Bruised Fruit, Bruised Egos by Dawn Felagund, Himring, , catadromously, , Kaylee Arafinwiel

---

Bruised Fruit, Bruised Egos

---

Curufin edged closer to the red ropes setting off the RESTRICTED section of the library. He had no idea what made it RESTRICTED--only that his father did go there sometimes though the books he took out never manifested in the shared chaos of the book pile in the living room--but he'd been put up to finding out by his brother and his cousins.

For a while now, the three of them had formed a friend-group, a little knot of the kind that resisted being picked apart and left no room for entry of anyone else--including him. He'd hovered, in the years approaching his majority, at their periphery, hoping to be invited in. He may as well have been invisible. Until last week.

"Look, kid." Celegorm had taken on the highly irritating habit of calling him "kid," even though he was several weeks past his majority, his father's senior apprentice, and already a budding scholar in the circle of Tirion's technologists. "We know you want in."

"But getting in comes with a price." That was Aegnor, who was only a little older than him.

But Curufin did want in, so he resisted rolling his eyes, and when the whispered instructions came to sneak into the RESTRICTED section and nab this particular purple-spined book from the shelves just past the bust of Lenwe, he'd agreed.

The librarians, with the whispering and fluttering long robes, murmured around the library like a coopful of pigeons. There were only three of them, yet they seemed to be everywhere at once. Curufin busied himself with a volume on experimental physics that he thought looked convincing enough in his hands but every time he edged closer to the red ropes, there would be a feathery flitter behind him, and one of the librarians would pass perilously near. He eased into the Glassmaking section, which gave him a different angle of approach (and was less convincing but he'd been at this for hours … no, a glance at the hourglass, and only a few minutes had passed. It merely felt like hours.) From here, he could see their desk. All three were there, bent over their respective volumes and, for once, silent. He saw his chance to make his move.

There were several possible approaches, he'd realized over the last several hours … um, minutes.

1. He could ease open the rope--it would just make a little click--and sneak inside.
2. He could leap the rope in clear violation of library policy but be in and out so fast that it wouldn't matter.
3. He could go in and pretend he belonged there. He was
   
   1. Fëanor's son,
   2. Fëanor's protege,
   3. now past his majority … barely but still, and
   4. on his way to being a respected scholar in his own right.

He decided on Approach #3, with reasons a-d certainly adequate justification.

He let the glassmaking book shut with a clunk. Three pairs of eyes swiveled to him as he slipped the book back on the shelf with a whisper. Three pairs of eyes lowered again, and he strolled in what he hoped looked like an authoritative manner toward the red rope and the RESTRICTED section and entrance into the most coveted social group among the young Noldor of royal Tirion.

Deftly, he stepped right over the rope. He could see the book: the purple spine made it conspicuous, just to the right of Lenwe with his starward-staring eyes cleverly shaped by Nerdanel.

His foot caught the rope and, after a lengthy caper during which he managed to untangle his foot and keep his balance, all on one foot, the realization that three pairs of eyes were again on him, and one called out, "Son, you're not allowed back there!" sent him face first into the floor.

His nose hurt. He did not know yet, at this point, that this was not going to be the only bruise of the day. It was difficult to regain the required dignity for the looming discussion, but he would have to make the best of it. He gathered himself up from the floor with deliberate slowness, stood on the side of the rope he wanted to be and said: “Were you speaking to me?”

It was the youngest of the librarians that was facing him across the rope. He tried to remember his name. He ought to know it…

‘Son,’ said the librarian irritatingly. ‘You are in the restricted section.’

A talent for pointing out the obvious.

‘Yes,’ said Curufin, rapidly retreating to Plan B, ‘I know. My father sent me to fetch a book for him from that shelf over there.’

He pointed, not quite in the right direction, but near enough.

‘Feanaro sends children to get books for him from the restricted section?’ the second of the librarians asked incredulously.

‘Children?’ Curufin raised his voice, rage helping to fuel his lost mental balance. ‘ Who are you calling a child? Do you not know who I am? I am his son and his trusted assistant.’

‘I don’t think he has ever sent you before,’ said the third librarian cautiously.

Curufin decided that he had better move quickly.

He walked to the shelf as quickly as he dared and grabbed the book.

‘I really don’t think…’ The third librarian began, even more dubiously.

Curufin did not wait for any of his further doubts and deliberations.

Plan C would have to do.

He got a tight hold on the book (whatever he did, he must not damage the book, he knew that), gave the rope a hard look and started running.

‘Wha…’ he heard. ‘What!’

He managed not to get entangled in the rope; instead, he slid on the floor, wobbling perilously, but he caught himself and rushed out of the library and down the huge staircase with a bit of a head start.

‘Excuse, me,’ he gasped. ‘ Sorry… Excuse me….’

‘What?!’

What?!’ cried a woman in front of him, stumbling out of his way in a clatter of hair-pins. “Young man, where are you going with that-“

Recovering herself, she made a grab for him, but Curufin ducked her hand and darted behind a hedge. He kept running, down the hillside until the gravel path ran out and his little alley spilled him into the main market.

There was nothing for it. His brother and cousins had said they would meet him by Finwë’s fish-pond, which was behind the market. So Curufin clutched the book tighter and sighted a straight path through the bustle. His footsteps came loud over the glittering tile - and curse every street-builder in Tirion who praised aesthetics over practicality! Clearly they had never made off with a contraband object while wearing shoes fit for a library.

He dodged a potter and a weaver, and scattered a gaggle of children. It occurred to him that he looked every inch a shoplifter.

Just past the fountain his luck ran out. A cart, heavily encumbered with barrels, swerved the wrong way, and Curufin had to leap or be trampled by the shaggy horse. He did it most ungracefully. There was a shout and a tremendous clatter as he and a barrel both impacted something, and the air was expelled from his body all at once.

He blinked his eyes open, groaning, and found himself sprawled in a pile of cloth and fruit. Two Eldar, presumably the growers, stared down at him.

“Are you quite alright?” one asked.

“Perfectly so, thank you,” Curufin wheezed sourly.

The Telerin growers looked skeptically at this prince of the Noldor who clearly did not know his way around the busy market, running through with a book of all things. “I do not think you can be, with all respect, my lord,” the other grower offered. Both were nissi, and the one who had spoken second was taller than her companion - she offered him a hand up, and the first nis grabbed for the book at the same time.

This merely served to entangle them further with Curufin, and somewhere in the tussle the taller grower’s hair came loose from the kerchief she had bound it back in, spilling forth silver and gold over her shoulders.

She scrambled to hide them again, but the bright locks had attracted attention.

“Artanis!”

A shout from behind them made Artanis whip around, and duck behind her Telerin cousin. “Hide me,” she muttered.

“Not going to happen, Earweniel,” was the dry response.

Curufin’s partners in crime had seen them. She groaned and rolled her eyes, tying her hair back again. “Anatar is going to love this.”

“Which one?” Marillien asked with a snort.

“Ours,” Artanis retorted. “I have no desire to explain this to Finwe Noldoran, and even less to explain it to Feanaro.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Probably, Curufin is actually thinking of Plan tinco and  Plan parma rather than Plan A and Plan B. Himring claims this is the fault of some later translator from Quenya, not hers. (With thanks to Kaylee for Elvish consultancy!)