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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.”

Chapter Text

“None of your tools have been moved out of these rooms”, Fëanáro assured her, “I have personally kept the staff from touching anything or doing anything outside of cleaning in here.”

His eyes shone with joy as he looked at her.

“I always knew you would eventually want to come back. After Indis took your place, I was so afraid that she had taken away any possibility of your return.”

“I know it must have been difficult.”

Fëanáro’s face dropped. Míriel drew her son close to her chest and relished in the ability to embrace him. “I am so, so deeply sorry that I was not there for you to watch you grow up.”

“It is no fault of yours”, her son’s voice shook, “you were unwell.”

“Well, I shall not leave you again, Pityanárë”, Míriel said.

“How can you promise that?”, Fëanáro sobbed into her shoulder. “Atar cannot permanently be bonded to both of you, she will just make you leave once more.”

“I have a plan”, Míriel told him firmly. “I can deal with Indis. But for that to work, I need you to leave her alone. You may never be friendly with one another, and that is fine, but do not openly insult her.”

“Ammë -”

“Trust me”, Míriel tipped his head back to look into his eyes, the same grey eyes that greeted her in mirrors, yet full of a fire so great she could barely fathom its existence. “Do not antagonise her, and I will ensure that you will never have to worry about my leaving you ever again.”

“What are you going to do?”

“For now? I am going to make her a dress.”

Fëanáro’s face twisted into a grimace, a mix of anger and confusion visible in his eyes. Despite his displeasure he said nothing more on the matter, apparently satisfied to let his mother keep her plans to herself.

“Now then”, Míriel surveyed the state of her work area critically, “I shall sort through this mess that I have left behind, and while I do so you may tell me all about your life - Have you discovered your craft yet? Lalwendë mentioned letters, I believe. And is there a special someone you are interested in? I have missed so much, and I wish to know everything!”

Even Fëanáro, known for his intensity and insatiable curiosity, found himself slightly overwhelmed as he sat through what surely amounted to a detailed investigation into every facet of his life. His mother asked questions about his apprenticeship, about Mahtan and Nerdanel - even, to his dismay, about his half siblings.

“They cause nothing but chaos, and desire to take away everything that is mine”, Fëanáro complained. “Ñolofinwë in particular, he has been lurking around the Council recently - doubtlessly in an attempt to usurp my rightful place at Court. He has ever been jealous of my position, and curries favour with those Nobles less inclined to loyalty.”

Míriel noted to herself that her son had not mentioned the Court or indicated any interest in politics on his part at any point before.

“Yonya”, she interrupted him, “if my absence in your childhood is no fault of mine, it certainly is not to be blamed on them, either. I may dislike the idea of Indis in my place while I languished in the Halls with aught to do but watch the world from afar, but I have no desire for Finwë to be miserable and alone. That is why I agreed to the remarriage. And I will not rip this family apart if I can resolve the situation without any further harm to any party. That includes your siblings.”

Fëanáro refused to meet her gaze and said nothing in response.

Míriel sighed.

“We shall put this matter aside for another time. Now, tell me about the world, and how it has changed. What of our people? Surely there have been all different kinds of advancements made while I was dead. And how fares dear Rúmil? And Ingwë? Have there been any news of Elwë’s fate?”

Fëanáro prepared himself to answer another round of rapid fire questions. It was still preferable to talking about his half siblings.

“It is incredibly beautiful”, Indis praised the dress Míriel had presented her with.

Naturally.

Though tailoring was not a field Míriel had engaged in often since coming to Aman, she excelled at it. Any skill that involved threads and needles, any detailed embroidery, came easy to her. It was as simple as breathing - whether she sat at a loom and wove a tapestry or made a dress for a pretty Vanya.

“Well?”, she asked, waiting for more from Finwë’s second choice.

“I will certainly be delighted to wear this”, Indis smiled warmly. “You honor me with your thoughtfulness.”

Was that it?

Míriel clenched her jaw as the other nís turned away to hand her gift off to a servant, and then - without any acknowledgement of proper etiquette - turned her attention onto an overeager Telerin delegate.

This was an outrage. Was Indis attempting to provoke her? Did she consider Míriel so far beneath her that she would not even deign to reject her? Was her gentle demeanour a mere façade?

Míriel was about to reach out and grab Indis’ sleeve, to turn her around and demand answers - to ask for a modicum of proper courtesy - for her so rudely and callously ignore Míriel’s advances -

“The Vanyar have other methods of courtship, different from ours.”

Míriel turned to her son. She hadn't even noticed he was attending this party, much less expected to find him so close to her and Indis. The fact that he was here at all - Indis had organised this particular event. It did not take a genius to realise that Fëanáro was not fond of his stepmother, and Míriel was a genius. Thus far, he had been rather uncomfortable whenever she had brought up Indis or interacted with her. This was an interesting development.

“They do not have specific crafts as such, not like us - talents, admittedly, but they do not put such emphasis on a chosen craft. Likewise, their courting consists of rather generic romantic gestures. Poetry, flowers, compliments. So …”, Fëanáro hesitated, the words seemingly halting in his throat. “So Indis would not associate a work of your own craft with a delicate matter such as courtship. She most likely believes that you were just being polite, but does not recognise the significance of your actions.”

He looked as though the topic physically pained him.

“Thank you, Fëanáro”, Míriel said, her gaze drifting off to the side in thought. “I truly appreciate your insight. Cultural differences are something I should have considered - I suppose I assumed of her to have assimilated into the Noldor to a rather presumptive degree.”

Though she was looking away, she could still feel Fëanáro’s gaze burning holes into her fëa. He had her eyes, but that intensity was something all of his own.

“Leave out the flowers”, he added abruptly. “Indis has entire palace gardens full of them, she won't need flowers as such. If you could get her any rare seeds, perhaps, or poetry on flowers - she may appreciate that more. You could also compliment her gardens, and not merely her appearance. Indis … she does put a lot of work into her gardens and they are very dear to her heart.”

Míriel nodded, her mind already racing through what little she knew of flowers.

It was unlikely that she could find any flower seeds that an experienced gardener did not yet have, particularly here in Aman where all flowers of Arda grew. Perhaps she could get an audience with the Lady Yavanna - they had never been close, but Míriel had been Finwë’s wife during a time when the Valar were trying their utmost to gain the full trust of the Eldarin leaders that had brought their people here to Aman. Through Finwë, she had established decent ties with many of the Valar … even if history had only recorded her friendship with Lady Vairë.

Still, Míriel doubted that seeds were the best place to start looking for a gift - not if this was Indis’ field of expertise. And the other nís might already have her own established rapport with Lady Yavanna. Poetry, however, could be easier to procure. Especially poems that were not widely known here.

Before the Journey, Míriel had collected plenty of stories and poems - some in scribbled notes stuffed into pockets, others merely memorised. Once they had started to establish their cities on these shores, Míriel had written down all her stories and poems. A collection of what she could save from their first home. Tales from those that had stayed behind, but also tales that she feared might be forgotten with time. There were even some books that she had managed to carry with her, though she had not been able to pack many for such a long journey. Still, she had built a decent little library of her own. There was a possibility that she had collected poetry on flowers as well, back then.

As Míriel turned to leave and investigate the whereabouts of her old collection, she noticed that Fëanáro had already left the crowded hall. The party was still in full swing but he had vanished as if he had never been there in the first place.

A grand inferno sang within Míriel’s veins.

The fire spread from deep within her, where it rested beneath her heart. Through organs and limbs and nerves it spread, setting cells alight, all the way down to the smallest capillaries.

Its path was unrelenting, eating away at her hröa, her fëa. It hummed with a foreign heartbeat, the rhythm akin to the love she felt for every creation of her hands. It was loud - louder than any sound of this world. The voices of thousands carried it, a theme fueled by a flame no being of this world could bear.

It agonised Míriel to near despair, the white hot burn bringing her ever closer to madness as it scorched her very mind. Her ideas, her dreams, her works, her passion, and her love - it all fell to the fire.

Not even fear or rage could withstand the ethereal fire that swept through her and burned away all that she was.

Míriel could see it in Finwë’s eyes - his fear, his confusion, his desperation - he knew that she was burning up, losing herself. That the fire which she carried within her was draining her too fast, too fiercely.

She had never truly stood a chance.

Though she could not tell what it was, she understood that no being born on Arda could withstand this flame.

Míriel woke up screaming.

The Palace kitchens were eerily quiet this deep into Telperion’s hours. It reminded Míriel of the cold and dreary pathways in the Halls. Had it not been for the silver light, she might have believed herself asleep in Lórien once more. But the Trees reached not so deep as to illuminate the Realm of Lord Námo.

“Míriel?”

The nearly timid tone in Indis’s voice startled Míriel much more than her presence in the doorway. Míriel could not make any sense of it. For all that Míriel had come first in Finwë’s affections, in the esteem of the Noldor, Indis was now Queen - and Míriel had to settle for this desperate plan for the mere chance that the Valar would continue to let her see her child.

So far, Indis had remained oddly tame. Addressing her as the Queen, displaying Míriel’s works, letting her insert herself back into their lives without so much as a finely veiled insult - and then there had been that flicker of fear in the nís’ eyes when her daughter had begun asking questions of Míriel.

Indis had been Queen for much longer if one counted purely based on active reign. She was the current wife to Finwë, the mother to four out of his five children. Míriel did not think her a beast - Fin would never have fallen for such a nís - but they were, on a surface level, set against each other.

Wariness would have been expected.

Commendable, even. Prudent.

Yet Indis had made no comment on the obvious, inherent issue of Míriel’s return. No anger, no spite. Caution, yes - again that strange incident with the little Princess came to mind. But it was not caution of Míriel's ambitions. Rather, Indis seemed to fear what Míriel might do to her. Do to her children.

And that did not add up.

Indis behaved as though Míriel had any agency, any power - more power than Indis herself. Was this a charade? Did Indis hope to uncover Míriel’s plan? Did she believe Míriel to be such a threat that she would go to such lengths? If that was the case, she would be displaying a talent for lies the likes of which Míriel had only witnessed in the foul servants of the Enemy before. No Vanya could be that excellent a liar.

But if it was not mere pretense, why act so … obedient? Even now, Indis having chosen to address her by name this time, her tone still remained as such.

“It is late. I can imagine that it must be difficult to sleep after your … extended stay in Lórien. But you walk among the Living once more, and we do require some hours of sleep every now and then. May I accompany you back to your room?”

With the thought of returning to rest came the images - the flame, the child, the flame, burning, always burning. Míriel must have looked almost as revolted as she felt, because Indis gasped and stepped closer.

“You do not look well. Should I send for a healer? Surely they can grant you sleep free of any discomfort.”

”No!”

The vehemence with which Míriel protested surprised even Míriel herself. She bit her lip.

Too much. Especially in front of her.

“Míriel?”

Míriel shook her head, desperate to clear her scattered thoughts. Finwë had always criticised that - she should vanish inside of her own head less, he would say, and spend more time paying attention to the people around her. Míriel herself thought that she paid more than enough attention - she asked plenty of questions about other people.

“I … do not want that …”, she managed, her voice far weaker than she would have liked.

“Very well”, Indis conceded hesitantly. “But if you will not go back to sleep, let me at least make you a tea.”

Míriel agreed. If that got Indis to cease prying and eventually leave her alone, then a tea was a small price to pay. Still, she flinched a bit as the other nís gently but firmly grabbed her shoulders and led her to a chair. For a moment, all was silent again as Indis glid through the kitchen like a golden wraith. Míriel watched as she boiled water, pulled out cups, grabbed tea leaves. The Palace had plenty of different teas, but Míriel did not know anything about them. For any official meeting, wine had always been set aside. In her own free time, Míriel preferred water or coffee. But Indis seemed to know what she was doing. Perhaps she was an avid tea drinker. Or one of her children.

“Remember to let it cool down for a moment”, Indis told her as she set the cups down on the table with a soft clunk.

Míriel barely managed to bite back a sharp retort about superfluidity. Indis sat down across from her and blew softly onto her cup. Hot steam wafted up from the tea, making Indis’ nose crease adorably.

“I know I have no possible reference for understanding how you must feel, or think”, Indis began, “and I do not want you to mistake my words for an attempt to pry into your personal affairs. But I have learned - much slower than I would like to admit - that troubles of the mind tend to ease if they are shared. It is something I have often observed in Fëanáro - though not directly, of course. Your son would never confide in me. But he does talk to Nerdanel, and to Mahtan. And it helps. You do not need to talk to me, or to anyone, but if you are anything like Fëanáro in this matter, it may be worth considering.”

Míriel laughed bitterly.

“I would not subject anyone to my concerns. They are terribly unpleasant, and the people here have grown soft.”

“Unpleasant thoughts are a burden we all suffer under, from time to time”, Indis said in that frustratingly careful tone. “I am certain that there are those in your life who would gladly lend an ear to your troubles.”

“Gladly! Who possibly suffers from barely being able to look at their own child? What kind of parent does not know their child from a stranger? Certainly, I would recognise him anywhere, anytime. During Dagor Dagorath and the Second Music I would recognise him. But I do not know what his laugh sounds like. I do not know which foods he likes to eat, or which he will quietly deposit onto a sibling’s plate - if he even does such a thing.”

Míriel could tell by the slight hitch in Indis’ breath, by the guilty look in her eyes, that she held all the answers to Míriel’s questions. But Indis did not tell her, and Míriel was grateful for it.

“I can ask him so many questions, but that is not the same as knowing all those details from observation. It is as though I am looking at a tapestry behind a wall of glass - the depiction may tell me something, the needlework, the colour scheme, but I could not know the texture of the threads, the quality of the material, the uneven spots. Not without feeling along the fabric myself, the one thing I cannot do. How can I look at my son with the understanding that I do not know him like you do? That I will never know him as a parent should? Knowing that I failed him, no matter what he believes of me? And the worst-”

Míriel’s throat tightened, and she realised that she had started to cry.

“The worst bit of it”, she said quietly - as though it were a shameful secret, “is that a part of me cannot stand to look at him. And there are so many threads to it - he is a reminder of my failure. A monument to my weakness. He is my child, but also is not. He would never admit it but he is more yours than mine. There is an awkward air to our conversations - we do not know how to act around each other, how to exist in each other’s space. I have no idea how to be a mother. He was still so little when I died - what do I know of parenting? Of what he needs of me? And then there is the most terrible thing I could tell some poor listener. That a part of me cannot look at him because he is the instrument of my death. It is not his fault! It could never be! And yet - sometimes when I look at him, I only see the fire burning me out from the inside until I am hollow. Until all that is left is a grey and joyless world. So tell me, Indis, how could I burden anyone with this? How is this not terrible far beyond what I could expect to share with anyone?”

Míriel looked up, finally, only to see a small smile on Indis' face.

“You just did”, she said simply.

Míriel’s chest grew tight with fear as she realised what she had done. What she had admitted.

If Indis told this to anyone, surely any chance of Míriel’s continued survival would be ruined. Not just that - how could she ever convince Indis that she could be a worthy marriage partner? There was no judgement in Indis’ eyes, none that Míriel could see, but it had to be there.

“All of these thoughts must hurt greatly” Indis said.

There was still no judgement to be found. Not in her eyes, not in her voice.

“I will not pretend that I know how to live with any of it. Or how you should move forward with Fëanáro. I may know the boy in ways you never will, certainly, but he hates me as deeply as he loves you dearly. And I most definitely do not know what the future holds for the two of you. But there is one thing I do know.” Indis' voice was resolute. “You are his mother, and you love him beyond all existence. He is your son, and he loves you the same. You returned from the dead, though thought impossible in your case by even the wisest beings, for Fëanáro. And he defended any memory, any craft, even speech - anything he had of you, he defended with every fiber of his being. I do not doubt that the two of you will find a way. Until then, if you try to reach him as much as you can without causing further damage to yourself, then you are doing what any parent should. Right now, you both blame yourselves and each other - not because you want to, or are assigning unduly fault. Because you need to, so you can cope with the situation. There is nothing wrong with that. It just means that you both need to take this slowly, one day at a time. But you will get there.”

Míriel did not know how to respond to any of that. Was it truly acceptable for her to feel such horrible things about her own son? She knew that Fëanáro was not responsible, so how could she associate him with what had happened? How was that fair to him?

“I will consider what you said - but I require some time to think about it.”

Indis nodded.

“I suppose you are able to find the way back to your room by yourself. Though you may still wish to drink the tea”, she motioned towards the forgotten cup, “even cold it will still help calm your mind. And perhaps you shall end up sleeping for what little is left of the night, at least.”

Míriel inclined her head and stood, followed by Indis. At Indis' pointed gaze, she picked up the cup. There was a brief moment where they both stared at each other, unsure of how to end their conversation.

In the dim light of the kitchen, the shade of Indis' eyes reminded her less of the summer skies and more so of rain. Cool, calming, refreshing rain. It rained less in Aman than in Endorë. Míriel missed the rain, the scent of it, the cold drops hitting bare skin, the gleam of raindrops beneath the pure, undimmed starlight. Even the greyish blue of water puddles.

Indis cleared her throat, looking slightly confused, and Míriel realised that she had been sitting there and gazing into Indis' eyes for several moments.

“Thank you”, Míriel said quickly, her tone perhaps not as pleasant as she had intended. “For everything. Good night.”

Then, she fled the room.

Chapter Text

“I know it may seem awfully prescriptive of me to argue against the sá-sí”, Míriel told Indis one day, marching into Indis' office without preamble, “but it is an atrocious disservice to our language if we erase entire phones - if we limit the range we utilise, then we reduce what we once had.”

“Language needs to progress, as all else does”, Indis argued back.

When Míriel had first returned from the Halls, Indis would never have dared argue with her. The reputation of the first Noldorin Queen was awe-inspiring, intimidating. She was one of the great geniuses of the Noldor. Indis was an average Vanyarin noble with little talents to speak of. Stepping into Míriel’s place had not lessened her sense of inadequacy - it had put her into direct competition with a dead and dearly missed genius. But getting to spend time with the real Míriel had taught Indis enough to recognise the need for debate when it arose.

“We came to Valinor to be able to grow in peace as a race - to thrive without the need for warriors, without fear, without frequently losing brilliant people to the shadow. If the Noldor choose to speak differently now, it is because they can afford to focus on matters such as language.”

Indis paused, looking up from her work to search Míriel’s face.

“Is that not a good thing?”

And there it was, the hint which Indis had been looking for - a tiny flicker of something pained within Míriel's sharp grey eyes.

“A good thing? Our language is precious! Just as it is!”, Míriel retorted hotly.

“And why is that? What makes this specific version of Quenya superior?”, Indis pressed her further. “Why is a single letter so significant? Why does the slightest deviation bother you - you who loves progress in all other forms?”

“Because it is one of the few things we have left of our home!”

The words came out loud and furious, ripping out of Míriel as if she had struggled to let go of them. They both fell silent for a moment - Míriel, her face slightly reddened, panting and staring into nothing, and Indis, smiling gently.

”Why is this so important to you, Fëanáro? It is a single letter that is replaced. Why would you cling to an outdated way of speaking?”

“Because it is one of the few things I have left of her!”

“We left our homes behind”, Míriel said quietly. “It was dangerous, there was little light - but it was all we knew. The languages we brought to Valinor were born where we were born, and they grew alongside us under the starlight. We call ourselves Eldar, people of the stars. But are we still of the stars? Here in Aman, the lights of the Trees shine so brightly, so blindingly, that they drown out the stars. To see them clearly, you have to travel to Araman. Is that not terrifying? Our ancestors saw that beautiful white light when they first awoke at Cuiviénen, and it was all the light they needed. But here, in this seemingly perfect realm, we have lost that connection. We left the stars behind, we left our roots behind, we left our home behind.”

Tears were shimmering in Míriel’s eyes.

”Everything here was so new and unfamiliar, and we desired a connection to our original home back across the Sea.”

“Do you not miss it, Indis? The freedom we had? The homes we built, the songs of the patrolling groups, the way the lakes shimmered beneath the starlight? Our fires beneath the black sky? The forests we played in as children?”

The question caught Indis off guard. Did she miss it? She had never thought about it. Everything moved so slowly, so conveniently, here in Valinor. Everything seemed so flawless. Why should she think of the lands they left behind? Living here, it distracted from such thoughts. It shifted the focus.

But did she miss it?

“It is difficult to say”, Indis began. “Us Vanyar, we did not . . . we did not handle Valariandë as well as the Noldor. We survived, that much is true, and we had great warriors among our people. But do you not remember how often we had to plead with your people to share with us the works of your hands? How often we went shivering, exposed to the elements, because we did not make clothes and built houses as well as the Noldor did? How often we went hungry because our traps were not as cleverly conceived of? We learned, but slower. It cost us many more lives than the Noldor lost.”

Míriel stared at her as if she had never seen her before. Perhaps the other nís had never considered that they might remember the East differently.

“And yet”, Indis continued, “I did love the meadows not far from our settlement. Wonderful flowers grew there. There are meadows here, much grander and stunningly beautiful, but across the Sea I took care of those flowers myself - some withered and died as no flower here in Aman would, and every flower that survived was infinitely more precious than Aman’s flowers … if for the singular reason that they managed to grow unhindered in a land so dark and cold.”

A small smile had formed on Míriel’s lips as she listened to Indis' words. It was the first time Indis had made her smile.

“Yes”, Indis continued, “yes, I do miss it - though not the same as you miss it, and not as much. There was a sense of value in everything then that is lost here in this realm, where we can have anything we wish for. But I also value the peace of this land, and the lives we need not fear for. Valariandë is the land where our ancestors awoke, where our parents were born - but it is also the land where they lost their lives or fell to the Enemy's will. I miss it, yet it is a sinister, horrid thing to miss.”

She stood and approached Míriel.

“But its beauties remain not in our languages alone, not while we remember them”, Indis said as she pulled Míriel into a hug. The nís stiffened at first, just as Fëanáro would, and then slowly relaxed into the gentle touch.

“It just feels as though each sá-sí takes us farther away from home”, Míriel whispered into Indis' neck.

“That home will always be in your memory, and there is another one here, even if it is different. And for those who are born here, it is the only home they know. If you control the language they speak, the language that grows alongside them in their own home, are you not also taking away some of their home?”

Míriel’s breath hitched, but Indis could not see her face.

“Let us sá-sí, and speak as you wish - and each of us will have our homes, honour our homes, the way we wish.”

It was the first time Indis hugged her, and it left Míriel feeling oddly breathless. She had never been an overly physically affectionate person, but neither did she dislike it. Finwë’s hugs had always been her favourite, before her death - he was tall, and gentle, and safety was difficult to find in Beleriand but in his arms she always felt safe.

Indis' hug was different.

She was not particularly tall, though still taller than Míriel, and there was no physical sense of security. But it was warm and soft in a way that Finwë, all tall and slender and hard lines, could never be. Míriel felt reminded of the thick blankets she had woven for the colder periods in Endorë. Indis' hug seemed as though Míriel had been wrapped up within every blanket she had ever made, enveloped in softness at every turn. Tucked close to Indis’ neck, Míriel could hear her heartbeat, could feel the vibrations of her voice as she spoke.

“Let us sá-sí, and speak as you wish - and each of us will have our homes, honour our homes, the way we wish.”

That - that was . . . for so long, Míriel had clung to this one trace, this relic of an abandoned home, as she had believed it. Ever since their people had made the journey, had come to the Blessed Realm which Finwë had spoken of so grandly, Míriel had watched them drift away. Gradually, in small measures. Little changes here and there, along with the obvious huge ones.

Míriel had been prepared for the big changes - the foreign land with its new animals and trees and climate.

The new settlements. Laurelin and Telperion.

But she had not anticipated all the minor shifts of their once familiar society. The slow pace of a people granted eternity. The distance they put between themselves and Endorë. As if they had travelled not merely in space, but within the confines of their minds - and now they had become someone else. Someone who had no knowledge of the horrors or the wonders across the Sea. Someone who knew no darkness, who never had to fear the shadows. People refused to discuss their former settlements, their former occupations - and they grew uncomfortable whenever Míriel brought up anything that reminded her of home.

And then they started to speak differently.

Somehow, that was the one thing that made it unbearable. The one change she could not bear with a tight smile and a hasty retreat to her studio. The change Míriel decided needed to be opposed.

Indis' perspective, in retrospect, almost made her feel ashamed of her prescriptivism. She had never once considered that Endorë might have been more dangerous for some people than others. Or that she was dismissing the home of the younger generation. That she was trying to limit them as she felt herself being limited - even as nobody denied her the pronunciation of Quenya as she preferred it. They simply chose differently for themselves.

Míriel still did not like such speech, and she was still glad that her son did not speak so poorly, but perhaps it was only reasonable to allow the progress of language to continue. To let people speak however they wished, be it a change she believed to be a disgrace to their beautiful language.

How could she hold on to her preference without allowing others the same?

Míriel knew that she could be arrogant and infuriating and difficult at times, but she liked to think she was not an unfair person. After Indis' arguments, she was not entirely sure. To have it all laid out like that - Míriel had not expected that of a sweet, airheaded Vanya.

Then again, it was beginning to become clear that Indis was anything but an airhead. Even now, having made her case, she did not disrupt the silence with mindless chatter.

Instead, she continued to hold Míriel close.

Her breaths were hot against Míriel’s bare skin, and Míriel shivered.

She started to feel warm and slightly dizzy, and her heart - curiously enough - was attempting to beat right out of her chest.

“Your Majesty!”

Míriel cursed internally as she turned in the direction of the familiar, syrup sweet voice.

“Is that still the right title? After all, it belongs to Queen Indis now - forgive me, Serindë, but my friend and I find ourselves a bit confused about your title and position these days. We would hardly wish to offend, now that you are back and the Noldor already have a Queen.”

Altamavarë cocked her head slightly, her long dark hair falling prettily over her shoulder, over a gown that very pointedly did not follow Noldorin fashion. She was a fixture at the Noldorin Court, had been even when Míriel was Queen before her death - though they had never liked one another. During the Great Journey, Altamavarë had led a group of Noldorin survivors after a particularly brutal attack by the Enemy. Having witnessed the devastation of the attack and the deaths of most of her family herself, she had always pushed back against Míriel's efforts to preserve certain cultural norms of Endorë. Her supporters were among those most desperate to integrate into the Blessed Realm entirely and write the East off as a particularly unpleasant nightmare. It made sense that she would be among Indis' faction of supporters.

Next to her stood an unfamiliar, rather young looking Lady. Like Altamavarë, she wore a gown that reflected Vanyarin fashion, though her eyes did not burn with the same disdain.

“I suppose introductions are in order - after all, Hathyellë here was born a few years after your . . . unfortunate passing. She is Astarindo’s sister - now that we live in actual peace, his parents finally felt safe enough to have more children - and she has become quite a vital part of the Farmers’ Guild. Hathyellë, this is the former Queen, Míriel Serindë.”

Míriel clenched her teeth so hard that her jaw began to ache as she shook the young Lady's hand.

“It is an honour to meet you, Your Majesty”, the girl said in a cool tone, but politely enough - far more polite than Altamavarë’s venomous gaze.

“Likewise”, Míriel responded stiffly. “And as for your confusion, Lady Altamavarë, it is rather simple - Lady Indis and I both hold the position of Queen, and the title and authority associated with it.”

“How curious!”, Altamavarë tittered. “It does seem like the sort of idea you would think of!”

Hathyellë flinched at the overly sharp sweetness of her tone, and looked between the two of them with large eyes. Clearly she was not quite as comfortable with her patron’s attitude as Altamavarë might have assumed.

“Though I must express my concern”, Altamavarë continued, “at your undertaking of such a workload. Even as only half a Queen, it must surely be a lot after you suffered so. Rest assured that we will all support you, should you wish to return to Lórien.”

Rage flooded all of Míriel's senses. She felt her body start to tremble slightly as an old flame ignited within her fëa.

“You -”, she began, before she was interrupted rather rudely.

“Míriel, meldenya!”

Indis appeared at her side as suddenly as if she were an Ainu and the laws of nature mattered not to her. She slid her arm around Míriel’s, intertwining them.

“Altamavarë, Hathyellë, lovely to see both of you here! Is it not wonderful to have our Míriel back with us?”

Altamavarë looked as if she had swallowed something poisonous. Hathyellë continued to stare mutely.

“Ai, of course, Your Majesty - it is quite a wonder that Míriel is here. I was just expressing my concern over her long sleep and how she surely must be rather overwhelmed with her position.”

Indis' arm tightened where she was holding onto Míriel.

“Indeed, I heard you speak of Lórien. We both, as well as Finwë, appreciate your concern - but I do believe that you are underestimating Míriel. The Valar would not have sent her back if she was not healed enough to handle walking among the living once more. Let us not think of her sleep in Lórien on such an auspicious day, and instead celebrate her return to us - would you not agree that that is of far greater importance?”

“Perhaps you are right”, Hathyellë, unexpectedly, spoke up. “I was quite worried - forgive me, Your Majesties - at the changes that this would bring to our society. I admittedly do not adapt well to change - but I cannot deny that any return of those whom we have lost to the Halls is a miracle, indeed. Especially in your case, Queen Míriel. Even the Valar feared you were forever lost, and I am glad that they have been proven wrong on this matter.”

Altamavarë glared at her.

“How very well said!”, Indis beamed at the young girl.

“Of course a returnee should be celebrated”, Altamavarë hastily took back control of the conversation. “All my concern stems only from genuine care, after all - we are all delighted about this development. Though I am curious to know what your plans are for your role as Queen, Míriel. Indis handles audiences and organisational tasks so wonderfully well.”

Before Míriel could respond, Indis intervened once more.

“It is rather fitting that you should ask - I have been thinking about something Míriel has told me recently, and how it could benefit the farmers. Were you aware that some of Ungweliantë's kind, the smaller specimens, produce quite stunning silk? Apparently dear Míriel hunted some of them and used their silk back in Endorë. And I know that you have been looking to expand the farms’ involvement in textile trade - perhaps it would be possible to raise some spiders on your farms for their silk.”

Altamavarë turned a rather interesting shade of green. Míriel wished she had a paint brush and canvas at hand so she could make note of this particular expression. Even Hathyellë had gone slightly pale, though she appeared considerate.

“You - you . . . you wish for us to allow Ungweliantë's spawn on our farms?!”, Altamavarë shrieked.

Conversations around the room ceased momentarily as some heads turned toward the sudden noise in curiosity. Altamavarë, aware of her surroundings, ducked her head apologetically, and waited for people to return to their own business.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty, you cannot seriously expect us to raise those monsters - they would be a danger to all - to us and our families, to the animals -”

“I am sure Míriel would be able to assist with capturing some specimens - and we could request some Maiar to patrol around the farms if you are that worried about even the smaller ones of her kind. Though there is nothing to fear here in Aman, as I am sure you know. Maybe Oromë would be interested in assisting - come along, there is much to discuss regarding this proposal!”

Indis slipped away from Míriel and grabbed the arms of the two ladies.

“I will see you later, meldenya!”, she winked at Míriel.

There was that strange feeling again, as Míriel watched Indis lead the two ladies away - practically drag them off, in truth. Her heart beat faster, and she felt oddly flushed.

Watching Indis defend her so openly . . . her insinuation of Míriel as a bridge between their divided factions, between one side of the Noldor and the other, this ridiculously insane yet admittedly intriguing project that would require both Guilds to collaborate . . . It was exactly what Míriel was trying to achieve with her plan - for Indis to accept her place here in a way that would allow them both to work together, for the people to cease their infighting.

But had Míriel, in turn, not also begun to adapt to her fellow Queen? Had she not become invested in courting Indis the way in which the Vanyarin etiquette demanded? Had she not remained silent when confronted with this blatant disregard for their language, all because Indis opposed her prescriptivist attitude?

And her strange emotions . . .

Ai Vairë. No. No, this could not be what she was thinking. That was not the plan. She was not . . . she could not -

By the Door of Night and the Void behind it, she was in love with Indis. This was bad, really bad. She was supposed to seduce Indis into a three way marriage, not fall in love herself.

Her own feelings aside, the process of courtship was starting to get easier for Míriel.

Following Fëanáro's advice, she had procured several poems for Indis, and made sure to compliment her whenever she could. It still seemed stilted and overly artificial in contrast to the rather straightforward Noldorin courtship - present several works of one's own hand and chosen craft. Sometimes, a Noldo or Noldë would even choose to gift a work of their beloved’s craft as the final token. An acknowledgement of the passion which the object of their affections held dear. It was a beautiful process, elegant and dignified in its simplicity, a declaration through one's own talents as an expert at their craft. Even under the dark skies of Endorë, without the luxuries and peace which the Blessed Realm afforded them, Míriel had followed those traditions.

But she had followed the Vanyarin way for Indis so far, and soon she would have her answer - for Míriel had found an entire book on flower poetry from Endorë, and this, surely, would be the crowning jewel of her courting gifts to Indis.

She found Indis in the palace gardens - Míriel had learned by now that this was the most likely place one should look for Indis if there were no queenly duties to require her attention elsewhere. Indis was kneeling in front of a plant Míriel didn't recognise, and seemed to be checking the leaves. Her brows were furrowed.

“Here”, Míriel bent down by her side and handed her the book.

Perhaps the Vanyar had all sorts of flowery speech for when they gifted their final token of courtship - if so, Míriel was not aware, and would undoubtedly make a fool of herself if she tried. Romantic speeches were not something she had ever engaged in as an academic pursuit. She would not attempt such a thing in front of Indis unless she could achieve perfection.

Indis, fortunately, knew better by now than to question Míriel’s sudden appearance or lack of explanation and stood up, wiping her hands on her dress in a rather unexpected lapse in manners. She took the small, unassuming book with a frown and thumbed through the pages. Her eyes were slowly growing wider and brighter as she skimmed over the poems.

Míriel smiled in satisfaction.

“That is amazing!”, Indis gasped.

Indis would have her silly little poems about pretty flowers, and Míriel would get to stay alive and with her son.

“There are so many poems here that I do not recognise - that must have gotten lost . . . We will be able to learn so much from this!”

Míriel frowned.

“What do you mean?”, she asked. “They are just poems, are they not?”

Indis looked up at her and shook her head - though not unkindly so.

“There is something to be said for the value of recovering lost poetry in general, of course - but in Valmar we have been more specifically looking for any notes of plants left from Valariandë. Even poems often include important information that is otherwise lost to us. Specific knowledge on the uses of plants that were not known among all of us - food, textiles, healing properties, dyes, oils, soaps, cosmetics, waxes -”, she began to list, “so much of these got lost in the days of the Journey - or even before then, due to all of the attacks and the danger of traveling. There are also certain plants that we have not been able to find here in Aman as of yet or even identify - the descriptions contained within poetry could assist in determining the nature of plants that we may so far only have the name under which they were known in Valariandë of. There are also sometimes hints as to the preferred environments that could help us find out where they might grow in Aman . . . not to mention the fact that not every meaning of certain flowers as a language has survived our relocation, for which poetry is, of course, incredibly valuable.”

Indis continued her lecture for a few more moments - thumbing through pages and pointing out anything of note with the same enthusiasm that Míriel felt when she thought of a pattern or scene she wished to weave. Midway through a sentence, Indis snapped the book shut with an uncharacteristic energy and gave Míriel an apologetic look.

“I have to go compare these to the current notes - thank you so much, meldenya, I will see you later!”

And with that, she hurried away.

Míriel stood stunned for a moment after Indis had run off so abruptly, not a word spared to answer her courtship.

She thought of the things Indis had said about the uses of such poems - the uses of such flowers. The fact that Indis might know so much about them - that any Vanya, regardless of their interests, might have had to know all those plants and their uses. The fact that Aman did not simply present all these plants for their benefit, that they had to be rediscovered in these lands.

The gardens around her suddenly seemed much more vibrant, much more sensible, than before.

Of course, Míriel had been aware that most plants had their purpose, but it had never been something she thought much of - the only uses she had been interested in herself had been the production of textiles from certain plants. To harvest edible plants had been up to the farmers, any healing properties had been of interest to the healers only - and the Noldor had had plenty of healers accompanying their forrays into the wilderness.

Míriel thought back to what Indis had said about the difference in their circumstances - the much more miserable experiences which the Vanyar seemed to have had in Endorë. Had it truly been so bad that they each had to be aware of what plants could help them with no limits in specialisation? And for her to still hold any interest in the matter even here in the Blessed Realm … it was, admittedly, commendable.

Though Míriel wondered at the thought of an entire language expressed through flowers. She had always loved languages, yet she had never heard of such a concept. Míriel gazed at the flower beds around her - neat rows of what she had always assumed to be mere beauty. If they could speak … if Míriel could understand, what would they tell her? It was odd to think of this whole garden as a book. What did that make her? This mere indulgence revealed to be a necessity, and her … the rotten apple in paradise.

No. No, nothing that Indis loved could be so harsh, and so Míriel should not be as such with herself.

But did Indis love her? As a Noldë, Míriel could understand how badly Indis might want to study these poems right now - and still she wished to know now. Had her gifts reached Indis’ heart? Was her plan working? Sensible purpose to be explored or not, Míriel would have her answer.

Chapter Text

It was during the late evening hours, just after the Mingling, when Indis heard steps behind her. She sat in the Royal Library, at a smaller table far off in a corner - her favourite place in the library. Before her laid notes and open books, Míriel's present right in the middle of a maelstrom of differing puzzle pieces. Small excerpts of dissertations, old correspondence with scholars of Valmar and Alqualondë, notes of Indis' own studies.

The book which Míriel had gifted her was a true wonder - full of flowery descriptions of nature, a treasure trove of hidden knowledge. Flowers, herbs, grasses . . . all that grew in Valariandë, grew in Valinor, but the forests and plains and mountains of Aman had to be learned, as they had learned the East - as they had known where to search for plants to treat injuries, for dyes, for wool. Every now and then, a poem contained hints as to where a plant would grow, to the conditions it preferred. If it liked the mountains, it might be found near the Pelóri or Ilmarin, if it liked the cold, it might be found in Araman. And the healers of the Noldor had known much more about the uses of even common plants, plants that could easily be found anywhere in Aman.

Indis thought to herself, as she compared notes and scribbled down new information gleaned from old Noldorin poetry, that she had never loved Míriel more than in this moment - for although Míriel had not thought the book useful, had considered Indis' interest to merely superficial, the first Queen of the Noldor had still seen fit to gift Indis something so incredibly precious, with so little fanfare as though it was no imposition upon Míriel herself to be concerned with such a small thing as Indis' desires. It made Indis' heart flare up with foolish hope, like Míriel could come to care for other desires Indis held. But that was a preposterous thought, one brought forth by the silly, fanciful girl who had dared to fall for two of the Noldor on the day of their union before Erú.

The steps behind her ripped her from her absurd dreams, and she turned in her chair to see who was visiting the library at such a late hour. To Indis' surprise, it was Míriel herself. The Queen hovered within the entrance, seemingly hesitant to approach as she stared at Indis. Míriel looked like one of the Maiar, perhaps, as she stood beneath the lights - certainly no less than any divine being. Her grey eyes sparkled with the echo of a fire grander than any flame Indis had seen save for that which burned in Fëanáro’s heart, and her hair shone like spun starlight. The way in which the silver rays of Telperion caressed Míriel's gossamer skin appeared almost obscene to Indis' eyes, as though such a sight should be meant for Finwë’s view alone, Finwë’s privilege as the one to whom Míriel’s heart belonged. Míriel was a vision, a maiden taken straight from Indis' dreams, and Indis blinked beneath her intense gaze as though caught within Irmo’s realms.

To think that there were those among the Eldar who wished Míriel ill - those who preferred her resting in Lórien . . .

Rest assured that we will all support you, should you wish to return to Lórien.

Indis was no Fëanáro with his pretty words, and so she lacked the words to adequately describe just how furious and disgusted and afraid she had been to hear those words. To have Míriel back was a gift - a much longed for miracle.

If she left now, again, it would destroy them all.

Fëanáro most - Indis remembered well the way he had at first hesitated to celebrate the news of Míriel’s soon return, like a child that had been burned too many times to approach a bonfire without fright, as well as the overwhelming joy that overtook him once he had realised that this was truly happening. He had even been kind to his siblings in the months before Míriel’s return. Kinder than usual, at least. But it would not just devastate Fëanáro.

Finwë would not be able to take this loss a second time. Neither would Indis, now that she had gotten to spend time with Míriel - now that she had argued with her and had comforted her and had held her, had done so much more than merely gaze at her from a distance. And if they all fell apart this second time, the children would follow. Míriel’s loss, again, was unacceptable.

To hear someone whom Indis considered a friend all but wish for it . . . She had known that Altamavarë and Míriel had had some differences in opinion in the past, certainly. But she had never been given cause to suspect that it was truly this bad between them, and had always greatly respected Altamavarë.

Indis was aware that the Noldor often considered her quite shallow and naive. Unintelligent, even, by their standards. Perhaps, to some degree, they were quite right in their views. Indis was no brilliant craftsman. The Vanyar truly had been faring worse than the Noldor in the East, as she had told Míriel. They were not builders and inventors by heart, nor weavers or cooks. They pursued not one single art to perfection but learned whatever little useful skill they could to the benefit of their people. Indis was no different, and the Noldor often saw her as a convenient pawn to be used. Even Míriel had not thought much of her work with poetry, and had assumed it a frivolous pastime born from the privilege of safety.

Still, her skin had crawled when Altamavarë had blatantly attempted to draw Indis into her mockery of someone so dearly beloved. Indis had never before in her life felt such incredible rage. Had Míriel and Hathyellë not been present, Altamavarë would soon have learned that Indis Failawendë was not to be trifled with any more than Finwë or Fëanáro.

But Míriel’s presence had quickly soothed her flaring fury. Whenever she saw the other nís, her heart beat faster but her mind calmed. Even now, with Indis' head swimming with the load of new information, Míriel’s arrival instantly made her feel better.

“Lady Indis”, Míriel greeted her, voice as light and melodic as the song of Lady Vána’s birds. “The day has grown late. Might I not perhaps convince you to join me for a drink or two before it is time to retire to our chambers?”

The way Míriel said those last words, it almost could have been mistaken for another meaning entirely - that they shared their chambers, and that they were to retire to the same bed. As ever, Indis found herself far too easily gripped by wishful thinking. Such thoughts were terribly inappropriate. How shameful to think in such a bold way about one's friend! Indis did not even share Finwë's bed every night, and she certainly would not be welcome at all in Míriel's rooms.

And yet . . . our chambers - if only that meant our as in her and Míriel’s chambers, not her chambers and Míriel’s chambers, separately.

Míriel's intense gaze rested on her unblinkingly, and Indis felt as though Míriel knew of her mind. It could not be, of course. They did not use Osánwë. Míriel was among those of the Eldar who misliked sharing their mind with all but their closest people.

But still Indis felt like an elfling caught sneaking sweets from the kitchens. Guilt rested like a stone in her chest. Míriel was Finwë’s and not hers. Indis should cast her mind to other things, and not read into Míriel's words where none but the literal could be meant.

“I am not yet finished with your delightful gift”, Indis told her, determined to put such thoughts out of her mind. “There is yet much to be learned from the writings of the East.”

“Indeed”, Míriel cast her gaze toward the desk for a brief moment before her eyes returned to Indis' face. “I know the call of one's work all too well. Finwë could tell you all sorts of stories about the late nights I have spent on tapestries, blankets, clothes, any such thing. But it is for that very reason- at the risk of sounding hypocritical - that I know the importance of taking ample time to rest. To spend some time with loved ones, and to lay down to sleep at a reasonable time.”

Loved ones.

There they were again, words that Indis could find more meaningful than they were likely intended as. Míriel had invited her to take a break and spend some time with her, and then she had suggested time with loved ones as a measure of rest from work. Was Indis this desperate for her feelings to be returned that she would fall victim to far fetched dreams? Or was there another meaning to Míriel's words after all?

In either case, how could Indis argue against sensible advice from someone she admired so dearly?

“Very well”, Indis closed the book and stacked it neatly with her notes, “I shall be in your care until it is time to retire.”

She rose from her seat and approached Míriel. To her surprise, Míriel took her hand. The first Queen of the Noldor rarely touched anyone. Indis had hugged her once, and of course Míriel had danced with her and Fëanáro on the day of her return to life. That was all. Míriel could not, by any means, be considered an overly tactile person. Yet here her hand was, intertwined with Indis' own. Like most Noldor, Míriel did not possess soft hands but skin marked by time spent working with her hands. But Indis did not mind the callouses. The evidence of Míriel's dedication to her craft and her people was charming to her, not the flaw which some of the Vanyar might have seen.

It was not a long walk from the library to the studies of the Noldorin Royals. Míriel did not seem to be inclined to conversation on the way there, and Indis did not mind the silence on such a pleasant evening. They reached Míriel's office just as the last golden lights from the Mingling faded entirely, and the lamps by the door flickered to life beneath the pure silver. Míriel pulled her inside quickly, and closed the door with more force than Indis would have expected. Nothing about Míriel’s previous mood had indicated any unpleasantness. Still, Míriel’s demeanour had shifted in a way that Indis could not quite interpret - a slight tense hitch in the way she held herself, a shadow in her eyes.

But Míriel bade her sit with the utmost courtesy, and served her wine before filling her own cup.

“I have many flaws”, she started, leaning against the desk with her cup in her hand. Indis startled and nearly spilled her drink. “Unlike others who share my brilliance in their chosen field I am not unwilling to admit that there are things that are beyond my talents. For one thing, I am not a very patient person. I know that time is more valuable than most of our kind would consider - they only know an eternal existence in which time is an infinite resource. Of course, my experience differs slightly from that of the average elf.”

Míriel's eyes gleamed at her own outrageous understatement, and Indis' face grew warm in a way that told her she must be blushing quite a bit.

“We all have flaws, save for the Valar”, Indis said gently. “Impatience is hardly the worst of them.”

“Now, this is perhaps not the sort of process where one may simply demand a timely response”, Míriel continued as though Indis had not spoken at all. “It does appear to rather disturb the purpose . . . Still, I would very much appreciate some indication of where we stood - by now, I have invested quite some time and effort. Enough to be worthy of a reaction, at least.”

Indis wondered where this was going. Was there any sort of bureaucratic miscommunication between their offices? Had she failed some queenly duty? She had not . . . conducted herself disgracefully towards Míriel, had she? If Míriel had caught on, surely any hope of a functioning system between the two Queens would be destroyed. Would Míriel demand that Indis leave Finwë? Certainly there was no chance of Míriel going back to the Halls - and Indis would not want her to. If Indis' feelings made Míriel uncomfortable, then Indis would have no choice but to step aside.

“I have since the beginning of this realised that courtship etiquette works differently for the Vanyar but still I think that a proper response -”

“What - I did not court you!”, Indis interrupted Míriel. Not very polite but surely she had a right to defend herself against a misunderstanding of such scale. “I would never wish to make you uncomfortable - certainly not by courting when you clearly would not be interested!”

Míriel blinked. Indis had expected her to lay out where Indis had overstepped - where Indis had revealed herself and violated Míriel’s boundaries somehow. But the other nís appeared stunned silent. A minute or two passed in which Míriel's face underwent a series of complex expressions. Indis could not tell what she was thinking or feeling. Certainly any moment now Míriel would tell her to leave Finwë and her alone with her inappropriate feelings. But no such thing happened. Míriel's eyes darkened and she put her cup down before leaning forward. She got close enough to Indis that her warm breath ghosted over Indis' skin.

“How interesting you truly are”, Míriel’s voice was soft but it carried a hint of danger - like a predator toying with prey.

Indis held her breath.

“I was not referring to you courting me.”

“What - what were you talking about then?”, Indis stammered.

“Why did you think I would believe you were courting me?”, Míriel asked, ignoring Indis' own question. “Such a strange assumption to make about one's fellow Queen . . . after you have shown me nothing but friendship.”

Indis could do nothing but stare at her. Míriel had not caught on? Indis had not behaved inappropriately? Then why did she mention courtship?

“Now, I may not be as utterly brilliant as Fëanáro - and I am nothing but proud of my son, if a bit grieved that I was not there for him in his childhood. But I do not consider myself a fool either, and I have been called a genius in my own right often enough. So, let me see if I can figure this one out . . .”, Míriel purred, caressing Indis' cheek.

She leant back again, eyes gliding over Indis in consideration.

“You reacted rather defensively when I brought up the matter of courtship. Like someone keeping secrets. And I was talking about the two of us, without making references to another. I also do not recall having seen you particularly close with anyone but me, Finwë, and the children. I do not believe you are the type to entertain feelings outside of marriage, either - but I do not quite count as outside your marriage. And still, knowing how strict your people can be . . . if you had feelings for me, you would wish to hide them, would you not?”

Indis was frozen in fear. She had panicked and in that panic, she had betrayed the truth of her own feelings. She had ruined everything! But Míriel still seemed so calm, so amused - not at all angry as Indis would have expected her to be.

“It is rather convenient for me, you know”, Míriel continued. “Tell me, Indis, would you like to know why I brought up the matter of courtship to you?”

Indis could not manage a word, so she merely nodded.

“It is rather simple, really. I came to you this evening to get an answer to my own courtship, of you.”

Now it was Indis' turn to blink in confusion.

“It is long overdue”, Míriel added.

Míriel . . . was courting her? But how - then again . . . the dress. The poems. The book. All the little gifts Indis had mistaken for simple friendly gestures, or overtures meant to foster a good relationship between the two Queens - all of that had been . . . Míriel courting her. Apparently. And Indis had been entirely oblivious to it all.

“But - but Finwë -”

“Inya, we are already both married to him. Two bonds to the same elf should not exist - and yet, right now, it is not killing either of us. If this works, the three of us, who is to say that we cannot all be together? Why would Ilúvatar or the Valar deny a marriage bond, simply because it is between three instead of two? How can what you feel be so wrong if it comes from within Erú’s creation?”

“And you want . . . me?”

“No, the other blonde Vanya lady in love with my husband and I”, Míriel retorted. “Yes, of course you.”

Indis blushed. Her heart beat faster than it had even on the day of her wedding.

Míriel wanted her, too. The two people she loved were both in love with her as well.

“Forgive me, it is merely that - I have been in love with both of you, for so long - I thought nothing would ever come of it. And then, after your death, Finwë came to me . . . and I felt so guilty, guilty for being happy with Finwë while you laid asleep in Lórien, guilty for not being entirely happy because I wanted you, too . . .”

“And you never told him”, Míriel finished her sentence for her.

Indis nodded.

“Probably better that way. We should sort this out on our own first - this time, with you actually being aware that I am courting you. Once we are certain of this, we can still tell Finwë everything.”

“If you think it is best that way”, Indis said hesitantly.

It did not feel right, keeping this a secret from Finwë - but then again, who was she to judge Míriel for wanting to keep this between the two of them for now? Indis herself had kept it a secret from both of them for so long. And now she knew that Míriel wanted her, and that the three of them could be together - that Indis' feelings were not an inappropriate imposition.

“So, to clarify - just so that there are no more misunderstandings regarding this - I have your permission to court you, yes?”

“Yes!”, Indis responded loudly, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.

Míriel laughed. Indis blushed even harder.

“Good to know we are on the same page now.”

She leant in quickly and kissed Indis' cheek before striding out of the room.

“And you should go to bed now! No more reading tonight!”, she called out to Indis from the hallway.

Indis could not help but laugh - ai, how long, now needlessly worried she had been about her feelings! They both loved her!

It had been a few months since that evening now, and Indis still felt as though she was living in some wondrous, miraculous dream she never wished to wake from. Being courted by Míriel, now that she knew what was happening, was wonderful - Finwë had given her quite a few exquisite gifts when he had courted her, but he didn't have Míriel's determined single-minded focus. The first Queen of the Noldor suddenly seemed to be everywhere Indis went . . . offering a new dress, or a poem she had discovered in some dusty library of some - probably equally dusty - noble, or even just simple companionship during Indis' duties and hobbies.

It felt like arriving in Aman all over again, like seeing the Trees for the first time. Like everything was perfect.

Indis was on her way to meet with Míriel right now. She had agreed to give her a few pointers on growing her own flowers - Míriel would likely never care for plants like Indis did, but she was a quick learner - and she had expressed the wish to share this field which Indis loved so much. It was so exciting to be swept up in Míriel's focus - to be seen by someone as fiery and brilliant as her.

Indis was about to round the corner into the next hallway on her way to the gardens when she heard Lady Ilmarë’s voice.

The handmaiden to Lady Varda so rarely visited the Palace. Indis halted. What did she want here? Did Lady Varda want something from the Noldor? Indis crept closer to the corner without turning past it.

“. . . Quite concerned about the precariousness of this situation, but everything appears to be in order”, she heard Lady Ilmarë say.

“Thank you, my Lady. I am glad to hear of it.”

Míriel? What business did she have with the Valar? They did not want her to go back, did they?

“I must say, you have chosen an odd solution. It fulfilled its purpose, certainly - and my Lady, as well as Lord Manwë, are quite pleased by the results. But why use romance to secure peace?”

“I am aware that the Ainur often struggle to understand the minds of the Eldar - no offense, of course, to you or your brethren - but any other way would have still borne the risk of later issues. Had I simply talked to Queen Indis, she would certainly have assured me of her loyalty, of how she did not mind - but what of later conflicts of interest? This way, I could ensure true equality between us all in this marriage.”

Indis could not breathe.

This could not be true. Míriel had feelings for her - she had said so, right? Indis thought back to that evening.

How can what you feel be so wrong if it comes from within Erú’s creation?

And you want . . . me?

No, the other blonde Vanya lady in love with my husband and I. Yes, of course you.

I have your permission to court you, yes?

Míriel had never once said that she was in love with Indis. She had talked of wanting her, of courting her, but never of love for her.

“Indis?”

Míriel stood in front of her now. While Indis had been lost in her thoughts, the two of them must have finished their conversation.

“Are you alright?”

Indis turned around and ran as fast as her feet could carry her.