Chapter Text
The first thing Míriel Þerindë saw upon awakening was the pale face of her son, tears in his eyes.
He had grown far from the elfling she remembered holding, but she would recognise her child anywhere, anytime. He had her eyes and her nose, and Finwë’s beautiful hair - the peacock - but what really marked him as her son was the fëa shining in his eyes. It burned like an everlasting flame, warming and nourishing, with enough fierce imagination to create Arda anew.
Her Fëanáro.
Here was the fire she had borne that had drained her entirely of her life, her curiosity, her ability to create - and had done so for centuries beyond her death. But Míriel would not change any of it if she could, she would bear that flame a hundred times should Fëanáro require it.
The Maiar of Námo had never understood that. They had gathered and she had taught them games of Old Valariandë that dated back as far as the shores of Cuiviénen, and they had asked her about Fëanáro. But they couldn't understand the way she loved him. To them, love was an abstract concept as much as it came easily to the Children.
The Halls also held some of the Elves who had been killed by the Enemy in the early days after Cuiviénen, but they avoided all others and spoke not to Míriel.
There had been none in the Halls to understand her, especially once she felt the first sparks of her craft return to her. And with the desire to take up needles again, to sit by a loom, to dream of patterns and fabrics, came grief and shame.
At her worst, her lowest, she had granted Finwë permission to marry another. It was not that she wished for Finwë to be alone, nor for Fëanáro to be without a mother. But she grieved the thought that she had entirely ruined any chance there might have been of returning to them; and she felt ashamed of how quickly her weary mind had agreed to cast her husband and son aside.
It had made her terribly unhappy, and she had pulled back from the Maiar, even from Lord Námo. But He had noticed and by some miracle, here she was. Among the living once more.
“Ammë?”
Fëanáro's voice was so hesitant, so fearful, it broke Míriel's heart. Her son should be a gleaming hearth of creation, of confidence. Ai how she had caused him harm!
“Are you there? … Can you hear me?”
It took Míriel a moment to remember how to form words, how to move the lips of this numb hröa. She had been gone for far too long, and her hröa seemed to her like a tangled mess of threads, knots tightening further every time she pulled at a loose string in hopes of unraveling it.
But she managed.
“I'm here. Fëanáro. I'm here.”
Her son promptly burst into tears. She yearned to embrace him but she could barely move her arms yet. Míriel had been warned that her fëa and her hröa might need a few minutes to properly connect once more, but it was one thing to be told and another to experience it while her crying child sat next to her. Then another nís knelt down beside him and hugged him in Míriel’s stead.
“Do not touch me, Indis!”, her son tried to shrug the nís off, but Míriel noted how the motion was, at best, halfheartedly done. When the nís did not move from her place beside Fëanáro, he sighed and leaned the slightest bit into her embrace, a sour expression in his face despite the clear comfort he took from the affectionate gesture.
Indis.
Míriel's eyes, still heavy with sleep, moved onto the nís. So this was her replacement. The thought tasted bitter on her tongue. Now that she felt like living again, she greatly misliked the idea of someone else taking her place as Finwë’s Queen, as Fëanáro's mother. But Indissë seemed kind. Her head turned slightly, without letting go of Fëanáro, to smile down at Míriel.
“Greetings, Your Majesty. It gladdens my heart to see you among the living once more.”
Your Majesty, she said, as if she wasn't the current Queen of the Noldor.
At least she was pretty. Míriel had never much been one for Vanyar, but what they lacked in intelligence, they usually made up for in beauty. Indis certainly was very nice to look at, with her hair shining like Laurelin’s leaves and her eyes as blue as the summer skies. Her face was not graceful like any common Noldorin features, but it was slightly round, warm and motherly.
Sweet, pretty, likely very little brains. Most likely craftless.
Not someone Míriel would have considered for herself, but she could work with it.
She stood before the Valar in Máhanaxar - not kneeling as one should before them, never kneeling, for they had once invited them as friends, not servants, to Valinórë.
“If We are to grant you this wish, Míriel Serindë, you must find a solution.”
Manwë looked down at her gravely. She had to suppress the desire to correct his pronunciation of her name. This matter was more important than the preservation of Quenya - though the current deterioration of their beautiful language was an issue that would certainly need to be addressed in the future. It pleased her to know that her son, at least, had remained true to pure Quenya and had not degraded himself by simplifying his speech. But the Noldor as a whole would have to be reminded of the true beauty which their language held, the language they had brought from beyond the sea where their forefathers had first awakened at Cuiviénen.
“No living nér should have two marriage bonds with two different níssí. And two Queens vying for their place could easily cause the already existent unrest among the Noldor to erupt. There can be no strife as a consequence of this decision. And yet, we cannot keep you in the Halls if you are healed and wish to walk under the Trees again. The Halls were never supposed to be a prison.”
He seemed saddened now. As He fell silent, Varda took to speaking, her voice accompanied by the echoes of the distant supernovae above the skies of Arda.
“Thus, We have concluded that it is entirely up to you, if you accept, to convince our Father and make peace with Queen Indis. Should no solution be found and the issue escalate, then you must return to the Halls. We may not wish to keep you from living, but the peace of Aman must be preserved. Do you accept these terms?”
“I do.”
Míriel would stay with her son this time, whatever it took. And the solution seemed simple to her. She merely had to ensure Indis fell in love with her.
Míriel was the first to step into the hall. They all trailed after her like ducklings - close to the formerly dead Queen like moths gathering around the silver branches of Telperion.
Though perhaps, Indis was slightly biased.
Finwë, of course, loved her as was his due, and Fëanáro was walking as one stuck chasing Irmo, but her own children were mostly curious. Perhaps Indis herself was the only moth daring to get close to what she could never have, a small, ugly insect mesmerised by the gleaming bark and the leaves hanging like drops of liquid silver over the green fields of Corollaire.
There was no way to deny that which Indis had always known of her heart - that it had once seen a tall warrior with beautiful dark hair, and a silver huntress clothed in a stunning wedding gown that of all elves in Valariandë only her hands could have made, and so the heart had yearned for both of them. The nér with hair that matched the eternally dark skies above, the nís with starlit hair and fiery eyes. They were breathtakingly gorgeous and utterly consumed by one another on the occasion of their wedding.
And amidst the crowd, hovering shyly beside Ingwë who was grinning at his friend, stood Indis with hot tears in her eyes. Indis with the same ordinary blond hair and blue eyes as countless other Vanyar, Indis whose heart could never settle for even just one wholly unobtainable person. Indis, falling in love with the bravest Noldo and the most brilliant Noldë on the day they bound themselves to each other.
She remembered wishing her father were still alive so she could beg of him to give her any other name, anything but Indis - for why would he have named her after the one thing she could never be?
Even then, still young and foolish and inexperienced in the ways of the heart, Indis had known that she would never grant her heart to another. It would forevermore belong to the King and Queen of the Noldor, who could never know her shame. It had broken her heart to know that she would never experience such joy as was painted on the faces of the new couple.
And then they had come to Aman, and then Fëanáro had been born … and then Míriel had died.
They had visited Tirion so Ingwë could join Finwë and Fëanáro in their grief. Indis, once again just a companion, once again standing on the side, had found that Finwë finally saw her. Somehow, without Varda's brightest star by his side, he had noticed Indis.
Her name rang true after all. But it should never have happened like this, never without Míriel.
There had always been an empty space in their marriage - unspoken, but not unacknowledged. Finwë was hers, but there were parts of him that belonged to Míriel alone. Shared jokes, adventures, knowledge. Likewise, there were parts of Indis that belonged to Míriel alone, though Míriel would never know of them. Her moments were not shared but stolen - glances Míriel had been unaware of, knowledge gained from being overlooked.
And now that she was back, Indis would be cast aside and overlooked once more. Relegated to the obscure shadows of the room, longing for both of them.
Indis watched carefully as Míriel’s gaze fell onto the tapestries hung from the walls of the dining hall. If she caught only the slightest hint that the first Queen might be displeased with their choices, Indis would have them rearranged to suit Míriel’s preferences. Still, they had agonised quite a bit over the eventual selections they had brought from the collection of all of Míriel's old works, and Indis hoped that all that work had not been in vain.
She remembered standing before the large collection of brilliant tapestries - all of them hidden away in dusty archives, for Finwë had not been able to bear looking at them. Indis had never seen any of them before. By the time the Valar had granted permission for Finwë to remarry, all of them had long been put away. Even with that, Fëanáro still had blamed Indis for their disappearance, unwilling to burden his relationship with the one parent he had left.
For that reason, Indis had been quite surprised when Fëanáro had stepped into the room after her, grey eyes wide with wonder and grief as he for the first time saw the entirety of his mother's works.
There were other works of Queen Míriel that remained elsewhere - tapestries in the official ministerial halls and in the Guild Hall of the Weavers, a record of the Journey by her hand stored within the shelves of the Royal Library, a few blankets she had made for Fëanáro - but her most phenomenal works had been cast aside to these lonely rooms where none could admire their brilliance.
There had been an awkward pause between them then, neither quite knowing what to say to each other after decades of strife over the death of one who would soon return to them.
Eventually, Indis had had enough of standing around when there was work to be done, and had turned to her task of sorting through Míriel’s works. Fëanáro had joined her - his face pale, his hands trembling slightly, but he had handled his mother's works with the utmost care and reverence.
It had been the longest time Indis had been able to remain in the same room as her stepson without Fëanáro's fierce objections to her presence. Even if Míriel ended up displeased with the results of their work, Indis would be grateful to her for that small measure of peace.
To Indis’ surprise, however, Míriel swept past the tapestries without much consideration. She strode along the dining table, fingers lightly caressing the wooden surface. At the head of the table, where Finwë always sat during meals, Míriel stopped. Her silver curls swung through the air in a graceful swoop as she bent down and crouched next to the table. Indis could not see clearly what Míriel was doing. She, like the rest of the family, had halted at the entrance to observe Míriel.
“Ai! It is still here!”
Míriel looked up, grey eyes lit up with joy. Her gaze was trained on Finwë, who beamed back at her. Indis had never seen him this happy before.
“I could not bear to have it filled in”, Finwë told Míriel, “though I could not look at it either.”
“Look at what?”, Lalwendë demanded to know with all the unrepentant curiosity of a child her age, and none of her sister's already impeccable manners.
Míriel didn't seem bothered by Lalwendë’s interruption, however. For a moment, Indis worried that she might be harsh to Lalwendë. Fëanáro was - sometimes - if his siblings bothered him at the wrong time. Admittedly, there rarely was a right time for Indis’ children to ask anything of their oldest brother. Almost never, if it was poor Ñolofinwë who asked - and he, in turn, followed after Fëanáro most often, unwilling to accept rejection from his beloved older brother. If Míriel saw fit to treat her little girl in such a way ...
But Indis' concerns turned out to be unnecessary. Míriel, unlike her son, waved Lalwendë over without hesitation. Indis' youngest daughter toddled over immediately to look at whatever it was that had caught Míriel’s attention.
“See these markings?”, Míriel asked, pointing at a spot underneath the surface of the table.
Lalwendë nodded.
“I've seen them before while playing”, she told Fëanáro's mother, “but I don't know what they mean! They aren't anything like Náro’s letters.”
“Tengwar, Fëanáro's alphabet. The successor to Rúmil’s Sarati, and the current standard”, Finwë jumped in to explain, his tone proud.
Míriel hummed slightly before she turned her attention back to Lalwendë.
“These letters are much older than even Sarati”, she said. “We used them in Valariandë, before the Great Rider found us. Under pure starlight, without the lights of the Trees, they glow. Across the Sea, they would be used to leave markings for territories, for example, and warnings between scouts and hunters.”
“Why are they here, then?”, Lalwendë asked.
“Finwë and I marked this table with our names within our first year here, right after it was finished and brought to the Palace.” Míriel sounded wistful. “Everything here was so new and unfamiliar, and we desired a connection to our original home back across the Sea - though it may sound childish, carving our names into a table like elflings might do with a tree.”
“I think it sounds fun!”, Lalwendë answered, her eyes brightening. “Can I carve stuff into furniture, too?”
At this point, Indis hastened to pick up her daughter before Míriel could respond to that question.
“Yenya, you cannot just deface items here in the Palace. You may do so with the trees outside, as long as they aren't among those personally grown by the Lady Yavanna, but not anything in here. Carpenters worked hard to make them, and you would not want to destroy the results of their efforts.”
Lalwendë pouted.
“Listen to your mother”, Míriel said as she got up from the ground. “She speaks the truth. Finwë and I should not have done this, and we have not tried out woodcarving on our furniture ever since - though rather for lack of opportunity on my part.”
Her daughter seemed to accept this, but still looked slightly unhappy.
“Why don't you go to the nursery and play with Arafinwë? His nap time should be over by now.”
At this, Lalwendë lit up once more. She loved spending time with baby Arafinwë. Whenever her lessons or outside adventures did not drag her away from the halls of the Palace, she could most certainly be found chattering at the little one. Unsurprisingly, Lalwendë requested she be put down immediately and, upon Indis' compliance, raced out of the room - hopefully, indeed, off to visit her brother and not to try out her carving skills on the nearest table.
“My apologies. I did not intend to encourage the destruction of anything here”, Míriel told Indis.
“I understand. She is simply at that age where she finds such pastimes the pinnacle of entertainment. I hope her questions did not bother you -”
“Nonsense”, Míriel waved her off, “curiosity should be at the core of any Noldo. How else can we advance, if not by questioning the world around us?”
Indis noticed how Fëanáro, still standing at the entrance with her other children, seemed to soak up every word that Míriel spoke with wide, glassy eyes. Next to him, Ñolofinwë had halfway reached out to his brother, appearing to debate with himself whether or not to attempt comforting Fëanáro. Findis, ever the one to stay out of family drama, stood at the back and silently watched everything unfold. Then, Indis' gaze fell once more upon the tapestries.
“Fëanáro and I have brought many of your works out from the archives, where they had been stored”, Indis told Míriel. “We decided to put some of them up for arrival, but we were unsure if you had any intention for their placements upon making them.”
Míriel blinked in surprise. She glanced over at the walls, taking in the sight of her tapestries for the first time since she had walked in.
“Wherever they are most pleasant to the eyes of their audience is where they are best placed, so I am certain you and Fëanáro made whatever choices are best for them here. They will eventually be changed, either way. I shall make new ones, now”, Míriel explained. Then, she froze.
“I shall make new ones”, she repeated.
Suddenly, she threw her head back and laughed loudly. Her laugh was a pretty, musical sound, like the songs of the birds in Lórien. Her eyes closed for a moment, then she seemed to gather herself once more. Míriel opened her eyes again and glanced down at her hands in wonder, turning them to look at every movement with the awe of a small child seeing the Trees for the first time.
“I can make new ones”, Míriel whispered, “I can make new ones.”
She laughed again and then she grabbed Indis' hands, spinning her across the room in a wild, bright delight. Before any of them could react, Míriel let go of one of her hands and reached out for Fëanáro’ hands, too, dragging him into the impromptu dance. The force of the movements was such that Fëanáro had to take Indis’ free hand as Míriel led the two of them into a fast spinning circle. Neither Indis nor Fëanáro stopped her, so surprised were they by the sudden light in Míriel's eyes - as if the realisation that she was alive had only just hit her now, a loud and bright thing that demanded to be released from the depths of her fëa and be shared with them.
It took a few minutes for Míriel to spin to a halt, and they all had to catch their breaths from the sudden motion.
“I can make all the new works I want to, now”, Míriel said, looking straight at Fëanáro now, before she launched herself at him and drew him into a tight hug.
“Yes, Ammë”, Fëanáro told her, looking like he might start to cry anew at any moment, “you can.”