Súlimëo Quentar: March Stories by Elleth

Embroideries

During Tirion's Midwinter festival, Míriel, Indis and Finwë announce a strange renewal. (An AU to Indy's A Kind of Poetry verse. Warning for bigotry against poly relationships.)

When she stepped into the small family dining room, spotting a tired-looking Míriel at the far end of the table, she couldn't help but remember the days following Fëanáro's birth, the difficulties in helping Míriel through her depression, or the aftermath when the three's relationship became public. (A Kind of Poetry, by Independence1776)

* * *

Winter has come to Tirion. It is a time of pleasant temperatures, still hot, but less stifling than in summer, and the obligations of sowing, tending and harvesting are past; Yavanna rests. The country-folk flock to the city, gossip flies, the Noldor of Tirion mingle in the squares and trot out fashion-statements. This year sees little needlework, or gold, or official emblems: The Needlewomen's Guild has issued complaints, few Vanyar still feel welcome in the city, and allegiances to the King's house are hushed up at best, if not denied outright. Debates flare up, the central question:

Can they do this?

"They can," some answer. "In fact already have, they are betrothed, or so most gossip says. Or they will be, very soon," says a young woman, shyly stroking the intricate weave of her companion's hair, a married lady twice her age. Both are wrapped in resplendent embroidery, not quite Míriel's, but a statement of their own. "And why should they not? Love is love." To that not all agree.

Laurelin waxes light on midwinter as on every day, touching her rays on preparations for a festival – the calenders continue unchanged by the petty troubles of the Eldar, and rites must be upheld.

On a dais made for two thrones years ago (when the world was right, some say), now, awkwardly and a little crowded, are three, awaiting their occupants to sit traditional offices, to pledge renewal for the coming year. It is an age-old rite, now only ceremonial in nature, for in Valinor, all nature is governed by the Valar, the Eldar need not fear for their survival. Garlands are strung – white roses, yellow ones, and red amid a weave of leaves.

Midday finds the square beneath the Mindon packed with people. Sweat beads on the faces of many that have come to gawk, not from the day's warmth only – at the edge of the crowd, a few wear lavishly embroidered robes and dresses, some even draw on their courage and dare hold hands. Two men and a woman stand in debate with a shouter seeking to condemn, one anxious eye toward the waiting thrones.

"No one has reported such madness from anywhere! Where are the Valar in all this? It is perverse! Neither here, nor on any of Oromë's rides to the far corners of the Outer Lands have we encountered anything alike! The order of all things is threatened, what happens here – the Laws and Customs speak of no such thing! If they have shared a bed already as is said, did that not end our normal way of marriage as an instintution before Eru? Is it not said that all things must have their opposite and mate? Why else did Imin, Tata and Enel wake next to their wives?"

One of the men laughs. "A children's counting tale is your chief argument? Does it make mention of their people, the ones they found in the woods around the lake, and whom they loved?"

He means to make reply, but trumpets blast an interruption, and after the fanfare, a hush descends. From the palace, over the walkway, come Finwë and a tired-looking Míriel, and Indis holding infant Fëanáro, side by side by side, to take their places. They all are wearing lavishly embroidered clothes, Míriel's needlework for certain, the way it shifts and shimmers in the light. Little Fëanáro grasps at crystals studded over Indis's dress.

None of the three look thrilled – many recall past occasions, when all three were smiling, although the crowd would wonder at the presence of the chief of Míriel's handmaidens, then standing trusty behind her lady's throne. What silences the crowd now is resolution in their eyes – even in tired Míriel's, that they will not be shaken, or dissuaded, and Finwë's speech that follows says as much.

It is a short occasion, an address more than a celebration, brief words by both Míriel and Indis, and the renewal rite brings chaste kisses rather than the overt fertility rituals of old Cuiviénen - but for the murmur of the crowd, all three royals might as well be nude and jumping in the firelight. A myriad of unpleasantries lurk behind the faces of the watchers, save the happy few who find themselves confirmed. They cheer. Few others do, but none are so overbold that they would dare rebel openly against the King, Queen, and their lover.

Then, as some have suspected – and the young woman curls her hand into her lady's palm, watching from where they stand on a balcony not far away, still close enough to hear – comes the announcement that the three are engaged, and eyes drawn to their fingers confirm the presence of slender silver rings. Normal, as in any ordinary courtship, and yet there are three. Or so the masses say and think. That is a renewal of a very different sort.

The fireworks that sign the celebration's end go off, gunpowder smell hangs heavy and bitter in the air. Problems will grow from this day, as though official confirmation of their love has opened them to criticism – and will renew, as per the day. But so will the strength of the few who still wear their embroidered clothes.

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

I21: Off the Map's Edge: The Rides of Oromë; Weapons and Warfare: Gunpowder

B15: Festivals: Winter; Let's Get Meta: A gapfiller to another author’s fanwork; Relationships: Betrothal; Weather: Hot