Fic: Growing Up Finwean [The Silmarillion, crackverse, R for swearing]
Fingon’s day begins at sunrise, when he swiftly awakes, rises and dresses to practise his yoga in the first light of morning. It is brisk outside, but at least at this time of day he can be sure that Caranthir will still be asleep instead of slouching against the outside wall, blowing smoke at him and sniggering, as if yoga is not a perfectly socially acceptable and enjoyable exercise with many health benefits. He ought not to be so affronted - Caranthir mocks what he doesn’t understand, which means he mocks a lot of things (although this is a very unkind thought and he would be ashamed if his cousin could hear him thinking it. Caranthir’s temper means that he needs gentle encouragement in all things, not sharp criticism). But he really thinks that Caranthir would benefit from some yoga and meditation. Not mention giving up his smoking addiction. At least the latest government legislation prevents him from smoking indoors. Fingon shudders to think of the damage done to everyone else in the house by second-hand smoke (it doesn’t matter that they’re immortal, they shouldn’t risk these things! And what if children came to the house one day?).
He has to walk through the lounge room to get outside, and he takes care not to wake Celegorm. His third-oldest step-cousin is sprawled on the couch, snoring and dribbling onto the cushions with the controller for the Nintendo-Playstation-360 (or whatever technological device has captured his attention this week) dangling from his fingers. Evidently he has fallen asleep whilst playing again. Mercifully, he’s wearing boxers this time. Fingon shudders to think of how many times Celegorm might have sat on that couch naked before the household noticed, how many germs he could have spread... He turns the gaming console off at the wall, as Celegorm clearly isn’t in any state to use it for the next few hours, and the flickering screen goes dark. That will take a nice chunk off their electricity bill. Celegorm ought to be far more grateful for these little favours.
He steps outside and takes a moment to enjoy the beauty of the early morning. Half an hour of stretching and meditation ensues, and by the end of it he is feeling quite serene. He returns to the house, goes into the kitchen and brews himself a calming cup of chamomile tea. Then he sets the coffee brewer going.
It’s seven o’clock. Time to wake Maitimo.
…
Maitimo smiles wearily as he opens the door, pushing his tousled hair out of his eyes. He accepts the tea with a grateful murmur, but Fingon notes with disapproval that his bedding is unrumpled. He must have been sleeping in his office chair again, which will do his neck no good. If Fingon has time later (and if Maitimo’s brothers are not there to be juvenile and lewd) he will give Maitimo a neck massage. He certainly needs it, with all the stress caused by running the company practically single-handed.
‘Thank you, Fingon,’ says Maitimo. He tastes the tea. ‘What sort is it this time?’
‘Chamomile,’ Fingon replies.
‘It’s very nice,’ says Maitimo, although that was what he said about the ginseng, the lemongrass and the raspberry leaf. Fingon suspects that he can’t actually tell the difference between the flavours, which is a pity, but at least he makes the effort. Unlike some.
‘I’ll drink this and have a shower,’ says Maitimo, gesturing at the tea. ‘I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.’
The coffee is brewing nicely. They have compromised on the subject of morning beverages: Maitimo will drink the tea that Fingon makes for him, because it is good for his immune system, and Fingon will have the coffee ready after Maitimo showers because his cousin maintains, gently but stubbornly, that he will not wake up properly without it. They eat toast and muesli together, and Maitimo retreats into his office.
…
Artanis appears at eight o’clock, already dressed in shirt, shorts and sneakers. She eats breakfast and makes lunch simultaneously, zipping around Fingon while he washes the first dishes of the day. ‘Are you going out to the reserve today?’ he asks.
‘Where else?’ she says. She seems to spend all her time at the nature reserve, not that there’s anything wrong with that. He wishes he had more time to get close to nature.
‘And how are the grasshoppers coming along?’ he says, drying a plate.
‘Actually, I finished the grasshoppers a couple of days ago,’ Artanis says. ‘I’m doing naiads now.’
Naiads? Those... aquatic women in Greek mythology? ‘I didn’t know that there were any living outside of Greece,’ he says cautiously.
‘Dragonfly naiads, not mythological naiads,’ Artanis says, looking amused. ‘But if I see any nymphs trying to drown people by luring them into the lake, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Er... thank you,’ says Fingon. ‘But really, I’m amazed at all the things you’ve found to study at the reserve, Artanis. You should write a book about it one day.’
Artanis, surprisingly, looks ever so slightly panicked. ‘Well, maybe,’ she says quickly. ‘Must run; I’ll be back some time this afternoon.’ And she disappears out the front door.
Fingon hopes he hasn’t stressed her out, but he does admire how his youngest cousin can find something new to study everywhere she turns. Perhaps she’s studying the reserve just for her own amusement, which is no bad thing. Far too many young people these days are rushing into relationships without a thought for the consequences, and he’s glad Artanis isn’t affected by that mania.
…
The morning continues quietly until Celegorm wakes up, sometime after ten. Fingon is cleaning the bathroom when an agonised howl of ‘Who the fuck turned off the Wii?’ echoes through the house.
Celegorm storms into the bathroom. ‘Did you fuck with my game?’ he demands.
‘Keep your voice down, Celegorm,’ Fingon says in an even yet disapproving tone. The bathroom is magnifying the sound, which was above speaking volume already.
‘I talk however the fuck I want to talk,’ Celegorm says angrily. ‘And so what if I’m yelling, it’s your fault, I fucking spend the whole night playing through one fucking ridiculously hard level and then you go and fuck it up when I finally get to the save point.’
‘It is not my fault that you fell asleep before you were able to save your game,’ says Fingon, ‘but I am concerned about how much electricity we waste, and I have told you often enough about the enormous amounts of power your electrical appliances use even when they’re on stand-by. If you can’t follow a simple rule that we ratified at last month’s house meeting, then I must take matters into my own hands and-’
‘Don’t you fucking tell me what to do!’ Celegorm explodes. ‘And don’t fucking touch my stuff again, or I will fuck your shit up so hard-’
‘That’s enough, Tyelko,’ says Maitimo from the doorway. ‘You’ve made yourself quite clear.’
‘And you’ve gone and interrupted your brother’s work,’ says Fingon disapprovingly.
‘It’s all right,’ Maitimo begins, at the same time as Celegorm says ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, my mother?’ Then he turns on Maitimo, demanding, ‘Why do you always take his side? You’re my brother!’
‘And you’re acting like a five-year-old,’ says Irisse, poking her head around the door. ‘What’s going on, by the way?’
‘And now you’ve woken my sister up!’ Fingon says angrily.
‘Don’t you fucking start!’ snaps Celegorm.
‘Tyelko...’ sighs Maitimo.
‘You’re grouchy because you’re hungry. Come on, let’s get breakfast,’ says Irisse, and drags Celegorm out of the bathroom.
‘I’m sorry about that, Fingon,’ says Maitimo, although he shouldn’t have to apologise for his brother’s behaviour. ‘I’ll be back in the office if you need me.’
‘I’m sure he’ll think better of it later,’ Fingon says, absolutely certain that Celegorm will do no such thing. He can hear him whining to poor, patient Irisse in the kitchen.
‘He fucked with my game, Ar.’
‘I’m sorry, hon,’ Fingon can hear her say, ‘but that’s what happens if you fall asleep when you’re gaming, you know how anal he gets about turning stuff off to save power or whatever. You can play again tonight. Or you can play with me tonight, hmm?’ The last sentence sounds muffled, as though she’s murmuring it into his ear - but Fingon does not want to know what they do in private. It’s bad enough that they have things to do in private at all.
‘But babe,’ says Celegorm, sounding confused, ‘you got really mad the last time I fell asleep when we-’
‘Or don’t,’ snaps Irisse. ‘See how good the Wii is at sucking your cock.’ She storms back in to the bathroom. ‘Get out, Fin, I’m having a shower.’
‘But I just cleaned in here,’ Fingon says reasonably.
‘So what? It’s just water.’ She shoves him out and slams the door before he can explain that he’s just cleaned and sanitised the bathroom and that water alone won’t keep it hygienic, and when she’s finished he’ll have to do it all over again. And she never remembers to put the fan on, so he’ll have to clean the mirrors again too.
There’s nothing to be done about it for now, and he cleans in a set order calibrated to everyone’s schedule so that the rooms are empty and he doesn’t intrude, so he goes back to the kitchen for another cup of tea. Celegorm is back on the couch and takes his eyes off the screen for a moment to glare at Fingon; then continues to mash buttons as he plays his game again.
Some people have no sense of perspective.
…
‘Morning, Fin,’ Caranthir says at precisely 11.57am, ‘How’s Anal Fandom?’
‘That’s Fandom Analysis!’ Fingon snaps, although he instantly regrets taking his anger out on Caranthir simply for asking a question. Celegorm has put him out of sorts, and there’s a strange person on the forums with some very determined yet seemingly illogical views about a great range of subjects. SuperRobb has been trying to talk to them for some time, but he has not made any progress as of yet. Meanwhile, BatJon has been telling the newcomer in no uncertain terms to leave the forums, which Fingon does not approve of at all. Certainly BatJon is well-intentioned, but this culture of censorship and division is counter to everything in the Fandom Analysis manifesto. Besides, who is the forum moderator here?
‘Dude, that’s a troll,’ says Caranthir, looking over his shoulder at the screen. ‘Just ban them already like the kid says.’
‘They must have something to contribute to the discussion, otherwise why would they write in the forum?’ says Fingon. ‘Certainly they have a... individual approach towards communication, but they deserve to be heard and included in the discussion just like everyone else.’
‘You have no idea how the internet works, do you?’ says Caranthir, looking at him despairingly.
‘Certainly I do!’ says Fingon, offended. ‘It’s a network of interlinked computers across the globe-’
‘Oh god, I need coffee,’ Caranthir says, looking pained. He goes off to the kitchen, but not before Fingon hears him mutter, ‘You seriously need to get laid.’
…
‘What do you think of the coffee?’ says Fingon, following him into the kitchen. ‘I switched from an Ethiopian to a Papua New Guinean single-source blend, and I find the taste much sharper and more acidic.’
Caranthir looks at him blankly. ‘Tastes like coffee,’ he says, and empties his mug. He pours himself another and starts adding sugar to it. At the third spoonful Fingon feels he has to intervene. ‘I can’t see how you can taste the coffee under all that sugar,’ he says disapprovingly. ‘And it’s going to overstimulate your nervous system. There are plenty of artificial sweeteners available-’
‘Dude, firstly-’ Caranthir uses the mug to gesture, ‘-I’ve had three hours of sleep and I have to be at work in half an hour, I need all the stimulation I can get. Secondly, I’m not drinking that artificial chemical shit, it gives you cancer.’
Well, there was one unfortunate case, certainly, but Fingon researched artificial sweeteners meticulously after he found out about that and he will print a report off for Caranthir to read when he gets home. This is what frustrates him about Caranthir - he’s clearly intelligent even if he insists on sprinkling his sentences liberally with foul language, but he would rather listen to appalling music and spend his nights in the city with insalubrious characters than have a decent conversation.
Oh, yes. Politeness requires him to ask ‘And did you enjoy your concert last night?’, although to group that noise pollution in a filthy bar with the sublime music of Beethoven et al. in the recital halls is physically painful.
‘Metal Monday? Yeah, it was cool,’ says Caranthir with a grin. ‘Lots of songs about dismembering whores, definitely your type of music. Pity you couldn’t make it.’
And then, as quickly as that, Caranthir has reverted to his baser nature. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to go and clean the bathroom again,’ Fingon says haughtily.
‘You liked it the last time I took you there!’ Caranthir yells after him cheerfully. Fingon shudders at the memory. The state of the bathrooms gave him nightmares for weeks.
…
Artanis comes back late in the afternoon, looking cheerful. ‘How were the naiads?’ Fingon asks her at dinner, pleased at himself for remembering the name.
‘Oh, er, I didn’t make much progress,’ she says. ‘But it was a lovely day.’
‘It’s always nice to get back to nature,’ Fingon agrees. ‘Perhaps you could show me around the reserve one day? You must be quite an expert on the wildlife by now.’ For some reason, Caranthir snorts into his beer, and Artanis looks slightly uncomfortable.
‘It’s not really the best time of year,’ she says, ‘it’s getting muggy and the mosquitos are starting to hatch. I’ll let you know when it’s a good time.’
‘Hold still, Gal, you’ve got a leaf in your hair,’ says Irisse, pulling it out.
‘A pine needle,’ says Caranthir, ‘that’s interesting. Dragonflies normally like the swampy areas, I didn’t know they went that far into the forest.’
Irisse gives him a pointed look that Fingon doesn’t understand - it’s a perfectly valid statement. ‘Perhaps they’re migrating,’ he says, trying to reassure Artanis. ‘I’ve never heard of them doing that before - that could be a real scientific breakthrough. You could write a thesis on it.’
Artanis smiles at him tightly. ‘Perhaps,’ she says. ‘I’m going to have a shower.’ In her haste, she accidentally kicks Caranthir in the shins on her way out of the kitchen.
…
He frowns at the bookcase. Someone (Celegorm, most likely, in a juvenile attempt at revenge for his ridiculous game) has put all of his books out of order, and someone else (probably Maitimo, being very thoughtful, as if he doesn’t have enough to worry about) has tried to put them back in order. He appreciates the effort but Maitimo has forgotten that he is currently ordering his books by year of publication, not by title. As he begins to rearrange them in their proper order, a dread thought crosses his mind. He picks up A Tale of Two Cities and opens it gingerly...
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times beams back at him reassuringly, to his great relief. He didn’t think Celegorm would have enough time to replace his books with pornography hidden behind the familiar covers, but after he lent what he thought was Daniel Daronda to poor Mrs Naismith from the Neighbourhood Watch, he can’t be too careful. She was very kind about it - she hardly seemed to mind at all, the poor dear - but he was mortified. Not that he should have been surprised by Celegorm and Caranthir’s antics. He can only hope that they don’t gain influence over Irisse and Artanis, forced as they are to live under the same roof as such uncouth cousins. He can hardly believe that Maitimo came from the same stock.
The bookshelf restored to its rightful order, he goes to bed and allows himself half an hour of reading La Fugitive for the book club. Silence, golden silence, reigns in the house.
For a few minutes, at least. Then a thumping noise begins, interspersed with giggles and moaning.
Fingon breaths in and out through his nose, puts down his book with a sigh, and raps smartly on the dividing wall.
‘Celegorm!’ he calls, ‘can you keep it down? I am reading Proust!’
He has to walk through the lounge room to get outside, and he takes care not to wake Celegorm. His third-oldest step-cousin is sprawled on the couch, snoring and dribbling onto the cushions with the controller for the Nintendo-Playstation-360 (or whatever technological device has captured his attention this week) dangling from his fingers. Evidently he has fallen asleep whilst playing again. Mercifully, he’s wearing boxers this time. Fingon shudders to think of how many times Celegorm might have sat on that couch naked before the household noticed, how many germs he could have spread... He turns the gaming console off at the wall, as Celegorm clearly isn’t in any state to use it for the next few hours, and the flickering screen goes dark. That will take a nice chunk off their electricity bill. Celegorm ought to be far more grateful for these little favours.
He steps outside and takes a moment to enjoy the beauty of the early morning. Half an hour of stretching and meditation ensues, and by the end of it he is feeling quite serene. He returns to the house, goes into the kitchen and brews himself a calming cup of chamomile tea. Then he sets the coffee brewer going.
It’s seven o’clock. Time to wake Maitimo.
…
Maitimo smiles wearily as he opens the door, pushing his tousled hair out of his eyes. He accepts the tea with a grateful murmur, but Fingon notes with disapproval that his bedding is unrumpled. He must have been sleeping in his office chair again, which will do his neck no good. If Fingon has time later (and if Maitimo’s brothers are not there to be juvenile and lewd) he will give Maitimo a neck massage. He certainly needs it, with all the stress caused by running the company practically single-handed.
‘Thank you, Fingon,’ says Maitimo. He tastes the tea. ‘What sort is it this time?’
‘Chamomile,’ Fingon replies.
‘It’s very nice,’ says Maitimo, although that was what he said about the ginseng, the lemongrass and the raspberry leaf. Fingon suspects that he can’t actually tell the difference between the flavours, which is a pity, but at least he makes the effort. Unlike some.
‘I’ll drink this and have a shower,’ says Maitimo, gesturing at the tea. ‘I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.’
The coffee is brewing nicely. They have compromised on the subject of morning beverages: Maitimo will drink the tea that Fingon makes for him, because it is good for his immune system, and Fingon will have the coffee ready after Maitimo showers because his cousin maintains, gently but stubbornly, that he will not wake up properly without it. They eat toast and muesli together, and Maitimo retreats into his office.
…
Artanis appears at eight o’clock, already dressed in shirt, shorts and sneakers. She eats breakfast and makes lunch simultaneously, zipping around Fingon while he washes the first dishes of the day. ‘Are you going out to the reserve today?’ he asks.
‘Where else?’ she says. She seems to spend all her time at the nature reserve, not that there’s anything wrong with that. He wishes he had more time to get close to nature.
‘And how are the grasshoppers coming along?’ he says, drying a plate.
‘Actually, I finished the grasshoppers a couple of days ago,’ Artanis says. ‘I’m doing naiads now.’
Naiads? Those... aquatic women in Greek mythology? ‘I didn’t know that there were any living outside of Greece,’ he says cautiously.
‘Dragonfly naiads, not mythological naiads,’ Artanis says, looking amused. ‘But if I see any nymphs trying to drown people by luring them into the lake, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Er... thank you,’ says Fingon. ‘But really, I’m amazed at all the things you’ve found to study at the reserve, Artanis. You should write a book about it one day.’
Artanis, surprisingly, looks ever so slightly panicked. ‘Well, maybe,’ she says quickly. ‘Must run; I’ll be back some time this afternoon.’ And she disappears out the front door.
Fingon hopes he hasn’t stressed her out, but he does admire how his youngest cousin can find something new to study everywhere she turns. Perhaps she’s studying the reserve just for her own amusement, which is no bad thing. Far too many young people these days are rushing into relationships without a thought for the consequences, and he’s glad Artanis isn’t affected by that mania.
…
The morning continues quietly until Celegorm wakes up, sometime after ten. Fingon is cleaning the bathroom when an agonised howl of ‘Who the fuck turned off the Wii?’ echoes through the house.
Celegorm storms into the bathroom. ‘Did you fuck with my game?’ he demands.
‘Keep your voice down, Celegorm,’ Fingon says in an even yet disapproving tone. The bathroom is magnifying the sound, which was above speaking volume already.
‘I talk however the fuck I want to talk,’ Celegorm says angrily. ‘And so what if I’m yelling, it’s your fault, I fucking spend the whole night playing through one fucking ridiculously hard level and then you go and fuck it up when I finally get to the save point.’
‘It is not my fault that you fell asleep before you were able to save your game,’ says Fingon, ‘but I am concerned about how much electricity we waste, and I have told you often enough about the enormous amounts of power your electrical appliances use even when they’re on stand-by. If you can’t follow a simple rule that we ratified at last month’s house meeting, then I must take matters into my own hands and-’
‘Don’t you fucking tell me what to do!’ Celegorm explodes. ‘And don’t fucking touch my stuff again, or I will fuck your shit up so hard-’
‘That’s enough, Tyelko,’ says Maitimo from the doorway. ‘You’ve made yourself quite clear.’
‘And you’ve gone and interrupted your brother’s work,’ says Fingon disapprovingly.
‘It’s all right,’ Maitimo begins, at the same time as Celegorm says ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, my mother?’ Then he turns on Maitimo, demanding, ‘Why do you always take his side? You’re my brother!’
‘And you’re acting like a five-year-old,’ says Irisse, poking her head around the door. ‘What’s going on, by the way?’
‘And now you’ve woken my sister up!’ Fingon says angrily.
‘Don’t you fucking start!’ snaps Celegorm.
‘Tyelko...’ sighs Maitimo.
‘You’re grouchy because you’re hungry. Come on, let’s get breakfast,’ says Irisse, and drags Celegorm out of the bathroom.
‘I’m sorry about that, Fingon,’ says Maitimo, although he shouldn’t have to apologise for his brother’s behaviour. ‘I’ll be back in the office if you need me.’
‘I’m sure he’ll think better of it later,’ Fingon says, absolutely certain that Celegorm will do no such thing. He can hear him whining to poor, patient Irisse in the kitchen.
‘He fucked with my game, Ar.’
‘I’m sorry, hon,’ Fingon can hear her say, ‘but that’s what happens if you fall asleep when you’re gaming, you know how anal he gets about turning stuff off to save power or whatever. You can play again tonight. Or you can play with me tonight, hmm?’ The last sentence sounds muffled, as though she’s murmuring it into his ear - but Fingon does not want to know what they do in private. It’s bad enough that they have things to do in private at all.
‘But babe,’ says Celegorm, sounding confused, ‘you got really mad the last time I fell asleep when we-’
‘Or don’t,’ snaps Irisse. ‘See how good the Wii is at sucking your cock.’ She storms back in to the bathroom. ‘Get out, Fin, I’m having a shower.’
‘But I just cleaned in here,’ Fingon says reasonably.
‘So what? It’s just water.’ She shoves him out and slams the door before he can explain that he’s just cleaned and sanitised the bathroom and that water alone won’t keep it hygienic, and when she’s finished he’ll have to do it all over again. And she never remembers to put the fan on, so he’ll have to clean the mirrors again too.
There’s nothing to be done about it for now, and he cleans in a set order calibrated to everyone’s schedule so that the rooms are empty and he doesn’t intrude, so he goes back to the kitchen for another cup of tea. Celegorm is back on the couch and takes his eyes off the screen for a moment to glare at Fingon; then continues to mash buttons as he plays his game again.
Some people have no sense of perspective.
…
‘Morning, Fin,’ Caranthir says at precisely 11.57am, ‘How’s Anal Fandom?’
‘That’s Fandom Analysis!’ Fingon snaps, although he instantly regrets taking his anger out on Caranthir simply for asking a question. Celegorm has put him out of sorts, and there’s a strange person on the forums with some very determined yet seemingly illogical views about a great range of subjects. SuperRobb has been trying to talk to them for some time, but he has not made any progress as of yet. Meanwhile, BatJon has been telling the newcomer in no uncertain terms to leave the forums, which Fingon does not approve of at all. Certainly BatJon is well-intentioned, but this culture of censorship and division is counter to everything in the Fandom Analysis manifesto. Besides, who is the forum moderator here?
‘Dude, that’s a troll,’ says Caranthir, looking over his shoulder at the screen. ‘Just ban them already like the kid says.’
‘They must have something to contribute to the discussion, otherwise why would they write in the forum?’ says Fingon. ‘Certainly they have a... individual approach towards communication, but they deserve to be heard and included in the discussion just like everyone else.’
‘You have no idea how the internet works, do you?’ says Caranthir, looking at him despairingly.
‘Certainly I do!’ says Fingon, offended. ‘It’s a network of interlinked computers across the globe-’
‘Oh god, I need coffee,’ Caranthir says, looking pained. He goes off to the kitchen, but not before Fingon hears him mutter, ‘You seriously need to get laid.’
…
‘What do you think of the coffee?’ says Fingon, following him into the kitchen. ‘I switched from an Ethiopian to a Papua New Guinean single-source blend, and I find the taste much sharper and more acidic.’
Caranthir looks at him blankly. ‘Tastes like coffee,’ he says, and empties his mug. He pours himself another and starts adding sugar to it. At the third spoonful Fingon feels he has to intervene. ‘I can’t see how you can taste the coffee under all that sugar,’ he says disapprovingly. ‘And it’s going to overstimulate your nervous system. There are plenty of artificial sweeteners available-’
‘Dude, firstly-’ Caranthir uses the mug to gesture, ‘-I’ve had three hours of sleep and I have to be at work in half an hour, I need all the stimulation I can get. Secondly, I’m not drinking that artificial chemical shit, it gives you cancer.’
Well, there was one unfortunate case, certainly, but Fingon researched artificial sweeteners meticulously after he found out about that and he will print a report off for Caranthir to read when he gets home. This is what frustrates him about Caranthir - he’s clearly intelligent even if he insists on sprinkling his sentences liberally with foul language, but he would rather listen to appalling music and spend his nights in the city with insalubrious characters than have a decent conversation.
Oh, yes. Politeness requires him to ask ‘And did you enjoy your concert last night?’, although to group that noise pollution in a filthy bar with the sublime music of Beethoven et al. in the recital halls is physically painful.
‘Metal Monday? Yeah, it was cool,’ says Caranthir with a grin. ‘Lots of songs about dismembering whores, definitely your type of music. Pity you couldn’t make it.’
And then, as quickly as that, Caranthir has reverted to his baser nature. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to go and clean the bathroom again,’ Fingon says haughtily.
‘You liked it the last time I took you there!’ Caranthir yells after him cheerfully. Fingon shudders at the memory. The state of the bathrooms gave him nightmares for weeks.
…
Artanis comes back late in the afternoon, looking cheerful. ‘How were the naiads?’ Fingon asks her at dinner, pleased at himself for remembering the name.
‘Oh, er, I didn’t make much progress,’ she says. ‘But it was a lovely day.’
‘It’s always nice to get back to nature,’ Fingon agrees. ‘Perhaps you could show me around the reserve one day? You must be quite an expert on the wildlife by now.’ For some reason, Caranthir snorts into his beer, and Artanis looks slightly uncomfortable.
‘It’s not really the best time of year,’ she says, ‘it’s getting muggy and the mosquitos are starting to hatch. I’ll let you know when it’s a good time.’
‘Hold still, Gal, you’ve got a leaf in your hair,’ says Irisse, pulling it out.
‘A pine needle,’ says Caranthir, ‘that’s interesting. Dragonflies normally like the swampy areas, I didn’t know they went that far into the forest.’
Irisse gives him a pointed look that Fingon doesn’t understand - it’s a perfectly valid statement. ‘Perhaps they’re migrating,’ he says, trying to reassure Artanis. ‘I’ve never heard of them doing that before - that could be a real scientific breakthrough. You could write a thesis on it.’
Artanis smiles at him tightly. ‘Perhaps,’ she says. ‘I’m going to have a shower.’ In her haste, she accidentally kicks Caranthir in the shins on her way out of the kitchen.
…
He frowns at the bookcase. Someone (Celegorm, most likely, in a juvenile attempt at revenge for his ridiculous game) has put all of his books out of order, and someone else (probably Maitimo, being very thoughtful, as if he doesn’t have enough to worry about) has tried to put them back in order. He appreciates the effort but Maitimo has forgotten that he is currently ordering his books by year of publication, not by title. As he begins to rearrange them in their proper order, a dread thought crosses his mind. He picks up A Tale of Two Cities and opens it gingerly...
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times beams back at him reassuringly, to his great relief. He didn’t think Celegorm would have enough time to replace his books with pornography hidden behind the familiar covers, but after he lent what he thought was Daniel Daronda to poor Mrs Naismith from the Neighbourhood Watch, he can’t be too careful. She was very kind about it - she hardly seemed to mind at all, the poor dear - but he was mortified. Not that he should have been surprised by Celegorm and Caranthir’s antics. He can only hope that they don’t gain influence over Irisse and Artanis, forced as they are to live under the same roof as such uncouth cousins. He can hardly believe that Maitimo came from the same stock.
The bookshelf restored to its rightful order, he goes to bed and allows himself half an hour of reading La Fugitive for the book club. Silence, golden silence, reigns in the house.
For a few minutes, at least. Then a thumping noise begins, interspersed with giggles and moaning.
Fingon breaths in and out through his nose, puts down his book with a sigh, and raps smartly on the dividing wall.
‘Celegorm!’ he calls, ‘can you keep it down? I am reading Proust!’