A third chapter! Hurra!

With the Russian accent, I had not a single idea of how to make it look right without having it look wrong, because of the w's to v's, and all that, such as 'one' to 'von.' Everything should be fine, though, if you read Natalya's sentences in a Russian accent.


-O-


By the looks of it, I was driving a 2004 Pontiac Sunfire, red and slightly beaten down, with tinted windows and weathered seat cushions, torn padding in the back, and a stain of bleach. By another look at it, I could tell it was going to be the laughingstock of the entire parking lot filled with Volvos, Volkswagens, and BMWs. But I didn't really care - at least I had a break from walking to school. There was a problem, however.

Fëanáro.

I had a feeling it was always going to be him. It was Thursday, and I hadn't gotten as much sleep as I would have working overnight at the Golden Rim. He was in the car with me, unfortunately, and once we stepped out from it, I knew that I would have just guaranteed myself that I would earn the stares of just about every single person at the school who arrived at 8:00 AM.

"Please don't draw attention to yourself," I muttered to him.

He grinned to himself. "How would I draw attention to myself? I'm not wearing the Silmarils on my brow." Then he turned away with a tsk. "Damn that son of Idril."

"Look at your height," I told him, feeling despair creep up my spine. "You're really, really tall."

"You're not too short yourself," he reminded me. "Not many people stare at you."

"They avoid my gaze," I mumbled, parking into a spot. Already, people were glancing at the car with contempt. I should have walked, I thought to myself. "Okay. This is how it's going to work. You're going to go to the front office, and you're going to stay there 'til...hmm...half past twelve, okay?"

"Why should I?" Honestly - I knew he would pull this as soon as I told him to do something.

"Please, Fëanáro. It's just for this once. We're still on rocky terms, and we don't even know each other that well, and people will be suspicious. I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want everyone to be alerted to you as a Silmarillion character, and I can't just take you to class with me." Hoping he would see common sense, I stopped at that and kept my silence.

For a long time, he did not speak either, until finally he glanced at me and sighed, whether from exasperation or resignation I do not know. "Fine."

Glad that we concurred, I unlocked the door and waited for him to exit the compartment.

As soon as Fëanáro stepped out, several students wolf-whistled. At his height. He blinked and turned to me, slightly confused, and I slumped back in the car, sighing. I warned him, and he didn't listen. But how was one to mask six feet of height? And damn, I forgot to drink coffee again. Several girls approached him, a moment of bravery apparently, and they said shyly, 'Hi.' He bid them good morning, and that's when I stepped outside the car.

"Come on, we must go," I interrupted him, as he started to bow sarcastically, the sarcasm going unnoticed by the girls before us.

Fëanáro frowned. "Must we?"

"If I am late for class, you will be eating the leftover lasagna later," I promised, dragging him away easily.


After Professor Bern told us to pull out our notes from last week, I blanked out. I knew he was simply going to go over what was said and say it over once more, because this was he always did before major quizzes. My mind wandered to the corners of the labyrinth that was my kingdom of thoughts, and didn't return 'til the end of the period. To my slight surprise, I was thinking about the card that was still in my jacket, crumpled and folded so many times that the words were broken up because of the faded letters. However much I would like to forget about it, I couldn't, and I was annoyed at myself for even considering to go.

And what the hell was that this morning, with Fëanáro and the girls? Was he trying to garner me more trouble than he was worth?

I absentmindedly glanced at my watch—a quarter past twelve. In ten minutes, the class would be over. Was it really so quick?

Damn it, I really needed to stop wandering back to the card...

Go to 153 Carisol Grey Dr.
Goldestone Theatre
4:30 sharp
Don't be late.

"Now, class, remember to study for your quiz next Wednesday! It's going to incorporate everything we've learned this week." Then, Professor Bern stopped mid-talk and smiled at all of us. "Remember—if you lose courage, make sure that you go forth, and regain that courage. Alright?"

He just loved to twist with our minds, didn't he? Psychology class. A pain, to me.

I simply gathered my books and my notes again, running through his last words. Courage.

Before I managed to leave, he placed a hand on my shoulder. "Have you considered it, Drew?"

I turned around. "Considered? Considered what?"

"The recommendation letter," he replied. "I know that you would usually visit your family during this time, but the best time to do the research is during the winter break. I don't want to make you choose between family and future, but this is a decision you must make on your own."

"That last sentence was directed towards me, wasn't it?"


Fëanáro didn't understand why we were driving off campus now. He craned his neck to turn his head back to the gates as the distance between it and the car increased. Then he turned back to me and sighed, rolling his sleeves back to his elbows.

"Why are we leaving your school? Are your classes over already?" he asked, without even meeting my eyes and examining the lever that allowed his seat to move back.

I glanced at his hunched form and smiled. "I am taking you to McDonalds."

"McDonalds... That place that you told me you would take me to yesterday?"

"Yes. You are eating a Big Mac. If you don't like lasagna, then let's see how well you handle processed beef."

He leaned back into his seat and propped his feet atop the glove compartment, looking over at me from the corner of his eyes. "If you insist, but once you have tasted my masterpieces, you will not turn to your...curious cuisines ever again. I promise you. It takes a real male to work, raise seven children, and cook, and still retain sanity. Though I am not sure if I have retained most of my sanity." He smirked to himself. "At home, it was always I who cooked for my sons. Nerdanel couldn't cook worth a copper chip."

"And you think I'll be just like your sons."

"You'll be like all of the children I've fed, and some of them weren't just my sons." He sat up, and immediately, the seat rebounded with him, but he didn't seem bothered by it. "I'll have you know that I fed my half-siblings as well. Indis? She wasn't renowned for her cooking more than her beauty."

"You admit that she's beautiful?" I echoed, unsure if he suddenly underwent a change in the office. Who was this goddess that completely altered Curufinwë Fëanáro?

"Yes, but she's shit at cooking," he replied candidly. (I take that back, about what I said earlier.) "She wanted to cook for me, one time, while she was still pregnant, you see. She was feeling extremely motherly and was willing to 'look past' our 'differences' and give me the meal that every mother should have cooked for their child." He snorted, and the corners of his mouth quirked with amusement. "And then, she proceeded to set the vinegar on fire. Tell me, how do you set vinegar on fire?"

"I don't know."

"Precisely. Our lunch was ruined, and the picnic was going to be canceled until I devised an excellent diversion and prepared a storm of vegetables, meat, and fruit. Oh, and I created a recipe for buttered bread and raw deer meat, topped by a square of fermented cheese." He looked quite smug from where I spotted him, in the mirror as I glanced to it in order to merge right.

"Fermented cheese? Raw deer meat? You know that hunting deer is actually really wrong?" I said weakly, trying to keep my eyes on the road, trying to ignore that prospect of a bloody deer and rotting cheese.

Really, I was living with a maniac now. In relief, I saw McDonalds and made a right turn into the parking lot, deciding to go through the drive-thru. Fëanáro looked around in amazement, ready to open the door, but I placed a hand on his shoulder and stopped him. I myself really just did not like eating here, but this was to prove a point. Fëanáro was going to eat a Big Mac, stomach it down, and then admit to me that lasagna, burnt or not, was better.

I ordered a Big Mac for Fëanáro and pulled the car through the drive-thru, tapping my fingers against the wheel. He, on the other hand, was tapping the window experimentally.

"Say, what is this peculiar machine?"

"A car," I responded, handing the cashier money, and taking back the change. "It's a branch of transportation. Some people use transit buses, some people use trains, some people use airplanes, some people use helicopters, we're using a car, though I usually walk. This car is powered by fossil fuels, also known as gas, and causes pollution. Lots of people use cars, though, since it's more convenient and personal to each person. There are different kinds of cars. This car is not my car, though."

"By the speed of this, compared to the time," he told me, only hanging onto the sentence in which I said I walked, "I'd say that the distance is extremely long. You would walk such a long distance to every place? You would have to wake up extremely early, and then you would be tired by the end of the walk."

"I would drink coffee. It's my drug, my caffeine, my habit." I abruptly tossed the McDonalds paper bag to him. "There. That is your lunch. Eat."

He took out the cardboard box and opened it. And then, his eyes widened. "What the hell?" he said. "I can't eat this. This... It looks like it has vomit spread across the top and bottom. And trust me, I have seen so many of my sons vomit that it's hard not to compare everything to it."

"Is it worse than lasagna?" I answered stiffly.

Fëanáro held up his hands in exasperation. "Is this because of yesterday?"

"Fëanáro," I said in my no-nonsense voice. He froze, but I ignored that. "Is it worse than lasagna?"

"Yes," he said quietly, pushing the food away from him.

Then, the problem of leftover food came to mind. I still had lasagna, Fëanáro had practically nothing to eat at all since he arrived in that box, and we both didn't like McDonalds. The only solution was Edina, since she would usually, without time to prepare food herself, go to fast food places out of convenience. I wasn't sure if she actually liked eating this though. Maybe, if I was lucky, we would reach a mutual agreement on what to eat, since he could be classified as a picky eater.

Maybe, if I wasn't deceiving myself, it could work.


The theatre was empty, deserted, and I felt a chill pass over me. Was this even the right room? I took the card from my grey jacket and unfolded it once more. And then I realised that the room number was not on the card. It almost reminded me of a crime scene show, in which I would have been a detective, if I truly had such intellect to solve mysteries and stomach murders like the weak, faint human being I was.

The seats were of red cushion and rimmed with golden armrests, and there was a multitude of rows of such seats—forty-three, to be exact. The entire room was of a high ceiling, with the center stage being more than several feet tall, which would have made it extremely bad to jump off of, but I bet that I was at least a few inches taller than the floor of the stage. The walls were dark green, encompassing a great length of stone with a mossy sheen. This entire foundation was rumoured to have been built on stone, though not many people were willing to tear up the theatre to look for rock when there were pebbles right outside.

"So you are the tall one!" exclaimed a distinct Russian accent.

I turned around to meet the sight of a short—though most people were short to me—slender girl, with dark green eyes and lanky dark brown hair. And hanging from her mouth was a small cigarette, with smoke just sailing out of the end. I curled my fingers tightly in my left hand and then reminded myself that I was supposed to use my right.

"Hallo," she continued, the cigarette moving with her mouth. "I'm Natalya Nekrestyanov. But you only need to remember my first name." She winked. "Now, are you here for the violin part, or are you here because Sabrina threatened you?"

"Is smoking allowed indoors?" I asked weakly, backing away. Sabrina must have been that girl who gave me the card.

Natalya disregared my question and went up to me, taking the card from my hand as I stepped back from the puffs of smoke that occasionally rose from the lit end. Then she looked up at me. "It could work," she said to herself. "You're pretty tall—you'll draw attention away from the shit players I have now..."

"I'm sorry, but I don't exactly understand why I'm here," I told her. "I was told to come, and I thought it quite rude not to attend after I said I would."

"Manners," she noted absentmindedly, looking me up and down. "Alright, you're in." Then she pivoted on her heel and started to walk away from me, but I halted her.

"Wait—what am I in on? I still do not understand."

She sighed. "It's obvious, my new second principle!" Oh no. "Oh yes! You're in our little orchestra production now!"

Her words echoed in my ears before I fully comprehended; by then, she was nearly out the door. "Can I be better informed on this? I don't think I can fully participate unless I understand the full concept. Second principle? I am not even in possession of a violin!"

Natalya blinked as she turned back to me once more. "What? Then what was that at the bookstore with Sabrina's little sister? Do you mean to say you cannot play, yet you are lecturing me on getting a violin tutor?" She went over and gestured for me to sit down, and then she stood in front of me with her hands on her hips, leaning over so we were face-to-face and noses almost touching. "Listen girl. If you are one, with that monstrous height of yours."

The smoke from her cigarette was starting to tear up my eyes, and I felt closed in, almost claustrophobic, like that time...

"Tante! Smoking isn't good for you!" the little girl exclaimed, her light grey eyes wide as she watched the taller woman inhale a large amount of silvery, wispy air. "Det dreper!"

But the older woman simply leaned close to her, blew the smoke into her face, to which the little girl shrunk back, coughing, and the woman smiled wickedly. "Oh, lille barn, when had you any jurisdiction over my handlinger?" She jumped onto the bed and threw her left arm up to the pillow, using her right hand to daintily remove the cigarette from mouth and place it gingerly on the bed. "God natt! When you decide to scream 'Hjelp!', feel free to do so."

"Tan...te..." The little girl could not stop coughing, and she started to cry, shutting her eyes and leaning back against the corner of the room in which she was locked in. "Let me...out..."

I uncomfortably removed the cigarette from Natalya's mouth and threw it down upon the floor, mashing it with my boot. "Please... I do not feel comfortable with people smoking in close proximity. It is not very healthy for the lungs..."

She rolled her eyes. "You didn't even listen to half of what I said. I need more violin players for the orchestra, and you may be my only chance to get this show on the damn road. Now. Can you play the violin or not?"

"Yes," I said quietly.

She smiled. "Then good. You are to come to practice once a month, and I'll give you the sheet music next week via Sabrina's little sister. The actual performance is on the seventeenth of May—mark that on your calendar..." She trailed off when she saw that my breathing had ceased, and I had gone pale.

My blood froze in my veins, my arteries, and my fingers, curled from the start, went slack.I looked up at her blankly, and she moved back.

"What ever is wrong, tall one?"

"I can't."

"On the seventeenth of May? My, you're one of those top-notch, schedule-busy violinists, aren't you?" Her eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms over her chest.

I shook my head. "I cannot do anything during the month of May. I am very sorry."

Natalya sighed. "Well, if I move the concert to February, do you think you could do it?"

It was hard to tell someone no, and sometimes I never really succeeded either. Such as now. "I... Can I get back to you on that?" I glanced down at my watch and nearly cursed - Fëanáro was probably slamming his head against the windows in frustration at my keeping him waiting. "I've got to do something."

She magically pulled out a pen and wrote on the card, scribbling her number onto the back. "Alright, tall one. If you have the time to call, do it. I need one more violinist by January, and I hope you're good." Her eyes twinkled. "Don't let me down easy, if that's what you're planning to do."

I nodded, got up, and strode out of the theatre room.


"What took you so long?" demanded Fëanáro, an annoyed look on his face as he stood outside the car, awaiting my arrival. Or, rather - as it would have been more accurate - awaiting the car keys.

I sighed. "I'm sorry. Very sorry. I was held up by the person who wanted to meet me."

He simply opened the door and plopped gracefully back into the seat, and I did the same, placing the car keys into ignition and backing out of the parking lot. The trip was silent, and we passed many surroundings as I drove past the University gates, and I kept one hand on the wheel as I leaned against the window, supporting my frame with my other arm. Fëanáro on the other hand was still playing with the lever that lowered his seat.

Watching him lower and then prop himself back up was by far not entertaining, by any sort of twisted way of thought. He could be such a child, though I imagine he didn't really have much of a childhood without a mother, and a father who could only give so much comfort until the heart finally scabbed, to form the scar and heal the wound.

"Fëanáro," I said softly, slightly overcome with pity. But I knew he wouldn't want it - not from me. "We're going shopping."

He turned to look at me, annoyed, as if I had treated him like a child. "I know that."

The atmosphere was tense, and I could feel his gaze boring into my head as I tried to focus on the grey path before us. Buildings, incomprehensible in my wandering mind, flashed by without a sound, with only the wheels turning making any sort of noise that could distract me.

"So, what is your last memory?" I asked him, attempting to make conversation.

"Grey," he replied simply.

"The Halls of Mandos?"

"You know, the race of Man should not know so much of Elvish history and customs," Fëanáro reminded me, and his eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. "You say that I am a character from the Silmarillion. Did you interpret such information from that book as well? Or are there more books on our history?"

"More books," I confirmed for him. "But how long have you been in the Halls of Mandos?"

He smiled to himself, but I saw the pain in his eyes. And the reminiscing of boredom. "Quite a long time. I was freed after Arda Remade, but my Silmarils..."

"Trapped to their fate."

"Do you think I was wrong to make them?"

I blinked at the sudden question. "Why would you ask me such a thing?"

"So many people hated my creation. They hated the Silmarils deeply, though it was so holy - though it contained the Light of the Two Trees. I do not understand why they would despise such hallowed objects. They came to despise me as well, but when did they not find me eccentric; when did they not find me odd? Was I never the only exception, the only damn orphan in Tirion whose Ammë died and Atar remarried? It makes me wonder, sometimes, if they did not hate me before."

Faced with his admission, I wanted to laugh, but judging by the speed of the car and the fact that he was strong enough to throw open my door and throw me out of it, I decided against it. "Don't worry, Fëanáro; I'm sure Fingolfin felt like shit when he was constantly compared to you."

"Fingolfin...?"

"Your half-brother."

"Oh. That half-brother." It was miraculous how he could tell which I spoke of. "Constantly compared to?"

"You have to know how...great you were," I said, frank and honest. "Though many people eventually kind of grew to..." I trailed off, not sure how to put this, "...not like you, you were still kind of the best of Eru's creations. You were made by him to create wonderful things, and you did." Catching his eye, I sighed. "And I'm sure your son eventually forgave you for burning him alive." But I had to know... "Was it on purpose?"

"Was what on purpose?" he asked in monotone.

"Burning him alive." There was a moment of hesitation in which I contemplated if he was even going to respond. Surely, I was pressing my luck by stating his action so calmly, so serenely, as if this was normal conversation. But he surprised me.

"Yes."

We were at the grocery store before I could even respond. He got out of the car and waited for me outside as I took my wallet and the keys to the car. Then I stepped outside as well and walked over to him, my eyes narrowed. "Why do you do that?"

He glanced at me. "Do that, as in doing what, exactly?"

"You push people away. You give them unfavourable answers and frighten off people because you don't want them to get close to you - you don't want them to understand you."

"What would you, mortal and human, understand about me, one who has lived more than a thousand years in grey hell? I push people away. Yes, in fact I do. But how would you know that, if you do not push people away yourself? You cannot criticize me when you do the exact same thing."

Speechless, I watched as he walked inside of the grocery store without a glance back. He hadn't even known me for five years, and already...

All I could do was follow him inside with the cart.


Not even six minutes into the grocery store, all pretense of awkwardness was gone, and he was ready to ask as many questions as he could possibly muster about every single thing. As I was pushing the cart lazily down the aisle, he said;

"What is this?"

I turned around to look at him, holding up a two liter bottle of Coca-cola. "Oh. Well, that's Coke. It's a drink that a lot of people like to ingest." Though I preferred Pepsi.

"Ingest?" he said incredulously, placing the item back on the rack. "With that coloring? I am sure not anyone would ingest any thing that resembles orc blood."

"Orc blood is black?"

He looked at me as if pityingly, for I was not so well-informed on this. "Of course it is." He then proceeded to launch himself into a five paragraph long summary of orcs and their characteristics, while I pretended to listen, nodding along at not entirely the right times, but hopefully convincing enough.

"So what is it you wish to buy?" I interrupted, just as he prepared to explain the orc's anatomy, and their breeding habits. Apparently, one could learn a lot of things from the fëa in the Halls, and a major in the Study of Orcs Fëanáro obviously was. "I know that you want to cook since apparently lasagna is the next unwholesome thing besides a Big Mac, but you've got to be kidding me if you don't have a rough sketch of the ingredient list. Don't tell me that you're planning to wing it and just go with the flow."

"'Wing it and go with the flow?'" he repeated.

"It's an expression."

"With words."

"Yes. Anyways, I'm sure you'll need eggs, if you're planning on doing anything involving baking. And wheat."

"And garlic," he mused, tapping his finger against his chin as we strolled down the aisle. "How do you feel about - " Catching the look on my face, he cut himself off. "Never mind. You'll find out later."

My curious was piqued. "No...tell me."

He gestured for me to come closer, much like whispering a secret to another.

Unable to stop myself, to control myself, I leaned over, and he said, very softly, but amused and teasing nonetheless, "You'll find out later."


Pretty long chapter again! I'm kind of proud of myself.

Norwegian:
handlinger - actions
lille barn - little child
tante - aunt
god natt - good night
hjelp - help

Just so you guys know now, syttende mai is the seventeenth of May. Norwegian Constitution Day.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter!