A New Thread In The Weave by sallysavestheday

A New Thread In The Weave

Indis dances down the mountain with her heart on her sleeve. The bells and ribbons of her honor guard chime and flutter around her, the wedding banners snapping in the crystal air. Her blood thrums with Finwë’s name: it churns and sparkles under her skin and in her belly until she bursts out laughing with her joy, with the hopefulness of her springing love. He is waiting for her in Tirion, that fair white city she has never seen. She imagines it stern and solid like the Noldor and their King, but as he has softened for her, so will his city. She will fill it with flowers, smooth its sharp edges, make it run with the sweetness of gold.

Tirion is lovely, as it happens, but Finwë had not thought to tell her that she should wear shoes. She has come barefoot, as is her people’s custom, and in her Vanyarin finest, robed for her wedding and investiture in silk so soft and light that a hand’s width of it can be drawn through the eye of a needle. But she must not think of needles here, for this is the realm of the Broideress, of Míriel the-Queen-who-was, and it is her son who notices the blood, from his place at the head of the welcoming party. Tirion’s streets are smooth and warm, but the sands between the paving stones are diamonds, and they have cut the soles of Indis’ feet.

Fëanor’s glance flicks from her bloodstained hem to her flaming cheeks and his mouth twitches in a mixture of amusement and irritation as he calls for a horse. He lifts her to the saddle with a strength she would not have expected from one so young and settles her carefully, but with no particular concern. She is only a package he is delivering to his father; she must arrive intact. The small bells on her ankles chime and he leans to inspect the workmanship, his eyebrows rising at its quality. Indis tries not to let the expression on his fair, furious face spoil the day.

His father loves him dearly, she knows, and so must she. It is not his fault his mother died, no matter what the rumors say. She is no fool: she knows better than to touch him. All she can do is smile, and thank him brightly, and watch his eyes go wide and shy, then narrow in suspicion as he turns away.

Her heart aches for him. A youth so bright and bold should not be lonely, but he is: it radiates off him like heat from the forge. He needs company, someone to turn to in his times of need. Indis smiles secretly to herself and thinks of Finwë, of the sweet night ahead and the long years beyond. They must give Fëanor a brother, she resolves. No. More than one. Siblings, to cherish and bind him and bear him up, whatever else may come.