sidmarillion

The solar was lit by both the window and lamps, fine glasswork perched on tables and hanging from the ceiling. The craft was smaller than the great lamps that would glow in the great hall, simpler too. They gave off no heat, that came from the fire— though the fire was low, the air in the solar simply seemed warmer than the air of the floors below. Maedhros had settled there with a small stack of letters earlier in the day and he’d remained there. Pacing. Staring. Spinning what small baubles he could find to listen to the sound as he read. Even then, the time began to drag and the letters began to flip positions and it felt as if both his mind and eyes wandered before the words were ever read. He’d let the letter fall to the desk before rubbing at his better eye, grimacing and mumbling curses before pulling the letter in close again. He’d try again from the beginning. His eyes felt heavy staring at it, the weight of everything suddenly pressing down on his shoulders. It was some unknown grace that he’d yawned before Mirëa saw fit to come in.

The apology was met with a grunt, a quiet one, and he was faster now to lean in and poke around at both the basket and its contents than he’d been before. Maedhros paused, giving one of the containers a gentle shake before grimacing. More medicine.

At first nothing really passed his face as she spoke, as if the words hardly stuck with him all, and it was only after she was quiet again that his expression twisted further into a scowl.

“There’s no reason for you to need to read my letters.”

He prickled still at the thought after the words had dissipated, only in that silence did he look away. Flickering eyes. Rumbling sigh. His hand came down to prop against the edge of the desk, voice softer now that it had been. His gaze still wandered though, and his expression melted away.

“… fine. To… save time.”

Maedhros set aside the letter, he set aside all the materials he’d brought to try and finish the letters before they say too long. With two fingers he pointed her to a chair,

And then, seconds later, the ire seemed to fade, and he agreed.

"Six possible pain remedies," she explained, as she reached out to take the missive on the top of his stack. She turned it right side up and studied the handwriting, which seemed particularly scrawled. "I know not which, if any, will be effective for an elf; even less do I understand what your body, which is different, now, from other elves, will do with them. We must choose remedies with caution, so I thought it best to bring them to you and get your opinion on which looks most promising, or more realistically, least foul."

A pause.

"Who is this person, to butcher your father's script in this way?" She held the letter up to the nearest lamp. "I always think my handwriting is abominable until I see other peoples'. What is this name? Fin-something...well, I suppose that does not narrow it down very much" she muttered dryly. "Fingen. Ah, Fingon? I know who that is, that's the High King's son. No, wait, this isn't Fingon...Fingeg? Finweg? Eru strike down the author of this thing!" Now she was scowling at the letter. "I will just begin reading it, and we'll determine out the sender by the context."

She cleared her throat.

"'To Prince Maedhros,' oh! that's controversial. How fun. 'Son of Fëanor, Protector of Himring...' Whatever. You know your titles. 'I write from the holdings about Lake Helevorn to report the completion of the repairs ordered upon the northern watchtower. The old stone...' Funcles? Fundleshun...he must mean foundation. He can't spell. '...had shifted during last winter's frosts, and two courses of masonry were replaced.' A whole year for five days of work. Ambitious folk at Lake Helevorn, I see. 'The tower now stands secure, and a fresh bacon basket has been filled upon the roof.' Bacon basket filled? You would like that, wouldn't you? But they must mean the beacon basket was fitted and is ready to be lit when the need arises. 'I must, however, bring a concern before you. Twice within the last month, shepherds tending the eastern grazing lands have reported signs of wolves larger than any known in these parts. Three sheep have been taken. The beasts appear bold and show little fear of fire.' Then there are two paragraphs of kissing ass, and I do not use that term lightly. I do not curse, as a rule. But there is no other way to describe it! It's egregious. And it's signed with that garbled Figgis signature."

At their giggling, he pouts. Were they doubting him? Why would they think such a thing? Surely nobody in their right mind would think someone like him was picked out from a trashcan. It simply cannot be.

It is an easy piggy-back ride to the glassworks: down a hall, across a courtyard, through a gate, and across a private road within the palace complex. It is dark inside, and warm, smelling of wet paper and burning wood. Though the shop is large enough for many, only one nér is present: a tall Noldo in work gloves with long black hair bound back from his face and, in spite of the setting, a simple circlet on his brow.

"Atar," Findekáno calls in greeting, and takes Curufinwë nearer, but stops a few feet away from the active work.

Uncle Ñolvo has a red-hot mass of glass at the end of a tube, and he is rolling it on a flat surface, picking up colored shards of glass laid out beforehand in an intricate pattern. "Hello, Káno, Curufinwë-attëa," he says without looking up. If he has thoughts about a son of Fëanárë visiting his workshop, it isn't apparent.

"We came to see you work," Findekáno says, "and to lodge a complaint about Turukáno. What are you making? A lamp?"

"Yes."

What is it about his new cousin? His stringy form, the matted hair, the drooling? Sleeping at a time when one should be up and about and studying their future craft? His general unimpressiveness? And what sort of name is Turukáno anyway, having reused the ‘Káno’ suffix again? He narrows his eyes at the drool, and shakes his head with disapproval. Wasting water even when sleeping. Clearly inefficient. Uncle Nolofinwë is much too lax with the children.

"No, no. The trash can where babies appear has been empty ever since your ammë picked you up from it. Turukáno was born normally. But you don't have to play with him if you don't want to. He sleeps with his mouth open because he's a baby. You did that too, you know."

He turns them away from Turukáno, then, distracting Curufinwë by flipping him around and tossing him onto his back, and trusting the clinging creature to cling there. Out in the hallway, he happens to stop in front of an elaborate tapestry depicting a choir of otherworldly maiar in starlight.

She didn’t dare interrupt until he came to a natural stop. The flow was simply too juicy…no, not juicy. Informative. She wasn’t listening to gossip, because that would be terribly wrong for a healer to do. She was gathering information, which was helpful, and necessary. Curufin was too informative to interrupt.

Even after he finished his diatribe, she let silence reign for a few moments more.

When they finally do get to the nursery, Finno carries Curufin straight over to a pallet laid out on the floor where a child of about Curufin’s age, perhaps a decade younger at most, is asleep and drooling, surrounded by a handful of toys. No red hair or remarkable features here: he looks like Ñolofinwë, who looks like Finwë, who looks like someone took all of the Noldor and averaged them, added a few inches of height, and named the resultant creature king. A nanny supervises from her chair, but doesn’t interrupt them.

*NOTE: Anyone has a right to answer these as clearly or as vaguely as they'd like. Or, not at all! Whatever makes everyone most comfortable. <3 This meme is for nothing but fun and or character-building purposes. It's perfectly fine not to want to talk about some of these things, and everyone around you should accept and respect your boundaries IC or OOC.

How "open" are you to generally discussing the fact that you are transgender, or have gone through transitions? Are you casual about it, or are you a little more guarded with discussion?

What pronouns do you currently use? Have you ever considered trying any others?

What 'gendered' terms are you okay with? Which ones aren't you okay with? (Ex. King, Queen, dude, bro, etc...)

How old were you when you discovered that you were transgender, or wanted to transition? What lead to said discovery?

If you changed your name/alias, is there a meaning behind why you chose it?

Who was the first person you came out to? Did they accept it?

Have you gone through any transition procedures, or do you plan on it? What was it like if you have?

Have you been through any sort of voice therapy? What was that like?

Do you wear binders, or other undergarments regularly?

Do you actively take testosterone/estrogen? How do you prefer to take it if so?

What are some things you didn't quite expect with your transition? Maybe some things that didn't work out like you thought, or things that surprised you about the process?

Do you have a preferred "style" of clothing? Or do you just go with whatever you feel like wearing at the time?

Do you know anyone else who happens to be transgender or went through a transition process? Or perhaps someone who wants to?

Have your romantic orientation or your sexuality changed since you transitioned?

What would you tell someone who wants to transition? Maybe you would have some warnings, or general thoughts you'd like to share with them?

Valar, what a bore.

So caught up was Curufin in being irritated that he had not realized Mirëa was referring to Maedhros, and wondered why the hell she was suddenly speaking of horses. “He’s more like a sick horse who also happens to think everyone who goes near him is out to get him.” And kicks them without reason, he thought, not sure if the bitterness was from his irritation at being crippled for a week or something else. “And so chases everyone away with his aggression, then wonders why he is without allies.”

…jealous?

She paused for just a second, her hands stilling on the bandages as she came to a realization.

She paused, blinked.

Valar, what a bore.

So caught up was Curufin in being irritated that he had not realized Mirëa was referring to Maedhros, and wondered why the hell she was suddenly speaking of horses. “He’s more like a sick horse who also happens to think everyone who goes near him is out to get him.” And kicks them without reason, he thought, not sure if the bitterness was from his irritation at being crippled for a week or something else. “And so chases everyone away with his aggression, then wonders why he is without allies.”

…jealous?

She paused for just a second, her hands stilling on the bandages as she came to a realization.

Valar, what a bore.

So caught up was Curufin in being irritated that he had not realized Mirëa was referring to Maedhros, and wondered why the hell she was suddenly speaking of horses. “He’s more like a sick horse who also happens to think everyone who goes near him is out to get him.” And kicks them without reason, he thought, not sure if the bitterness was from his irritation at being crippled for a week or something else. “And so chases everyone away with his aggression, then wonders why he is without allies.”

…jealous?

She paused for just a second, her hands stilling on the bandages as she came to a realization.

Her lodgings, her dress— none of it communicated wealth, though perhaps that settled something in him. There was something so… present about Men. Like the dwarves too they felt grounded, so unlike the whims of the Eldar. They survived as he did.

“But, I have no interest in one joining under any falsehood. It saves a great of trouble, and I believe my ranks are stronger for it.”

Maedhros was quiet then, eyes flickering over her as a hum built in his throat. It was small, likely more unconscious than anything as it was silenced far faster than it had come.

“That… could be arranged. If you wish to share barracks I won’t be the one to stop you, though if you plan to serve me directly there would be a place in the fortress proper for both you and your practice. There is no shortage of wool, some of the tools required we have as well but they’re shared— if you have your own it would likely serve your purpose best.”

His boot shifted on the floor, lips pursing,

“We traveled light; this was meant to be a skirmish, nothing more. But there are a number of us, and our horses are built for the haul— what mine can’t carry others can split between them. What you need to bring will be carried, I assure you. Bring what herbs you have, you’ll need time to find where it might grow by us and linger still to establish anything stable with the Men who come to trade. And,”

His eyes searched her again before turning away, ears shifting back just enough to be seen through his hair,

“It was a joke, you walking. You’ll ride with me— or if you want another, you’ll ride with them.”

From the corner of his eye he watched her still as she spoke of intentions, of care, and as it continued he found his expression tightening. It sounded so simple from her lips, just a misunderstanding that held a grave consequence. It was more than that. It was something fundamental.

“Can one smooth a child when they’ve never known fear? Then how does one heal when they’ve never known suffering? They know nothing of illness, and neither do they know of living without your whole self. They speak with an authority they’ll never have, and listen about as well as a stone.”

Their eyes met then, and his own settled there. Searching, maybe.

But then...then she had to address the rest of what they had been discussing, the difficult questions of medical ethics which could never be answered to satisfaction by either of them, in spite of wide and disparate experience (or perhaps because of it).

"You aren't wrong," she allowed. "Experience helps; if not with an ailment directly, then with something similar. It seems the entire field of disease is unknown to most of the Eldar. But," she went on, shifting her weight from one leg to the other and her stance with it, "I have helped deliver babies, when no midwife was available, without knowing anything about what it is like to bear a child. The degree of ignorance matters; and maybe total ignorance doesn't have to be forever. In your case, perhaps it was too early, and the healers too unfamiliar with disease, for them to be of any use to you, but if you believe more of the Eldar will become ill with time and loss in Beleriand, then the healers of the Eldar need to know what the healers of the Edain know.