feanaro_curufinwe | (no subject)

"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."

"That is an astute observation-" he says those words in Quenya, because he does not yet know how to put them in English "-and much appreciated. It is good to know that even after all these Ages, that love of speech and-" learn, and so that means the correct conjugation would be "-learning? Has not left the world."

He shook his head firmly.

"No, it certainly hasn't. I actually just finished my degree a couple of months ago, but I like to think I'll never stop learning."

Clark led the way into the barn, skirting around the edges of the main floor to get to a set of steps at the back. There were a few horses in their pens, each one more concerned with their food and their own business than the visitors, but Clark stopped by one and patted her down with a warm smile.

"Hey, Jenny. How you doin', girl? Ma been takin' care of you?"

The horse was only cooed over for a moment before Clark turned back, mildly apologetic, and pointed towards the steps. Then he was going up them into a moderately well furnished little room with a bed, a large bookshelf, a desk, and a massive telescope pointed towards the upper barn window doors.

Fëanáro smiles faintly, and stops to pat the nose of one of the horses as it sniffs curiously at him.

The room gets an approving nod, especially for the bookshelf, and the telescope-- the telescope.

"Fond of the stars, Clark?"

Clark looked back and there was something in his eyes, something unspoken, not hidden, precisely, but not written plainly either. It made the edge of his lips curl and something in his expression was both amused and a little sad.

"That's one way of putting it. I spent more nights than I can count looking up at the night sky with this thing. My grandpa spent more than he's ever admitted to get it for me for my birthday when I was twelve, or so."

It would require some adjustment, since he'd had to fiddle with it for ages to adjust for his own special eyesight, but the memories around that telescope were fond.

"'Grandpa' is your father's father, yes?" It seems so, from the context so far, but better to be sure of these things.

"It's a colloquial term for the father of a parent. In this case, it was my mother's father," Clark explained, "as he's the one who lives across the fields from us here. My father's parents died before I was born, unfortunately, but this was their farm before it was my father's."

He leaned against one of the wooden support beams.

"If I was talking about his wife, it would be 'grandma'. 'Grandmother' and 'grandfather' are the proper terms, and 'grandparent' is the most general term."

Fëanáro nods, filing that information away.

"So the-" he gestures to the telescope, wordlessly asking for the word "-was a gift from your grandfather then, when you were still very young." Not that he really knows how these things work among Men, but surely twelve is still quite young for them? "He must love you dearly, then."

"He does, even if he doesn't understand me all that well," though it was clear from Clark's tone, he didn't think this was the man's failing at all.

His head tilted towards the back of the farm.

"It's hard for a cattle farmer to stomach having a grandson who insists on being a vegetarian. He's never pushed it, though. Always made sure there was enough for me to eat every Christmas and Thanksgiving when we came over."

He patted the telescope.

"I think I nearly bounced my way straight to the moon when he got me this. My Pa complained the second he saw my face, said he'd never be able to get me something I'd love so much."

He glanced over at Fëanáro.

"He was kidding. He was happy for me. But he wasn't entirely wrong."

"'Vegetarian'? Is one who does not consume meat?" Again, a guess from the context, but he is very good at this. "And would 'Pa' be a colloquialism for father then?"

He strolls over to the bookshelf as he asks, meaning to browse the titles, only to find...

"Do you have a primer for your writing?"

Clark nodded.

"Got it in one."

He realized that might not help, considering, before adding "yes, right on both counts".

Then he went to an old chest at the foot of the bed there and opened it up, digging under a few other items before pulling out a couple of reading primers he'd used as a child. He held out the small stack to Fëanáro.

"That should help, I think."

Fëanáro takes the stack with a slight nod.

"My thanks. I will peruse them... perhaps after supper?" He flips quickly through the simplest-seeming of the primers, something brightly-coloured, with large runes, and plain illustrations.

"I would appreciate first a quick lesson on how each of these runes-" he uses the Quenya word "-are read."

Clark took a seat on the bed and, after a slightly awkward moment, patted a part of the bed next to him.

"We can go through the alphabet. We've got plenty of time before dinner, after all."

"'Alphabet' being what you call each one?" So then, going off what he's heard so far, the plural would be 'Alphabets'? It seems that way.

Fëanáro sits beside Clark, and gestures for him to carry on.

"'Alphabet' being the collective term for all of the letters that make up our language," Clark explained before starting to go over the various letters, their multiple forms, and their rules of pronunciation, grammar, and other niceties.

He ended up using a combination of the primer and a notebook to illustrate, but he did a pretty good job.

...

...

...

"Your orthography is atrocious."

Clark couldn't help the laugh, nor the shake of his head as he did it.

"The language of this country is a hodge podge of a variety of languages, primarily two other languages with other pieces jammed in throughout the years. To paraphrase a quote: English, this language, doesn't borrow from other languages so much as follow them down dark alleys, beat them unconscious, and rifle through their pockets for loose vocabulary."

He leaned back a little, one hand settling on a pillow.

"I could teach you Esperanto or Latin, which are far more logical in construction, but neither of them are in active use nowadays."

The look Fëanáro gives him could best be described as an unholy combination of disgust and perplexity.

"Why in the name of--" He frowns, eyes darkening, cutting himself off. "Why would they do such a thing? If you have not a word for a thing, it would seem simpler to create one, that it be better integrated to the whole of the tongue seamlessly, rather than cut, and pick, and paste a nonsensical hodgepodge--"

He has begun ranting, rising to his feet and pacing as he does, the vital flame burning in him becoming evident. His force of personality is almost a palpable thing, radiating out like heat or light, and Clark has a very narrow window of opportunity, if he wants to cut the greatest of the Ñoldor off from his tangent.