Ask Curufin (About Linguistics)

Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanárion. Here I shall address inquiries both academic and personal or political, as well as keep in touch with my relatives and other individuals. My academic specialisations are primarily linguistic in nature, and include the morphology and syntax of Khuzdûl, and the distinctions between Noldorin and Telerin Quenya, though questions on all subjects are accepted and answered to the best of my abilities. Independent RP/ask blog(/repository for silly Tolkien linguistics jokes) for Curufin, fifth son of Fëanor from the Silmarillion Disclaimer: Curufin saying things authoritatively should not be taken to indicate that said statements are actually true either in-universe or otherwise. ((And here is the mun's personal blog.))

[spellinwaiting]

tumblr giveaway!

reblog this post for your chance to be KIDNAPPED by the BIRD KING!

rules:

only reblogs count

no giveaway blogs

you dont have to be following me

the BIRD KING has not given me the full details on what he plans to do with the person he kidnaps

from what i know, i believe he plans to make you his BIRD QUEEN

or possibly BIRD KING-CONSORT or if you prefer gender-neutral terms then just BIRD CONSORT. it does not matter. the BIRD KING is PANSEXUAL

the giveaway will end WHEN THE BIRD KING DEMANDS IT

leave your inbox open, ill contact the winner on where and when they will be KIDNAPPED by the BIRD KING

good luck!

[aldreaiskillionfalan]

I’m constantly frustrated with posts that show up on my dash from aro or ace support/advice blogs where someone writes in describing their experiences in detail, asking if they’re allowed to ID as ace or aro, and the mod writes back being like “if you don’t experience ___ attraction you could be ___”

Like that is the lest helpful advice ever, and it’s written with the assumption that sexual or romantic attraction or whatever is actually a distinct thing that people can recognize and understand, and that’s total bullshit?

Sexual attraction is a social construct, a big set of feelings and experiences and emotions that ace people have designated as sexual attraction and made the benchmark for asexual identification. Same thing for romantic attraction. They’re not fucking neutral, inherent, objective concepts, and unless someone’s actually been steeped in this community and its language and its posts about attraction and drive and arousal, chances are they won’t automatically know what someone means when they say “you’re ace as long as you don’t experience sexual attraction!” And if they’re looking into aro or ace stuff at all, chances are they already fucking know that ace=no sexual attraction, and are writing into advice blogs looking for something more than a copypasta definition?

Asexual is just one word created to define people who want to identify with this range of maybe less sexual than normal for any given definition of normal and I guarantee you that not every asexual defines sexual attraction the same way, and if you were to somehow find a way of pulling the concepts of sexual attraction straight out of every asexual person’s brain and lining them up for comparison, you would have as many different conceptions of the word as you have people, and that’s okay.

I’ve been IDing as ace for almost two year now, and every day I wonder what sexual attraction is. I’ve been calling myself aro for over a year and I still can’t define romantic attraction on the spot. The way I reached these orientations that are so important to me was by reading comics, headcanons, prose posts about people’s aromantic and asexual experiences, because even if I can’t rattle out a comprehensible definition of sexual or romantic attraction, those descriptions, and these words, resonated with me.

In my perpetually irritated opinion, that’s the kind of advice we need to be giving when people write in asking about asexuality or aromanticism, instead of regurgitating the exact same definition that they’re heard a thousand times before.

[metapianycist]

I have had an asexual identity for thirteen years. I have been steeped in asexual communities (AVEN, multiple offshoots of AVEN, wordpress, tumblr, and mutliple offline groups) since 2004 and I agree 100% with what you have written here. Sexual attraction or lack thereof has never been a thing I could easily define in my life, and my identity as asexual has never been based on it. My identity as asexual has always been about my relationship to sex (I am sex-averse) and about how sexual and romantic attractions (which I am 95% sure I experience) are completely disconnected from my forming partner-relationships because they are not coupled with any kind of motivation to change my behavior or want to be around the person more. My sexual attractions also don’t conflict with that I’m not interested in sex. Every time I see someone say “asexual orientation is about sexual attraction ONLY” or “the definition of asexuality is lack of sexual attraction, not sex repulsion,” I feel a little part of me die inside. Your post is a breath of fresh air.

[wolfytron]

There she is! What i’ve been working on the last few days….. I think I might make more :3

[askcurvoaboutling]

"Led?" Curufinwe responded, mild and curious and the words so distant from his thoughts. "I led you to believe nothing; don’t fault me for making assumptions as to how our business is handled.” Ambarussa had sneered at him recently that the truth had become as foreign to him as these shores were to the Noldor. Perhaps he was right.

Curufinwe had fought with Findaráto before, certainly - while not expected, it was an occurrence that happened in various degrees with some regularity throughout their childhood. Possibly even like this, this cold, this feeling of utter separation. But standing in the midst of this instance, it seemed so utterly estranged from his present state…

Despite the confines of the tent, of his robes insulated against the damp cold of the air, he felt very suddenly exposed, standing too high and unsteady and liable to be toppled by some stray pressure at any given moment. Curling his fingers in tight against his palms, he sat back down himself, legs folding beneath him into the cushions.

Not that he wished, exactly, to be level with his cousin, but it was better than remaining standing. Somehow.

"Macalaure has trust enough in us all to manage our own affairs and not hover with reproaches quick to his tongue, too, for that matter,” he added, so much later.

[findaratoldyouso]

The look Findaráto returned his comments with had come straight from his mother. Unamused and unconvinced and one he had, long ago as a child, spent some time practicing in front of a mirror, though it came naturally enough in response to his cousin. “If that is true then it is to his discredit, to trust one who acts such as you in matters of diplomacy.”

Especially with just how simple, at the moment, Curufinwë was to read. His hands curled as always they used to be in moments of distress or agitation. The too long pause between one phrase and another as though it was work to order out words into sentences. 

The way he had sunk to the cushions with a motion almost distracted for all the lack of purpose with which his cousin had moved. 

Something had gotten to him but Findaráto was not so proud as to assume it was himself. 

[askcurvoaboutling]

His words came out suddenly with a bite. “Oh, yes, poor, incompetent Canafinwe, who clearly cannot play politics, cannot even manage his brothers, nearly so well as Nelyafinwe could, and all because his interests are less inclined to give ground to those pledged to our half-uncle.”

And Curufinwe could see the contempt that Findaráto held in his expression for them - it would always come to this, if they had ever met again; quickly or slowly it would come to assuming that they would have to play nicely, give ground and bow their heads in remorse and resume the diplomacy of false smiles at coerced friends.

He would not.

“Macalaure trusts me, you know. Of all of us, I have helped him the best, in creating what we’ve built here so far from nothing, and he does not give me my leave with foolishness...”

His fingernails had begun to bite into his palms, Curufinwe realised in the moments after he stopped speaking; and there was a twinge and a small ache in his shoulders from holding them so tight. Slowly, hopefully not noticeably, he made an attempt to relax. It felt unnatural.

[findaratoldyouso]

"Oh, stop pretending." It had been naive of him to think they could ever look at each other and not see who they had used to have been. Even as he did what he could to hate Curufinwë, it was his cousin’s face he looked at, the face of a friend who had snuck him notes in tedious classes and sparred with him until their muscles ache. Not the face of murderer and traitor Findaráto knew him to be. And it was exhausting, trying to separate them, trying to see one and not the other. Did his cousin manage it?

Or did he himself have the face of someone Curufinwë would rather forget as well.

Besides, it wasn’t him who had just used an informal diminutive to refer to his Macalaurë, the one whom only minutes ago his cousin had called their king. Was there any worth to masks that could never trick either of them into seeing the dispassionate lords they wished to be?

"I’m sure Káno would hardly enjoy learning that the only reason I’m here is because you led me to believe this was his tent.

[askcurvoaboutling]

"Led?" Curufinwe responded, mild and curious and the words so distant from his thoughts. "I led you to believe nothing; don't fault me for making assumptions as to how our business is handled." Ambarussa had sneered at him recently that the truth had become as foreign to him as these shores were to the Noldor. Perhaps he was right.

Curufinwe had fought with Findaráto before, certainly - while not expected, it was an occurrence that happened in various degrees with some regularity throughout their childhood. Possibly even like this, this cold, this feeling of utter separation. But standing in the midst of this instance, it seemed so utterly estranged from his present state...

Despite the confines of the tent, of his robes insulated against the damp cold of the air, he felt very suddenly exposed, standing too high and unsteady and liable to be toppled by some stray pressure at any given moment. Curling his fingers in tight against his palms, he sat back down himself, legs folding beneath him into the cushions.

Not that he wished, exactly, to be level with his cousin, but it was better than remaining standing. Somehow.

"Macalaure has trust enough in us all to manage our own affairs and not hover with reproaches quick to his tongue, too, for that matter," he added, so much later.

[askcurvoaboutling]

Of course they both knew; of course they both knew that Curufinwe was lying through his teeth in all but the literal meanings of his words; but Findaráto’s refusal to allow any of it irked him still, as though saying, why could his cousin not simply lie down and acquiesce to Curufinwe’s demands? Demands for resources and materials; for loyalty; for reality to match whatever he said.

Perhaps it took losing the power to make those things happen with the force of will and charisma and words, to bring him to such crass blunt force.

"Right, right of course," he murmured, mouth twisting slightly. "I suppose I misspoke for a true meeting between us; it simply feels… dishonest to speak around this notion that Maitimo is of course still alive…”

Before he could speak any further, though, Curufinwe felt a slight touch at the edge of his mind, that of a messenger outside seeking admission, and he turned, wordlessly.

Opening the flap of his tent, Curufinwe saw, indeed, a messenger - one of Macalaure’s, a sharp-faced girl about his own age who’d always had more interest in his brother’s music than in political games. But then, they’d all had to make sacrifices.

"His highness wishes yourself and Lord Findaráto to know that some of his councilors have brought him news that must be addressed urgently, Lord Curufinwe, and that he must delay meeting Lord Findaráto very briefly. He also apologises for the unforseen inconvenience this causes."

Curufinwe doubted his brother had mentioned that last bit rather than his messenger tacking it on herself; or that if he had, it had been any more than a hastily remembered pleasantry rushed out at the end.

But either way he nodded, let the tent flap fall back, and turned with a measuring gaze back to his cousin.

"I assume you heard just as I did," he said lightly.

[findaratoldyouso]

"Still-" It was impossible to finish the sentence, impossible to believe anyone might ever truly speak of his brother in such a manner. If it had been Ango or Náro out there - but then, Findaráto was confident he would have known if they lived or died. How could he miss what he knew would be a death in his own spirit, a cut off connection like a pruned plant?

For all their differences, he knew Curufinwë cared for Maitimo and it was sickening to hear him talk like that. “Are you truly-” But he was cut off as the messenger arrived carrying word from Macalaurë.

Findaráto folded his arms over his chest and fixed his cousin with a suspicious stare as he might have done long before any of this, as if Curufinwë could really have arranged this to be so. This was laughable. Someone ought to be laughing. Clearly not either of them but perhaps that tutor who had assigned them to work together whenever they fought in the classroom.

This seemed to be the sort of situation she would have enjoyed.

Findaráto sank back to the cushions with an ungraceful motion and allowed, finally, a sullen expression to surface. At the moment, at least, there seemed to be no point in pretending to feel anything other than he did. If he looked more like the cousin Curufinwë might remember than the lord of the Third House he should be striving to be, well then his people must forgive him this flaw in his performance.

"How convenient for you," he said with more of a snap than he meant.

Childish. He was being childish and he knew it and still couldn’t muster the will to change it. Curufinwë always did bring out the worst in him.

[askcurvoaboutling]

Despite lacking his cousin's talent at seeing the minds of others, Curufinwe could read it plain on Findaráto's face that he almost wished he could believe Curufinwe had orchestrated the entire present occurrence.

It didn't help him predict what Findaráto would do next, however - what could only be described as thoroughly flopping down onto his cushion.

Are you a child, he almost sneered reflexively, a refrain he would have unthinkingly teased with when they were what seemed now like children - grown harsher and stiffer with the violence done to their spirits. But he held back from speaking at Findaráto's snappish response, drawing himself inward and taller, straight-backed as he looked down and his lips thinned slightly.

"Fine behaviour for a lord and emissary," Curufinwe murmured quietly instead, as though such a thing was any better. He knew it wasn't, certainly, but something in him found it hard to care, entangling itself instead in a selfish irritability. "King or no, Káno would hardly enjoy learning you've acted like this to hear he must postpone your discussion."

[askcurvoaboutling]

Curufinwe raised an eyebrow. This, he was familiar with; this was already-tread ground he could retrace his steps on across the worn path, like how he’d follow Tyelkormo’s footsteps while hunting through the wood as a child.

(A bad sign, that he should be inclined to compare himself now to a child; the person he had been several years prior to his elder brother. But he would deal with that later, when he was alone with his thoughts and whatever work needed doing, and not standing before his cousin. His cousin with exceptional skills at reading others.)

"I must admit I find interest in how you insist on the king taking certain actions toward you,” he said. And he did, in fact, manage a tone of mild and polite curiosity; he was getting better, somewhat, even if in fits and stops. “His lordship has many tasks he must attend to; surely you would understand that in his stead he might send a representative of comparable rank to your own.”

Curufinwe had the curious sense, then, that something was slipping from between his fingers. But he could never manage to identify the sources of such things, and this one was not pressing enough that he wished to try.

[findaratoldyouso]

Findaráto took a step towards the tent’s opening and so, unfortunately, a step toward Curufinwë himself. He thought of a dozen clever things to say about his cousin seeming desperate to keep him here, and a dozen different smiles to say them with, but he dropped them all. They didn’t have time for this. His men were still outside the tent in a semi-hostile camp and he no longer was in a position to throw barbs.

Beside, they all sounded more like words that would come from Curufinwë’s mouth than his.

"There is no king in this camp," Findaráto said instead, pinching his sleeves between his fingers. "Or has your brother taken the title since I’ve arrived? I suppose he might prefer it to regent, but Macalaurë never seemed the type to begrudge Maitimo his birthright."

Unlike you, Findaráto did not say, though nor did he mask his thoughts.

"And even did we share a comparable rank, and we no longer do,” though he wished they did, how Findaráto wished they did, “we both know your brother did not send you treat with me for him.”

[askcurvoaboutling]

Of course they both knew; of course they both knew that Curufinwe was lying through his teeth in all but the literal meanings of his words; but Findaráto's refusal to allow any of it irked him still, as though saying, why could his cousin not simply lie down and acquiesce to Curufinwe's demands? Demands for resources and materials; for loyalty; for reality to match whatever he said.

Perhaps it took losing the power to make those things happen with the force of will and charisma and words, to bring him to such crass blunt force.

"Right, right of course," he murmured, mouth twisting slightly. "I suppose I misspoke for a true meeting between us; it simply feels... dishonest to speak around this notion that Maitimo is of course still alive..."

Before he could speak any further, though, Curufinwe felt a slight touch at the edge of his mind, that of a messenger outside seeking admission, and he turned, wordlessly.

Opening the flap of his tent, Curufinwe saw, indeed, a messenger - one of Macalaure's, a sharp-faced girl about his own age who'd always had more interest in his brother's music than in political games. But then, they'd all had to make sacrifices.

"His highness wishes yourself and Lord Findaráto to know that some of his councilors have brought him news that must be addressed urgently, Lord Curufinwe, and that he must delay meeting Lord Findaráto very briefly. He also apologises for the unforseen inconvenience this causes."

Curufinwe doubted his brother had mentioned that last bit rather than his messenger tacking it on herself; or that if he had, it had been any more than a hastily remembered pleasantry rushed out at the end.

But either way he nodded, let the tent flap fall back, and turned with a measuring gaze back to his cousin.

"I assume you heard just as I did," he said lightly.

[askcurvoaboutling]

So you say, when you have not seen the insides of our council meetings, have not seen what happens when there’s a lull in the tasks to be completed, have not seen how our strongest leaders now are only barely of my father’s blood.

Those were the words that urged themselves against Curufinwe’s lips, wishing to spill themselves in a torrent from his mouth the way he could not bear in the company of any of his own house. (Tyelkormo, whose hands had guided him through the weakening of his fea to near-uselessness, but who worried and doubted and felt all too much for Curufinwe to present anything but certainty, the image of their father’s fire… Macalaure who needed planners, Moryo and Pityo who needed reminders of just what they had sworn and why…)

None of this he gave an indication of to Findaráto, though. Crossing his arms before his chest (a weak posture, yes, yes he knew, but the world was too light and he needed to feel something solid, and there was precious little else to turn to), he looked up to his cousin’s face, though not focusing too finely on any one detail.

"More mind-reading?" he asked, though he knew full well it was simply his damned ordinary way of reading a person behind his statement this time. "Tsk tsk, cousin. More subtle than the last though, so credit I can give where I suppose is due. Is that one of the things I can offer?"

But a pang of dissatisfaction twitched in Curufinwe at the last glib word, and his eyes slid from Findaráto’s face, and he added a moment later - amended - “No, I take your meaning; there are goods and services each of our camps can surely offer the other. And it would be advantageous I’m sure to come to some sort of accord since you are here.”

[findaratoldyouso]

"Advantageous indeed." Findaráto folded his hands inside his sleeves and let his mask drop slightly. Hiding his exhaustion from Curufinwë would only tire him further and his cousin was sharp enough that he would already have known. If not from him, then from the men with whom he had rode into camp. And yet, perhaps it was a worse idea than he had thought - the moment he stopped attempting to appear as strong and hale as he wished he was, he felt his own fatigue more deeply.

Valar, but he wanted to lie down in his tent and just sleep. 

He hadn’t asked for this.

"But it is an accord I must negotiate with the Lord Kanafinwë Macalaurë, and not his younger brother.” He remembered, when they were small, how they had played at being kings and Curufinwë had always declared that he was the most fit of all his brothers to be heir to his father. Of course, the moment his cousin had been old enough to understand the full implication of those words, he had stopped speaking them - at least, stopped saying such in front of Findaráto.

He wondered if Curufinwë still believed it. 

[askcurvoaboutling]

Curufinwe raised an eyebrow. This, he was familiar with; this was already-tread ground he could retrace his steps on across the worn path, like how he'd follow Tyelkormo's footsteps while hunting through the wood as a child.

(A bad sign, that he should be inclined to compare himself now to a child; the person he had been several years prior to his elder brother. But he would deal with that later, when he was alone with his thoughts and whatever work needed doing, and not standing before his cousin. His cousin with exceptional skills at reading others.)

"I must admit I find interest in how you insist on the king taking certain actions toward you," he said. And he did, in fact, manage a tone of mild and polite curiosity; he was getting better, somewhat, even if in fits and stops. "His lordship has many tasks he must attend to; surely you would understand that in his stead he might send a representative of comparable rank to your own."

Curufinwe had the curious sense, then, that something was slipping from between his fingers. But he could never manage to identify the sources of such things, and this one was not pressing enough that he wished to try.

[askcurvoaboutling]

His intent, reflexive rather than conscious as it had been, was offense, or close to it - distancing himself, distracting his cousin with anger at a facsimile of composure and control wearing Curufinwe’s face.

But some connection between them, likewise below explicit thought or evaluation, that nonetheless had grown between them through a century of companionship and left Curufinwe with an intuitive sense of Findaráto’s moods - it pulled away at the threads of the facade he’d begun to knit, until it was quite near unraveled.

"No, no I suppose I don’t," he murmured. He blinked, tilting his head slightly and glancing down the length of Findaráto’s robes. Not subjected to much use; but somewhat stiff and with the remainder of creases lining the fabric along with its pattern.

"I suppose ultimately we have little to offer at all."

[findaratoldyouso]

Findaráto, though he would deny it if such a thing was brought up, stood straighter and lifted his chin under Curufinwë’s scrutiny. He wondered what it was his cousin was searching for. A moment later, though, and he glanced down, casting his gaze around the tent.

If he stared too long at Curufinwë when he looked so dejected, nearly soft, he might begin to miss him. Or if not miss him, take an exercise in nostalgia and miss a friendship that Findaráto felt had long since dissolved in bloodied sea. But Findaráto had only ever had a couple close friends. Many friends, yes, and many people whose company he enjoyed - but so few did he ever let in when his mood was less than perfect, less than high.

And Turukáno was a wreck now, as hollowed as Curufinwë looked now and whose attention was focused on his daughter only. His grief demanded comfort, and Findaráto was eager to offer to it, but he was just selfish enough that he missed a friend who was still whole enough to offer some back in return. 

Give it time, he’d told Irissë, and give it time, Aikanáro told him, but in the meantime it was lonely and if it left him weak enough that he might soften towards Curufinwë, well, it was unacceptable. 

"You have more to offer than you think."

[askcurvoaboutling]

So you say, when you have not seen the insides of our council meetings, have not seen what happens when there's a lull in the tasks to be completed, have not seen how our strongest leaders now are only barely of my father's blood.

Those were the words that urged themselves against Curufinwe's lips, wishing to spill themselves in a torrent from his mouth the way he could not bear in the company of any of his own house. (Tyelkormo, whose hands had guided him through the weakening of his fea to near-uselessness, but who worried and doubted and felt all too much for Curufinwe to present anything but certainty, the image of their father's fire... Macalaure who needed planners, Moryo and Pityo who needed reminders of just what they had sworn and why...)

None of this he gave an indication of to Findaráto, though. Crossing his arms before his chest (a weak posture, yes, yes he knew, but the world was too light and he needed to feel something solid, and there was precious little else to turn to), he looked up to his cousin's face, though not focusing too finely on any one detail.

"More mind-reading?" he asked, though he knew full well it was simply his damned ordinary way of reading a person behind his statement this time. "Tsk tsk, cousin. More subtle than the last though, so credit I can give where I suppose is due. Is that one of the things I can offer?"

But a pang of dissatisfaction twitched in Curufinwe at the last glib word, and his eyes slid from Findaráto's face, and he added a moment later - amended - "No, I take your meaning; there are goods and services each of our camps can surely offer the other. And it would be advantageous I'm sure to come to some sort of accord since you are here."

[askcurvoaboutling]

There had been a time - many times, in fact, though none of them recent enough to feel such - when Findaráto so taken by surprised to show it clearly on his face would have been one of Curufinwe’s greatest simple delights. But emotions had become difficult; outside stimuli penetrating the shell he’d retreated into an unpredictable occurrence at best.

He looked down, to the side (not to focus on any detail of the cushions or cloths or the small table, but more to remove the too-distracting presence of his cousin from his direct line of sight), and moved his fingers in a small, rapid wave. “That was… not my intention.” It had simply occurred, as something to say; and a moment too late, his thoughts caught up to him, and he realised that even though it was not true, he would have been better off claiming it was a joke regardless.

Curufinwe forced himself to look back up again, stilling his hands and drawing them together in a mirror of Findaráto’s. “Not my intention, but I suppose yes, I did,” he amended. It was weak, he knew, but he could think of little else to salvage the situation. “Will you take offense at humour, as well?”

[findaratoldyouso]

Findaráto felt something inside him loosen at Curufinwë’s admission, not something he cared to acknowledge, but it felt a relief all the same. Something eased in his chest and allowed his breath to be slightly deeper and while he wasn’t about to smile, something might have softened in his face-

only for him to tense up again at his cousin’s addition. He’d always done that. Always taunted until, when they were little, someone was crying (often Turukáno) and someone was shouting (invariably Angaráto) before scoffing and uttering “offense” as if to take or show such a thing was a sign of weakness. As if the offense was the fault of the person who bore it rather than the person who gave it.

But it was different now. Curufinwë looked exhausted, dulled, so far from the smug person Findaráto remembered. Broken in some deep way and it was becoming difficult to hold on to his anger. “Only if you offer it.”

[askcurvoaboutling]

His intent, reflexive rather than conscious as it had been, was offense, or close to it - distancing himself, distracting his cousin with anger at a facsimile of composure and control wearing Curufinwe's face.

But some connection between them, likewise below explicit thought or evaluation, that nonetheless had grown between them through a century of companionship and left Curufinwe with an intuitive sense of Findaráto's moods - it pulled away at the threads of the facade he'd begun to knit, until it was quite near unraveled.

"No, no I suppose I don't," he murmured. He blinked, tilting his head slightly and glancing down the length of Findaráto's robes. Not subjected to much use; but somewhat stiff and with the remainder of creases lining the fabric along with its pattern.

"I suppose ultimately we have little to offer at all."

[askcurvoaboutling]

Always that gesture of his hands; compulsive, perhaps, in the way that Curufinwe’s fingers had always needed something to tangle around when he sat idle as a child. But no, being now the lord Arafinwion would hardly diminish his cousin’s impulse to make himself always more spotless, poised, the perfect diplomat - even when the crack in his mask had come from words, rather than wrinkled clothes.

The piece of Curufinwe’s mind that had taken to hovering above his immediate experience, providing each action he took with a charmingly poor evaluation, had apparently decided that it was a suitable time to note how Curufinwe himself, of all people, was in little place to disparage others’ poor diplomacy. Findaráto, at least, had the grace to admit it. Curufinwe was not even certain it was pride stilling his tongue in that matter; surely he felt he had little left to his presence, and what he retained was best kept for his men, and not his cousin.

No, it was simply that the movements of his fea to form the words, the gestures, were so stiff, rusted, unpractised, that it would have been futile attempting to access them at all.

He did not shift, at all, when Findaráto stood. More like an ill-carved statue than a person, or so he felt. But was he finished? Curufinwe could scarce name why he had begun; so aimless, he could hardly identify an appropriate endpoint.

"We did have quite a number of things packed into our cargo holds," Curufinwe stated flatly, after a few moments of silence. "Perhaps you didn’t keep close enough accounting of them, and our courtesies have been unpacked from their chests in some other part of our camp."

[findaratoldyouso]

Findaráto moved his arms as if to wrap them around his middle for his own comfort but caught himself, shifting hands into sleeves and holding them loosely in front of him. Curufinwë was becoming something strange in front of him, something too solid, as if he were stuck in his own corporality and the smart thing to do would be to take advantage of it. Take advantage of his cousin’s inability to to perform politics and brush past him with cold, polite words and go to find Makalaurë himself.

But had he ever been able to treat Curufinwë with such satisfied distance? Even when angry, he’d only ever been at his worst, feeling too close, to enmired to step back from the situation and choose a wise course of speech or action. Always with Curufinwë, he was standing too close.

And, unlikely as it was, his cousin saved him from making the choice by speaking up and for a moment Findaráto couldn’t make sense of what he said. But- he stared at Curufinwë, pretenses dropped in his astonished expression. Had he-

"Did you just make a joke?”

[askcurvoaboutling]

There had been a time - many times, in fact, though none of them recent enough to feel such - when Findaráto so taken by surprised to show it clearly on his face would have been one of Curufinwe's greatest simple delights. But emotions had become difficult; outside stimuli penetrating the shell he'd retreated into an unpredictable occurrence at best.

He looked down, to the side (not to focus on any detail of the cushions or cloths or the small table, but more to remove the too-distracting presence of his cousin from his direct line of sight), and moved his fingers in a small, rapid wave. "That was... not my intention." It had simply occurred, as something to say; and a moment too late, his thoughts caught up to him, and he realised that even though it was not true, he would have been better off claiming it was a joke regardless.

Curufinwe forced himself to look back up again, stilling his hands and drawing them together in a mirror of Findaráto's. "Not my intention, but I suppose yes, I did," he amended. It was weak, he knew, but he could think of little else to salvage the situation. "Will you take offense at humour, as well?"

[askcurvoaboutling]

He did, of course. How could he believe anything else, when the very beginning of this nightmare had been his half-uncle whispering in his grandfather’s ear that Feánaro was no true son; stating it publicly in words and deeds and finally taking the kingship for himself, supported by all but Feánaro’s most loyal?

How could his mind allow him to believe anything else, when his father had so quickly burned away in a dying breath, burned Curufinwë’s spirit so that he still cringed and pulled away from the touch, even when his body had healed from its external wounds.

But that answer might have been hard to find - the fierce wall of conviction easy enough, for how centrally it occupied his thoughts as they spoke; but the reasons, the weaknesses that left Curufinwë as starved and prickly as the Helcaraxë had his cousin before him, those he’d buried in twists and turns and misdirecting rhetoric. And with Findaráto’s prod at his mind - ! Even the anger burning atop his conviction sputtered as Curufinwë jerked, startled near to a spooked horse, took a step away from his cousin as he shoved instinctively back, throwing up the crudest and most blunt of barriers, that any other time he would have been ashamed to produce.

"I’ve given you no consent to rifle through my mind like that!” Curufinwë declared, as though the sudden shield hadn’t been communication enough. “And you think such behaviour is fitting in one - “

He clamped his mouth shut mid-sentence, words piling up inside his mouth and down his throat. In one who thought he would speak with our king, Curufinwë had intended, but miserable as he was he did not yet lack the self-awareness that at the very least, taking it upon himself to refuse Ñolofinwë’s diplomat’s meeting with Macalaurë could have been tantamount to a declaration of re-inflamed hostilities. And that was a step he could not take, not like this.

Silently, Curufinwë stepped back further, staring down at Findárato, until his heels brushed the edges of his cushions.

[findaratoldyouso]

Findaráto jerked back, in his mind away from those barriers (had he ever known his cousin to create anything so crude?) and physically on his cushion. He never reached anything more than Curufinwë’s conviction, his clouded belief, nor did he search for more. That was one boundary, at least, he would not attempt to cross. I’m sorry, he almost said, catching the words in his throat and swallowing them back. He had never thought he would be the type to mistake compassion for weakness but now he wondered if he had been naive. 

He had also never thought himself to be the type who would probe at minds without asking leave, either.

But then, he had never thought his cousin to be the type to… well, if he dwelled, he risked sentimentality and then further compassion and then, perhaps, further weakness. 

"It is ill befitting," Findaráto allowed himself to say, though, quietly and in agreement. "But it seems we’ve left courtesies as well as moral obligations somewhere back at the shores of the West." He stood and drew his hands over the front of his robes, smoothing out wrinkles that had not yet had a chance to form. "Are you finished, then?"

[askcurvoaboutling]

Always that gesture of his hands; compulsive, perhaps, in the way that Curufinwe's fingers had always needed something to tangle around when he sat idle as a child. But no, being now the lord Arafinwion would hardly diminish his cousin's impulse to make himself always more spotless, poised, the perfect diplomat - even when the crack in his mask had come from words, rather than wrinkled clothes.

The piece of Curufinwe's mind that had taken to hovering above his immediate experience, providing each action he took with a charmingly poor evaluation, had apparently decided that it was a suitable time to note how Curufinwe himself, of all people, was in little place to disparage others' poor diplomacy. Findaráto, at least, had the grace to admit it. Curufinwe was not even certain it was pride stilling his tongue in that matter; surely he felt he had little left to his presence, and what he retained was best kept for his men, and not his cousin.

No, it was simply that the movements of his fea to form the words, the gestures, were so stiff, rusted, unpractised, that it would have been futile attempting to access them at all.

He did not shift, at all, when Findaráto stood. More like an ill-carved statue than a person, or so he felt. But was he finished? Curufinwe could scarce name why he had begun; so aimless, he could hardly identify an appropriate endpoint.

"We did have quite a number of things packed into our cargo holds," Curufinwe stated flatly, after a few moments of silence. "Perhaps you didn't keep close enough accounting of them, and our courtesies have been unpacked from their chests in some other part of our camp."

[askcurvoaboutling]

So uh... hi everybody! :D

I know, right, a post? After like, a year??? What is this nonsense??????

Well, yes, a post. For technicality's sake, yep, I am going to be posting on here somewhat again.

It's probably not going to be super frequent, and it's probably not going to be that many threads or anything. Long story short, public RPing with lots of different people was fun to try out for a while, but ultimately is more stressful to me than fun.

So I am still going to have a thread or a few going, from now on - the Lake Mithrim one with findaratoldyouso, particularly, since continuing that is actually the specific motivation for why I'm on here to begin with. If I know you/we talk to each other in other contexts/on my main blog, and you want to start up a thread (or possibly continue old ones that got dropped? I literally do not remember what they were though off the top of my head so it's a tossup how well that would work), I'm fine with setting something up if you've got ideas you want to poke me with. That's about it though - there are lots of reasons why, but the sum of it basically boils down to "wrangling my brain is hard work and I don't have the energy or desire to try and rp the way I did a year or two ago".

Oh - I am still up for having Curufin answer asks, too, but any of those will probably depend on the inscrutable ways of my schedule and how much my brain hates me on any given day, when it comes to how fast they'll be answered.

Soooo... yup, that's about it. Happy Silmaril-hunting everyone; and remember to deliver to Curufin on discovery or else you'll get threatening letters in the mail! n_____n

[findaratoldyouso]

For a bizarre moment, Findaráto thought he had reached his cousin after all. Convinced him and it sounded as though Curufinwë were arguing his own point for him. But even in that moment Findaráto was too taken aback to enjoy even a form of hope that might have arose from it and the moment later, he realized how wrong he was.

No, it wasn’t agreement in which Curufinwë spoke, but the purest hypocrisy he’d ever had the displeasure of coming face to face with. He scarcely knew how to respond, and just how blind, how delusional, had his cousin become?

"You speak of your own liege!" he sputtered. It had been the high king who had sent them to so many of their deaths over a petty feud with his brother and not Nolofinwë.

[askcurvoaboutling]

As his cousin sputtered - could he not even argue his own point without tripping over words; was that how pathetically he tried to convince himself what he wished to believe? - Curufinwe let a furious hiss from between his teeth.

"My father has paid our victory with his own death, not his people’s,” he spat, taking a step forward so that he stood looming above his cousin. Findaráto had always been the taller, even if only by the slightest hair; and Curufinwe took a small pleasure at the greater stature accorded him by their relative positions.

"All of ours dead have been at the hand of the Valar; and all yours from the choices of the man they chose to follow instead of their true king. Do not blame my father for your own follies and regrets, my lord”

[findaratoldyouso]

Findaráto’s chest clenched and he rocked forward and back, and rarely did he feel so impotent as he did now. How could he reason with his cousin when Curufinwë closed his eyes against anything he did not wish to see? Such false conviction and hypocritical satisfaction and all Findaráto wanted to do was do something to unleash the tightening in his stomach and chest, the tenseness that made it hurt to breath. His entire body was the ache that settled in one’s throat when one was attempting not to release a sob.

What would it be like, he wondered, to punch his cousin right now?

Instead he pushed forward with his mind, probing rudely (and why not - they’d already broken every other rule of courtesy) around the curves of Curufinwë’s - a familar one he knew how to parse. Only wishing to find, only searching for, a single answer: Did Curufinwë truly believed all he said?

Findaráto wasn’t sure what he hoped the answer would be. Perhaps it would be a relief if his cousin shielded himself so that he would find no answer.

[askcurvoaboutling]

He did, of course. How could he believe anything else, when the very beginning of this nightmare had been his half-uncle whispering in his grandfather's ear that Feánaro was no true son; stating it publicly in words and deeds and finally taking the kingship for himself, supported by all but Feánaro's most loyal?

How could his mind allow him to believe anything else, when his father had so quickly burned away in a dying breath, burned Curufinwë's spirit so that he still cringed and pulled away from the touch, even when his body had healed from its external wounds.

But that answer might have been hard to find - the fierce wall of conviction easy enough, for how centrally it occupied his thoughts as they spoke; but the reasons, the weaknesses that left Curufinwë as starved and prickly as the Helcaraxë had his cousin before him, those he'd buried in twists and turns and misdirecting rhetoric. And with Findaráto's prod at his mind - ! Even the anger burning atop his conviction sputtered as Curufinwë jerked, startled near to a spooked horse, took a step away from his cousin as he shoved instinctively back, throwing up the crudest and most blunt of barriers, that any other time he would have been ashamed to produce.

"I've given you no consent to rifle through my mind like that!" Curufinwë declared, as though the sudden shield hadn't been communication enough. "And you think such behaviour is fitting in one - "

He clamped his mouth shut mid-sentence, words piling up inside his mouth and down his throat. In one who thought he would speak with our king, Curufinwë had intended, but miserable as he was he did not yet lack the self-awareness that at the very least, taking it upon himself to refuse Ñolofinwë's diplomat's meeting with Macalaurë could have been tantamount to a declaration of re-inflamed hostilities. And that was a step he could not take, not like this.

Silently, Curufinwë stepped back further, staring down at Findárato, until his heels brushed the edges of his cushions.

[askcurvoaboutling]

It should be well-known to any who traces my father’s work in the creation of the tengwar scripts, or the history of our linguistic tradition more broadly, that the primacy of the consonant as the signifier of a syllable or a morpheme, is an idea whose origins can be found in Valarin discourse with our lambengolmor regarding language.

The Ñoldor of course have further developed this notion and encoded it nearly to the extent of a fundamental assumption in our linguistic practise, aided by the particular phonological structure of our own Quenya. Nonetheless investigating other languages reveals that these unspoken truths are rather but a set of hypotheses which may be proven or disproven as the case may be, with more basis in ideology to do with definition, hierarchy, classification, and changeability, than in empirical evidence.

One of the most curious (and to my mind, irritating) consequences of this teaching is that, far from losing its origin in the minds of the lambengolmor in Beleriand, the recognition that this was a “wisdom” imparted from the Valar remained - and was then used, once some of my own research as given permission was distributed to the wider community of linguistic scholars, to bolster the myth linking Aule with the deities, language, and history of the Casari.

Quite frankly I am offended at the misuse of my own writings for this purpose, and would like to register my lack of concurrence with any such position; it is entirely absurd and pays no respect to either the linguistic understanding of the Casallie as regards their own language, nor to the overall principles of linguistic diversity in the structuring of syllabic units or phonologies.

[askcurvoaboutling]

(sometimes I will write headcanon posts in the form of Curufin explaining you a thing. I apologise for his... Curufin-ness :P except for when I don't.)

[askcurvoaboutling]

It should be well-known to any who traces my father's work in the creation of the tengwar scripts, or the history of our linguistic tradition more broadly, that the primacy of the consonant as the signifier of a syllable or a morpheme, is an idea whose origins can be found in Valarin discourse with our lambengolmor regarding language.

The Ñoldor of course have further developed this notion and encoded it nearly to the extent of a fundamental assumption in our linguistic practise, aided by the particular phonological structure of our own Quenya. Nonetheless investigating other languages reveals that these unspoken truths are rather but a set of hypotheses which may be proven or disproven as the case may be, with more basis in ideology to do with definition, hierarchy, classification, and changeability, than in empirical evidence.

One of the most curious (and to my mind, irritating) consequences of this teaching is that, far from losing its origin in the minds of the lambengolmor in Beleriand, the recognition that this was a "wisdom" imparted from the Valar remained - and was then used, once some of my own research as given permission was distributed to the wider community of linguistic scholars, to bolster the myth linking Aule with the deities, language, and history of the Casari.

Quite frankly I am offended at the misuse of my own writings for this purpose, and would like to register my lack of concurrence with any such position; it is entirely absurd and pays no respect to either the linguistic understanding of the Casallie as regards their own language, nor to the overall principles of linguistic diversity in the structuring of syllabic units or phonologies.

[omgthatdress]

Necklace

Cartier, 1949

Sotheby’s