Categories > Books > Silmarillion
Author’s Notes:
Dedicated to Firefly07, who supplied the idea. Actually, she was drawing the picture and I asked permission to write a tiny snippet to accompany it. I hope she posts the image soon, so you readers could see why I made the story the way it is. But school year is starting in the Philippines, and she cannot yet spare a time to upload the image into any site. (I will tell you if she has, through a mention in the summary.)
Credited to Dawn Felagund’s marvelous novel Another Man’s Cage. And here is also a little gift for her and the moderating crew for the successful and enjoyable game time of Back to Middle-earth Month 2010; hopefully the first of several gifts. :) (She and the others in the crew deserve it!)
And some of you should know by now that my humor could be very crappy; and for you who have not known: beware! Consider yourselves forewarned. grin :rueful:
Sincerely yours,
Rey
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cheese!
“What are you doing?” Tyelkormo hissed. He looked around the sitting-room wildly, his blue-grey eyes as round as saucers. “Atar and Amil are going to be mad!”
Young Curufinwë grinned unrepentantly. He was sitting in their father’s armchair, trying to imitate both Fëanáro’s characteristic nonchalant bearing and Tyelkormo’s current visual frenzy. Around him books and music sheets and many tools and trinkets were strewn, looking like they had been well-explored by young, curious hands. The sitting-room itself looked as if it had seen better days. (And to think that Tyelkormo had seen it in its previous condition just a couple hours ago…)
Regardless, the elder of the two brothers could not stifle a snicker. Curufinwë looked so funny, and that youngest brother of his did not realise it.
Well, now that Tyelkormo gave it away by sniggering, though, he did. – “Turkoooo!”
The little chuckles turned into a booming peal of laughter. Tyelkormo hopped around the room, dodging items and furniture with the grace of a hunter, while his livid little brother pursued him with much less elegance – and waving little fists.
That sparked something in the playful side of Tyelkormo’s mind. He teased Curufinwë about spending too much time indoors (and thus could not exercise his grace in a natural environment like a forest or riverbank), and only stopped the merry chase around the room when Curufinwë nearly fell on top of Makalaurë’s prized harp. (Unlike what many people thought, Makalaurë could transform into a deadly monster if his precious possessions were harmed.) “That’s for calling me Turko,” he grinned. Curufinwë was draped across their father’s armchair, panting.
Someone cleared his throat behind him. Wincing, Tyelkormo turned around slowly, knowing who had joined them in the sitting-room.
Atar.
Before he could say anything on his own defense, Fëanáro beat him to it. “Don’t you like the name I gave you?” He plastered a look of mock hurt on his face, and Tyelkormo was forced into a bout of laughter. (Fëanáro could be a very bad imitator when – and if – he wanted to.)
It stopped short, though, when an odd glint entered his father’s eyes. That usually meant trouble for him, in a not-serious but nonetheless threatening way….
His assessment was not off-target. And this time it was Curufinwë who crowed in victory. Their father had decided that Tyelkormo’s punishment would be… posing on the floor of the sitting-room for an impromptu painting done by Fëanáro himself. And Tyelkormo definitely, absolutely despised posing for a painting.
Hoping to save some of his dignity, the third Fëanárion chose the less messy spot on the floor, and struck up the required pose from the first thing that came into his mind. (After all, his father did not specify how he should pose, and it was a blessing on itself.)
Well, but he had just discounted the presence of his no-less wily little brother, who had an open access to his vulmerable back…
“Smile, Tyelkormo, smile…” Fëanáro coaxed.
Rustling. Curvo was picking something from amidst the books or sheets, no doubt.
“You will not regret this. – Don’t look at me like that. It’s your own fault your pose is so awkward. You can still change it if you want, now.”
Curvo was creeping behind him. He knew. His little brother had just stumbled on Makalaurë’s harp. Their elder brother would be mad…
“Well. I gave you a chance. Now stay that way for a bit. I am sketching.”
Curvo was right behind him now, poised to—
Something tickled his nose; red, stiff, and smelling of ink and dust and sweat. One of Maitimo’s best quills… Uh-oh.
“Smile, Tyelkormo, will you?” Fëanáro was exasperated, but there was a hint of laughter in his voice. “Smile—“
“Chee!”
The feathery tip of the quill managed to brush the inside of Tyelkormo’s nose.
Fëanáro sketched furiously on the paper pad, grinning like a madman.
Dedicated to Firefly07, who supplied the idea. Actually, she was drawing the picture and I asked permission to write a tiny snippet to accompany it. I hope she posts the image soon, so you readers could see why I made the story the way it is. But school year is starting in the Philippines, and she cannot yet spare a time to upload the image into any site. (I will tell you if she has, through a mention in the summary.)
Credited to Dawn Felagund’s marvelous novel Another Man’s Cage. And here is also a little gift for her and the moderating crew for the successful and enjoyable game time of Back to Middle-earth Month 2010; hopefully the first of several gifts. :) (She and the others in the crew deserve it!)
And some of you should know by now that my humor could be very crappy; and for you who have not known: beware! Consider yourselves forewarned. grin :rueful:
Sincerely yours,
Rey
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cheese!
“What are you doing?” Tyelkormo hissed. He looked around the sitting-room wildly, his blue-grey eyes as round as saucers. “Atar and Amil are going to be mad!”
Young Curufinwë grinned unrepentantly. He was sitting in their father’s armchair, trying to imitate both Fëanáro’s characteristic nonchalant bearing and Tyelkormo’s current visual frenzy. Around him books and music sheets and many tools and trinkets were strewn, looking like they had been well-explored by young, curious hands. The sitting-room itself looked as if it had seen better days. (And to think that Tyelkormo had seen it in its previous condition just a couple hours ago…)
Regardless, the elder of the two brothers could not stifle a snicker. Curufinwë looked so funny, and that youngest brother of his did not realise it.
Well, now that Tyelkormo gave it away by sniggering, though, he did. – “Turkoooo!”
The little chuckles turned into a booming peal of laughter. Tyelkormo hopped around the room, dodging items and furniture with the grace of a hunter, while his livid little brother pursued him with much less elegance – and waving little fists.
That sparked something in the playful side of Tyelkormo’s mind. He teased Curufinwë about spending too much time indoors (and thus could not exercise his grace in a natural environment like a forest or riverbank), and only stopped the merry chase around the room when Curufinwë nearly fell on top of Makalaurë’s prized harp. (Unlike what many people thought, Makalaurë could transform into a deadly monster if his precious possessions were harmed.) “That’s for calling me Turko,” he grinned. Curufinwë was draped across their father’s armchair, panting.
Someone cleared his throat behind him. Wincing, Tyelkormo turned around slowly, knowing who had joined them in the sitting-room.
Atar.
Before he could say anything on his own defense, Fëanáro beat him to it. “Don’t you like the name I gave you?” He plastered a look of mock hurt on his face, and Tyelkormo was forced into a bout of laughter. (Fëanáro could be a very bad imitator when – and if – he wanted to.)
It stopped short, though, when an odd glint entered his father’s eyes. That usually meant trouble for him, in a not-serious but nonetheless threatening way….
His assessment was not off-target. And this time it was Curufinwë who crowed in victory. Their father had decided that Tyelkormo’s punishment would be… posing on the floor of the sitting-room for an impromptu painting done by Fëanáro himself. And Tyelkormo definitely, absolutely despised posing for a painting.
Hoping to save some of his dignity, the third Fëanárion chose the less messy spot on the floor, and struck up the required pose from the first thing that came into his mind. (After all, his father did not specify how he should pose, and it was a blessing on itself.)
Well, but he had just discounted the presence of his no-less wily little brother, who had an open access to his vulmerable back…
“Smile, Tyelkormo, smile…” Fëanáro coaxed.
Rustling. Curvo was picking something from amidst the books or sheets, no doubt.
“You will not regret this. – Don’t look at me like that. It’s your own fault your pose is so awkward. You can still change it if you want, now.”
Curvo was creeping behind him. He knew. His little brother had just stumbled on Makalaurë’s harp. Their elder brother would be mad…
“Well. I gave you a chance. Now stay that way for a bit. I am sketching.”
Curvo was right behind him now, poised to—
Something tickled his nose; red, stiff, and smelling of ink and dust and sweat. One of Maitimo’s best quills… Uh-oh.
“Smile, Tyelkormo, will you?” Fëanáro was exasperated, but there was a hint of laughter in his voice. “Smile—“
“Chee!”
The feathery tip of the quill managed to brush the inside of Tyelkormo’s nose.
Fëanáro sketched furiously on the paper pad, grinning like a madman.
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