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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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."

Clark walked over and leaned against the nearest wall.

"Generally, they're trying to stand out. Be remembered. There are... quite a lot of products on the market and if they can accomplish only to have their name ring in your head or the image of their product to be within your mind when you look for an item like that, they it is considered a victory of sorts.

"Also, many of the products are made to appeal to younger children, who enjoy bright colors and loud sounds."

He sits back again, still frowning, as the play resumes.

"It all seems so... crass." Though he supposes he cannot fault them, for even he feels some strange urge to venture to this 'Wal-Mart', if only for the sheer novelty of so many goods under one roof.

"It is," he agreed, "and at the same time, there are pieces to the process that are better for everyone. But that isn't to say there aren't problems inherent in the system as well. It's complicated."

Martha came back from the ladies room and settled in her chair again, content to let the boys talk. She wasn't watching for the plot anyway.

"Alas, very little in the world is simple, and it only grows less so, as time goes by," he observes. "Still, does this 'Wal-Mart' try have so many goods as they claim? It must be an amazing sight, if so..."

"They do. But so do many other stores. In context, they are one of many who have a large variety of goods, finished and made, for purchase. I can take you to one sometime if you'd like."

"I would like to see it sometime, if only for the novelty," he says with a nod.

"It's not much of a novelty around here," he admitted, "but we'll probably head to one of them sometime soon just to pick up a few things for you."

"But so much around here is a novelty to me," he replies. "I admit, long ago I was skeptical about the coming of the Secondborn, but even what little I have seen of the creations of Man has filled me with an unexpected optimism."

Clark looked to his mother, because she was his mother and because she was one of the main sources of his optimism. The person who let him see the best in people, the one who taught him to believe in hope, in the goodness of people. She looked back with a warm little smile.

Feeling dutifully ready, he nodded to Fëanáro.

"There's a lot of good in the world. Also bad, but a lot of good. Human beings have an amazing potential to bring light into the world when they're willing to put their fears to rest."

"Then I look forward to seeing it," Fëanáro says. It's... strange, he thinks. There's something about Clark that seems somehow different, in a way he cannot quite grasp: a puzzle, or a riddle.

The father in him has to resist the urge to make the young Man stand up straight; his posture is atrocious.

"I'll be happy to show you," he said with a glance at his mother and a faint smile. "Though... a few days here at the farm will probably help to get you acclimated to some of the simpler things."

"And your mother's missed you."

"And my mother has missed me," Clark agreed with a grin and a shake of his head. "I've been traveling, doing some freelance journalism work. Though I've... been thinking of settling down sometime soon."

His eyes wandered back to his mother for a moment, promising that he had something he had to talk to her about though not at the moment. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Far be it from me to keep you from your suty to your mother," Fëanáro says, smiling faintly. Part of him, a very large part, regrets deeply taking his sons from their mother; it is a part still deeply connected to his rage and disappointment at Nerdanel's abandonment, and so he puts it away, for the moment, to be considered later, at another time, when he is not enjoying the warm hospitality of this small family.

"Clark knows where home is," Martha said gently, "and it'll always be here. A mother's duty to her son's to let him find his own path, after all."

Clark couldn't help himself from walking over and leaning down to kiss her temple, one of his hands looking for hers to give a gentle squeeze.

"Don't you go makin' me maudlin, son. I was gonna put one of the pies in for dessert."

He kissed the top of her head this time as he straightened, going to his full height for a moment before bouncing back to his usual poor posture.

"I'll get it, Ma. You made us all a feast, after all. Least I can do is toss a pie in the oven."

"All that, and a pie as well? Marvellous."

"I keep a few in the 'fridge, sell 'em too on market days. Clark knows how to make them and bake them as well as I do, thankfully. Always was good in the kitchen."

Clark leaned out with a smile.

"I learned from the best."