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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"I understand the nature of such things, you may rest assured. Though now my curiosity is truly piqued, Clark, about what this technology is."

He held up a finger.

"If you promise not to disassemble it for the time being," he said slowly, "I'll take you down to see it. It's mine, after all."

The only thing he had from his birth father, the world he'd come from.

He laughs a little, and inclines his head a little.

"Very well."

Clark nodded and headed over to the oven, pulled out the pie, and put it down to cool. Despite the heat that puffs out of the oven as he opens it, Clark handles the pie pan with bare hands.

The gloves were, after all, quite literally off.

"Let's go out to the barn. I'm assuming you're more interested in that than the pie."

"As delightful as your mother's cooking is, yes, I am." He doesn't make comment about the lack of gloves to handle the hot dish, though he does make note of it for later, if nothing more interesting comes up.

Clark nods but doesn't say anything further before walking out the back door, into the barn and one foot shoves away the hay to reveal the door underneath. He opens it easily enough, despite the thickness of the wood and the size of the locks, and with a flick of a switch, turns on a multitude of camp lights and shop lights that had been strung up around--

Around the strange ship with the perfect circular orb floating within a cradle at the front.

The gaping at the television has nothing on the gaping at the... The...

....for once, in his life. Fëanáro has. Nothing to say.

Clark starts the way down the stairs, down to where the ship is stored. Breathing in deep, he leans over and lifts the ship up with one hand before carrying it up the steps and over to a clear spot on the floor. The ship is placed down gently before he walks back, turns off the light, and closes the hatch.

"Better light up here," he said quietly.

"Mm."

Sorry Clark, you are much less interesting than your... whatever it is. Perhaps if Fëanáro had been more inclined to the life sciences Clark would have been more interesting - her certainly doesn't miss the ease with which the Man(?) lifted the object - but he is accustomed to such feats, from the Ainur, and the more mighty among the Eldar alike, and therefore...

Well.

Clark walks over, closes the hatch, then makes his way to one of the support beams and leaned back against it, as if he'd just put down a great weight. Though clearly, that great weight wasn't the space ship.

No, secrets bear a weight of their far greater, in the end, than any mere object.

...not that the elf is thinking on secrets of that nature right now, so much as the mechanical secrets of the...

"What do you call this?"

"We've called it a lot of things over the years," Clark admits with a breath out. His father especially had called it things that weren't fit for mixed company.

"My capsule. My space ship. My rocket."

He walks over to the front end, the small globe of blue and pokes the side. It wobbles, like water suspended in a bubble.

"I was put in here when I was a baby. This brought me from the planet I came from to this one. We don't have... anything like this in this country. On this world, really. Like I said: it's the most advanced thing you're going to find. Mostly because it came from a civilization so far away from here, the light from--" he swallowed again, "the light from Rao, the star that serves as the planet's sun, takes roughly twenty seven years to reach this world."

...congratulations Clark, you have officially rendered the High King speechless.

For approximately thirty seconds, before he unleashes a genuine barrage of questions about this other world, because another world??? With people, and cities, and technology that was unknown in his day, and apparently yet unknown on Arda, and he wants to know all about it.

That's when Clark holds up a finger, disappears for a moment, and reappears with a soft gust of wind. Then, holding a strange pale device that almost looked like it was made of glass, Clark pressed one of the sides with his thumb and brought up images he'd viewed a hundred times, a thousand.

"It took me a few years to figure out the language. Even with my... I mean, I'm pretty smart, but the language is incredibly complex. This was put with me, though, so I figure they wanted me to know where I came from. Who I came from."

His father had hated every bit of it.

"You move with great speed," Fëanáro comments, when Clark returns. He leaves it there though, because what Clark has brought with him is, as usual, the more interesting of the two.

"So then this is the tongue of your birth?"

"Yes. Kryptonian. I didn't learn it 'till I was much older, when I was able to find this tablet," he tapped the edge of the strange item.

His lip twitched just a little into a smile, the first genuine one since he'd come out here.

"It's a little more orthographically sound than English."

Fëanáro returns the smile.

"The forms are certainly more pleasing to the eye," he says wryly. "I should like to learn them, as well; in return, I would be pleased to both continue your Quenya lessons, and teach you the Tengwar. Unless," he continues, arching a brow. "You already know them? You said before that you had learned some Quenya from a book."

"Some of both," Clark admitted with a spread of his hands. "I've learned... a lot of languages. But like I told you: I'd always like to learn more. And I'd never deny someone lessons. At least, not someone who already knew about all this."

He looked at the images from the tablet.

"It makes it more real, to share it. Someone else other than me will remember them."

"They are all gone, then." It's less a question than a statement.

He nodded, slower this time.

"Destroyed. My father was..." he thought back to the books he'd read, the scholar's lore, and couldn't help the smile, "he was a bit like you. The foremost scientist of his world.

"He saw the end coming, saw what was happening to the planet. He tried to warn the council that ruled Krypton what could occur and they didn't listen. So, trying to..." he looked at the spaceship, at the tablet, "trying to preserve the best parts of Krypton and his culture, he and my mother sent me here."

He knew now what his biological father intended for him, but he wasn't quite sure how to accomplish it, what to do with it. He was still figuring that out. Really, it all sounded too grand for him, too big. For all he could do, for all he knew, for all the wonders he could see and hear and feel, it still seemed so big.

His head tipped towards the house.

"Ma and Pa found me in this thing, took me in, raised me like their own. As their own."

He remains silent at that, for a long moment, thoughts of his own family, of the confused tangle that he knows it is, whirling through his mind.

"You do them credit," he says finally. "I cannot yet say that I know you well at all, but I can see that it is so."

"I do my best to honor both of my parents, human and Kryptonian," he admits quietly with a bow of his head. Then he offers a smile.

"My name amongst Men is Clark Joseph Kent. My Kryptonian name, the one that text refers to me as, is Kal-El, last of the House of El. And the glyph that you see on the ship and on that tablet is the sign of the House of El. It means 'hope'."

"Kal-El," he murmurs, turning the name over in his mind. 'Shining Star' it would be in Quenya. "And what does 'Kal' mean?"

"From what I understand, it translates to 'vessel'. Or 'messenger'."

And it makes enough sense. He was, in a very real sense, the carrier of his planet's, and his parents', hopes and dreams.

He arches an eyebrow, though his lips also quirk up a little.

"That is great deal to put onto one small child," he says. "Though you would hardly be the first so burdened."