5. Is it better to hurt others before they hurt you or let yourself be walked all over and hurt by others?
Certainly the former. For those that would do you ill, it is all but a mandatory to prevent their power over you, through whatever means best suit the task. Making a victim of yourself because others think passivity and appeasement more virtuous will win you nothing in life but more misery.
9. Can people be held accountable for things people close or related to them did or are they innocent?
While such individuals can hardly be expected to take upon themselves a full share of the blame for their kinsmen’s actions, neither are they wholly blameless. Blood and fear are entwined among those who share familial bonds; you are a part of them and they of you, and to act otherwise ignores the laws of nature and of society.
19. What is more likely a thought to you – that this world is wrong or that you are wrong?
The world is full of a great many people who have made a great many errors, whether small or grave. If that were truly in question, Arda’s state would be much diverged from what we see before us now.
Hi! I was curious to know what your headcanons for the feanorian wives were, since, well, headcanons are all we have, and yours tend to be awesome. Thanks, and I hope you have a nice day :)
(Some of the sons of Fëanor were married. The only place where Tolkien sees fit to mention this is in Peoples of Middle-earth, where Curufin's wife gets one line of description: "[Celebrimbor’s]mother had refused to take part in the rebellion of Fëanor and remained in Aman with the people of Finarphin" and the others get even less: "Others who were wedded were Maelor [=Maglor], Caranthir.")
Gee, Tolkien, thanks. I do tend to treat thatthrowaway line as true, because yay, more women in the mix, but it gives us precious little to work with. So, here you go, headcanons:
Maglor's wife is Avarin-pretending-to-be-Sinda-because-it's-safer and the elected leader of a coalition of nomadic tribes who gravitate toward the Feanorians around Lake Mithrim and eventually vote to follow them east. They meet via her girlfriend, who made a brief appearance in And One Man and who they're both sleeping with on-and-off throughout the Age.
She's hella gay, but this doesn't matter, because in her society selecting the person you want to commit to raising children with is totally separate from who you're attracted to, and in fact choosing to marry someone because you are attracted to them would be profoundly irresponsible. (They have no sex life to speak of but they have an erotic music arrangement that is very mutually satisfying). They're actually adorably compassionate toward, healthy for and supportive of each other, though they end up spending large chunks of the Age apart for political reasons. I don't think they have any kids.
She hates hates hates Thingol for tragic backstory reasons and is a major agitator for the Second Kinslaying. She dies about two months after it of injuries sustained during the fighting.
Caranthir's wife is a Dwarf of Nogrod. They meet at trade negotiations, a few hundred years in once he's outgrown his reflexive prejudice and something of his tendency to be an asshole. They argue each other hoarse and the first time they have sex they've both managed to convince themselves they're doing it to gain an advantage in negotiations. The next couple times that excuse becomes less and less plausible. They both sort of figured they wouldn't give it a label, until the kids were born (Dwarves; because of Aule's modifications for resilience half-Elven, half-Dwarven children are indistinguishable from Dwarves) and then they decided they've retroactively been married for a hundred years. It's their marriage celebration that Celegorm and Curufin are at when Aredhel arrives.
Their kids - two daughters and one who is agender - are killed by Beren and Dior at the ambush at Sarn Athrad. She was too old to go, and dies in the subsequent flight of the Dwarves from Nogrod to Khazad-dum.
For Curufin's wife I have wholesale stolen James' Hyellinde and all of the associated Tatyarin tribal politics in which her decisions make sense; suffice it to say I didn't want her to fit into the same 'wise, virtuous woman who serves as a taming influence on her husband and is left behind by him when the author needs him to start making bad decisions' model and I was delighted that other people in the fandom didn't love that idea either.
(Explanation: I asked for a couple fic prompts, a while ago, in the hopes that they'd prod my brain into writing a bit again. It.... sort of worked? Points for completion, I suppose; fewer for timeliness. Ah well.)
------
Just as when he was a child, one of the few times when Tyelperinquar stilled completely - movement ceasing in his legs, his curious eyes, restless hands - was when Hyellinde sat him down before her to twist his hair into braids.
He was too big now, to sit in her lap, and so instead he rested against the sofa, at her feet. The pressure of his back against the cushion tugged slightly at the pine-green silk of her skirts between them; Hyellinde's fingers parted small sections of Tyelpe's spill of black curls to pull them untangled with a wide-toothed comb, carved blackwwod inlaid with tourmalines.
Though if to appearances he was calm, she could nonetheless still sense the ever-present brush of her son's mind, thoughts swelling in and then receding, as lightly buffeting waves of the Araman lakes in summer. He'd always had trouble containing them - these ever-present wandering fragments of his fea. Hyellinde had become used to it, early, and if any person at court found the trait unseemly in one past childhood (even one still recently new to a second hroa), he should assuredly take greater precautions with such thoughts than any other, in the vicinity of his Princess.
But even so... just as her son's physical form had outgrown her ability to hold him in her lap, the wonderings and worries of his mind had likewise grown, grown beyond her ability to satisfy or soothe with a few words, a hand at his shoulder, an embrace. Silent, she wove several sections of hair together, just above his ear. Deft and careful, as though setting his appearance in order might do the same for his thoughts. (She knew it wouldn't, but it was a small comfort nonetheless.)
Hyellinde felt his thoughts turn toward her, intent to pull at her attention, before or perhaps to a greater extent than she even heard the words that did so as well.
"Amil?" His eyes were open now, the same clear grey like his father's; the same rich dark as her own family's brown. He looked off into the distant edge of the room though, rather than up at her.
"Hmm?"
"There are people saying I wished to recreate Valinor in the Outer Lands," he murmured. A fragment of the story, but Hyellinde could fill in the context.
She did not reply for a moment, after he spoke, conjuring the image in her mind's eye of the Valimar noblemen and servants of the holy in their bright-painted, hollow-walled palaces; the Valandur in Tirion's marketplace streets; even the reborn Exiles, followers of the younger Finwean princes, who persisted in misunderstanding such things even after so many centuries.
"A pity," she said then, finally, carefully worded, "that these people are so lacking in imaginative power, that they can only presume that a desire to preserve life and beauty must be an imitation of something external imposed upon the Quendi."
It was Tyelperinquar’s turn to be silent. Though she knew it was in all likelihood not best for either of them, Hyellinde could not help but compare these silences since he’d returned to those of his childhood. Once curious, watchful, wary; now… hard to say. A commonality among the re-embodied though, she knew well enough, and those links had reformed the landscape of Aman’s population since the Exiles had begun returning in numbers.
“I hope that isn’t what I start hearing next from the councils and debate halls,” came her son’s voice then, flatter than his earlier murmurs. His head had bowed slightly; she could see the curve hinting at a furrow in his brow.
Hyellinde's breath caught briefly in her throat; her fingers stilled in place. She made a reflexive touch of her mind to Tyelpe's - and felt as she took a step back once more that she might as well have walked into some nest of spiders' webbing, sticky and tangled.
The harms he'd suffered had clearly left their seals upon his mind, his trust, likely more even than upon his body. And she'd suspected long enough that Lord Namo's claims to heal the former were made in grave ignorance, if not worse.
Hyellinde could build herself a dynasty, certainly, but building up a child, she'd not attempted since she was scarce beyond childhood herself. (And failed, oh how she'd failed. - But no, she had decided when she'd petitioned, this would not be something to dwell on.)
"You are - " she bit her lip " - You are one I would never think to use as a tool of politics, yonya."
She only hoped, with the honest words, accompanied by the solid contact of her fea to his, that he would understand.
Happy very very very belated birthday, James! I have been remiss, but your present is actually finished now, so I hope you enjoy it and have a very nice year generally. Well, whatever’s left of it.
Well, you got this in about the same time I also received a present from one of my aunts, so absolutely no shame here! Thank you so, so much for being awesome in general and THIS FIC ESPECIALLY IN PARTICULAR!!!! It is amazing and lovely, the characterisation and use of words and implication is stunning, and it is absolutely beautiful. Thank you so so much <3
...And to everyone else - go! read! now! :D If you like Feanorians, my OCs, transhumanism, politics, rebellion against the heavens, reimbodiment fic, stunning relationships and character development.... basically, probably any reason you're following me! Reaaaadddd iiiiiittttt :DDDD
Curufinwë lazily surveys the room – the mosaics, the hanging lamps, the richly dressed conspirators. At his left, Maitimo rubs his eyes and looks away from the window. The moon is very large tonight, and even his pale glow is harsh and unfamiliar after their long confinement. Nerdanel turns a lump of clay over and over in her fingers. From time to time, her hands or her eyes wander to the empty chair at her right. His throat tightens.
A key turns in a lock, and Aicasáme slips inside. He inclines his head, almost deferential. “Sister.”
“Brother.”
Aicasáme’s always had a way of smiling as if she’d made a very clever joke and doesn’t mean to let you in on it. He’d told Tyelkormo, once, predicting his reaction – don’t you know, little brother, you’re just the same? – and they’d laughed together. Centuries ago, now, but he still finds the expression distasteful. Especially when directed at him. Curufinwë realizes that he has been worrying his cloak in his hands, and folds them on the table. In doing so, he looks up.
Hyellindë is standing in the doorway. She inclines her head. “Lady Nerdanel, it’s been too long.”
“Mhmm. My apologies, I’ve been busy.” Nerdanel waves a hand at her sons. Ambarussa smiles, and Maitimo runs his fingers over his palm. Curufinwë is suddenly aware of the weight of his limbs, the clay and enamel identical at first glance to real flesh. Embodiment on the cheap. “I hope my absence has caused no difficulty in carrying out your instructions?”
“No, my lady. None at all.”
The one chair empty – save for Fëanáro’s – is between Curufinwë and Aicasáme. Hyellindë seats herself beside her sister, and leans over to whisper something in her ear. It’s all Curufinwë can do to conceal his shock when Aicasáme giggles. For how long have they been on such terms?
Maitimo clears his throat and shuffles the papers in front of him. His little brothers straighten their backs, and fall silent. It’s sense memory, the signal from centuries of war councils – Ambarussa, cease that chattering, Carnistir, none of your back-talk, I don’t care what that is, Tyelkormo, but for Eru’s sake keep it outside. Time for business, boys. Curufinwë leans over the table and tries not to look his wife in the eyes.
“I realize that you must have very many questions,” Nerdanel begins. She’s interrupted almost immediately by the plaintive chorus – “How did you find us?”, “Why now, mother, why bring us back?”, “What of father?”, “How long have we been dead?”.
She clears her throat. “Almost three thousand years, as measured by Anár’s orbit. The recovery of the soul from Mandos is a complex process. I’d been working on alternatives to re-embodiement since the War, but until recently, we had little cause to think the risk worth taking.
“What changed?” Curufinwë’s tone is detached, almost clinical.
“Aicasáme, if you would – ?”
She nods. “After the War of Wrath –“ She glances at Curufinwë, Tyelkormo, and Carnisitir in turn. Each nods, Maitimo’s briefed them. “After the War of Wrath, the Valar in their wisdom decided to reward the remaining Edain with a magic island – please don’t ask, I understand it as well as any of you - in the middle of the Belegaer, closer to Eressëa.”
“Because moving large populations to uninhabited paradises and writing off anything farther east as irredeemably morally corrupt has worked so well for them in the past.” Tyelkormo seems less offended than amused.
Aicasáme rolls her eyes. “How perceptive. Assuming there was a purpose to your interruption – and I’ll be generous – you’re not wrong. Perfection wears, and it did become something of an issue, much later. In any case, Elros, called Tar-Minyatur, was appointed as their king. You must know, the half-elven boy –“ She sighs at Tyelkormo’s blank expression. “Nodding off during your brother’s history lesson? Well, Itarillë married one of Hador’s people. Their son married Luthien’s granddaughter – yes, she survived, you’re thinking of her brothers – and they had two boys. Granted a free choice between the fate of Men or Elves, he unaccountably chose mortality, and here we are. The royal line is still of his descent.”
“Very informative, dear sister, but I don’t see how this is of any help to us.”
Aicasáme glances at Curufinwë. “You’ve been unusually quiet. Any more piercing insights?”
“It seems that you expect help from that quarter. You’ll forgive me for stating the obvious, but we are implicated in the deaths of several of their ancestors.”
“Oh, they’re mortals, they hardly remember.” She gestures dismissively. “Besides, putting too much stock by one’s Elven ancestry is quite unfashionable at the current court.”
Hyellindë smiles. “To hear Aicasáme tell it, their new king’s a kind of mortal supremacist.”
“Not exactly. I don’t doubt that he mislikes Elves and Elven influence. But he has no intention of remaining mortal.”
There’s a moments silence, before Tyelkormo collapses in helpless laughter. He continues for several minutes, until his throat is dry and his voice rough. “How very ambitious.”
Of course, it’s a laughable project. Mandos’s pity is notoriously difficult to secure, and dubiously effective in any case. Even so, Curufinwë can’t help but feel a purely scientific pull. By the time he’s finished leafing through a mental file of increasingly fanciful solutions, Aicasáme’s resumed her speech.
“For this reason, and due to his territorial ambitions, he plans to mount an invasion of Valinor.”
Maitimo coughs. “If I am to assume he has the resources to do so – even to consider doing so - I don’t see how we can offer him material aid.”
“He doesn’t. The attack would be twofold – invasion from the east, rebellion in Tirion and Erressëa.”
Tyelkormo’s eyes widen. “This isn’t a plan to overthrow the Ñoldor –“
“- it’s a plan to overthrow the Valar.” Hyellindë looks almost hungry at the prospect.
“And install himself as High King? Practicality aside – “ Maitimo grimaces, as if the expression pains him. Ever the realist, aren’t you, brother? “Practicality aside, it seems our goals are incompatible.”
“Why, Maitimo, I never knew that you had such ambitions!” Aicasáme shakes her head. “I’ll admit, I’ve never pictured you ruling in Valinor.”
He stiffens. “I have no desire –“
“Then how are your goals incompatible? He wants Aman, very well. Let him have it. He’s offering us Arda.”
Curufinwë grimaces. “Irrelevant. We never wanted Arda.”
Macalaurë, at least, has the grace to look abashed.
“Didn’t you? Wide open lands, a kingdom in the light – “
“Light we have yet to reclaim!”
“How shortsighted. Do you think it would be difficult to reclaim the silmarils, with the Valar gone? Time-consuming, perhaps, but you’d have eternity.”
Curufinwë is reminded, suddenly and absurdly, of his childhood. In memory, it seems endless. Had they measured years? Time, real time, with its relentless forward pull, had started with the darkening. He remembers the ashes crumbling too quickly in his hands. Eternity, yes. I could work with that. He leans back in his chair and affects a detached expression. “Very well, I’m convinced. Taniquetil will fall.”
***
Curufinwë glances around the room. Maitimo and Nerdanel are still huddled over a map, discussing tactics. Good. This isn’t a conversation he’d like to have with only the two of them in the room.
“There’s one thing about this I don’t understand.”
“Really? How unlike you to admit it.”
Hyellindë’s less guarded than when he saw her last. Her tone is lighter, her posture more relaxed. Four, five hundred years ago? For her, Curufinwë realizes, thousands. He tries to picture her living alone in her house in Tirion, letting the centuries slip by in a blur of glass and silk. Somehow, the image doesn’t take. “Maybe I’ve matured.”
“You haven’t.”
She’s not wrong, but that’s not the point. “Why have you chosen to involve yourself?”
“The house of Fëanáro doesn’t have a monopoly on revolution.”
“It’s not exactly in your best interest.”
“Which you’re suddenly an expert on.”
“You made a choice – “
“It’s been three thousand years, Curufinwë.” Hyellindë leans forward. He realizes suddenly that she is speaking in earnest. “I made a choice three thousand years ago, and I’ve never regretted it. The world changes.”
“You mean you’re losing.”
Her response is measured. “No. There have been temporary setbacks.”
She’s calmer about it than he would have expected. “Arafinwë decided to exercise his power?”
“Findárato, actually.” She smiles, he stiffens. “The political position of the re-embodied is tenuous, at best, but he’s managed to curry favor with the Valar.”
“How utterly unsurprising.”
“Hmm, I suppose so.” Hyellindë looks down at her hands. There’s more, here, but she won’t volunteer the information, and Curufinwë can’t think how to ask. Aicasáme ducks into the room, whispers something to Maitimo and Nerdanel. They follow her out.
Curufinwë rises, slowly, adjusting to his new joints. He pauses at the door. “For what it’s worth, Ahtarmë,” he says without looking at her, “I was certain you’d have been ruling Tirion by now.”
***
Aicasáme sets down her papers decisively. “It’s decided, then. I’ll return to Númenorë with the next ship, with the final logistical details. Officially, all ties to Valinor have been cut, but certain, ah, sympathetic parties are permitted to land in secret. Hyellindë, your network in Tirion is up to date?”
Hyellindë nods. “They’re eady to act at any time. That said, the longer we delay, the more risk they’ll scare. I need information. What resources do our allies have? Soldiers, weapons, ships?”
Aicasáme tells her.
Curufinwë blinks. He’s familiar with the mathematics of population growth, the technology even mortals could develop over the course of fifteen hundred year. And yet –
“So many ships.” Tyelkormo whistles appreciatively. Carnistir gawps in horrified disbelief. Of course, Curufinwë thinks, he would know exactly how much it costs to equip an armada.
Nerdanel looks up from her notes. “Your appreciation is noted, Tyelko, Moryo, but let’s not become complacent.”
“As if we could.” Carnistir, uncharacteristically, doesn’t raise his voice. “Who here’s already fought a Vala, mother?”
“And we made such a good job of it,” Ambarussa mutters. His twin quiets him with a touch.
Carnistir ignores them both. His eyes are fixed on Nerdanel. “Would it kill you to treat us like valar-damned adults?”
Curufinwë snickers. “That’s quite enough, Carnistir,” Maitimo tries to say, but his clipped, authoritative voice is lost in his brother’s shouting.
“It just hasn’t occurred to you that after five fucking centuries, we might have any idea what we’re doing? Has it? Has it?” He pounds the table, and then sighs. “Of course not. You’ve never thought so, never thought we might be capable of some fucking responsibility for our own actions, not even when we –“ Maitimo slaps him. The blow glances off Carnistir’s faux-flesh, and he falls to the floor with a hollow thud.
Through a combination of careful management and the kind of luck Curufinwë would swear in any other family must be the product of divine grace, they’ve not yet brought up the Oath. He glances at Nerdanel, still expressionless. Time to twist the knife.
“Come now, Carnistir,” he drawls. “I happen to agree with her. At the time, we didn’t have a choice.” His brothers’ eyes are wide with varying degrees of shock. Curufinwë smiles. “You remember, don’t you, how much pain he was in? No one who loved father could have refused him such a simple thing.”
***
Nerdanel’s house is somewhere in the foothills of the Pelóri, far enough north of Tirion for the air to take on an autumnal chill, not far enough for snow. The garden is large, and for the most part untended. Dayflower and purslane and wild violet grow in rebellious clumps, and hundred-year-old statues crawl with bindweed.
It’s a cold, bright day, and his brothers are in the house. Curufinwë stretches out on a large, flat stone, warm with the afternoon sun. It takes him a moment to realize that there’s a pattern in the subtle gradations of color on the surface. He’s just about resigned to spending an afternoon puzzling out what appears to be one of his mother’s more abstruse works, when a bright silk skirt appears in his field of vision.
He sits up. “Ahtarmë.”
“How formal! ” She settles on the stone beside him. “I wouldn’t have thought to find you here.”
“Is not this my family home?” It isn’t, in any meaningful sense of the word, but he can stretch a point. “I can go where I like.”
“Do you think I mind?”
She’s amused. It’s quite unfair, really. Curufinwë’s not been more than a month in this new world, and the tension between sense and memory is already overwhelming. His city, his mother and his brothers, even the light is different. And now Hyellindë’s smile. The barbs at least would be familiar. “Your tone suggests it.”
She laughs. “I should be flattered that you’d give my disapproval such weight.”
“You do disapprove, then.”
“Of course not. I only meant that most find this garden unsettling. Especially those of us who – who remember what it was like, before.” Behind them, a stone figure lies in a patch of dandelions, porphyry blood pooling beneath his chest. His features are Curufinwë’s own.
“Oh, she’s always liked to sculpt us.”
“Your corpses?”
He knows the expression he would find in Hyellindë’s eyes, if he could meet them. Perfectly incredulous. “Should they frighten me? I’ve seen the real thing.”
“Were they very different?”
“Less realistic,” he tells her. And it’s true. He remembers glimpsing Carnistir in Doriath, dyeing a silver fountain crimson. The strange, sickening sight of his own body from above, in the moments before his spirit felt the westward pull. They’d looked like wax figures. Surely that couldn’t be his nose, his chin? Even in death, his father’s eyes had not been so empty.
Hyellindë presses her hands together. “Come inside. We’ve had word, the fleet arrives tomorrow. There’s much we have to make ready.”
Curufinwë glances back at his statue. It’s tense with pain and anger, the eyes diamond-bright.
***
The great hall of the palace glitters in blue and gold, in red and black and silver. Tapestries hang from the walls, eight-pointed stars interlaced with elaborate florals, picked out in Valinorian diamonds on Umbarim silk. The doors creak open.
“Announcing His Majesty, Azulzîr Ar-Adûnakhôr, Lord of the West, Shield of The Heavenly City – “
It goes on like that. The new monarch drips with gold and jewels. He is thin, and a little ungainly under the weight of his robes, but the he carries the titles well enough. His head darts from side to side, like an extremely wealthy bird. Curious child. Curufinwë and Hyellindë exchange glances across the dais.
(clearly I've spend too much time around D&D alignments, because I keep wanting to call the matching primary/secondary types "true X" a la "true Neutral" :P)
reading through the Slytherin primary page, with its emphasis on a person having their people that they're loyal to, and that being the centre of their morality, is classic Tatyar family priorities in a nutshell, and Hyellinde is no exception. this is, for example, where her chief friction with Curufin (also a Slytherin primary!) comes from -- they come into their marriage with very different circles of who their people and thus their chief loyalties are, and Hyellinde is fundamentally unwilling to subsume her own loyalties in favour of being A Feanorian. (had they not been married at such a politically tumultuous time when loyalty in this way was not quite so violently important as the centuries before the Darkening, and thus that conflict not at the forefront of their dynamic almost immediately, it's actually perfectly easy for me to see Hyellinde coming over time to view Curufin's family as part of her own circle (and Curufin likewise with Hyellinde's).) she also, of course, deeply values having the power to control her own fate, and sees herself and her family as "deserving" prominence, and hence her strong ambitions.
the little bit I've seen about "petrified" Slytherins also has shades of Hyellinde's behaviour in it, specifically with why she leaves her entire family to stay in Aman when the Noldor depart. it's not that she's been hurt to the point of refusing to place her loyalty to anybody but herself; rather that the way the rebellion takes shape, it places her loyalty to her family in direct conflict with her duty to take care of herself, which again is of fundamental importance to her. and seeing the future pain that would result, she picks herself. (incidentally, I also see her decision to let Celebrimbor choose whether to stay or leave on his own, to be a part of her notion of loyalty, too: though he's her son, her notion of doing right by him is to allow him the freedom to make his own decisions, which she stands by and values even despite it meaning she loses him herself.)
Slytherin secondary is also an easy choice for her, because adaptation to new situations, putting a new face on for every occasion that requires it to see her acquire the power and influence that will allow her to live happily and comfortably, is Hyellinde's bread and butter. the realities of the world she lives in change (e.g. the Darkening), and she will alter her public face to what's needed to ensure she not only doesn't lose, but gains. she does dislike capitalising on her status as a Feanorian's wife, but that's because it's exactly that which caused her to stay in Aman in the first place, not because she finds it untrue to her "inner self". and while, like her sister (a Ravenclaw secondary), she prefers to approach situations with planning, systems, and organisation, that's ultimately more of a useful preference than a necessity for how she deals with situations, and while Aicasáme will barrel her way through things straightforwardly, expecting obstacles to get out of the way or get trampled, Hyellinde will ultimately see them, accept their presence, and move around them, finding the angle that will allow her to turn them into her own advantages.
self-indulgent (aro!)Curvo/Hyellinde of dubious quality. idek -____- *shrug*
Curufinwe and his wife.
Words that stifled and choked at his fea like burning fumes in the forge, whenever he heard them. They were other people's words, words that wanted him to perform for them, this gesture and this emotion all adding up into something he should have, but didn't.
(He performed so much already, some tired, bitter thought prodded upward beneath layers designed to smother. Leave him alone, just for once.)
Curufinwe had no talent for osanwe but that lack almost seemed to vanish, with Ahtarme's arm linked around his, noblemen and clan leaders and artisans and servants with their eyes all on them and their evaluations so palpable. He wished to rip the thoughts right out of their mind, extract them with the point of his finest knife, consign them to the fires.
Of course I shall marry for you, Atar, he'd thought, he'd acted, over a year ago now - his eyes had been for only that aspect. Only one person's thoughts. And those held no sting or smoke - but he'd forgotten the gazes of others.
They were impossible to ignore now. Better he might have married only to his father's eyes, rather than before all of the Noldor's.
"Curufinwe! You must introduce me to your wife," he heard then, from one of his grandfather's friends. He turned, and forced a smile to his face.
----
Hyellinde's yawn brought movement back to the stillness of the air, and a ray of the dimming sunlight from the window shone a rich brown on her skin as she stirred from the comforts of their bed.
A moment later, Curufinwe followed her, combing disarrayed hair back into some semblance of order with his fingers. He leaned over to press a kiss between her shoulder blades, then raised his brows in a gesture of innocence when Hyellinde turned to look back at him, unimpressed eyes belied by the hint of a smirk on her lips.
"Don't expect me to lie here with you all day; I still need to have my hair and clothes dressed to see Lady Finduilasse tonight."
Curufinwe gave a distinct sigh, then pulled away and sat up fully himself. "And I must meet with my brother regarding the hawks, yes." He stood, slipping his morning gown on as Hyellinde did the same.
He watched, quietly, as she reached to push her hair off her neck, and fastened a chain-clasp around it. The ring pendant he'd made sat framed inside the V of fabric, between her breasts.
"Hm. You're smiling," Hyellinde murmured.
Curufinwe shook his head, even as he noticed it himself, faint but certainly there. "It's no matter," he replied, looking away slightly. But he did not will the expression away, even so.
...by which I mean rather absurd crackfic that even I don't know where exactly it came from. The bowels of thesis-procrastination, probably. (Hyellinde is my poor long-suffering posable doll here, I think; I'm rather sure she didn't actually have these sorts of strong opinions on issues of phonology.)
--------
It started with a simple confusion. A letter to the palace from one of the elves - Noldor, were they even properly Noldor with how long they'd been across the sea? - but never mind it, one of those who had arrived only recently. Perhaps a century or two ago, it hardly mattered; they were all newcomers if you'd been born when the Trees still shone.
But Hyellinde had been taking a late brunch with Amarie out in the courtyard, looking over the work she had for the day amidst filtered sunlight, eggs and rosemary bread and sweet berries, when she asked what might have been an innocent question.
Amarie, you've spent more time among the newcomers, have you any idea what word this is supposed to be?
Her brow furrowed into a frown when Amarie told her, and she snatched the letter back under Amarie's craned head, to stare at the curving penmanship once more. Put the sounds to the letters, they should line up...
That's an "h"? They're pronouncing that letter as an "h" now? Why in the bloody name of Iluvatar would they start doing that when we've had a perfectly good letter to write just that sound all along without causing what sort of confusion I can scarce imagine all over again -
Amarie tried to hold back a smile and a slight laugh at her friend's indignation, plucking the letter from Hyellinde's hands once more and smoothing it down on the table. From what I gather it's really just a sensible alteration, for how they spoke in the Outer Lands, she reasoned. They don't say "hy" any more, not in their daily language, so I can see why they'd decide to use it for "h" instead. It's more pleasing to the eye than a simple stem, don't you think?
Though that was an argument that rather did the opposite of calming Hyellinde. She stood, glancing haughtily over the idle doodles of letters Amarie had scrawled on the blank spaces of the page.
Don't say "hy"? Why on earth ever not? And they replaced it with "h" - that's hardly even a phoneme! - But wait, are you telling me then that there are villages full of Umanyar children calling me "Hellinde" now? Ah for Kurme's sake, there is a reason we've a guild of lambengolmor, or did they all die out with the rest of the sensible people who went across the sea.
Amarie gave her a mildly bemused, disbelieving look. Well if it really matters that much to you, I suppose you could always make an official proclamation or - write some silly decree on the topic.
But no, that certainly did not help either; and by the time Amarie had finished, Hyellinde was pacing off, ranting to herself as she did so.
Oh yes, as if such opinions will sway people from their absurd habits with any predictable regularity... She sighed, gathered up her papers with a swish of her skirts.
By the stars above, what have this language's poor fricatives ever done to it's speakers that they should treat them so poorly!
Sorry to be cliche buttttt hyelinde (and aicasame if you’re up to it) 2, 4, 5, 8, 14, 16, 18, 20! (its a lot but its just a cool meme?? omg)
under a cut because loooooong
2. Do they have any annoying quirks? If so, what are they?
Hyellinde... not much I can think of, honestly? idk, maybe I just have a lower standard for this sort of thing, I'm not often super annoyed by people, so I don't feel like I have a lot of good ideas for this sort of thing XD
Aicasame has something of a tendency to wear holes in the floor when she's thinking, or frustrated, or discussing something... just generally she's not great at sitting still, and if she's debriefing people sometimes it can be amusing because she'll be striding imperiously around while the person she's talking to rather struggles to keep up.
4. Any addictions? (Food, sex, drugs/alcohol, shopping, power/control, etc.)
heh, boring answer I suppose, but no, neither of them do.
5. What is one thing they do that can negatively affect their relationship with friends?
Hyellinde is manipulative, even when she doesn’t strictly need to be. it’s something she grows up with, that she shouldn’t show off her own wants too clearly, that other people will not want to act for her(/her family’s) benefit of their own accord, and the best way to make things go smoothly is to control them without the other person noticing. and of course when they do notice, they have a harder time trusting her afterward, or believing she’s genuine about her feelings and whatnot.
whereas Aicasame is rather pushy and something of a control-freak. it’s a similar root, I think, but manifesting in a different way - she doesn’t like not getting her way, and will kind of steamroller over people’s objections at times. and get quite angry at mistakes people make that affect her, even if they’re honest and the person is sorry.
8. What mistake(s) do they continue to make/have not learned from?
Hyellinde tends to be quick to cut people loose from her life, even if it’s people she cares about, even if it hurts her to do so. she kind of has this sense that - ultimately, she’s the only one she can count on, and it’s only a matter of time before other people won’t be there any longer, and so she gives up easily when conflict comes up that way.
already answered for Aicasame
14. Is there anything they are too optimistic about?
Hyellinde I think - it’s kind of weird, sort of a double consciousness about it, because she is generally quite optimistic about her manipulations and plans, she generally only thinks about or plans for them to succeed and not be found out or blown up in her face, even though that is certainly not the case. though at the same time, emotionally she’s very conscious of the tenuous thread that can be sometimes, and tends to have lingering dread in the back of her mind a lot, so. idk.
Aicasame is… not so much the optimistic type, but I think if she is optimistic about one thing, it’s her ability to deal with a situation if she’s put in charge of it. this is part of why she’s so hard on herself when she makes what she thinks of as the wrong decision, because she spins all sorts of “what-ifs” for if she’d done something different (even before there was any reason for her to suspect she should), because then she would have been able to deal with the situation and nothing bad would have happened.
16. Do they have any behaviors and/or beliefs that cannot be adequately justified?
heh. well, I mean, according to my standards and general beliefs about government, I wouldn't consider their beliefs that the Tatyar should be ruling the Noldor to be justified, precisely... they're both also rather opposed to a lot of things that would count as cultural mixing or evolution, honestly, and hold this notion of the Noldor properly as a self-contained unit, rather than borrowing from or intermixing with the other groups of elves.
18. Are they ever a pushover about something? If so, how?
Hyellinde is a pushover with her son, so much =u= she really, really likes seeing him happy. so she can be a bit permissive with him... not so much in a harmful way, but she's not great at saying no e.g. if little Tyelpe's begging her to let him do something.
Aicasame wouldn't know the word if it smacked her in the face, tbh -.-
20. What is a self-inflicted misery of theirs? (i.e. something they perpetuate themselves)
uhhhhhrrrrrr Hyellinde's marriage and everything stemming from it I feel like that's a little too obvious... I guess to an extent, the fact that she feels like she needs to be a perfect politician, and after the Darkening aspire to functionally ruling Tirion - like she believes mostly that it's about securing her position, and also getting herself what she's due, but it's also... not really entirely necessary if she wanted to just live happily? it causes her a lot of stress sometimes that she wouldn't otherwise have to deal with.
