Anathema by Harnatano - Lithenna

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The temptation of oblivion

Communication between father & son is getting more and more difficult, but a devoted brother can always bring some sort of relief.

   

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The chant of the hammer was echoing loudly around him, the grave notes too much like those of a bell, a toiling bell, which repeated endlessly its omens and announcing, if not death, at least the end of something; of an era, perhaps, or of a mood, an atmosphere which was slowly shifting and turning into something new. The spring was silently rolling towards its own end and with the summer were coming new hopes but also new threats, for the clouds above Tol-Sirion seemed to carry the stench of the North, and slowly it crept down the streams. The Narog itself seemed to suffer from the poison, droplets of evil flowing down Beleriand despite the protection of Ulmo.

The hammer kept on falling, regularly, and the steel beneath it received the blows with an echo of its dirge, as if all the threats which a blade could carry were gathering into the sharp alloy. Curufinwë liked its music. He liked the promises held by the elegy of steel, he liked the hopes which, as the sparks kindled by the blows, sprang around the anvil. He also liked the heat of the oven behind him, the soft breath of the bellows and the crackling of the flames.

As soon as he had been able to walk again, Curufinwë had locked himself up in the smithy which he had made his. During the weeks which had followed, the weakness of his body had been a bit of a burden, and with each breath he drew, a new pain came hitting at his ribcage. His lungs too were painful at times, justifying Tyelkormo’s reproach regarding his bold decision to tarry in the ashen atmosphere of the forge. Curufinwë had had to literally wrestle with his brother, who would have picked him up and carried him outside, hammering that only some fresh air would quicken his recovery.

But what did it mean now, for Curufinwë? A physical recovery was nothing beside the emotional one, and still the needles of his failures and the poison of his inner fights were assaulting him. Hence the long hours bent upon the anvil, sweat dripping down his forehead, muscles tensed as he moved carefully, with the precision of old, the perfectionism of his hands and the intent focus which his handcraft required. Even Tyelperinquar had not dared disturb his father’s studious loneliness, and barely had he dared to stand on the threshold of the workshop, observing, fascinated – as usual – by Curufinwë’s skills, by the delicacy of his movements, the intensity of his concentration, by the way his eyes followed the lines, scanning the beauty of the ores which he would enhance, as much as the bright reflection of the light on the steel. And Curufinwë paid no heed to his son’ s presence, nor to the exhaustion of his own body. He had even stopped caring about his appearance, and the stained and old apron that he wore barely covered a tunic which had been the same for the past days. With his dishevelled braids and the dirt on his face and fingers, his look matched his despair, and if Tyelperinquar did know recognize his father behind these grim and miserable features, he did recognize him in every movement that he made, in the prowess displayed through each delicate shift of his fingers. And Curufinwë’s eyes could not lie either, nor would they let him pretend to be someone he was not.

Sometimes he mumbled words, uttering straps of truth, monosyllabic realities, dulled offspring of a hidden epiphany. He himself did not totally grasp the core of their meaning; they were thoughts, furtively escaping his mind before he could catch their truth, before he could bring himself to understand them. They hastily left his lips and ran away from his reach, muffled and veiled by his own unconscious reluctance to seize them.

Oblivion. 
That was what he sought, and that was the reason of his immersion, of his delving into work. Burying himself beneath his peerless creations, hidden behind the scoria of these accomplishments. Perhaps would he find in them a meaning, a new breath, which would help him recover the taste of life. Yes... to recover pride and self-esteem in the fruits wrought by his skilful hands, and to unveiled his dignity. His work, at least, would not betray him, his talent would not desert him, and still, as he dived into this ineffable ability of his - his capacity to create, to sharpen, to enhance – he could allow himself not to think.
Oblivion.
It was himself that he feared, the dreadful dreams and expectations, inexorably imbued with humiliation and shame. He did not wish to think about them, to think about himself, about what he had done and what could still be done.

Perhaps the time had come for him to uncover the lies, all these lies forged around himself; that he was just like his father. That there were in him the radiance, the power and the skill of Fëanáro. That he could eventually live up to him.
All lies. All broken. 
Perhaps he simply needed to discard them.
Perhaps he would become another man. Perhaps it would make him more real. For if he stopped trying – and failing – to be just like his father, he could probably manage to become his real self.
But what did it mean? Who was he? What was his reality?

Oblivion.
That was why he worked so hard, caring neither for his physical needs, nor for his appearance. He sought to protect his sanity, to keep the questions away and to prevent himself from drowning into a swamp of self-bashing, to keep the inquisition of his own mind shut.
Tyelperinquar could still watch him, but Curufinwë would not allow him to fathom the intensity of his misery, of his reassessment.

The song of the hammer cradled him, chasing away doubts and fears. A familiar melody of old, reminding him of who he used to be, reminding him of the one he called father. And yet, this melody was but another illusion, a fruitless attempt to summon peace, merriness, and solace. Lessons heard and internalized centuries before, they were parts of him now, and in the hypnotizing chiaroscuro of the workshop, Curufinwë came to wonder if he had been made of them: The lectures given by his father, the advises and ceremonious teachings; how much had they forged him, the eager student, bewildered by Fëanáno’s every word and the wisdom they distilled. 
Curufinwë had had no such wisdom for his son. Only the shadows of what had been learnt in the past, and even this, he could not give anymore.

They were both used to work together, with his son, if not on the same process, at least in the same workshop – side by side – each silently bent on a new creation, and the young Ñoldo would sometimes ask for an advice, or for his father’s approval. Which Curufinwë never begrudged. All was different now, and Tyelperinquar still stood on the threshold. Since his father had returned to the smithy, he hadn’t touched a hummer nor approached any anvil. He just watched, worried and half hypnotized by Curufinwë’s very movement, his own eyes grasping and learning all they could from his father’s processes.

Unable to look away from the steel in front of him – fearing to see another ghost born out of his mind – Curufinwë did not notice his approaching son, and when he reached out to pick up the tongs, he was most surprised to have the tool hanged to him by Tyelperinquar. His son was smiling, dimly, as if shyness forced him to repress any hasty expression, and as Curufinwë looked into his eyes, he seemed to wake up from a trance.

“Good morning, father.”

Morning? So, another night had passed, and a new day was coming. When was the last time he had seen the light of Arien? 
Casting aside the questions and thoughts, Curufinwë gave a quick nod and took the tool, but quite to his own surprise, his son did not let go of it, his fingers tightly clenched around the handle. With a questioning look, Curufinwë held on too, and the two Ñoldor stared at each other, both quiet and still, as if trying to decipher each other’s thoughts. Eventually, Curufinwë broke the silence with a grim voice. His throat was sore.

“Are you waiting for something, Tyelperinquar?”

“At last!” Said Tyelperinquar, finally letting go of the handle.” Yes, father. I was waiting for you to notice me, you know, me. Your son.”

Bemused and confused, Curufinwë frowned. He did not understand – or did not want to understand – what this fuss was all about, and he looked at his son with a gloomy pout, his head tilting slightly. Thus, Tyelperinquar continued:

“I have been waiting for you to acknowledge my presence, my concern, my worry. I have been waiting for you to realise that you cannot go on like this!”

“What do you mean?” Said Curufinwë, unwilling to acknowledge any of this, unwilling to cast away the veil which had kept him blind and protected him from the truth, from the dreadful epiphany. Not only did he not want to see his son’s sufferings, but he was also reluctant to admit his own misery.

“What do I mean? Are you kidding, father?” Tyelperinquar’s voice as growing louder, his tone more impatient and his movements had nothing in common with his usual behaviour; hasty, blunt, tactless. “Do you even know for how long you have been locked in here?”

“Enough with your whimsical fit, Tyelperinquar!” Stated Curufinwë sharply. “I am working here. And you know better than anyone that I have to—”

“No, father.” Tyelperinquar’s voice was sharper than his father’s now, and it forced Curufinwë to freeze, catching him by surprise and cutting right into his soul. “I have enough of your lies, of your phony justifications, of your feeble excuses, father. I do not know who you are trying to fool – me or yourself – but it must stop. I am not a child anymore, and you… you should stop behaving like one!”

“Get out, Tyelperinquar.”

“Father, I—”

“GET OUT.”

These last words had been uttered with such a biting tone, that Tyelperinquar found himself forced to step back, as if pushed by the keen point of Angrist. His eyes burning with a new painful fever, Curufinwë watched his son as he swayed on his feet, astounded by the harshness of his father’s words and tone, and Curufinwë was still watching heatedly when Celebrimbor left the workshop, tensed and shocked.

Curufinwë too was shocked, not only appalled by the boldness of his son’s behaviour, but also by his own spiteful reaction. His hands were shaking now, which was totally unusual, and so unlike himself. 
This too, he would need to forget, to dismiss. The sweet fragrance of oblivion was tempting him again. But only work could help him reach the level of deafness which he needed, and with these shaking fingers, no work could be achieved. Nonetheless, this overwhelming powerlessness did not alleviate his restlessness, and with the heavy gait of a wounded beast, Curufinwë walked to the basin. The water felt cool and comforting on his skin, and the droplets that slid down his face, if they could not wash away his frustration nor his shame, would rip the veil which covered his mind with the numbness of his disillusion. Luckily there was no mirror in the workshop, no reflection, no dull twin to judge him, no one to mimic his foolishness.

He looked down at his hands again. Still shaking. His frustration increased and Curufinwë had to gather all his will to not strike the wall with his trembling fist. There was hate in his heart, but he did not know who he hated; surely not Tyelperinquar. Himself? no, not himself. His behaviour? yes, painfully. His own behaviour and the unknown motives behind it. He did not fully grasp the meaning of it, nor the reasons that hid beneath his reactions. And yet, it felt like the explanation was close, so very close, only a few inches from his understanding. But it remained buried under a heap of secret fears and despondency. Nnonetheless, he could not remain idle, he could not passively wait for the truth to reveal itself and he was about to try to get his hands back to work when the silence of the workshop was broken anew.

The loud and deep voice which was already calling for him could only belong to one person, and Curufinwë was not sure he wanted to see him right now. But there was no place to hide, and he knew he would have to listen to whatever his brother had to tell him.

“Tidings from Himring.” Tyelkormo yelled as soon as he stepped into the workshop, and Curufinwë’s heart started to pound fiercely. No matter what the news were, it would still be better than another heap of remonstrances, and they would keep him away from his own pervasive thoughts. 
Their messengers had been sent many weeks before, and the two Fëanorian lords had feared that they had never reached their brothers. With a quiet nervousness, Curufinwë waited for the hammer to fall, expecting the worse. But suddenly, Tyelkormo’s sharp expression shifted and a peaceful smile reached his lips.

“They are all safe, Curvo.”

The hammer which fell upon him was the hammer of relief, of odd gratefulness, and one of the layer of this ominous, blinding veil had been torn apart, allowing a ray of light to touch him.

“Kano is in Himring” Tyelkormo continued, stepping closer. “Just like the Gap, Thargelion had been utterly ravaged, but apparently Moryo escaped southwards to find Telvo and Pityo and they all reached Ramdal, from which they hold the way to Ossiriand, so the East is not utterly taken by our enemy. They all suffered many losses, but they are alive and ready to fight again.”

Curufinwë nodded gratefully, but through his relief another poison was already making its way to his heart. “What of Himlad?” He asked with a dim voice.

Tyelkormo’s smile faded, and Curufinwë saw him swallowed bitterly a formidable knot of angst. “Devastated. Nothing is left, they said, but ruins and dusts. And rotten corpses. Nelyo sent his henchmen to gather the dead, and to give them the honour they deserve, but the orkor seem to linger on our lands…

“… and who knows what shall become of the dead.” Curufinwë concluded with an acrid voice, his tongue weighted by the acrimony of the vision in his mind; his lands desolated and his people slaughtered; farms, towers, houses and fortifications burnt to the ground. Blood on the thick turf and ashes in the winds. And there was nothing to be done. Then the dreadful words came back to his mind: ’To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well…’

“We shall take it back, Curvo. We shall return, slaughter the invaders and rebuild, restore, heal and strengthen everything.”

It was but the dream of fools. He knew it now, and with each passing day, it had become so painfully clear to him that Himlad was definitely lost. He said nothing though, unwilling to break his brother’s expectations, his hopes and confidence. Tyelkormo was not ready yet to accept it. And Curufinwë could only nod and pretend.

“… Is Himring safe?” He asked after a short silence. “Did they manage to block the Pass.”

“Nelyo retook Aglon. And I believe in him. He has gathered around him the survivors from the East Marshes and Dorthonion.”

Another approving nod, and a genuine one this time.

“All is not lost, little brother. And despair is not our fatality. And although we cannot return yet, we still have reasons to believe in revenge. The Enemy will pay.”

These were words Curufinwë needed to hear, and his brother’s determined tone soothed, momentarily, his aching soul. Since Tyelkormo had stepped in, Curufinwë had done all he could to hide his shaking hands, sticking them in a pocket or folding them behind his back, and luckily, Tyelkormo had not noticed his brother’s awkward behaviour. Or if he had, he had not mentioned it. Now that Curufinwë’s discomfort had slightly vanished, he could finally expect his fingers to behave. Thus, he started to tidy up the workbench, and much to his relief, his hands obeyed him, calm and submissive as they picked up the tools and scrolls.

Now Tyelkormo was quietly watching his brother, waiting for a reaction which Curufinwë was unwilling to give: he was determined to control himself now, and to not let his emotions overtake him again. What had happened with Tyelperinquar had been a stupid mistake which he would not allow anymore. His emotions, as fierce as they could be, had to be kept in bounds, locked within him. They were dangerous, and no matter how hard they would burn him from inside, Curufinwë would not let them get out. It was a vulnerability which he would never accept.

“And how do you feel, Curvo?”

He did not answer, pretending to be too busy with his cleaning. Tyelkormo, who knew his brother’s too well to be fooled, continued:

“’Tis strange to receive such complete tidings from Himring while I get none from you.”

“I have been working.”

“I do not believe you.”

“What else do you think I do, here, if not working?”

“Brooding. Hiding. Feeding your own misery; the kind of things at which you excel.” Tyelkormo said with a shrug. “What is wrong with your hands?”

They had started to shake anew, triggered by Tyelkormo’s assessments which had struck too close to the truth.

“Nothing.” Answered Curufinwë, turning away, folding his arms as to hide his fingers under his armpits. “Thank you for the relieving tidings, brother. Now I must work, so could you just leave?”

“Could I help with your work? I have not been in a forge for decades, I need to practice.”

“No, you do not, Tyelkormo.” Curufinwë was not one to be fooled so easily, and he too knew his brother to the core. He too could see through his tricks.

“Alright. Then perhaps you need to practice something different… such as socializing, sleeping, eating… and bathing. When was the last time you change? Even my hunting boots are cleaner than your shirt, and you know of my tendency to step on orkor’s skulls.”

“As much as I know your inability to stay away from my business.”

“That is different, Curvo, for your business is also mine.” Curufinwë replied with a deep growl but Turcafinwë ignored him as he continued. “Our people count on both of us, and we agreed that you would mainly do the talking with Findaráto and his courtiers about our position here. Now Findaráto himself asks to meet you and none of his pets dares enter your den. Then, well, you know how things usually go in such circumstances; our cousin gets impatient, he sends people to find me, he asks about you and insists that I get you out of here. I refused of course, but now I cannot draw a breath without his pets asking me news of you. I feel like our cousin is growing obsessed with you and it is getting embarrassing.”

“Not my problem.” Curufinwë sighed, barely raising an eyebrow, not even surprised by his brother’s speech.

“It is a problem to me, and my problems should be yours.”

“Where does that come from?” Now, Curufinwë was growing impatient too, and Tyelkormo’s insistence only increased his reluctance. “Moreover, I am convinced that you could easily get rid of these parasites who seem to be after you.”

"Pray tell me, brother, how could I do that?”

“ Scare them; all you need to do is to be yourself.” Curufinwë replied with a sharp smirk.

“I would love to, but I need to look out for my reputation. That is what you told me, is it not?”

Another sigh left Curufinwë’s lips, a longer one, and exhaustion could be heard behind his breath. Of course, his brother did not need him. Turcafinwë could very well deal with Findaráto without him; it was but an excuse, a trick to draw him away from the dust of the smithy. This Curufinwë knew too well. But behind his exasperation and his reluctance to step outside, his determination was growing thinner, weakened by his own lack of confidence regarding himself, and the future which stood before them. There were fractures in the thick walls of his will, and the high throne on which his ego liked to sit was being wrecked by his dejection and his lack of insight. He no longer understood himself, and he no longer saw where his path led.

“Prithee, Curvo” Tyelkormo almost begged, getting hold of his brother’s sleeves, “Let us get out of this place. Come with me. If only for a few hours. Then I promise I will let you dwell in here. I can even get you a blanket, a hide, a litter, everything that such a lonely lair requires.”

“As long as I can keep the ermine…” Curvo said, trying not to hinder the smile his brother had managed to draw from him.

“I said everything, did I not?”

With a few quick movements, Curufinwë took off the apron, grabbed a dark cloak which he instantly put around his shoulders, and followed his brother whose satisfaction was obvious.

“If I may, Curvo, before you bestow your glorious presence upon the king, you should definitely drop by the bathroom.”