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“When I was in prison – ”

“You weren’t in prison.”

“When I was in prison, I had some time to do some thinking…”

“You were in a holding cell for two hours with six other people. What did you think about? Your brothers’ b.o.?”

Celegorm scowled at Mablung. “Look, Lungumá, I’m being friendly to you because we gotta see each other every day, but I can go back to punching you in the head whenever you’re ready.”

Mablung shrugged, unfazed. “I’m shaking in my boots, Fëanorion. Anyway, what were you thinking about? Novel activity for you.”

Celegorm exhaled sharply through his nose. “I’ll mention the head punching option once more as a warning, but next time you sass me I’m just going to do it. Anyway. I was thinking it was pretty interesting that the Turambar kid nearly killed Beleg and didn’t get any time for it, given that for my trivial crimes, I served – ”

“You didn’t serve shit, Celegorm, your family connections got you out of there with less than a slap on the wrist. Does your daddy even know you got busted?”

“Bitch, what did I say about sass?” Celegorm swung a fist at Mablung, who was ready for it, and dodged with a mocking laugh. Celegorm snarled at him without much feeling for a block or so. Mablung whistled carelessly, his hands in his pockets as he walked just out of arm’s reach, one eye on Celegorm.

“Personally,” said Mablung after a few minutes, like they’d never been interrupted. “I am sick of talking about Túrin Neithan Deathstick Turambar, but,” he pointed to a group of people milling about in the center of the park, “you can always ask him about his legal shenanigans yourself.”

Celegorm turned, stepping off the sidewalk and kicking his feet solidly into the earth. The turf was soft and muddy, but Celegorm took a great, happy exhale as the familiar smell of grass, sweat, and mud hit his nostrils. A bright-haired figure waved at them from across the field, and they nodded in response.

Glorfindel jogged over to greet them with handshakes and a cheerful grin. “I think we’ll finally have enough for two sides now. Thanks for coming!”

“Sure,” said Mablung, looking around. “It’ll be good to get out on the pitch again, I don’t think I’ve played since graduation.”

“Hah.” Celegorm snorted. “You’re gonna hurt today, bro.”

“Have you kept playing, then?” Glorfindel asked Celegorm brightly. “With a league, or – ?”

Celegorm appeared not to hear him. “Who else is here?”

Glorfindel looked at the assembled rugby players milling about the field. “A bunch of alums, some current players, Ecthelion, because I made him promise to try it...” His voice dropped conspiratorially. “Honestly, I think a lot of people turned up to see if Túrin was really going to be here – ”

It was Mablung’s turn to snort.

“ – but he’s not talking to anyone.”

“Is he going to play for the team again?” Celegorm was watching a certain tense, dark-haired figure with narrowed eyes. “Is he even going back to school?”

Glorfindel shrugged. “I don’t know, I didn’t ask. I think he appreciates keeping questions to the minimum. But it seems like he wants to keep playing someway or another, and man, if anyone could go pro, it’s him.”

“That’s what they say,” said Mablung, and grinned snidely at Celegorm. “I heard that Coach called him even better than you.”

“I don’t think he put it like that,” said Glorfindel quickly. “I think he said, technically, that – ”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Celegorm loudly, rolling out his shoulders. “We’ve never seen the two of us on the same pitch, have we? We can settle this for all those who might be interested.” He stomped off, and Glorfindel glanced over as Mablung started chuckling to himself.

“I’m glad there’s something ol’ Deathstick Turambar is good for,” said Mablung, in answer to his unasked question. “Putting Fëanorion’s ass in its place.” His grin turned from spiteful to genuine as he continued to scan the crowd for one face in particular. “You got Beleg to come.”

“It wasn’t me,” said Glorfindel quietly. “I didn’t text him because I figured an invite would be unkind, knowing he’s still in recovery and unable to play, but he showed up with Túrin anyway.”

Beleg was sitting on a park bench, watching everyone. He looked slightly faded, as if his ordeal had somehow diluted the color in his hair and skin and the brightness of his eyes, but his smile was true as Mablung sat down next to him and patted him companionably on the knee. “Good to see you out and about, buddy.”

“Yes,” agreed Beleg, and covered Mablung’s hand with his own for a moment before socking him genially in the shoulder. “Good to have the old crowd back together. Have you heard about the new coach?”

* * *

Oromë had music playing from the small record player he kept in the bedroom, and therefore didn’t notice Celegorm drag himself through the house until he staggered through the bedroom door, swaying dramatically against the doorframe.

Oromë looked up. “Hey. Did I know you were coming over?”

Celegorm didn’t answer, but peeled himself off the doorframe and collapsed down on the bed next to the pile of laundry Oromë was sorting.

“I am in such pain,” he moaned, and rolled onto his back, scattering the already folded clothes.

Oromë looked grimly at the wreckage of his laundry. “Why’s that?”

“I played a pickup game of rugby today,” said Celegorm, reaching under himself with a grimace and tossing a bunched up shirt aside so he could lie flat. “For the first time since senior year.”

“Really?” Oromë abandoned the clothes as a lost cause, and stretched out next to Celegorm. “Really the first time since–”

“Playoffs, Fall 2013. Yeah.”

For a moment, painful memory flickered behind Oromë’s eyes, but then he grinned, dispelling it before Celegorm could comment further. “No wonder you hurt,” he said, and laid a hand against Celegorm’s shirt, which was stuck to his skin with sweat. “Out of shape, huh?”

“How dare you? I am not out of shape.” Celegorm sat up with some difficulty and lifted his shirt to reveal his taut stomach as he flexed. “Check out this washboard, check out these guns, check – OW, motherfucker.” Oromë had lightly pressed his fingertips into Celegorm’s stomach, and Celegorm flinched back, cursing.

“I bet your sides hurt too,” said Oromë, following him mercilessly, laying his hands over Celegorm’s waist and squeezing. Celegorm yelped. “And your hamstrings. And your quads.” He ran his hands down to Celegorm’s thighs and then slipped around them to squeeze teasingly at his buttocks. “And your glutes.” He laughed, dropping down to the bed as Celegorm kicked at him.

“Yes, fine, it all hurts, stop torturing me.” Celegorm rolled onto his side with difficulty and then straddled Oromë’s waist instead, holding him in place. He tossed his head and tightened his thighs around Oromë's waist, as if to prove his fitness. “Sorry I’m not up to your fighting specs, Coach.”

“Just a matter of professional pride,” said Oromë mildly, leaving Celegorm’s shirt pushed up so he could run his fingers over Celegorm’s stomach.

“I’m not out of shape.”

“Just because you can lift some things over your head and run a mile without throwing up doesn’t mean you’re in shape for rugby.”

Celegorm made a face at him. “Give me time.”

“How ‘bout I give you workouts?” said Oromë, and laughed as Celegorm groaned and rolled off him.

“Jesus, who thought it would be a good idea to date my rugby coach?”

“No one,” said Oromë, following him down to the mattress and kissing him. “Literally no one thought it was a good idea, darlin’.”

Celegorm waited until Oromë had pulled his clothes off and was deeply immersed in ravaging his throat before he said, “So you think the Turambar kid is better than me, do you?”

* * *

In a neighborhood of usually sedate, well-tended Formenos lawns, one backyard had always been a standout. There was of course the matter of the two story workshop, whence came the frequent sounds of grinding gears and the occasional controlled explosion. There was the studio attached to the back of the house, with its long windows and the frozen figures often poised in them, sometimes draped with sheets so that it looked like a gallery of ghosts. Throughout the past thirty years, there had been a near constant stream of activity in the yard itself; children and then teenagers waging small wars from the elaborate treehouse in the old willow; swinging from branches; flying kites from the studio roof; and occasionally, from the sound of it, attempting to murder each other. In recent years, some of the activity had died down, but the workshop and studio remained active, and the treehouse was now more likely to be occupied by two lanky, redheaded teens, who would nap on its aging boards, sneak the occasional cigarette, and subsequently explode in occasional coughing fits.

Today, even for this particular Formenos backyard, there was an unusual amount of movement and disruption as a transformation took place. The veiled, elegant statues usually framed in the studio windows had been de-shrouded, hauled outside, and placed around the yard. Some were carefully set, their arms still reaching to beseech the sky, or gesturing at an unseen image; others had been treated with less care, tipped on their sides or flat on their backs, their blank eyes staring placidly skyward.

Six people busied themselves on the back deck, arranging items with great care, while another two paced the perimeter of the yard with hoses, carefully wetting down the grass.

Nerdanel balanced her SLR on her hip and surveyed the tableau before her. “I think we’re ready,” she said, after a while.

“Are you sure about this?” Maglor jogged down the porch steps and rested his hand on her shoulder, giving her the concerned look of one artist to another. “These were your great works.”

“You are my great works,” she said fondly. “Actually, I’m kidding, you just sort of happened. But yes, I loved these pieces, and I profited from them, but I will make other great works. In the meantime, I am ready to exorcise the ghosts of these ones before I do.” She raised her camera. “If I created you knowing one thing, it was your capacity for destruction. Go forth.”

With a certain cautious reverence, turning to zeal, her sons returned to the deck, where the items of destruction were gathered. They reached down, hands finding various tools. Matches flared. Wooden handles were gripped. Seven pairs of feet thudded down the steps; seven shadows fell across the lawn.

Nerdanel began to shoot.

Click

A black and white frame of Caranthir, his face tight with concentration, and his eyes narrowed, the lean muscles in his arms standing out as he swung a baseball bat into a plaster face.

Click

Celegorm, laughing as he whirled a sledgehammer behind his head, the object of his joyful violence in pieces at his feet.

Click

Amras, in black and white, his young face lit with curiosity and feverish interest as flames rose before him, his arms just beginning to stretch out wide as if to embrace the carving he had doused in kerosene.

Click

Amrod, standing just behind his twin and watching him with only half an eye to the smoldering coals at his own feet.

Click

Maedhros, his handsome face cut as perfectly as any statue, the light of his eyes mirrored in the light glinting off the axe blade raised above his head.

Click

Curufin, a triumphant smile on his lips and his sleeves rolled up, his collar unbuttoned, uncharacteristic looseness in his body as he threw paint over the alabaster body of a prone and faceless statue.

Click

Maglor, tears running down his face, carefully breaking a porcelain figure into pieces.

Click

“Do you not want to be in any of the pictures yourself?” said Fëanor quietly at Nerdanel’s shoulder, as she crouched and shot and moved around the yard.

“I am already in them.”

Click

Soon there was just one statue left; one of the dancing sylph of the Four Elements exhibit she had displayed two autumns previous at Irmo’s gallery. The seven sons of Nerdanel gathered before it, breathing hard, their skin shining with sweat and paint and plaster dust.

Click

“Do you want to take this one, Mama?” asked Maedhros softly.

“No,” said Nerdanel, as she set down her camera to retrieve something from the steps. “But I do have a destruction medium request.”

She turned around, and they all stared at the carton of eggs in her hand.

“Did Anairë tell you,” began Caranthir, and Nerdanel laughed, a ringing, riotous sound.

“Sweet devil hoptoads of my loins, as soon as I saw on Twitter that Irmo’s gallery had been egged – ”

“Twitter,” said Curufin bitterly, “I knew getting it out of the police blotter wouldn’t be enough.”

“ – I knew who was responsible. Also, I knew that Curvo would never willingly go to Fingolfin's campaign party, so that had to be a lie.”

"Funny story actually," began Curufin, but fell silent as Fëanor crossed the yard to stand behind Nerdanel, watching her as intently as her sons.

"Anyway. It is only fitting." Nerdanel smiled, and held out the eggs. They each took one. Behind her, Fëanor snatched up the camera.

Nerdanel, poised before her doomed art, holding out the carton. Seven hands outstretched to her, seven hands cradling seven smooth shells.

Seven young arms tensed, bent; seven hands released.

Nerdanel, ducking and laughing, her hair coming loose from the bandana with which she had bound it back. Nerdanel, raising her arms in victory against the tableau of splattered yolk and broken shell. Nerdanel, surrounded by her seven cheering sons, their faces streaked with ash. Her art destroyed; or at least transformed.

Click

Chapter End Notes

0. Sorry about the Styx, I couldn't help myself.

1. Hey guys, after this chapter I might need a bit of a rest from dwmp. I really am saying ‘might,’ because my experience with myself is that I’ll say ‘AUGH I NEED A BREAK don’t expect much from me’ and then in like two days I’ll be teeming with ideas. But work and life have been pretty overwhelming lately, and I’m feeling like I am scraping the bottom of the barrel trying to get updates every two weeks.

I still want the option to update, and I don’t think I’m done having ideas, but I’m a little tapped out and interested in giving other fics the time they deserve. Lately, trying to keep dwmp trucking has been taking up more of my time and energy than I’d like, and it sometimes comes at the expense of other fic I want to write! So. I promise as soon as I get inspired, I’ll update. I may post stand-alone dwmp fics. I’m definitely going to be posting other Silm fics. But don’t count on regular dwmp updates, because I need to recharge on this puppy.

This is the risk of an unbounded multichapter wip written without a plan, eh? We never actually know when it is supposed to end, and I don’t always know where it’s going! Thanks for bearing with me; I love and appreciate you guys <3