curufinwë opened his eyes to see the sad smile of his son. “Do you want me to loosen the bandages, father?” He slowly shook his head, still unable to pronounce a word, but already his fingertips were pressing gently against Tyelperinquar’s palm. Now he could taste his own shame, and its sourness was sharper than the broken ribs and the thickest wolfish poison. Yet, despite the silent remorse and self-bashing, he managed to hold his son’s look, and they both stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed to last an eternity. If Tyelperinquar had not forgotten the harshness of his father’s stubbornness and words, he showed nothing of their impact, and if Curufinwë could not tell if it was forgiveness that he saw in the silver eyes, he was certain that the flickering spark in them was nothing less than benevolence. Benevolence was enough, Curufinwë asked for nothing more, not even understanding. Oh no, certainly not understanding! He preferred to keep Tyelperinquar ignorant of the ghosts of humiliation and uncertainty that haunted his heart, to keep him away from the spectres of disgrace, protecting him from their toxic breath. Even if it meant taking the blame upon himself and appearing as an odious fool.  He would sacrifice admiration to keep him safe.

“Tyelpinkë…” He heard himself whisper. “You do not have to.”

“Hush, father. I know you would do the same for me.”                                                                                                                                                         

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment