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

Embracing Fear

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.