?

Log in

No account? Create an account

Medium Dawn Felagund of the Fountain

Drabble Series for Sunday and Monday

The (Cyber) Bag of Weasels

bread and puppet




"About as much fun as a bag of weasels"...when I first saw this Irish adage, it made me think of the life of a writer: sometimes perilous, sometimes painful, certainly interesting. My paper journal has always been called "The Bag of Weasels." This is the Bag of Weasels' online home.

Drabble Series for Sunday and Monday

Previous Entry Share Next Entry
art lives
“Shattered” is a series of three double-drabbles about the relationship between Fëanor and Finwë, a relationship that is characterized by a charming blend of betrayal and obsessive love and culminates in exiles, heretic oaths, and kinslaying. This series is dedicated to aramel_calawen, who understands as well as anyone the power of angsty Finwions.


Shattered
I.

When I was small, I made a gift for my father on Awakening Day. I stole a trowel from the gardener’s shed and stomped my feet about the garden until thump-thump-thump, they came upon clay. Triumphantly, I extracted my prize from the earth and made for him with my own small hands a vase that I imagined worthy of holding the most beautiful of Yavanna’s flowers.

I got mud all over my hands and face that day, and I had to be given two baths because the first tub of water turned so muddy that it covered my whole body in a scrim of dirt that had to be washed away in clean water. And the gardener loudly lamented the patch of lawn I’d ruined—until my father silenced him with a stern glare, that is.

For he was proud of me. He took my vase and placed it in at the top of the stairs, upon a small table, where all could see. Not even on the family floor, where I had my bedroom next to his and no one went but us two and the chambermaid but the lords’ hallway where all could see my gift and marvel.

II.
Not long after, my father announced that he was to wed Indis of the Vanyar, and all of the halls of my father’s home became unhappy for me. The family hallway was no longer a place for just my father, the chambermaid, and me because Indis was there now. In my father’s chamber, next to mine, where I could hear her voice answering his in laughter, and I thought, Imposter! Sycophant! and my stomach twisted until I was sick in the basin.

But the lords’ hallway was worse. There, my father’s marriage was a happy thing, and my attendant misery was thought strange and malicious. Manipulative, they called me. The lords began to avoid me, and I went there only to listen at doors, where strange words united my father and Indis. Not love: Well connected. High family. Politics.

Good politics. Good politics accompanied by glossy smiles that I could not mimic and soft grasping hands. My hands were growing hard with calluses.

Soon, I went there no longer. And I was more than glad to forget my vase—I had learned in my lessons with Aulë that it was mostly mud anyway—and the love that had inspired it.

III.
On the day of my exile from Tirion, I spent long hours in my father’s study. “It was not my choice, to exile you,” he said, but I knew—even as he said it—that had it been, he would have seen me exiled anyway.

It was the last time that I would pass down the lords’ hallway, though I did not then know it. I was leaving the city. Leaving him.

But at the end of the hallway, I paused. It was still there: the vase. Still sitting upon its table at the top of the stairs, as ugly as the day I’d made it. I lifted it in my hands. I hadn’t even bothered to varnish it, and that it was made of mud—not clay—was sadly evident in the grit it left on my hands.

From behind me, my father’s voice: “Fëanáro?”

I lifted the vase over my head. And hurled it down the stairs.

Footsteps rushing towards me and Father’s voice, “Fëanáro, I am—” The vase rolled and bounced on each step and would not break.

“—I am coming with you.”

Unharmed, it rolled from the last step to the floor. And shattered.



For mirien is a quadrabble about hatred between two cousins. And passion.

This story is set just before Fëanor’s exile and is about the relationship that might have existed at this time between Maedhros and Fingon. It was written to have two meanings. If you take the first meaning, at face value, then it is simply a dark story about friendship turned to animosity.

If you choose to look at it from the second angle, then that “animosity” was spurred by a different sort of passion.

This is a slash story. If you do not like slash, do us both a favor and skip this one. It is not graphic, but it is dark and not for the faint of heart.


Hatred
I hate him.

My eyes are drawn to him upon entering the clearing. It is the Winter Festival, and swaying lanterns are strung amid the trees and bonfires paint the people in a feral, throbbing light. There he is, hair the color and texture of flame; silver eyes bright in the darkness.

I hate him.

From across the clearing, his gaze is drawn to mine, and we stare for a long moment before he turns and moves away and lets the shadows swallow him. I see a lick of scarlet hair as he disappears. Amid the churning bodies and dancing flames and trees that bend with the rhythm of the drums, it is all that I can see.

Until the darkness claims him.

Yet we are destined to meet. We always have been. Coming together out of duty, then friendship. Now—

Hatred.

The eldest sons of the high princes cannot linger long on the periphery, and so it is inevitable. We are held tightly in the dark clutches of the crowd, moving to its center in slow jolting starts. I see him dancing with a maiden, long-fingered hands pale against the dark silk of her gown, pressing into her warm flesh beneath. He bumps me, and I seize that long fire-bright hair, defiant.

Passionate.

He strikes me in defense, an open hand across my cheek, a sound that falls between the relentless drumbeats. He wears a ring on that hand, and it cuts my face in a stuttering line. I am staring at his mouth, thin lips that I have not seen smile in a long, long time.

My fingers become a fist and meet that mouth, darkening his lips with his own blood.

Strong arms seize me from behind, just as he is seized by Macalaurë, and we are dragged apart. The cut on my face is throbbing in time with my heartbeat, matching the drums, then faster. Frantic. His blood is upon my knuckle, I see, when the crowd swallows him again and I can spare a glance for someone other than him.

Red blood on white skin.

Turukáno releases my arms with a disgusted admonishment before returning to the arms of his wife. The cut on my face throbs faster until it is just pain. Will it leave a scar? I hope that it will.

I lift my fist to my mouth and lick away his blood.
  • but I knew—even as he said it—that had it been, he would have seen me exiled anyway

    Ooh, is that true? Or is that just Feanor being kind of paranoid/"the-world-is-out-to-get-me"?

    I like the second one too. :)
    • I get the First Comment Award! Yay!! /silliness
    • I don't know...I would guess that it's Feanor's delusion. I don't think that if Finwe meant to punish Feanor through exile that he would then turn around and say, "But I'll come with you to keep you company...?"

      I have a feeling that Finwe just chewed Feanor's ass a little over his treatment of Fingolfin. And you know Feanor: "OMG the world hates me! *angst*"
      • Good point. I couldn't really see Finwe meaning to exile Feanor, but a little bunny randomly appeared in the doorway, so I had to ask. ;) *crosses ankles*

        I have a feeling that Finwe just chewed Feanor's ass a little over his treatment of Fingolfin. And you know Feanor: "OMG the world hates me! *angst*"

        *snicker* That is amusing. :)
  • Need I say how happy it makes me that you have a long list of friends who love Feanaro&Co? It's most delightful to check your LJ and find something about my favorite Elf posted every time.

    My hands were growing hard with calluses.

    Ah, not just the hands, eh Feanaro? I think that his seemingly danger-free life in Valinor hardened Feanaro more than any other Elf.

    Footsteps rushing towards me and Father’s voice, “Fëanáro, I am—” The vase rolled and bounced on each step and would not break.

    “—I am coming with you.”

    Unharmed, it rolled from the last step to the floor. And shattered.


    *gets all teary eyed*

    Oh... and the second short story... O_O! *is stunned* I don't recall that you've approached these two from this perspective before. So... WOW! Putting the story in AMC verse and seeing Maitimo married... it's even more impressive. And yes, though it's dark, it's also smoldering with passion of which the short, violent exchange is but a glimpse. *loves*

    I lift my fist to my mouth and lick away his blood.

    Am I totally sick to find this hot?
    • Just imagine a dirty-fight between Fingon and the guy in my icon.... >:^]

      I seem to recall that you found hottness in "Return to Me" as well, when Namo is healing Finrod and kisses his bruises and draws back lips wet with blood?

      Now, the question here to ask: Which of us is more fucked up? Me for writing it? Or you for loving it so much??

      *evil grin*

      I tried to inject some tasty imagery and innuendo to make the piece feel sexual, even if, taken literally, it is not. I seem to have done okay in this by you? :)
      • Just imagine a dirty-fight between Fingon and the guy in my icon....

        Are they both nekkid? *grins*

        Now, the question here to ask: Which of us is more fucked up? Me for writing it? Or you for loving it so much??

        Eh... you just keep writing stuff like that, OK? >;)

        I tried to inject some tasty imagery and innuendo to make the piece feel sexual, even if, taken literally, it is not. I seem to have done okay in this by you? :)

        Well, you have done more than OK by me and I bet that I'm not the only one who thinks the same... *eyes common f-list and winks*
  • I saved both to read for a break :)

    The Finwe & Fëanor piece is packed with tension and you wrote the feeling of rejection of Fëanor incredibly well: his down to earth attitude, fake court and politics vs the down to earth and realistic vase: unpolished in it's own beauty as if that vase would remember Finwe not to think he's high and mighty of which so many accuse Feanor to be. Great parallels.

    Ah oh! The second one, yes I read it, such jealousy emanating from Fingon and well he started it, claiming everything he can get. I can so imagine his fiery glare when he licks away the blood... simply great Dawn!
    • You caught what I was trying to do in the first one! *happy dance* Though I would have said that the vase represented Feanor's love for Finwe: unpolished, simple, and true. But I think that we're on the same page, which is more than I usually get when I try to consciously use symbolism in stories! ;)

      And you read my slashy story? *evil grin* Granted, it wasn't graphic or particularly over-the-top in the slash department. In fact, it's possible to read it as not slashy at all, though that somehow makes it seem more effed up to me than it does when reading it as slash....

      Anyhoo. /ramble Thanks for reading and reviewing! :)
  • *squee*

    *can't believe she missed this*

    *curses school*

    Yay for angsty Feanaro! He may think the world is out to get him-- it probably isn't, but then again, maybe it is-- but his family still loves him. *huggles melancholy Elda*

    The second one... why is it that I find the idea of Nelyo and his little (or not-so-little) cousin getting into fistfights swoonable? Although the suddenness with which it happened must have surprised the other guests.
Powered by LiveJournal.com