feanaro_curufinwe | (no subject)

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.

Clark is quite content to lean back against the bed and listen to him rant.

Oh is he now? How wonderful. Well, the High King does have a way with words, though after a short time, he runs out of English, and moves on to Quenya expounding in a voice that manages to resonate even in the barn, projecting without thinking, expecting to be listened to, to be heeded.

...which is when Clark may or may not let out a cough that, with super lungs, was actually loud enough to be heard over the din.

"--have you something caught in your throat, Clark?" ~~Let it never be said that Fëanáro was so self-absorbed that he failed to heed the needs of others.~~ ...no he's mostly mildly annoyed that he's been interrupted.

Clark waved him off before giving a couple other coughs that were considerably less loud. Human loud.

"Oh no, nothing much. I'm fine. Thank you, though. I didn't mean to interrupt."

Oh hell yes he did.

"Though perhaps it's good I did. You were practically loud enough to be heard in the next county. Got a set of lungs on you, don't you?"

"Hmm. I suppose. It is more-or-less a requirement of a king though," Fëanáro points out. "Or of being heard over a battle, or a gaggle of sons..."

"Certainly. Though not very good for being subtle while you learn the ways of this land and its language. However inferior it might be."

He settled on the bed a little more.

"Though there is a reason for the decision to meld different languages and absorb words and grammatical mechanics. I can explain if you'd like me to go over the history."

"By all means. I would like to hear this history. You may relay it to me whilst I give some practice to the writing of these letters. I do like the design of this pen," he adds, as he takes it up, along with Clark's notebook.

"A simple design, and yet so practical..." He twirls it in his fingers, considering it for a moment. "Ink at your fingertips, as much as you may desire, quick to dry, hard to smear..."

Which was when Clark launched into a brief history of the English people and their strange, jumbled up language, including the importation of the language to the country they currently occupied. For all that it was a brief overview, it was extremely on point, clearly told by someone who had done a great deal of research on the subject, and was frank in his evaluation of the people, societies, and decisions of the past while softening things somewhat in the hopes of keeping his guest from launching himself from the room in a fervor.

Edited 2014-12-21 04:58 (UTC)

He shows wisdom then, because there are any number of things in that narrative that may very well have sent Fëanáro storming off on the warpath. Still, it's a fascinating story, even as abbreviated as it clearly is. He finds himself writing out some of the words as Clark speaks them, getting a feel of the shapes and sounds of the language, and the strange people that it belongs to.

He also takes some time, as he listens, to begin working out a Tengwar orthography for English, because really.

When Clark's finished, some of their daylight is gone but they still have some time before they have to go in for dinner. He puts his hands down on his legs and pushes himself up to stand.

"Would you like some time on your own to read and get yourself settled here? I figure a tour of the farm can happen tomorrow, nice and early."

"I would," he says with a nod. "Are there any that books that you would recommend?"

He considered the question for a moment before pulling out a copy of Whispers in the Dark by Dian Belmont. He held it out to the man.

"This was one of my favorites as a kid. The language... it's genuinely beautiful. At least, as beautiful as English can be."

"An intriguing title," he observes. "I will acquaint myself somewhat further with the writing, and then read it with due consideration."