![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
adepslanaeRating: Teen
Words: About 2080
Summary: Amras deals with gossip ("Amras is a jerk" works fine too).
According to a note in Vinyar Tengwar, people in Valinor called the twins Minyarussa and Atyarussa, which mean first-redhead and second-redhead; I don't believe it escaped Fëanor and sons that 'atya' also means daddy. In any case, I feel it vindicates my headcanon that Amras took in fact after his dad in all save hair colour. :)
Also features Aranwë (I've got nothing against Aranwë, but I needed an antagonist and an OC with a canonical name is better than a complete OC).
“Telvo?” Fëanáro called from the door, surprised not so much to find his son in his room, but by the concentration with which Telufinwë pored over his notes.
Telufinwë finished reading the last nearly illegible sentence scribbled on one of the many half-crumpled sheets of paper strewn across his father's desk, together with cut-off pieces of parchment and of any other material that could be written upon – even shards of broken pottery – then turned and smiled at Fëanáro.
“Where's Pityo?”
It was infrequent, though not as rare as it was assumed, for the twins to be apart when they were both home and were done with their elected activity for the day.
Telufinwë stood up and stretched, tucking his loosely bound hair behind his ears. “Arguing about something with Nelyo and Turco...I don't have patience for their antics today.”
“Something happened?” Fëanáro wiped the drops of water trickling down his forehead with the towel laid across his bare shoulders.
Telufinwë wavered. “No –” he drawled, “...nothing significant. I'm just not in the mood to be with them.” His gaze flickered back to the notes he had been perusing. “Your desk is always entertaining, if messy. You come straight from the forge?”
Fëanáro nodded.
“You didn't eat,” Telufinwë said, a hint of reproach clouding his voice and his expression.
Fëanáro inclined his head again with a slightly apologetic frown. “I just want to sleep for a while, before it's time to cook dinner. I promise I'll eat my fill then.”
Telufinwë kept on glaring at his father for a couple more moments then lightly shook his head. “Mind if I stay?”
Fëanáro laughed inwardly that Telufinwë would ask that after he hadn't hesitated to make himself comfortable in what had once, many many years before, been his private study – which doubled as a bedroom and a library – but was now regularly visited by his sons with little compunction (only Carnistir still seemed to hesitate to do it, because he had a deeply rooted idea of personal space that he tried to put into practice wherever it was feasible).
“Of course not.”
“Let's get on the bed then, I'll massage your back.”
Telufinwë sat behind his already half-naked father and immediately set to work with nimble fingers on the knots that inevitably dotted Fëanáro's shoulders with the accumulated strain of a night and morning's worth of work in the forge.
Fëanáro's eyes drifted shut, and he let himself be lulled by the easeful touch, gradually relaxing into the languid atmosphere, until Telufinwë spoke again.
“...I-...overheard some people at the guild say that Pityo's dearer to you than I am.”
Fëanáro stiffened again under his hands, and Telufinwë regretted speaking, but only to an extent: his father could have easily found out on his own, and under less pleasant circumstances, too.
“On what basis?”
“Obviously, because you spend far more time with him than with me, and show no interest in my craft whatsoever,” Telufinwë replied, sarcasm plain in his tone.
He tugged on his father's upper arm, forcing him to turn. He cocked his head and smiled his most guileless smile, a smile that hid the mischief and malice in his eyes to all save the people who truly knew him.
Father and son looked at each other, and they didn't have to speak or parse each other's thoughts. Telufinwë's air of complacent, condescending disdain was enough to assuage Fëanáro's irritation just as his hands had relieved his muscles' stiffness. They started giggling, then burst out laughing, loud and unrestrained, until they fell into each other's arms, their chests heaving, struggling to regain their breath.
Fëanáro brushed his son's red curls, though the gesture was more a reassurance for himself than for Telufinwë.
“Who was it?” he asked after a while.
“I only recognised Aranwë,” Telufinwë replied, uttering the name with the smooth ruthlessness of a snake-bite. “He hates you”.
“Of course he does. His father's mother is a cousin of Indis's...I don't care if he hates me, he should think twice before spewing nonsense about you. I will talk to him -”
“No, no. I could just as well punch him in the face,” Telufinwë chortled, holding his father's curiously mottled eyes, but he immediately became serious again. “It makes me furious too. They don't know anything, and yet speak as if they were here with us all day long, as if they could read our every thought. I just...I wish I could never see them again.” He had joined the woodcarvers' guild to please his grandfather, but had very little tolerance for its routine and ceremonials, and even less for the vast majority of its members. “I don't want to think about them anymore now,” he pulled back and gestured for his father to lie down. “Let's sleep.”
Fëanáro promptly reclined. Telufinwë took his own shirt and boots off and joined him.
Fëanáro hugged him to himself. “When is the end of year ceremony?”
“One week before New Year's Day, as always.”
“...I'll ask Father to order the guild to close earlier, so that you and Pityo and I can go somewhere together before the New Year's crowds leave on excursions, okay?”
Telufinwë curled his hand around the back of his father's neck and leaned in to place a kiss on his lips. “Of course, Tatanya.”
*
Finwë arranged for the guild to close one whole week before the usual date, to Telufinwë's unconcealed delight. He looked forward to the journey with his father and his twin, and then the regular three weeks straddling the New Year's festivities during which the guild would remain closed.
He brought a statue to the end of year ceremony, as his donation to the institution, along with a medium-sized food box, shaped like an eight-pointed flower, painted and enamelled with all the colours of his father's emblem.
It had taken him twenty weeks to carve the statue – a standing figure, his own rendition of a wood-spirit. He had chosen the best cypress wood with his mother, and heeded her suggestions to properly sculpt the minutest details. His father had assisted him in making the gems that decorated the pedestal, arranged so that the figure looked as if it were emerging from a flowery meadow.
He often looked at the statue during the preliminary hymn-singing in thanks to the Valar, fighting his mounting irritation by going over all the techniques and tricks his mother had taught him, and recalling her assessment of his work, which mattered to him more than the evaluation of the guild-master, who was an amateur at best compared to her when it came to carving.
When the reception proper finally began, his patience had already worn thin. He dispensed the customary greetings with fake smiles and mechanical pats on the shoulder. His mind was thoroughly focused on one purpose. After making a summary round of the other guild members, he managed to lead Aranwë to the back courtyard, capturing his attention with a conversation on the properties and uses of cherry wood. Once they were both seated on the wooden fencing a flowerbed there, he handed him the box.
Aranwë took it with some bemusement, lifted the lid, and observed its contents with an even greater surprise.
“An assortment of edible wild herbs. Not the most usual fare in Tirion, I know, but one I quite like,” Telufinwë explained, in a disarmingly sheepish manner. “Go on. Do try them.”
The older elf hesitated. He lifted the box to his face and smelled the foreign-looking herbs.
“There are some of the roots and the few plants which were available in Cuiviénen. Of course the ones to be found here in Valinor are a lot more, and there's always the possibility of new interesting finds. Some of them taste delicious, in my opinion.”
Aranwë didn't look particularly convinced, but brought a whitish shoot to his mouth and gave it a tentative bite. His face, at first furrowed in perplexity, lit up with delight. “This is...delicious indeed.”
Telufinwë gave a radiant smile. “You think so?”
Aranwë nodded. He munched on the shoot and swallowed it, then he picked up another – a different one – with eager curiosity.
“...my father discovered a lot of those, when he happened find himself stranded in the middle of nowhere with few other means of getting food. I learnt a lot from my father, of course,” Telufinwë said conversationally, gleefully noting the change in Aranwë's expression at the mere utterance of the word 'father'. “One must be very careful, too. Not all herbs are as safe to eat. Some are poisonous. Like lily bulbs...there are a couple edible species, but the others can kill even an elf. It is always best to ask one of the Maiar of Yavanna, or one of the Yavannildi, before consuming any plant, but in the event that neither are at hand, you can try it out on an animal.”
“That...sounds a wanton waste of life.”
Telufinwë shrugged one shoulder. “They're regularly hunted for food, and sometimes for sport. Try the big leaf in the corner there.”
Aranwë did, and for a while Telufinwë let him eat in silence, biding his time until Aranwë had sampled a good number of the plants he had gathered, cooked and stuffed in the box with the help of his twin.
“Some are harmful, but only cause momentary indisposition. Others are fatal. They can be tricky, too, because their effect isn't always instantly revealed. They can take hours, even days to kill, and at first the unfortunate victim seems to be completely fine.” He caught Aranwë's gaze, relishing the tiny spark of fear in it. “Some kill gently, others not so much. Smell isn't a decisive indicator, and I suppose taste isn't either.”
Aranwë stopped eating.
“It is crucial, of course, not to get the bad ones mixed with the good ones, particularly so because they can be hard to tell apart,” Telufinwë blithely went on, directing a pointed look at the box with its half-eaten contents.
Aranwë's hands clenched around it, as if frozen in place.
“I apologise, I didn't mean to disturb your eating,” Telufinwë said, voice still honeyed.
“What is your objective?” Aranwë muttered through clenched teeth. “Are you trying to make fun of me, or –”
Telufinwë clicked his tongue, shaking his head, and his lips curved up into a smirk. “...oh, you think I would poison you?” he lilted, almost a sing-song. “Why, you must have a very low opinion of me.”
Aranwë made to stand up but Telufinwë kept him down, yanking on his arm and almost making him lose his balance altogether. He rose then and planted his feet right before Aranwë, their legs touching. Aranwë tried to lean back even at the risk of falling between the flowers. Telufinwë didn't let him. He cupped Aranwë's face, pulling him towards himself again, and curling his fingers until his nails dug into the other's skin.
“Whose face do I favour?” he asked, stooping over.
Aranwë tried to pull back again, but Telufinwë's fingers clawed steadily more painfully into his face.
“Say it,” he hissed.
His eyes were so cold, brimming with such limpid, unbridled hatred that for a moment Aranwë felt truly, instinctively scared. “Y- your father's,” he stammered out.
Telufinwë stood perfectly still, pinning him with his glare. Then his face relaxed and he straightened, letting Aranwë go.
“Make sure I don't hear you gossiping about my father ever again. I would demand that you do not speak of him at all, but I know your kind, I know how cowardly you are. Do warn your friends to be cautious, too, though.” He stretched his arms over his head and yawned, as if stirring after something unspeakably tedious. “Well, I better get going. I wish you and your family a pleasant New Year.”
Aranwë's gaze followed him as he walked, glued to the middle of his back as to a target. He was ready when Aranwë hurled the box at him, and managed to dodge it. The box crashed against the wall in front of him, shattering. The food ended up half among the flowerbeds and half scattered along the tiles of the pathways cutting through the garden.
Telufinwë snorted and bent to pick up a bright green shoot, bringing it to his mouth while his eyes fixed on Aranwë again.
“These, of course, were all good.”
Words: About 2080
Summary: Amras deals with gossip ("Amras is a jerk" works fine too).
According to a note in Vinyar Tengwar, people in Valinor called the twins Minyarussa and Atyarussa, which mean first-redhead and second-redhead; I don't believe it escaped Fëanor and sons that 'atya' also means daddy. In any case, I feel it vindicates my headcanon that Amras took in fact after his dad in all save hair colour. :)
Also features Aranwë (I've got nothing against Aranwë, but I needed an antagonist and an OC with a canonical name is better than a complete OC).
“Telvo?” Fëanáro called from the door, surprised not so much to find his son in his room, but by the concentration with which Telufinwë pored over his notes.
Telufinwë finished reading the last nearly illegible sentence scribbled on one of the many half-crumpled sheets of paper strewn across his father's desk, together with cut-off pieces of parchment and of any other material that could be written upon – even shards of broken pottery – then turned and smiled at Fëanáro.
“Where's Pityo?”
It was infrequent, though not as rare as it was assumed, for the twins to be apart when they were both home and were done with their elected activity for the day.
Telufinwë stood up and stretched, tucking his loosely bound hair behind his ears. “Arguing about something with Nelyo and Turco...I don't have patience for their antics today.”
“Something happened?” Fëanáro wiped the drops of water trickling down his forehead with the towel laid across his bare shoulders.
Telufinwë wavered. “No –” he drawled, “...nothing significant. I'm just not in the mood to be with them.” His gaze flickered back to the notes he had been perusing. “Your desk is always entertaining, if messy. You come straight from the forge?”
Fëanáro nodded.
“You didn't eat,” Telufinwë said, a hint of reproach clouding his voice and his expression.
Fëanáro inclined his head again with a slightly apologetic frown. “I just want to sleep for a while, before it's time to cook dinner. I promise I'll eat my fill then.”
Telufinwë kept on glaring at his father for a couple more moments then lightly shook his head. “Mind if I stay?”
Fëanáro laughed inwardly that Telufinwë would ask that after he hadn't hesitated to make himself comfortable in what had once, many many years before, been his private study – which doubled as a bedroom and a library – but was now regularly visited by his sons with little compunction (only Carnistir still seemed to hesitate to do it, because he had a deeply rooted idea of personal space that he tried to put into practice wherever it was feasible).
“Of course not.”
“Let's get on the bed then, I'll massage your back.”
Telufinwë sat behind his already half-naked father and immediately set to work with nimble fingers on the knots that inevitably dotted Fëanáro's shoulders with the accumulated strain of a night and morning's worth of work in the forge.
Fëanáro's eyes drifted shut, and he let himself be lulled by the easeful touch, gradually relaxing into the languid atmosphere, until Telufinwë spoke again.
“...I-...overheard some people at the guild say that Pityo's dearer to you than I am.”
Fëanáro stiffened again under his hands, and Telufinwë regretted speaking, but only to an extent: his father could have easily found out on his own, and under less pleasant circumstances, too.
“On what basis?”
“Obviously, because you spend far more time with him than with me, and show no interest in my craft whatsoever,” Telufinwë replied, sarcasm plain in his tone.
He tugged on his father's upper arm, forcing him to turn. He cocked his head and smiled his most guileless smile, a smile that hid the mischief and malice in his eyes to all save the people who truly knew him.
Father and son looked at each other, and they didn't have to speak or parse each other's thoughts. Telufinwë's air of complacent, condescending disdain was enough to assuage Fëanáro's irritation just as his hands had relieved his muscles' stiffness. They started giggling, then burst out laughing, loud and unrestrained, until they fell into each other's arms, their chests heaving, struggling to regain their breath.
Fëanáro brushed his son's red curls, though the gesture was more a reassurance for himself than for Telufinwë.
“Who was it?” he asked after a while.
“I only recognised Aranwë,” Telufinwë replied, uttering the name with the smooth ruthlessness of a snake-bite. “He hates you”.
“Of course he does. His father's mother is a cousin of Indis's...I don't care if he hates me, he should think twice before spewing nonsense about you. I will talk to him -”
“No, no. I could just as well punch him in the face,” Telufinwë chortled, holding his father's curiously mottled eyes, but he immediately became serious again. “It makes me furious too. They don't know anything, and yet speak as if they were here with us all day long, as if they could read our every thought. I just...I wish I could never see them again.” He had joined the woodcarvers' guild to please his grandfather, but had very little tolerance for its routine and ceremonials, and even less for the vast majority of its members. “I don't want to think about them anymore now,” he pulled back and gestured for his father to lie down. “Let's sleep.”
Fëanáro promptly reclined. Telufinwë took his own shirt and boots off and joined him.
Fëanáro hugged him to himself. “When is the end of year ceremony?”
“One week before New Year's Day, as always.”
“...I'll ask Father to order the guild to close earlier, so that you and Pityo and I can go somewhere together before the New Year's crowds leave on excursions, okay?”
Telufinwë curled his hand around the back of his father's neck and leaned in to place a kiss on his lips. “Of course, Tatanya.”
*
Finwë arranged for the guild to close one whole week before the usual date, to Telufinwë's unconcealed delight. He looked forward to the journey with his father and his twin, and then the regular three weeks straddling the New Year's festivities during which the guild would remain closed.
He brought a statue to the end of year ceremony, as his donation to the institution, along with a medium-sized food box, shaped like an eight-pointed flower, painted and enamelled with all the colours of his father's emblem.
It had taken him twenty weeks to carve the statue – a standing figure, his own rendition of a wood-spirit. He had chosen the best cypress wood with his mother, and heeded her suggestions to properly sculpt the minutest details. His father had assisted him in making the gems that decorated the pedestal, arranged so that the figure looked as if it were emerging from a flowery meadow.
He often looked at the statue during the preliminary hymn-singing in thanks to the Valar, fighting his mounting irritation by going over all the techniques and tricks his mother had taught him, and recalling her assessment of his work, which mattered to him more than the evaluation of the guild-master, who was an amateur at best compared to her when it came to carving.
When the reception proper finally began, his patience had already worn thin. He dispensed the customary greetings with fake smiles and mechanical pats on the shoulder. His mind was thoroughly focused on one purpose. After making a summary round of the other guild members, he managed to lead Aranwë to the back courtyard, capturing his attention with a conversation on the properties and uses of cherry wood. Once they were both seated on the wooden fencing a flowerbed there, he handed him the box.
Aranwë took it with some bemusement, lifted the lid, and observed its contents with an even greater surprise.
“An assortment of edible wild herbs. Not the most usual fare in Tirion, I know, but one I quite like,” Telufinwë explained, in a disarmingly sheepish manner. “Go on. Do try them.”
The older elf hesitated. He lifted the box to his face and smelled the foreign-looking herbs.
“There are some of the roots and the few plants which were available in Cuiviénen. Of course the ones to be found here in Valinor are a lot more, and there's always the possibility of new interesting finds. Some of them taste delicious, in my opinion.”
Aranwë didn't look particularly convinced, but brought a whitish shoot to his mouth and gave it a tentative bite. His face, at first furrowed in perplexity, lit up with delight. “This is...delicious indeed.”
Telufinwë gave a radiant smile. “You think so?”
Aranwë nodded. He munched on the shoot and swallowed it, then he picked up another – a different one – with eager curiosity.
“...my father discovered a lot of those, when he happened find himself stranded in the middle of nowhere with few other means of getting food. I learnt a lot from my father, of course,” Telufinwë said conversationally, gleefully noting the change in Aranwë's expression at the mere utterance of the word 'father'. “One must be very careful, too. Not all herbs are as safe to eat. Some are poisonous. Like lily bulbs...there are a couple edible species, but the others can kill even an elf. It is always best to ask one of the Maiar of Yavanna, or one of the Yavannildi, before consuming any plant, but in the event that neither are at hand, you can try it out on an animal.”
“That...sounds a wanton waste of life.”
Telufinwë shrugged one shoulder. “They're regularly hunted for food, and sometimes for sport. Try the big leaf in the corner there.”
Aranwë did, and for a while Telufinwë let him eat in silence, biding his time until Aranwë had sampled a good number of the plants he had gathered, cooked and stuffed in the box with the help of his twin.
“Some are harmful, but only cause momentary indisposition. Others are fatal. They can be tricky, too, because their effect isn't always instantly revealed. They can take hours, even days to kill, and at first the unfortunate victim seems to be completely fine.” He caught Aranwë's gaze, relishing the tiny spark of fear in it. “Some kill gently, others not so much. Smell isn't a decisive indicator, and I suppose taste isn't either.”
Aranwë stopped eating.
“It is crucial, of course, not to get the bad ones mixed with the good ones, particularly so because they can be hard to tell apart,” Telufinwë blithely went on, directing a pointed look at the box with its half-eaten contents.
Aranwë's hands clenched around it, as if frozen in place.
“I apologise, I didn't mean to disturb your eating,” Telufinwë said, voice still honeyed.
“What is your objective?” Aranwë muttered through clenched teeth. “Are you trying to make fun of me, or –”
Telufinwë clicked his tongue, shaking his head, and his lips curved up into a smirk. “...oh, you think I would poison you?” he lilted, almost a sing-song. “Why, you must have a very low opinion of me.”
Aranwë made to stand up but Telufinwë kept him down, yanking on his arm and almost making him lose his balance altogether. He rose then and planted his feet right before Aranwë, their legs touching. Aranwë tried to lean back even at the risk of falling between the flowers. Telufinwë didn't let him. He cupped Aranwë's face, pulling him towards himself again, and curling his fingers until his nails dug into the other's skin.
“Whose face do I favour?” he asked, stooping over.
Aranwë tried to pull back again, but Telufinwë's fingers clawed steadily more painfully into his face.
“Say it,” he hissed.
His eyes were so cold, brimming with such limpid, unbridled hatred that for a moment Aranwë felt truly, instinctively scared. “Y- your father's,” he stammered out.
Telufinwë stood perfectly still, pinning him with his glare. Then his face relaxed and he straightened, letting Aranwë go.
“Make sure I don't hear you gossiping about my father ever again. I would demand that you do not speak of him at all, but I know your kind, I know how cowardly you are. Do warn your friends to be cautious, too, though.” He stretched his arms over his head and yawned, as if stirring after something unspeakably tedious. “Well, I better get going. I wish you and your family a pleasant New Year.”
Aranwë's gaze followed him as he walked, glued to the middle of his back as to a target. He was ready when Aranwë hurled the box at him, and managed to dodge it. The box crashed against the wall in front of him, shattering. The food ended up half among the flowerbeds and half scattered along the tiles of the pathways cutting through the garden.
Telufinwë snorted and bent to pick up a bright green shoot, bringing it to his mouth while his eyes fixed on Aranwë again.
“These, of course, were all good.”