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Disclaimer: I donít own any characters in this fic. I only borrowed them from Professor Tolkien.

 

 

Reflection

 

My brother fretted beside the shifty fire we built with twigs gathered from the forest. I could see his shoulders are tensed with his back turned from me. They were fixed in a rigid position for a long time, his hands merely clasping the silvery sword our father made for him. Under the wavering light, fire danced from his sable blond hair, and I could envision his brows are kneaded in consternation.

 

Silently we waited for tomorrow, our men were polishing their armors outside the cave we dwelt for the night. The rhythmic clasps of metals gave a dull consistency, a comfort we can draw from for the moment for strength, in the broken world we had acquainted so quickly. 

 

Fire danced in the cave, more alive than we had been for years.

 

My brotherís back was still turned from me. A plate of dry venison lied next to his feet untouched. He favored contemplation instead of supper this night, and only Vaire knows if we will have the chance to reflect our lives after tomorrow. Perhaps I should follow his lead, but I am fearful. Because when I reflect, memory forced me to burrow deep inside myself, and I shall see nothing but a despicable imitation with holes and deceits in his fea. A walking mediocre that never knew the exhilaration of ingenuity but pretended with his dainty smiles, and long slender artisan hands, a picture of extreme mockery.

 

 My fatherís favorite son, his true heir in likeliness.

 

This hope has haunted every step I walked since I visited fatherís workshop at the tender age of 17, and he folded my tiny hand with his large warm hand around a carving knife and together we etched a leaf pattern on a wooden panel. A moment later I etched the same leaf pattern on a scrap of wood I found underneath a table while father organized his tools. I remember his fierce bright eyes became brighter with joy as he hugged me tight.

 

Father taught me everything. I lived and breathed in the forge. My hands worked the delights of wonder: glass as thin as ice with pale iridescent mauve coloring, tiny gold globules framing the fine carvings of a torque delicately, and crystal flowers that wafted fragrances like true blossoms but never wilt.

 

One day I was shaping a glass vase in the forge, I scrutinized my art for the first time with my own eyes and mind, and saw fatherís images. I looked at each one of my make in the forge, and I cried with tears fallings endlessly down my pale cheeks. I saw fatherís lines, fatherís curves and fatherís forms. My hand slipped, and the vase shattered into a thousand pieces. My feet were bleeding but I felt numb. I closed my eyes, emptied my thoughts and tried to conjure a form to the new glass I begun to melt. Then my eyes opened, and I saw fatherís images. Screaming, I broke all my works.

 

The favorite son.  Empty praises showered me day to day. A fatherís love is blind. I glanced at the silver mirror in my bedroom and saw fatherís eyes, fatherís hair, fatherís cheeks and fatherís lips. Dully I labored, but the hands that polished the bronze urn contained no passion with each stroke. Those hands are lifeless; they could not touch the songs of conception. Praises poured in from my fellow artisans, they saw the artifice, the parody of a genius, and admired the clever deft hands that imitate remarkably.

 

My son labored endlessly in the forge. I saw his hands shaped the metal into a beautiful goblet. My eyes filled with envy for my only son. Though rough in techniques from inexperience, the goblet he made sang fiercely of life, of freshness.

 

Father, why donít you craft anymore? My son would ask sadly. His eye filled with longings in the depth of somber stone caverns for the old times we spent together in the workshop. How could I tell him that I feel no passion exuding from my fingers when I hold the hammer to shape? How could I hold the poor glass pheasant I painted next to his vibrant porcelain swan fluttering its wings to soar in the skies of Valinor?

 

I see fatherís eyes in his eyes. Perhaps he is fatherís true heir.

 

They would be remembered in history for the greatness of their arts. I would live with fatherís fire enveloping me as always. I wanted to be remembered differently, but I am and could only be Curufin, Son of Feanor.

 

The fire diminished after the first ray of sun graced the land. My brother stood up, his lips pursed tightly, his eyes hauntingly dark despite the lights of the Trees in them. One guard came in to bring him his armors, polished to shine. He put them on proudly, piece by piece. I ventured outside the cave, looked to the east, and saw Maedhrosí red locks fluttered in the morning wind like a banner of blood.

 

Today we marched, sounding the ivory horns, with sharp sword at our sides, to reclaim fatherís legacy. We need not speak to each other, for we are of one mind. And afterwards, maybe I could give the Silmaril to my son, to ease his loneliness and to remind him, with its magnificent brilliant light in his trembling slender hands, so similar to fatherís hands, that beauty is worth the price we paid.

 

 

Status Ė not betaed.