feanaro_curufinwe | (no subject)

There's someone walking along that black road, a dufflebag over one shoulder and a low-slung baseball cap on his head. He's wearing a dirty t-shirt and a pair of jeans that've seen better days.

He looks up once with eyes that are more blue than any humans had ever been, takes in the addition to the road, and raises an eyebrow. Then he throws up a hand in a short wave.

Fëanáro blinks at the sight-- His first sight of another embodied being in... Ages. He doesn't care to think of how many Years (much less years) that may be, but the stranger seems friendly enough, or at the least not hostile (he can see no weapons on the... Man? He supposes, that person is no Elda, and who else could he be, but one of the Secondborn?), and so Fëanáro raises a hand in reply.

"Hail, stranger." He tries Þindarin first; he has little hope that the stranger speaks Quenya.

Clark blinked as he didn't know the language that the man was speaking... and that was somewhat alarming. Given his gifts, his travels, he'd heard just about every language there was on the planet, including some that were dying out (though not if he had anything to say about it). As he was reasonably certain that it was a greeting, but it matched nothing he knew, he walked closer.

"Hello. I don't know that language, but greetings."

He signed the words as he spoke, wondering if perhaps the man was hearing impaired.

The precise, elaborate gestures catch Fëanáro's attention as much as the Man's words; it's clear that they have a meaning, perhaps associated with the words? Which are certainly not of a tongue that Fëanáro has heard before; he feels a surge of excitement at the thought, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Ai, I know not the words you speak, but perhaps you know mine?" He tries Quenya this time, and then in Telerin, "Or perhaps this tongue?"

Once he'd heard all three languages, the pieces started to come together. He had studied the writings of the Professor in his youth, something that provided hope as much as something to do for a boy who thought too fast in a town that seemed to delight in going as slow as possible. He was glad he'd taken the time to learn the pronunciation as well, or he would have had trouble making out the words.

He'd learned the last two in his reading, his mind as capable as his body, and he chose the second as he preferred the sound of it.

"I know some of this," Clark offered delicately, "though the book I learned it from only held so much. Hello. My name is Clark. Greetings."

"Emphasis on the second syllable, Clark," he replies automatically, centuries of giving language instruction coming to the fore.

"I am Fëanáro Curufinwë Finvion, High King of the Ñoldor." So he died. He's back now. "Your accent isn't atrocious." It's a compliment.

Edited 2014-12-20 08:02 (UTC)

He blinked for just a moment at the introduction, as much because of it's outlandishness as for how feasible it seemed given what his senses were telling him... then offered an easy smile.

"My apologies, your majesty. I've never heard the language spoken aloud. Please feel free to correct my pronunciation. I always like to learn."

"Apology accepted," Fëanáro replies graciously. "Now don't roll your tongue quite so much, and remember it's þþþ not sss. You see?" Though as loose and rhotic as Clark's speech in his own tongue had sounded, Fëanáro isn't terribly surprised.

"I will keep it in mind," he said, and the more he heard the other man speak, the more accurate his accent became. "What brings you here, sir? If the question isn't rude. And do you have someplace to stay tonight, as my family's farm is just up the road and I would offer you a roof over your head if you should so require it."

"I would appreciate that," he replies. If Fëanáro were the appreciative type, he would send thanks to Námo for setting him near an agile mind, and a kind soul, in the same body.

"As to your first question, I admit I know not."

"Then it would be best if you would follow me. We can only offer the most humble of lodgings, but the food is good, the beds are warm, and my mother is well used to accepting even the strangest of travelers with good humor."

He trotted over to start leading the way.

"Where were you before this, if you do not mind me asking? I would help you, if I can."

"I do not mind; I was in the Halls of Mandos, where I thought I would dwell until Dagor Dagorath, and the end of all things." Fëanáro gives his new companion a wry smile, and continues, "Not that I have any objection to being freed of that prison before that time."

If indeed it is before that time; it could very well be that he has been released only to watch the world burn as Morgoth Bauglir returns.

Clark's smile was warm, but wane enough to show that he knew of the places and events Fëanáro spoke of and had his own concerns.

"I certainly hope it is before that time," was all he said on the matter as he continued walking down the road.

"My mother will not speak the language we speak now; she only speaks that which I spoke earlier. I can interpret for you, but if you wish to remain, I will happily teach you the language of this region."

"Teach me your tongue," he replies immediately. "I, too, enjoy learning, and it has an interesting sound."

"Fair enough. The general greeting is 'hello'," he said, and the lessons started there as they walked along the road. They had roughly an hour more of walking before they got there. Hopefully, he'd at least know a few phrases by then.

More than a few phrases; he has a remarkable facility for languages, and quickly picks up the grammar and syntax as Clark speaks. After that, it's only a matter of vocabulary and practice, and Fëanáro is certain that he will have a chance for that.

When eventually they arrive, there's an older woman swinging thoughtfully in a porch swing out front of a picturesque farm, sipping on some lemonade as she reads a book. Almost as if she sensed he was there, she looks up and smiles so brightly that her boy has come home and Clark can't help but trot up to her to pull her into his arms for a warm hug. He looks back, gesturing to Fëanáro.

"Ma, I... made a friend on the way back here," he says in English, "and he's in need of a place to stay for a bit. We still have that room out in the barn?"

She takes one look at the gentleman her son has brought home, frowns thoughtfully, and nods.

"Of course, dear. Though you could do introductions before you hand over our barn."

Clark blushed a little, ducking his head, and gestured between the two of them.

"Fëanáro, this is my mother, Martha Kent. Ma, this is Fëanáro Curufinwë."

Martha bowed her head for a moment in greeting.

"Welcome to the Kent Farm, Mr. Curufinwë."

"You my call me Fëanáro, madam," he replies. "It is my best-liked name."

The word he's looking for of course is preferred, but it never came up on the walk over.

"I thank you."

And though he has never seen a being that looks so... old as she, he does not stare; he is not rude, no matter what others say, merely disdainful of unwarranted courtesies.

She bobbed her head with a smile.

"Fëanáro, then. And you're more than welcome. Any friend of Clark's...

"I don't suppose you like roast and potatoes, do you? Or are you like Clark about meat?" She glanced at her son, though it was clear that the two of them shared almost no resemblance. Her eyes were blue, but not the same bright blue.

"I grow organic vegetables nowadays, so there's plenty of food I can make. Just want to make sure I don't end up leaving you nothing to have when dinner rolls around."

Clark looked mildly troubled as he peered down at his mother.

"Ma, I was just gonna get him acquainted with the barn and then--"

"I know what you look like, son, and I've missed you, but havin' you on the farm's good enough. I'll see you at dinner. Spend time with your friend there, all right?"

She reached up and took his head in her hands before pulling him gently down to kiss his forehead. Then, once she'd let go, she turned to Fëanáro, expectant of an answer."

"Roast and potatoes sound-" he casts about for a word, before coming up with "-wonderful, madam," he replies. "Though may I ask, roast 'what'?"

"Oh, Clark's grandpa has a cattle farm on the other side of our plot here."

Clark blinked and tilted his head a little, clearly surprised.

"You sold the back forty to him?"

"Of course I did. He needed it and I certainly couldn't work it on my own. The plot I've got is just the right size for my business and aside from the sale price, your grandpa agreed to two cows a season for me as part of it."

Clark looked resigned to the decision, but she nudged him regardless.

"You know your father kept that land mostly to consternate your grandfather. I'm not half so silly. I got a good price for it."

"I'm sure," since after all, the farmer in question was her father and Grandpa Clark had never done anything but try and help. He'd mostly quarreled with Clark's own father because the man was terrible at accepting assistance, even when the farm had been doing poorly.

Pushing aside a discussion for another day, Martha looked back at Fëanáro.

"Cow, dear. Though I've got venison if you'd prefer that." She glanced at Clark. "Your aunt's little ones started hunting this season. They brought in a lovely buck and she's always sending things over with Vernon."

Fëanáro listens carefully to the exchange, his sharp mind filing away pieces of vocabulary, hints of grammar and syntax that indicate a less rigid structure to their tongue than possessed even by Þindarin. Still, he knows he will need some books, and soon, if he is to gain any more rapid comprehension, and a fuller vocabulary than the paltry handful of words he has gained in this afternoon.

"Cow is just fine, although I would not mind venison. It has been long since I tasted either, and so I look forward to it."

"I might just do up both, since he cuts it mostly for just me," Martha said before pulling back and shooing him towards the barn. Clark took the hint and gestured towards a large red structure only a short walk away before kissing the top of his mother's forehead and putting down his duffel. He won't need it for the moment anyway.

Then he's walking towards the barn and gesturing Fëanáro to follow.

"Go on. I won't need either of you for another few hours."

"I shall see you then," he replies, with a little nod, before moving to follow Clark.

Clark and Martha, and now Vernon. Strange names, to which he cannot yet put meaning, though he is certain to with time. The farm, as well, is strange; not that Fëanáro is terribly familiar with farms, but there are a great many more... contraptions, than he is accustomed to seeing, and his fingers itch to take them apart, and divine their function.

"Tell me, Clark, have you any books or scrolls I might borrow, to better acquaint myself with your tongue?"

"Plenty of books," Clark admitted as he pointed up towards the front window of the barn, "and plenty of them up there in the room I'm gonna set you up in. I used to stay out here all the time when I was a kid, get a little space from my parents. There's a bed and if I miss my mark, probably some apples in a bin if you're hungry now."

She usually kept a few for the horses somewhere around.

"I'm assuming you'd prefer if I spoke English for the moment, just to help you learn, but I'll switch to Quenya if you need something specific explained or if you want to ask me a question without anyone else knowing."