feanaro_curufinwe | (no subject)

Current Location: middle of nowhere

(no subject)

Fëanáro stands alone at the side of a black road, stretching in a straight line from horizon to horizon, sere grasses waving on either side, stretching just as far. The breeze ruffles his hair as well, carrying the smell of sun-warmed earth and those same grasses, as well as smells unfamiliar to him, but welcome nonetheless.

Because he never thought he would stand here, never thought he would see the line where earth meets sky again until the end of all things, and so even though this place is nothing like what he would ever have chosen to be in himself... He can enjoy it and appreciate it, for at least as long as it takes to find his way to some kind of civilisation.

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He laughs, a bright, rich sound that has not been heard for thousands upon thousands of years.

"Well said, young Man," the High King says. "Now, let us begin with what I suspect is a quotation: 'Lead on, MacDuff.' Who is MacDuff, and why should his leadership carry such portentious weight?"

Clark grinned just a bit playfully and nodded that yes, it certainly held a certain weight.

"Funnily enough, that particular line is actually a misquote of a line from a rather famous play by the name of 'Macbeth' which tells the story of a lord's ruinous rise and fall from the crown. The line from the play is actually 'Lay on, Macduff'."

...which started Clark's explanation concerning one of the pillars of the English literary canon, as written by a bisexual glovemaker's son.

It's absolutely fascinating, and Fëanáro is full of questions.

"I feel as though I must watch this Man's work, or at least read it, though a play is better performed than read."

Clark spread his hand as he held the door for his guest.

"There's plenty of theaters performing his works around the world, as well as recordings of performances that I'm sure I could find. Like I said, most people have heard of Shakespeare."

Edited 2014-12-21 19:35 (UTC)

"Recordings?" From the context it is clear that Clark means something other than a written record, and for a moment, Fëanáro's mind spins with the possibilities.

Clark paused for a moment, considering how he might explain that concept before deciding that it might just be best to show him.

"I'll show you what I mean after dinner. Suffice to say, while it doesn't replicate the experience of a performance, but it's pretty close."

He peered inside to see his mother setting out the second of two perfectly cooked roasts. The vegetable dishes, all of them bright and enticing looking, were clustered around the two meat dishes and wafting delicious scents. Clark looked towards the table with obvious enjoyment at just the smell.

Fëanáro inhales deeply, and lets out an appreciative sigh for the smells as he follows Clark in. His stomach takes the liberty of announcing its approval as well, but it can be forgiven for the indignity; it's a very new stomach after all.

"It appears a kingly feast, madam," he says to Martha. "And smells so as well."

Martha smiled and bowed her head before taking her own seat near the head of the table, though leaving the actual head empty. Clark comes up behind her to tuck in her chair for her and the two exchange warm glances before he kisses her hair and walks around to the opposite side.

"Sit, eat, and I can explain more once you've eaten."

His stomach growls again, loud enough to be heard by all, and Fëanáro takes the other prepared seat with a slight nod.

"I believe it can wait until after this fine meal."

Martha looked over at Clark and the two of them bowed their heads for a few murmured words to bless the meal. Then Clark went for the bowl of sweet potatoes and Martha stood to start carving the roasts.

"Any preference on which one we start first, Fëanáro?"

"In this, I will bow to the judgement of the chef," he says, with another nod for her.

"Well, that just puts me in a pickle: show off Paw-paw's cattle or have my favorite. I must admit: venison's always been my meat of choice, much to my father's consternation."

She turned to the venison and started to carefully carve, showing the meat to be cooked somewhat to medium rare with a nice herbed char on the outside.

"I'll just leave some slices here and you take what you like. And if you're still hungry, carve yourself some more."

"My thanks, madam, and I shall no doubt do just that," Fëanáro replies. "It feels as if it has been Ages since last I dined - particularly on so fine a feast as this."

Without further ado, he helps himself to some of everything; though the meats and vegetables are familiar, their preparation is not, and after all this time, he is eager for new, different things.

The dinner goes peacefully, everyone far more interested in feeding themselves than bothering about much discussion. Martha is wise enough to know that the man in the room with them is not, well... normal. The pointed ears were her first clue, and his mannerisms, his dress... it's simple enough. She's not sure where that puts him when it comes to Clark, since they're clearly not the same sort of creature when it came right down to it, but she's not about to bother Clark about his friends when he finally makes one.

Clark, on the other hand, is far too busy smiling at his mother, happy to be home and enjoying home cooked food, to make much of a fuss. So when the meal is over and Martha starts getting up to clean, Clark carefully nudges her back into her chair, kisses her hair, and starts taking care of it.

"Fëanáro," Clark says from the kitchen, which is only a few feet from the dinning room, "if you and Ma want to go into the living room there, she can show you our television. There might be one of those plays on... or something else. Ma?"

Martha picks up the hint and nods before giving them both quick smiles and walking over to turn on the television, where a man in a military uniform is questioning another gentleman about his known whereabouts on a specific day. Clark smirked just a little as he dried off a plate; Ma and her affection for JAG would always be amusing.

"Clark Joseph Kent, don't you laugh at me. I can feel you smilin' from here. I'm allowed to appreciate a man in uniform same as any other red-blooded woman."

...

...

........

For a long moment, Fëanáro stares, slack-jawed. His mouth closes with a click of teeth, and in the next moment, he is a flurry of movement, peering behind the flat seeing stone, to each side, back to the front, holding his hand over it, to feel the heat radiating from it...

He taps the front, where the uniformed Men play out their tale - yes, he can tell it's a play, of some sort, he has seen enough in his life - and then touches it for a longer period, runs his fingers down it, brushing away a little of the dust that his fingers accumulate - only to watch it float right back to the seeing stone, as if it were some sort of colourless amber--

Martha is looking at her son. Her son is peering out of the kitchen and watching to make sure nothing goes pear-shaped.

"I've got a coupla old ones out in the barn. You can take one of them apart if you like."

"I would like that," he says immediately. "Now, what is this play on the..." He looks to Clark for the word.

"Television," Clark answers, "and that looks like JAG, which is about man who deals with crimes within the Navy. At least I think. I haven't watched it for a few years."

The last came with a teasing smile at his mother who blushed a little and gave him a (playfully) flat look.

"And 'Navy' is to do with the Sea and sailing?" He has been able to gather that much, from the few minutes he has seen and heard.

Martha and Clark both nodded.

"It's the military force tasked with protecting the country on the sea."

"I see."

He sits, and leans forward, watching intently as the story unfolds. The context is almost as fascinating as the syntax of the players; different patterns of speech, levels of formality, accents... It's fascinating.

Martha watches him for a moment before settling down into her usual chair and pulling out her knitting to work on it as she watches. Clark takes the time to continue to clean the kitchen for the time being and, once the dishes are done, to pick a few of the tomatoes that happen to be ripe. They'd make a good sauce sometime tomorrow.

The sudden appearance of a commercial break is-- An affront. Loud, obnoxious, and incomprehensible, an assault on the eyes and ears, and--

"What is the meaning of this?!"

Clark almost laughs and winces, all at once.

"In order to produce the play, so to speak, they need funds. Instead of asking the audience, who may not have enough money to do so, they ask merchants for the funds. In exchange for the support they need to produce the play that we all get to enjoy, that merchant is allowed to ply his wares to those watching the play."

He glanced over at his mother, who was putting down her knitting to head to the bathroom.

"Most people tend to consider it a good time to relieve oneself, grab water or food to enjoy, or take care of something. Others merely wait."

He walked out of the kitchen.

"Those who write these plays keep the breaks in mind and usually present a question or a suspenseful moment just before the break is about to occur to keep the audience on their toes."

"I... see. But is there any reason that this plying of wares should be so egregiously offensive to eye and ear alike? I would think that this manner of business would deter any folk of passable sense from trading with them."