Work Text:
T H E T R E S P A S S I N G
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"Atar would say that this is the end of the world," Tyelko had told him a fortnight ago. He had turned his long strides uphill, heading up the lesser slopes of Aglon so fast that Curufinwë's lungs were squished into bellows in his chest.
Too weary to craft an appropriately clever response just then, Curufinwë halted, and turned back to gaze down on the plains of their lands: wide and empty, a battleground for the raging wind.
Shells must have been like this before the Lord of Waters filled them, he mused as he observed the uneven pattern of green-and-grey, or skeletons before they were buried in flesh. Below them lay the naked ground of possibility, the never-before, the it-could-be-anything.
Father would have probably thought so, and found beauty in them, and utility; but Tyelko had never understood Father either way.
Huan halted along the trail then, much like he does now: a flash of silver-white cutting the gloom of the scant hillside forest. Like now, he watched Curufinwë motionlessly, the Tree-light in his eyes sharp and questioning; and Curufinwë himself felt a pang of weary grief. Huan came from the Powers, was still one of them: Tyelko's only companion with any measure of comprehension of what he had truly lost. Still he had come with his master across death and fire, stood against Moringotto, mourned Father, fled to exile, endured the bitter winds of Himlad and persisted in Tyelko's perpetual borderland hunt against the Enemy and his thralls. He, a spirit older than sorrow and death, still followed Tyelko's horse through everything that may still come and everything that could ever be.
As should he.
It was that thought that had carried Curufinwë up the hilltop above Aglon that day, where the morning sun had lit a patch of grass; and it has kept carrying him most places ever since.
Places like, for instance, Thargelion: the destination of an uneventful and weary scouting mission that Tyelkormo and Curufinwë had both tried to convince the other to take on different occasions, and with undue fervency.
The Siege is tight; no Orc can escape our vigilance.
It shall be great fun to prove to Moryo that he is getting careless with his borders.
All game has fled these lands since last winter.
I am bored, and what is worse: you are bored.
We would better go. We have no reason to stay.
I do not wish to stay.
It only occurred to Curufinwë that his brother must have wanted to come either way when he found his deflecting counterarguments mostly ineffective and half-hearted. Tyelkormo, for his part, might have known it from the start: an infuriating thought.
Now, though, that they have actually come to Thargelion, and Moryo remains adamantly at his heels with his questions still unspoken, Curufinwë almost wishes he had refused to come. He knows that eventually, he must speak his mind; and he knows as well that Tyelkormo shall be of little help to explain why they have fled their own lands.
Because that is what they did, and Morifinwë knows it. He has a penchant for uncovering painful truths.
Mount Rerir towers above the spring forest, steep slopes hidden in the morning fog; and Helevorn stretches below like a silver mirror, wisps of mist floating above its ripple-less surface. The air still has a sharp bite, but the buds on the lowest alder branches have been pried open by the first kiss of coirë. Moryo's fortress is no more than a blurred shadow on the other side: the mist has not yet risen above its walls.
Tyelkormo and Huan are headed for the nearest hill: a trip that the lord of the land would never make without due purpose. It seems that pleasing his elder brother does not fall into that category, and Curufinwë shares his disdain for the unnecessary: an old familiarity that filters through past and present like a half-remembered shape behind a fine silk curtain. Morifinwë Carnistir is said to be impatient, and temperamental, and direct to the point of callousness; but Curufinwë finds that there is kindness in keeping one's silence when words are not needed.
"It truly is a beautiful view," he offers when they have already walked back and forth along the lakeside, from forest edge to rocky slope, and their shared silence has stretched to the point of breaking.
There are different ways Morifinwë could be expected to reply to such a correct, yet completely redundant observation, would he deign to acknowledge it. Ranging from a disgruntled noise under his breath to a lengthy, overflowing description of Thargelion's spring fauna - crowned with a sudden exclamation of "And yet that is not what you meant, is it, Curvo?" his scorn could take many forms; and Curufinwë believes that he is equally prepared to deflect all of them.
He finds, however, that he is not at all prepared for Morifinwë arranging the foldings of his cloak quite meticulously—left to right, then left again—and saying, with detached courtesy:
"It truly is, is it not? Pity the sprouts opened so soon; there is a breath of frost in the air. Put a terrible strain on fruit trees last year; it hurt to watch."
Curufinwë stares at him.
"...but you would know all about that, of course. I am sure you and Tyelko converse quite extensively about the state of crops in that undistinctive lowland of yours."
Curufinwë smiles. "For a fleeting moment, I truly thought you would start discussing the weather."
"You would deserve it," says Morifinwë, gloved hands disappearing in the sleeves of his cloak. "The view, Curvo? Truly?"
"I was making conversation," says Curufinwë stiffly. "Something you are notoriously incapable of."
"You can either tell me why you are here, or you can go and make conversation with someone else," his brother declares. "As if you have ever done anything without a purpose in your life...!"
"I told you. We were hunting nearby..."
"...in my lands?"
"We strayed further than usual. Huan was chasing game. We climbed one of the lesser hills south-east of Rerir, saw the lake on the horizon, and decided that we should pay you a visit. We shan't come near you and your castle next time, of course, if we are not welcome. Valar forbid we try to salvage at least some of our family bonds."
"In the sundering of which you are completely blameless indeed," Morifinwë quips.
Curufinwë tries to think of a retort: sharp and scathing, clever and ruthless, one that would sting for days; but none comes to his mind.
"Is that truly your new aspiration?" His brother glances at him with sudden wariness. "Peacemaking? Pleasantries? Shall you walk up to Nelyo's doorstep with a winning smile as well, and say Forgive us, o brother, for having called you—well, the list would be quite long, would it not?"
Curufinwë looks away, wishing with sudden fervency that the Powers would curb either his brother's militancy or his insight - so sharp and ruthless that it is almost painful to agree with it.
"I could say that the world ended long ago," Tyelkormo had elaborated yestereve, on a subject that seemed vaguely, almost coincidentally similar, "or that it shall never end. Words are wind, Curvo. They do not change anything, not anymore."
"The world shall not have to end then, either, only because you said it would," Curufinwë had retorted, not quite knowing what his own words meant.
He did know, though, how Tyelko would then retaliate: the way he always retaliated, with the same trail of thought that he kept scouting so tirelessly, against all odds, even if it no longer truly led anywhere.
"Words cannot end the world any more than they can crown someone King."
Ah, there it is, Curufinwë thought then. His face did not betray his exasperation, and yet his brother knew his heart well; and Curufinwë knew he would pay for their discord all the same.
"...you can pretend anything you will, Curvo. You can play puppetry with Orc skulls. You can wear their clothes, steal their weapons, learn their tongue, mimic their voice and gestures, have your legs hacked off so you would match their height—but that shall never make a true Orc out of you, shall it?"
"Gripping parallel," Curufinwë said then, and smiled without mirth, "but useless. Half of what we call reality is based upon hearsay."
"Your reality, perhaps."
"Indeed? No sooner than yesterday did I hear you tell Tyelpë that we were going home. And what, pray, did you mean by that, brother mine? Have you found a way back to Valinórë? Shall we cross the Sea, escape the vigilance of Ulmo, fly over the Mountain of Túna, then come back with a host of the Valar to reclaim Father's Jewels and defy the Doom of Mandos? Is that what you were referring to? Or did you simply mean that Aglon, with those steep hillsides you apparently hate, the bitter wind you despise, the wide plains of Himlad that bore you to death, the trails of the game you find subpar, the fortress that has not enough light and the walls that are not nearly high enough - that these unfriendly lands and our unfittingly humble abode have somehow become our home now?"
His argument was beautifully constructed, like the perfect rampart: its foundations were strong, the walls of its logic sprang steep and high, reason glimmered bright on its flanks, and the spikes of wit were deadly and sharp above its balustrade.
For a moment, Curufinwë was a warlord, weary but victorious.
And then, Tyelkormo shrugged.
"Words, brother. Me calling the lands of Himlad our home does not mean that they truly are so."
"What is the point of calling anything anything, then?"
"Nothing. So I have been trying to tell you since the sun rose last."
"Then what is the point of giving your word?"
"That sometimes, rarely, you can make something real," Tyelko said readily, and there was a cold light in his eyes. "Yet lies ill become promises—or oaths, for that matter."
It is a matter of philosophy, Curufinwë knows. Tyelko will always make it all about natural order, the skeletonized outlines of reality: a black-and-white, stylized image of whatever he calls truth. Truth is, however, an unreachable absolute; and reality depends on many things, ranging from personal delusion to collective belief. Experiences of reality may be observed impartially, but the same observation shall mean naught once it is stripped of context, uprooted from nature and reason, and pasted roughly into the uneven texture of personal—or cultural—interpretation.
The unfairness of Nolofinwë's kingship is a worse threat than its perceived lack of realness. Politics are real, and people act according to their opinions; and everyone has their own reality.
The reality of Tirion and Formenos, of Alqualondë and Losgar, of Father's death, of Nelyo's torture, rescue and abdication, that of the Glorious Battle and the establishment of the Siege, that of the governing of their own lands, that of their disposession and shame - none of these are objective; and yet they are still real.
Even if Tyelko wishes they were not. Even if it is easier to call himself a great huntsman, and live solely by his own rules.
Luckily, he has a brother who is ready to address the realities he finds unfavourable, Curufinwë thinks as he falls into step beside Moryo again, not without resentment.
"You're still not talking to Nelyo," Moryo observes as they stand by the lake and watch the silvery gleam of the water.
Curufinwë has no answer to that. It is not that simple. It has never been that simple; for not talking was, is, and will always be the sum of a million things.
Not talking to Nelyo meant rummaging through a pile of corpses, faces ruddy white as sea-foam brought by tides of blood, never finding the one he sought. It meant laying low in the dark, waiting for Tyelpë's breaths to ease into the faraway slumber of the Firstborn so he could finally weep. It meant defying Kanafinwë every chance he got because that was the closest he could get to defying the brother he wanted to defy.
Not talking meant sneaking out of the camp at night, staring at the silent, hostile line of mountains as they creased along the horizon like shattered steel, wishing he could wear them down with his chisel alone. He was going to try it, he really was. Inch by inch, scratch by scratch, he was going to abrade them until they were powerless funeral mounds upon the weeping ground, ensnared by the pointless heroism of it all—
Not talking meant being dragged back into the tent by an enraged Tyelko, the fangs of Huan biting through his ankle with the first northward step. It meant being met with Tyelpë's wide eyes, Tree-light turned into the Grinding Ice with sorrow gushing forth from below the fractures.
You were not going to go, Atarinya, were you?
Not talking meant not coming to see the emaciated, bruised, burned, battered, maimed and disgraced body of the High King, not listening to his rattling breaths, not thinking of each that it would be the last, not stopping by his head and looking down on the sickbed like one that observes a painting they find hideous and magnetic at the same time. It meant not reaching out over the immaterial chasm of alienated grief to squeeze the right hand, only to realize that there was nothing to squeeze. It meant not walking over to the other side of the bed with an awkward half-gait to take the other hand, not seeing the blind phantom eyes flare up with some terrifying white fire, not hearing the cadence of the rattling breath quiesce, not realizing that the corpse had woken—
Why did he have to wake just then? Why could it not be Findekáno on his bedside, betrayer of betrayal, stupid and hopeful and defiantly brave to the point of flagrant impossibility, saviour and friend and he-thinks-he-is-better-than-all-of-us and what-is-worse-he-actually-is? Why not him, the way it should be in song and legend?
Why him, Curufinwë Atarinkë who could barely look at his eldest brother ever since?
You were not going to go, Atarinya, were you?
Not talking also meant he would watch the corpse be slowly nursed back into Nelyafinwë, High King of the Noldor, defying the Enemy, reason, logic and reality itself. It meant daring to breathe once again: a slow explorer of the riverbed of hope, unearthing shells of intentions and fishbones of assurances, watching as the first streamlet of expectation ran down the bottom of the dry dent and crashed into the dam of abdication.
Not talking meant saying nay and screaming naught, bellowing you-shall-not and whispering how-dare-you, cursing at a statue in a graveyard of princes.
So Curufinwë says naught; and Morifinwë's hand is heavy on his shoulder. He is not told brace yourself, nor you know better than this, nor you should.
Morifinwë has always preferred not to tell people what they already knew, after all.
Tyelko misses Nelyo too: Curufinwë is sure of it. It was in the stern command of his voice as he led their followers to war before the Siege. It was in the cold gleam of his spearhead as it sliced through the Orc vanguard and pursued right up to their Enemy's captains.
And Moryo must have missed Nelyo as well, which is why he had sent envoys to him, invited him to Thargelion, made amends, and doubled his watch along the Siege.
Curufinwë wishes he could do likewise this easily and unapologetically; wishes he could just stand before his brother and say I know why you have forsaken Father's crown—I still hate what you did, but I no longer hate you for it, or something along those lines, but far more eloquent and beautiful. Expressive of all the conflicting emotions that have been stuck in his chest for decades of Sun-Years now—long enough to know that they would soon start to fester.
He wishes he could undo it all: the sleepless nights and secret vigils, the sullen silences and whispered doubts. He wishes Nelyo would have screamed back, and fought, and acted less knightly and noble and irreproachable and righteous just this once.
Words are not wind, Curufinwë thinks, wishes are.
Nelyo must have wished for the crown to go away, and that terrible weight with it; but it never truly did. He is still the bitterest enemy of the Dark One, his fortress is still the first watchline before the borders of Darkness, his people are still the most stalwart and brave. Curufinwë and Tyelkormo will always answer his call when the day of the battle comes. Nelyo shall always be their rightful King, and they, born princes, shall always follow him. Tyelko heeds no crown and follows no orders but those of the ways of the world.
A King is he who can hold his own, Nelyo had once said; and so he does. For Tyelko, that is enough; and Curufinwë wishes it would be enough for him as well. He wishes he would not need politics anymore.
And that is what he holds onto desperately: the wish. The sudden opening in the relentless fabric of his fëa, the slow and reluctant acceptance of the changing of the world. The wordless command of something deeper than kinship.
The truth is, he misses Nelyo too, has for a long time; and being his little brother has more to do with it than he cares to admit.
That, too, is the way of the world: true beyond truth and real beyond reality.
That, maybe, Tyelko will understand.
Huan has now come back to the fork of the path. He turns his large head back to Curufinwë, and in his eyes gleam wit, challenge, and understanding. Perhaps too deep.
Times like this, the glance of the great hound unnerves him; still, Curufinwë is glad that no one else can see his face as he makes such a banal, yet profoundly impactful observation.
He misses Nelyo.
Politics and truths are worthless; and words are truly wind, just as much as abdications of kingship or the weight of the crown on their uncle's head, or Father's supposed disapproval from beyond the gates of Mandos.
Curufinwë, son of Fëanáro, is weary of his own stubbornness; and he misses his brother.
Down in the valley, the mist is rising. It might rain in the afternoon; but the sunset shall be beautiful.
* * *