He enters the kitchen without a word of greeting and sits himself down in the chair at the head of the table, figure tense as a rod of steel and expression blank - but then, that is Curufinwë; always distant, always cold, elegant fingers beginning to pick at his food with fork and knife before acknowledging the presence of his family, although I know he will probably barely touch the meal I made.
"Tyelperinquar, what is your favorite color?" he asks. "You need a new tunic for your grandfather's begetting day." He does not look up from his plate while he speaks.
Tyelpe thinks about it, chubby hands grasping his knees, a look of pure concentration on his face. "I like green best," he announces after a moment. "Green like the trees."
Curufinwë's brows draw together slightly. "Your grandfather prefers red, Tyelperinquar. Wouldn't you like to wear red and please him?" There is a note of feigned disappointment in his cold voice, calculated confusion and desire, but Tyelpe does not notice. He never notices his father's mind games, full of a child's blind adulation of all that he knows should be good - the conviction that fathers are infallible. Like Curufinwë all over again.
He looks up at his father, big eyes wide and adoring, a smile brightening his rounded features. "No," he says happily. He smiles even wider and I bite my lip.
Narrowing his eyes, Curufinwë frowns imperceptibly, pausing in his rhythmic scraping of knife and fork against the plate. "You don't want him to be happy?"
"He can still be happy if I wear green, Atar," Tyelpe laughs. "I will sing him a song I made, like uncle Makalaurë, and he will be so happy that he will jump in the air! Like this!"
He jumps off the chair and bounces on his feet a few times, fists in the air, smiling so widely that his face lights the room. But Curufinwë tenses and the flat dullness of his silver eyes flares, sucking the warmth from the air. My weak smile at the sight of Tyelpe's innocent joy fades.
Lips tight with anger, Curufinwë grabs his son's wrist.
"Ow! Let go!"
I grip the edge of the counter tightly, fighting the urge to rip Tyeple's arm from his hands.
"Atarinkë..."
He ignores me. My feeble protest, my half-hearted plea, is disregarded. I am used to it, and I know he will not hurt my son, at least not physically.
"We've talked about your singing, Tyelperinquar," he hisses through gritted teeth, voice rigidly controlled as usual but colored with frustration. His words are slow and deliberate, characteristic smooth tone tinted with a rough edge of rage. "You come from a family of craftsmen. You are going to be a smith, just like your father and grandfather! And you will wear red to his begetting day!" He is almost yelling now, and I want to cringe and take Tyeple in my arms and run away. I do not move.
"But Atar, I like green better!" Tyelperinquar's voice wobbles, tears shining in his eyes.
Curufinwë takes a deep breath and slowly releases it, eyes shut. Then he lets go of Tyelpe's hand and lifts the boy up, hugging him tightly to his chest and smiling at him. The smile does not reach his eyes.
"No," he says. "I think you'll wear red."