A Little Closer to the Edge, My Love … by Sulriel

Míriel's hands flew back and forth across the loom, the threads and the shuttle slipping swift through her fingers.  The finished picture held clear in her mind - a green meadow, trees to the right and a bright white mare, centered, nuzzling a chestnut colt.  She sank into the rhythm of the work, the subtle shush of the weft and gentle clacking of the shed stick drawing her into the picture as it poured from her heart and her mind, and took form in the art before her.  As she leaned close to the loom, an escaped tendril of hair caught in the threads - she paused, the instant's sharp tug lost under a whispered brush of foreboding. 

Her fingertips plucked at the strands – it wasn't what she intended – but fell away, leaving them be.  The hints of silver that shone in the weave added an unforeseen promise of radiance in Laurelin rising behind the colt.  She leaned forward over her work, considering the implications of working her own living threads into her art; a drop of sweat fell from her forehead, darkening the eye of the colt where it landed.

"Serindë."

Míriel's heart leapt.  The mare fled from her mind.  Finwë!  The sound of his voice wrapped around her and kindled a spark deep down in her belly.  How could he convey such strength and gentleness just by speaking her name?  As she'd seen him call to a doe, offering thanks for the life he took as his arrow sank true and deep.  Her breath caught in her throat; her hands stilled on her weaving as she closed her eyes to compose herself.

In the wilds around Cuiviénen, they'd been comrades in arms; here, he rose as the lord of their people.  She gladly traded her bow for a loom, content, for awhile, to simply be one of his people.  Yet, as her Lord, he complimented her beauty during his last visit.  The fire flaring in the depth of his brilliant grey-blue eyes drove all others from her side.

Dared she guess his thoughts? She feared the strength of her own wishes colored her perception. She'd not allowed herself to believe that Finwë would come for her.  And if he had indeed come for her, she would be his as surely as the doe.  It's not what she wanted.

Gathering her emotions, she allowed only a polite smile as she turned. Her lord stood before her. He bent at the waist in a shallow bow, extending his hand on rising.

"Míriel Serindë, will you walk with me in your gardens?"

Her eyes burned and she lowered them. Just the sight of him, the breadth of his shoulders and the easy, coiled strength of his stance threatened her composure. Her friends had tittered about the dark silk of their lovers' hair, how it flowed around and curtained them from the world when they kissed. They had teased when she didn't return their banter.  Until they followed her eyes.  And then they'd fallen silent, embarrassed with their shallow games and dreams in the face of her bold desires.

No. She dared not think of the feel of his heavy braids laced through her fingers, how she'd undo them and weave them again for him … later.

Her gaze touched his outstretched hand; his fingers twitched toward his palm as if he would close his hand, withdraw the offer.  She wouldn't, couldn't, deny him, yet how could she place her hand in his without being overcome with desire?

"Yes, of course, Lord."  She curtsied; as she rose he reached and took her hand.  The heat of him filled her.  She stumbled; he caught her in his arms and she clung to him.  Her being centered on the feathering of his lips on her neck.

Finwë tightened one arm around her waist, holding her.  His breath tickled cool on her neck where he'd trailed kisses and whispered as he drew it in, taking a deep breath of her as he let his other hand drift down to cup her bottom.  He lifted her as easily as he would a child and rested her center against the hard strength of his desire.  Tension exploded through her – she bit her lip to keep from crying out, and fought to still the subtle shifting of her hips, the begging of her body to have him in her. 

"Why do you deny this, Míriel?  What do you fear?" 

"I fear I'm facing an abyss," she whispered, "that I'll be lost."

"Step to the edge," Finwë answered.  "Lean into the wind."

Tears filled her eyes.  She trembled and he released her.

*************

a/n re: Finwë's eye color -

Histories of Middle-earth Vol XII The People's of Middle-earth, The Shibboleth of Feanor, pg 357, footnote #19 (in regards to Finwë)  "He had black hair, but brilliant grey-blue eyes."

Míriel shuddered as Finwë's touch left her.  The world seemed cold without his warmth.  Her heart ached with loneliness.  Although he stood only a half-step away, the distance seemed as vast as the abyss she'd said she feared.  She longed to be safe in his arms.

He smiled, his eyes kind and thoughtful as he dabbed the wetness from her cheeks with the drape of his sleeve.

"Do you fear nothing?"  Míriel asked him.

Finwë's face tightened.  He lowered his gaze and after a moment his expression softened and his smile returned.  "I'm saddened to be alone when I wish to share joy in these lands with someone close to my heart."  He reached out his open palm to her.  "You fill my thoughts and my heart.  I wish to dance in the light of the Trees with you in my arms and walk the beach under Varda's stars.  Will you vow to stay at my side?"

She placed her hand in his.  Could he feel her trembling?  He closed his gently around it.  "You asked me first to walk in my garden," she said, and he nodded.

#

They wandered paths that wove through artful beds of flowers and sat on carved benches beneath shading limbs as Laurelin gave way to Telperion's silver light.  

With every step Finwë had kept Míriel at his side - her hand tucked on his arm, or his palm resting on the small of her back, yet at the most his hold only brushed her, only hinted at his strength and the strength of his desire - until she'd leaned in to him.

He'd whispered, inclining his head toward the birds that flitted near.  His voice wrapped her, drawing her in – and she fell headlong into the abyss, her heart racing as she laid her hand on his chest.  His heart beat beneath her palm, as strong and fast as hers.  She raised her face to his.

"My desire for you," his breath brushed her cheek, "is for more than your heart."  His lips touched hers.  "Come with me past the edge of your groomed gardens.  Walk with me in the stark beauty of the wilderness."

 He asked too much.  Míriel drew back.  Finwë caught her hand before she removed it; an instants pain shot up her arm before he tempered his strength.  He pressed his lips to her palm and replaced her hand on his chest.  She fought to settle the beating of her heart, to slow her flight of emotion and temper her flailing in the abyss where she would be lost in her love of him. 

"Why do you ask me to go there?" she asked.  "We’re safe in this place."

Sorrow filled his brilliant eyes – to know she'd cause him pain ripped at her heart. 

"There is no danger in these lands," he said.  "Do you not miss the thrill of the hunt?"

She slowly shook her head.  No.  How could she tell him?  No, she did not find thrill in the danger and she did not miss it.  He would not understand.

"I don't mean to return to the dangers of Middle-earth," he said in her silence.  "There is more for us here, but we must seek it, we must take it – as we hunted in the dark in the woods around Cuiviénen."

"What is it you wish?"

Finwë drew her close.  He nipped her ear tip with his teeth.  She shivered with desire as he traced his fingers up her spine.  "I wish to please you."  His teeth raked her neck and she bared her throat to him.  His tongue tickled the hollow of her throat while his hand came up, warm, to cup her breast.

Sensation flooded her.  She bolted back from him on weak legs and he pursued her; snatching her forearms he pulled her close.  His readiness pressed hard against her belly.

"Can you deny me?"

The silence stretched.  She fought to turn from the throbbing emptiness that threatened to take her mind from her.  "You will consume me," she finally whispered.

"Give yourself to me.  We'll be one." 

 Míriel turned her face away from him.  She didn't wish to be one; she wished to be two standing together. 

Finwë released a great sigh and when he loosened his hold on her, she relaxed in his arms.  "There must be more than feasting and song and dance. You asked what I feared," he said.  "I fear we've been tamed, that we'll weaken in this safe place."

"It's what we came here for," she answered, "to be free of the dark and the danger."

Finwë nodded.  "But not to be free of passion.  I find ceaseless joy and ease to be passionless."

 Míriel stepped away, and he allowed her the distance.  She found the joy and ease to be comforting. 

As she turned and looked back up at him, Finwë smiled. 

Aching warmth spread up from between Míriel's legs, and the breath caught in her throat at the sparkle in his eye.  In his arms, in his care, she could have no fears.  His strength would wrap her, keep her safe and give her comfort and ease.

"I've over-stepped my bounds," he said.  "I've come here to ask for your hand.  We have peace here.  I wish you to share that peace with me.  More than that, I wish for the passion that we've lost in gaining our safety and I wish now for the sons and daughters that we refused to bring into darkness and fear."

The abyss yawned before Míriel's heart and mind and she stepped away from the edge, stepped away from the depth of her love for Finwë and away from the strength of his desire that threatened to consume her.

"Do you have other suitors?" he asked.  "Who are they?  I'll dismiss them."

She shook her head.  "No.  There is no one else.  I … "  What did she wish?  She wished not to have the dizziness and heat and tingling when he touched her.  " … I wish for a period of courtship," she said.

"Courtship?" 

The abyss flashed dark in the shadows of his grey-blue eyes - the depth and strength of him that she both loved and feared.  She'd known the hunter and the warrior he'd been before he was named lord.  She'd seen him in pursuit of prey, both food and fell creatures, and she'd watched him glory in the kill. 

Her heart chilled to know she now stood in place of the prey.

Finwë softened the look in his eyes.  He smiled and nodded.  "You'll have your period of courtship.  I have duties to attend; when I return, we'll be wed."  He turned and walked away.

Míriel stood and watched as the whisper of his boots faded to silence.  She stumbled back and collapsed in despair on the bench, now cold, where he'd held her.

Alone, on the stone bench, she watched the dancing of the stars in their patterns across the skies – how unspeakably beautiful they were, bright sparks of silver light in their endless, intricate dance – how they fled and faded into obscurity each morning, in the face of Laurelin's blooming – how they returned each night, cold and distant in spite of their bright beauty.

 After a time, she rose to return to her work.  As she retraced the paths she'd walked with Finwë, she thought on his words. 

He's wrong.

Dread burgeoned in her, fear and delight, inexplicably mixed.  They had peace in this place and no fears.  Their trials and fears were left behind in the dark, wooded trails they traveled.

Kin remained there, stubborn and foolish.  Fearful.

She stopped on her path and knelt to tend a bloom, yet stopped before she touched it.  It didn't need her; it showed no blight or weakness.  It had only drawn her eye because… why.  Was this one less than all the others?  Was the color not as brilliant?  Was the stem not as strong?  Her gaze swept the groomed bed.  Was this particular one less or was each of the thousands diminished by the repetitive sameness she'd worked so hard to achieve?

Thoughts of Finwë clogged her throat.  She'd followed him from Cuiviénen in spite of trepidations and she'd been content here.  More than content, settled.  She'd been happy. 

Had been.

And now? 

Míriel stood and backed away from the bloom.  An uneasy sense grew in her and she became wary.  She slowly turned, studying her gardens.  Every bud, every leaf, every bloom, perfectly formed.  Every one the same.  Every one planted exactly in the perfect spot. 

Her memory flashed to the mistakes she'd made in her tapestry, the strands of hair woven in, and the drop of sweat, how the subtle changes made the work more – more than what it had been before, so much more than the simple threads and colors could ever have been when she put only her skill into the work, but held back any part of her self.  Her heartbeat quickened with the memory of the sudden rush of excitement she'd known in the instant she feared she'd ruined her tapestry.

She had never known Finwë to be wrong.

From the darkest days in the depths of her memory, he'd led their people.

"Go", "Stay", "Now!" as he led a charge or loosed an arrow.

Did his very strength and boldness compel all Arda to do his bidding?  She blushed at the thought yet it warmed her as her gaze rose over the dull, groomed gardens and past them to the wilderness he'd teased her with. 

She had sometimes questioned him, sometimes put him off, but she had never denied him.  She could, but she would not.  Yet…  while it seemed he asked too much this time, it had always been his way to ask more, demand more, to simply do more than what any others could manage.  And he had always turned, hand out-stretched and brought her safely with him.

 Finwë would return, as he'd said, she had no doubt.  And they would be wed. 

When he reached out to her, she'd place her hand in his. She'd open her arms to him, embrace all that he was and give fully of herself. He asked her to lean into the wind; it would not be enough. Excitement quickened her breath with the thought of being lost in him. When he returned, she would fling herself headlong into his arms.

And she'd hold nothing back. He wished to have a son – her world brightened again with the anticipation that flooded her. She would give him a son, one worthy of his great sire, one who'd never be content to be tamed and kept in a groomed garden.