Fic A Day, Day 22 - Team Effort
Aug. 22nd, 2020 09:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
grundyscribblingTitle: Team Effort
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Summary: Anariel and Fëanor have a conversation after she wakes up.
Word Count: 1500
Anariel was confused when the view changed.
From balrogs and laughter to a diagram of hang glider was a fairly drastic switch. For just a second, she wondered if Morgoth had been trying to see into Fëanor’s head, or if she was having dreams of California – until she noticed that wasn’t Leonardo da Vinci’s script, it was tengwar.
Wait, she’d seen that exact handwriting before…
As reality kicked back in fully, she realized her nose was sore and her leg really hurt.
Morgoth was such a bastard.
“Good, you’re awake,” a voice said from somewhere to her left. “I recommend you sit up slowly.”
She turned her head to find Fëanor looking extremely cranky.
“It’s almost like you’ve dealt with me before,” she snickered.
She didn’t sit up slowly, though it was not quite as fast as normal. She frowned at the dried blood on the floor next to her.
“What’s that from?”
“You,” Fëanor said tartly. “Or more accurately, your nose. Setting it properly was somewhat tricky, but it appears to have healed straight.”
He frowned and placed one ghostly finger on either side of her nose as if satisfying himself that it was right.
“You set my nose.”
She paused, but thought better of it before she asked. She had a feeling the explanation for how a bodyless spirit had managed to not only turn her face up but also do first aid could take a while.
“Thank you.”
He gave her a slightly stiff nod of acknowledgement.
“You’re welcome. I don’t suppose you care to explain what just happened?’
“Nope,” she replied. “Why did you write on the ceiling?”
The grin that got wasn’t entirely carefree, but it wouldn’t have looked out of place on her brothers.
“Gravity means very little to the fëa,” he said smugly. “If any of the dead are limited to the floor, it is only because their consciousness has carried the habits they learned while alive into the Halls and assumed they apply to the dead as well. And I ran out of space on the walls.”
“Ok, that covers the ceiling part. What about the writing?”
Fëanor held out a stylus. She took it, and was surprised to find it was very much a real thing. It wasn’t any writing implement she recognized, but when she scratched at the floor, it did write.
“How can a fëa hold something solid?” she demanded.
“An excellent question,” he said with some exasperation. “Your sister gifted me that tool, but she has not provided any answer as to how it works or why I am able to interact with it. At least, she has not provided any adequate answer. ‘Magic’ is in no way a valid explanation! I have several theories, most of which are notated on the wall to your right, center section, upper panel.”
Anariel glanced at the wall in question, but most of the theory went right over her head. Unlike most elves and possibly maiar, ‘magic’ worked just fine for her – though given this had come from her little sister, it wouldn’t surprise her if there was some element of the Key involved.
“And the hang glider?” she asked.
“What is a ‘hang glider’?” Fëanor replied, a spark in his eyes.
She pointed at the drawing.
“You mean Tindomiel’s successful flying device? That’s one of her earlier versions. I believe it’s popularly referred to as an elven wing.” He looked slightly miffed. “It should properly be called a Noldorin wing, I feel, seeing as it was devised and built by a pair of Noldor. But the Teleri insist that it was constructed and flown in their city first so the naming should reflect their contribution. They prefer to use something with sail in the name, but did eventually see the logic in calling it a wing. ‘Elven wing’ is therefore a compromise. Ara has been far too yielding.”
“Can’t imagine why the Lindar might think something my sister did should be named for them or at least by them,” Anariel observed, trying very hard to keep a straight face.
“Yes, yes, she’s already made a similar argument,” Fëanor sniffed. “I think you’ll find you’re both descended from multiple High Kings of the Noldor, so don’t give me any rubbish about being more Vanyarin than Noldorin.”
She almost lost it at that – Tinu must have been pretty annoyed if she’d dragged the Vanyar into it.
“We’re more Lindarin than anything,” Anariel shrugged. “And I think you’ll find just as many Lindarin kings as Noldorin ones in our family tree.”
Fëanor’s glare said he had no valid counter to that and didn’t like it one bit. She tried not to laugh at the sight of one former High King of the Noldor pouting.
She’d always expected her first meeting with her grandfather’s father to be far more antagonistic than this – as had pretty much everyone who had met both of them. (Granted, that was a total of three people, given that she hadn’t thought to ask Aunt Findis or Elemmírë about it.) But after her front row seat to all the ways in which Morgoth had been messing with him before he was even born, not to mention him taking what had to have been some extraordinary or at least highly interesting measures to fix her up, she was feeling a bit more charitable toward Fëanor than before.
It was tempting to meet Míriel next to get the prequel. Because there had definitely been more to it that just what she saw over the course of Fëanor’s life. She could summon Namo to ask. And she would have except that right now, she really wanted to just curl up somewhere until her leg finished healing.
Inside the Halls was probably not the best place to do that. And she really didn’t feel like calling Namo to come get her given that he’d probably poke some more to try to figure things out. She’d just have to make her own way out. She might not have been able to see where she was going, but there was nothing wrong with her hearing or her sense of direction.
There was just the teensy tiny little problem that she wasn’t entirely sure she was going to be able to manage the walk all the way back on her own. Her brothers and father may doubt her assessment of her own injuries and her common sense in that arena, but she didn’t generally stand on what felt like a newly healed break in the long leg bone unless there was a pressing need.
“Out of curiosity, what happened to my leg?” she asked, trying to be casual.
“You kicked the wall,” Fëanor replied matter of factly.
“And that broke it?” she spluttered.
“You kicked the wall rather hard,” he amended, pointing to a visibly damaged spot behind her. “Fortunately, I had already set your nose by that point. The leg was comparatively easy.”
Damn. Her ‘learn to stay quiet no matter what so no one notices’ plan wasn’t working as well as she’d thought. She could think of several points she’d been frustrated enough that she had lashed out, though she hadn’t thought it had affected her physical body. She needed to have another talk with Irmo. Regularly damaging herself or her surroundings in her sleep would lead to questions.
“Thanks,” she muttered. “Again.”
“You don’t need to thank me. Do you really believe I’d let my own granddaughter lie face down on the floor injured?”
“Has Tindomiel agreed to your theory that you’re a grandfather, not an uncle?” Anariel asked curiously.
“As a matter of fact, she has,” he said smugly.
“Ok. Thank you, Grandfather Butthead,” she said sweetly.
To her surprise, Fëanor only managed a minor huff.
“I really am not the monster much of Endorë seems to have believed,” he said grumpily.
“No one thought you were a monster,” Anariel snorted. “Self-centered, extremely misguided, and terminally stupid for such a smart person. But not a monster. Although my dad did mention thinking Celegorm was a monster when he was little...”
“Yes, I’ve heard about Turkafinwë’s doings,” Fëanor sighed. “Though I believe he and your sister have come to a truce of sorts.”
Anariel blinked.
That she wanted to hear about from Tindomiel. Her sister had always been wholeheartedly disgusted by him.
“Right. I think we’ve all learned something today.”
“Really? What have you learned?” Fëanor asked.
“That you’re more of a team player than we thought,” Anariel grinned – at least, she hoped it looked like a grin. Healing bones weren’t fun. “If you want, you can be on my team.”
“What is this team going to do?”
“Kick Morgoth’s ass.”
It turned out Fëanor was the first relative who didn’t try to talk her out of that.
“Very well, I accept.”
“Excellent. And now I’m going to try to sneak out before Namo notices I put a dent in his wall.”
Anariel did her best not to grimace as she hauled herself to her feet. She didn’t think she was going to make it very far, but if she was careful, she should at least make it outside and partway up the corridor before she needed to take some sit-down time.
“I expect you’ll succeed,” Fëanor offered. “Tindomiel usually does.”
“Thanks,” she replied.
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Summary: Anariel and Fëanor have a conversation after she wakes up.
Word Count: 1500
Anariel was confused when the view changed.
From balrogs and laughter to a diagram of hang glider was a fairly drastic switch. For just a second, she wondered if Morgoth had been trying to see into Fëanor’s head, or if she was having dreams of California – until she noticed that wasn’t Leonardo da Vinci’s script, it was tengwar.
Wait, she’d seen that exact handwriting before…
As reality kicked back in fully, she realized her nose was sore and her leg really hurt.
Morgoth was such a bastard.
“Good, you’re awake,” a voice said from somewhere to her left. “I recommend you sit up slowly.”
She turned her head to find Fëanor looking extremely cranky.
“It’s almost like you’ve dealt with me before,” she snickered.
She didn’t sit up slowly, though it was not quite as fast as normal. She frowned at the dried blood on the floor next to her.
“What’s that from?”
“You,” Fëanor said tartly. “Or more accurately, your nose. Setting it properly was somewhat tricky, but it appears to have healed straight.”
He frowned and placed one ghostly finger on either side of her nose as if satisfying himself that it was right.
“You set my nose.”
She paused, but thought better of it before she asked. She had a feeling the explanation for how a bodyless spirit had managed to not only turn her face up but also do first aid could take a while.
“Thank you.”
He gave her a slightly stiff nod of acknowledgement.
“You’re welcome. I don’t suppose you care to explain what just happened?’
“Nope,” she replied. “Why did you write on the ceiling?”
The grin that got wasn’t entirely carefree, but it wouldn’t have looked out of place on her brothers.
“Gravity means very little to the fëa,” he said smugly. “If any of the dead are limited to the floor, it is only because their consciousness has carried the habits they learned while alive into the Halls and assumed they apply to the dead as well. And I ran out of space on the walls.”
“Ok, that covers the ceiling part. What about the writing?”
Fëanor held out a stylus. She took it, and was surprised to find it was very much a real thing. It wasn’t any writing implement she recognized, but when she scratched at the floor, it did write.
“How can a fëa hold something solid?” she demanded.
“An excellent question,” he said with some exasperation. “Your sister gifted me that tool, but she has not provided any answer as to how it works or why I am able to interact with it. At least, she has not provided any adequate answer. ‘Magic’ is in no way a valid explanation! I have several theories, most of which are notated on the wall to your right, center section, upper panel.”
Anariel glanced at the wall in question, but most of the theory went right over her head. Unlike most elves and possibly maiar, ‘magic’ worked just fine for her – though given this had come from her little sister, it wouldn’t surprise her if there was some element of the Key involved.
“And the hang glider?” she asked.
“What is a ‘hang glider’?” Fëanor replied, a spark in his eyes.
She pointed at the drawing.
“You mean Tindomiel’s successful flying device? That’s one of her earlier versions. I believe it’s popularly referred to as an elven wing.” He looked slightly miffed. “It should properly be called a Noldorin wing, I feel, seeing as it was devised and built by a pair of Noldor. But the Teleri insist that it was constructed and flown in their city first so the naming should reflect their contribution. They prefer to use something with sail in the name, but did eventually see the logic in calling it a wing. ‘Elven wing’ is therefore a compromise. Ara has been far too yielding.”
“Can’t imagine why the Lindar might think something my sister did should be named for them or at least by them,” Anariel observed, trying very hard to keep a straight face.
“Yes, yes, she’s already made a similar argument,” Fëanor sniffed. “I think you’ll find you’re both descended from multiple High Kings of the Noldor, so don’t give me any rubbish about being more Vanyarin than Noldorin.”
She almost lost it at that – Tinu must have been pretty annoyed if she’d dragged the Vanyar into it.
“We’re more Lindarin than anything,” Anariel shrugged. “And I think you’ll find just as many Lindarin kings as Noldorin ones in our family tree.”
Fëanor’s glare said he had no valid counter to that and didn’t like it one bit. She tried not to laugh at the sight of one former High King of the Noldor pouting.
She’d always expected her first meeting with her grandfather’s father to be far more antagonistic than this – as had pretty much everyone who had met both of them. (Granted, that was a total of three people, given that she hadn’t thought to ask Aunt Findis or Elemmírë about it.) But after her front row seat to all the ways in which Morgoth had been messing with him before he was even born, not to mention him taking what had to have been some extraordinary or at least highly interesting measures to fix her up, she was feeling a bit more charitable toward Fëanor than before.
It was tempting to meet Míriel next to get the prequel. Because there had definitely been more to it that just what she saw over the course of Fëanor’s life. She could summon Namo to ask. And she would have except that right now, she really wanted to just curl up somewhere until her leg finished healing.
Inside the Halls was probably not the best place to do that. And she really didn’t feel like calling Namo to come get her given that he’d probably poke some more to try to figure things out. She’d just have to make her own way out. She might not have been able to see where she was going, but there was nothing wrong with her hearing or her sense of direction.
There was just the teensy tiny little problem that she wasn’t entirely sure she was going to be able to manage the walk all the way back on her own. Her brothers and father may doubt her assessment of her own injuries and her common sense in that arena, but she didn’t generally stand on what felt like a newly healed break in the long leg bone unless there was a pressing need.
“Out of curiosity, what happened to my leg?” she asked, trying to be casual.
“You kicked the wall,” Fëanor replied matter of factly.
“And that broke it?” she spluttered.
“You kicked the wall rather hard,” he amended, pointing to a visibly damaged spot behind her. “Fortunately, I had already set your nose by that point. The leg was comparatively easy.”
Damn. Her ‘learn to stay quiet no matter what so no one notices’ plan wasn’t working as well as she’d thought. She could think of several points she’d been frustrated enough that she had lashed out, though she hadn’t thought it had affected her physical body. She needed to have another talk with Irmo. Regularly damaging herself or her surroundings in her sleep would lead to questions.
“Thanks,” she muttered. “Again.”
“You don’t need to thank me. Do you really believe I’d let my own granddaughter lie face down on the floor injured?”
“Has Tindomiel agreed to your theory that you’re a grandfather, not an uncle?” Anariel asked curiously.
“As a matter of fact, she has,” he said smugly.
“Ok. Thank you, Grandfather Butthead,” she said sweetly.
To her surprise, Fëanor only managed a minor huff.
“I really am not the monster much of Endorë seems to have believed,” he said grumpily.
“No one thought you were a monster,” Anariel snorted. “Self-centered, extremely misguided, and terminally stupid for such a smart person. But not a monster. Although my dad did mention thinking Celegorm was a monster when he was little...”
“Yes, I’ve heard about Turkafinwë’s doings,” Fëanor sighed. “Though I believe he and your sister have come to a truce of sorts.”
Anariel blinked.
That she wanted to hear about from Tindomiel. Her sister had always been wholeheartedly disgusted by him.
“Right. I think we’ve all learned something today.”
“Really? What have you learned?” Fëanor asked.
“That you’re more of a team player than we thought,” Anariel grinned – at least, she hoped it looked like a grin. Healing bones weren’t fun. “If you want, you can be on my team.”
“What is this team going to do?”
“Kick Morgoth’s ass.”
It turned out Fëanor was the first relative who didn’t try to talk her out of that.
“Very well, I accept.”
“Excellent. And now I’m going to try to sneak out before Namo notices I put a dent in his wall.”
Anariel did her best not to grimace as she hauled herself to her feet. She didn’t think she was going to make it very far, but if she was careful, she should at least make it outside and partway up the corridor before she needed to take some sit-down time.
“I expect you’ll succeed,” Fëanor offered. “Tindomiel usually does.”
“Thanks,” she replied.
