Spark by spark (the frost fires kindle). by Urloth

Chapter 1

 “How much longer?” the expulsion of air from battered and split lips that gives the agonised words flight smells like carrion.

“Not much longer…”

Handenésë swiftly pulls on another robe over the three layers she already wears and tries to ignore how her breath is fogging in the air and her joints are aching. It is the middle of the hottest summer’s day she has ever experienced, so hot that outside the heat rises off the ground in waves and the plants are going brown. Flexing her hands she wonders if the men waiting outside would think it strange if she were to ask them to bring her a thick pair of gloves, maybe wool, because her knuckles are turning a distinct blue and she can barely feel anything with them.

Another contraction seems to tear the withered body on the bed apart, more blood gushes ripe red over the wadded sheets in place to soak up the spill. It seems far too much for one body to hold. Handenésë’s been hunting; she knows how much blood a deer of a similar size to Míriel holds and can make a rough estimate in comparison, so she knows Míriel’s lost too much.

 “How much longer?” Míriel croaks again and shivers, her forehead beaded with diamond drops of sweat frozen in place. There is something not right here, something quite unnatural; there is no longer heat in Míriel’s body, in fact it is the opposite as the ankles now draped over Handenésë’s shoulders feel like frozen granite and the sheets crackle with hoar frost and ice as Míriel’s body heaves and strives to birth the baby.

“Not much longer…”

The head crowns. Thank you Eru, thinks Handenésë as she crouches with the warm towel and receives the slippery body as it suddenly escapes with a rush belying the day long struggle to get to this point. The room, ripe with a fetid, iron smell, is silent and Handenésë’s throat catches in worry.

“How much longer?” Míriel asks deliriously, not even noticing that the fight is now over, her body still battling itself. Without the cry of the child to guide her she is lost in the contractions, drowning in her own pain.

“Not much longer”

Handenésë washes the child swiftly, trying not to shudder at the silent way the child looks up at her with far too knowing eyes and still doesn’t make a noise. His mouth and nose are clear, he has every limb and digit that he should have but he makes none of the usual childish noises. She wraps him and it is the moment his eyes light upon Míriel that he finally vents the newborn screaming that should have filled the room minutes (ages) ago.

How the child screams. So loud and piercing; as if he has a vendetta against the Valar themselves and won’t rest till they know how angry he is at being plucked from the safe warmth of Míriel’s body. The sheets hiss and great panes of ice fall to the floor to shatter as Míriel’s head snaps to the side towards the sound and then she rights herself, a swimmer surging towards a beacon of light in the distance. Her body shakes as she pushes herself up against the sweat drenched pillows and each movement is only through sheer force of will as all her energy is spent. Míriel reaches out her arms demandingly and takes the child with a smile on her face, something like a sob catches in both their throats before she forces her eyes away and peers towards the door with eyes that are burnt out embers.

“How much longer? “Míriel asks, greedy for time alone with the little squirming bundle that went eerily silent again the moment he was placed in her arms. The look in the far too focused eyes is satisfied as Míriel trails her fingers over his red, rumpled cheek then ducks her head, hair matted all around her head in clumps to shield her gentle kisses to his nose, his cheeks, his forehead and his little lips.

“Not much longer”

Finwë’s voice is already raised at the door. Handenésë can’t keep him out forever now he knows his son is born.

The babe coos up at Míriel who presses more little kisses to his face and then to his hands, so minute but so perfectly formed. They furl and unfurl like little blossoms to stroke her cracked lips and catch in the starlight of her hair. The room is warming quite swiftly now and Handenésë ignores uneasily how all the heat emanates from the infant who is making soft noises like a pet dove in his mother’s arms. He is like a bonfire in the middle of this barren snow tundra of a bedroom and when she closes her eyes she fancies she still sees his little body’s shape in bright red and yellow spots behind her eyelids.

She tells herself that this is just fine; he took all of his mother’s warmth, now he can heat her back up and turns away.

Handenésë moves around the room, cleans up the now delivered afterbirth and drags away all the sheets to dump in a basket by the fire after using them to mop up the water all over the floor. Then she throws open the windows but lets the decorative shutters remain in place for privacy. A wind sweeps in; clearing the rank smell of exhaustion out like it was never there.

Finally Handenésë lets Míriel’s maids re-enter the room from where Míriel banished them in irritation at their fluttering worry (one fainted after Míriel had her first big contraction). If not that most of them are the daughters of the men that support Finwë’s policies, Míriel wouldn’t have even allowed them past the entrance to her rooms.

Still they have their uses, with their strange choreography that she has to wonder if they’ve been practicing for this moment. Moving about each other in casual circles with their hands never ceasing movement they have the sheets of the bed changed and Míriel sponge-bathed as well as they can without taking the new prince from their queen. Then wrapped up in fresh clothing in the old style that Míriel still favours when not in public, they retreat to one side of the room to observe, all with smiles on their soft pretty faces and Míriel manages to smile back at them for once.

Míriel finds many things irritating; the women who were born after the long journey to Valinor are one of these, thus her usual annoyance with her maids, or ladies-in-waiting if you’re using the latest vocabulary. The remnants of the Minyar, now called Vanyar, are another thing that rubs her the wrong way. The light of the trees, the presence of the Valar and Valinor in general, irritate Míriel but there is nothing she can do about it but sigh and keep to her old ways in secret while embracing the new in public with a grimace that looks like a smile.

Valinor is simply not for the likes of Míriel and many others like her. The hardest lesson learnt, after such a long and tragedy filled journey from Cuiviénen, was that some of their kind were simply not made to live a life in constant light. Míriel is one of them because her skin burns in the light of the trees, going vermillion and scarlet before it blisters all over. She risks this every day if she dares to venture out without being completely covered crown to toes and hiding beneath a parasol to boot. Finwë also has problems worryingly enough: his fine dark eyes, which made him such a skilled craftsman and hunter in the dark, are so sensitive to light that he is nearly blind when the light of the trees are at their strongest. They stay together, side-by-side, in the shadows when they must go out and try not to be too jealous of Ingwë who simply glows when he walks down the roads that are shadow free.

They do tease him awfully when he visits though. He gives as good as he gets however, which is why he and Finwë are such good friends and Míriel spends time with him with indulgent air about her similar to a cat who has allowed its owners to pet it.

“How much longer?” Míriel asks softly where she is still stroking her child’s face, his dark thatch of hair curling over her fingers, her hair now brushed and gleaming though she will need to give it a thorough washing soon. Handenésë knows not what she asks about this time but takes a seat on the edge of the bed at her friend’s request, gesturing for another woman to open the door that Finwë is near ready to kick through with his impatience.

“How much longer?” Míriel repeats, almost distractedly, wriggling further up against the pillows as Finwë rushes to her side and makes her bloodless lips bloom ruby red again with his desperate kiss. The stage has been set perfectly, the basket of bloody linen is gone with the bedclothes, the air is freshened and what smells linger are covered by the incense one bright girl has set to burn on the holder by the fireplace. Their king will not have to know beyond what he heard and waited just how desperate a time Míriel had.

Handenésë can’t quite shake the dreadful feeling as she looks at Míriel. It’s the same feeling she got when she looked over her shoulder when they departed Cuiviénen; back at all the campfires beginning to grow smaller with distance. Her eyes look down at the child in Míriel’s arms and the blood rushing through her head beats a loud pulse, drowns out Míriel’s murmur of “Fëanáro…” and whatever words follow as she gently hands the baby to his father who exclaims over “Finwion”.

Handenésë tracks the child with her gaze and though for a while the child seems entranced by his father’s face a tilt of Finwë’s arms as he adjusts his hold brings those too bright eyes to stare back at her. A helpless feeling clings to her bones as she finds Doom, Destruction and Death staring back at her.

“Not much longer…” Handenésë murmurs, words going unheard by Miriel who lies back into the sheets, almost transparent but her smile victorious as she stares at Finwë embracing their son.