Silver by curufinweatarinke

Chapter 1

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When Fëanáro first hands him his newest grandson, Finwë knows he is special.

“Silver-“

“Yes,” says Fëanáro, bursting with pride. “He has her hair.”

The newborn’s head is dusted with wisps of silver hair, and Finwë runs his finger over it, ever so softly, and smiles as the baby stirs slightly beneath his hand.

“He’s beautiful,” Finwë says. “What are you calling him?”

“I’m calling him Turcafinwë, for his strong grip on my finger,” Fëanáro announces proudly. “Nerdanel is calling him Tyelkormo, for he arrived early, and she senses that he will be one to watch out for early in the morning!”

Finwë gently gives the baby back to Fëanáro, who tenderly cradles him.

“Thankyou for coming to show him to me,” Finwë says.

“I had to show you as soon as possible,” Fëanáro replies. “I am so happy she lives on in our family, somehow.”

Finwë watches the silver hair gleam against the light of Telperion and remembers.

-

Her hair glistened in the firelight. It wasn’t particularly unusual, there were many of their kind with such silver hair. But there was something about the way she tied fragments of bone into it that drew his eye like no other.

 

She kept it tied back, long enough to braid, but short enough that it didn’t get too matted or dirty easily. He wanted to untie them and run his fingers through her hair.

 

She wore leather and fur as the rest of them did, but she had a way to somehow make the stitching look fine and elegant even with her crude tools. Finwë could not take his eyes off her.

-

Tyelkormo grows, and soon becomes a hunter whose budding skills are gossiped about even outside the courts of Oromë. He still visits Finwë fairly often, but less than he would when he was a young child.

“Hello, Grandfather!” Tyelkormo says happily. “I brought you a lovely catch.” He hefts the brace of fat pheasants he is holding. “They snared really nicely, so I thought you might enjoy them since I was going to head into Tírion anyway to see Irissë.”

Finwë is touched. He does not want for fine food, of course, but it is always nice to be thought of, and these birds are particularly plump, with glossy feathers.

“Thankyou Turco, that’s very kind of you,” he says.

Tyelkormo grins. He does not have Míriel’s dimpled smile as his father does, but standing there triumphantly holding his catch, Finwë is still abruptly reminded of her.

“Do you often use snares?” Finwë asks, curious.

“Truth be told, I prefer not to,” says Tyelkormo. “It feels a little less personal than I usually like. It feels a little like cheating. I prefer the bow because then it feels more like I’ve given the creature the death it deserves, at the hands of the top predator at the peak of his abilities. A snare takes skill to set up, but I’m not yet good enough to make sure it always kills instantly, and I don’t like the creature suffering.”

Finwë nods. “You know, your grandmother was particularly good with traps and snares. Hers always killed instantly.”

Tyelkormo looks surprised. “No one has ever said she was good at hunting.”

-

She laughed at his clumsy attempts at tying snares and told him she’d do it for him. She smiled as she said it, the glow of the fire casting shadows into her deep dimples and making her eyes gleam.

 

She’d return from checking her traps with as much meat as any of the most skilled hunters, and he loved to watch her prepare the cords for resetting the snares, deft fingers twining the tough plants she collected together for the purpose.

 

 

 

She made a deal with him, for she was a terrible cook, that she would share her meat with him if he prepared and cooked it for her. She laughed and said that someone with hair so beautiful definitely should not be getting blood in it anyway, which made him blush hotly. He was named for his hair, but somehow the compliment from her meant something more.

 

 

 

He would make spits to slow roast the game she caught. He would dig up clay from the shore to cook the trout she caught with her bare hands, then brought to him, soaking wet and laughing. He would go looking for freshwater molluscs with her, and she would present him with every pearl she dug out, and twine them onto hair ornaments for him to wear. She would smile at the bone white against his pitch black hair and tell him he looked like the sky.

 

 

 

He thought she should always be smiling.

 

-

 

Tyelkormo asks Finwë about Míriel, sometimes. He does it when Fëanáro is not around, as though it will hurt his father to even hear her name. But he does it when Indis is there, eyes glinting with the need to establish his grandmother’s position still. Finwë isn’t foolish, he knows he’s doing it on purpose. He sees the way Indis’ face tightens ever so slightly, and knows that him speaking of Míriel will hurt her. But Míriel deserves to be spoken about, and his grandson deserves to hear of her.

 

Besides, Indis was her friend too.

 

-

 

She tapped his shoulder and the shock of it jolted him from where he was skinning the deer she brought back, and he sliced himself with the knife. Despite his protestations, she took him to see her golden haired friend who was known for her healing prowess. Finwë was friends with her brother, so he knew her vaguely. She would dance beneath the stars, and Míriel would join her, wild laughter from the sheer exultant joy of it bursting from the pair of them.

 

 

 

Indis’ hands were softer than Míriel’s, but she was deft and sure as she carefully dressed the wounds. Finwë could see the look in her eyes as she glanced up at him, but his eyes would always slip from her to Míriel, sat next to her.

 

 

 

Once she was done, Míriel took him by his uninjured hand and led him outside with barely a wave goodbye. She too had seen Indis’ stolen glances.

 

-

 

Tyelkormo comes again and again, with more questions than Finwë had ever imagined. Fëanáro had asked the same questions in his youth, desperate to find something of Míriel to cling on to. None of his other grandsons have shared the interest in Míriel of Cuivienen. Carnistir is fascinated by her skill and her crafts, but Tyelkormo cares far more about what came before.

 

“What did you follow,” he asks one day, “before you followed the Valar?”

 

“What did we follow?” Finwë repeats.

 

“Lord Oromë made mention of those in Cuivienen worshipping animals when he arrived,” Tyelkormo says. “I was curious.”

 

Finwë laughs. “Worship is the wrong word. We revered certain creatures as paragons to be emulated.”

 

Tyelkormo leans in, intrigued, so Finwë elaborates.

 

“The wolves for hunting large game, and working together as a team. The wily fox for cunning and skill in your efforts. The deer for fleet-footedness. The nightingale for sweet song - for we sang even then!”

 

“What did Grandmother follow?” Tyelkormo asks, fascinated.

 

“The owl, for silent hunting in the dark night of the Treeless East.”

 

-

 

The appearance of Oromë and their own trip to Valinor had been a shock to Finwë, Ingwë and Elwë. For so long they had lived by the lake shores. Some of their number had left, following the wild herds, and come back telling of cold and endless snow. Some had been snatched in the dark to never return. But never had any ventured so far as to see the sea.

 

 

 

The new information had rocked their world and vastly expanded it. Ingwë thought that they should all immediately stop any of their activities revering creatures as they had done for years. He believed that it was disrespectful to Lord Manwë and the other Valar, and that they should worship those who created the animals, not the beasts themselves.

 

 

 

Many disagreed, and Míriel was one of the most vocal. She spent most of the Great Journey passionately debating with Ingwë about the nature of reverence and respect. She said that the owl may have been made by Manwë, but its skills were all its own, and that unless Manwë could demonstrate similar prowess as the silent predator he was unworthy of the same respect as his creation.

 

 

 

It was not an argument out of particular anger, as both were stubborn and knew that the chance of swaying the other was little. Still, they bantered back and forth as they walked beside Finwë.

 

 

 

She never let go of her beliefs.

 

-

 

The first time Tyelkormo wears bone tied into his hair, Finwë stares. Tyelkormo notices.

 

“Does it not look good?” he asks. Tyelkormo is rarely unsure of himself, but here he almost sounds it. “Curvo did some bits specially for me.”

 

Finwë can see how some fragments have been deliberately fire-blackened and some have been gilded, and they stand out against the silver of Tyelkormo’s braids.

 

“I think it looks wonderful,” Finwë says, and means it.

 

He wonders what Míriel would say, were she here. He thinks she would adore her grandson. She would perhaps barely reach Tyelkormo’s shoulders, but he can see her showing him how to tie snares, how to catch fish with his bare hands, both of them laughing loudly and full of life.

 

Finwë knows that Tyelkormo sometimes feels the eyes of strangers enumerating the differences between him and his brothers, has heard the unpleasant gossip that Nerdanel had perhaps been unfaithful. But Finwë knew Míriel better than anyone, and can see her in his grandson.

 

He thinks she would have loved him.