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

Fear of Falling

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."