Silence Under Starlight by StarSpray

Silence Under Starlight

She hears of Finwë’s choice in Mandos from one of Námo’s Maiar. He comes, clad in pale grey, ghostly in the twilight. The Unlight has been washed away by wind and rain, and the stars shine gently over Valmar, though its bells are still and silent. Indis sits at her window, gazing out at the constellations so unlike those she had traced in her youth by the waters of Cuiviénen. Námo's messenger comes as silently as a moth, and whispers the news of Finwë’s choice to her. He will remain in Mandos so that Míriel may return to life. Indeed, she already has.

Indis thanks the messenger, who bows deeply before departing, and turns her gaze again to the stars. She is not surprised, but the news comes, she thinks, too late. Fëanáro is long departed from these shores on stolen ships, and her own children have passed somewhere into the north, where the ice constantly moves and screams beneath the darkened skies.

Míriel comes later. That is a surprise. She is clad in shades of grey with stars embroidered up and down her sleeves, so she looks more like a handmaiden of Varda than of Vairë. Indis is clad in green, but it appears dark and dull in the starlight, and the golden jewelry she wears is muted also. Such things need Laurelin’s light to truly shine, and Indis cannot help but feel diminished and faded when set beside Míriel, with her silver hair and shimmering robes designed to take advantage of the dark under the stars.

They sit for a time in silence. Somewhere in the distance an owl hoots, and elsewhere another responds. “I have never heard this city so silent,” Míriel says finally. Her voice is soft and lilting, speaking in the old mode of Noldorin Quenya.

“No bells have rung since the Darkening,” Indis says.

“And Tirion is emptied,” Míriel murmurs.

“Not fully. My daughter remains, and a remnant of the Noldor who did not choose to follow Fëanáro into folly.” The words escape before Indis recalls to whom she is speaking, and she winces. “Forgive me, Míriel—”

“No need,” Míriel says. She places her hand on Indis’ arm. “Folly is perhaps too kind a word for what Fëanáro has done. Whether he was right to leave—that remains to be seen. But not in the way that he did.” With blood on the quays of Alqualondë, ancient friendships sorely wounded if not entirely destroyed.

“I am sorry, Míriel,” Indis says.

“For what? Loving Finwë? Defying the Valar to marry him? Loving your children?” Míriel laughs, like a sudden peal of silver bells in the night. “Do not be sorry for that! What do the Valar know of us Children, truly? They do not love more than one other as a spouse, and so they cannot imagine that we might. I do not begrudge you your love, or your life, and nor would anyone else had I died at Cuiviénen before we know that death was not forever.”

“Finwë’s shall be,” Indis says quietly. They had been estranged even before he’d chosen to depart for Formenos with Fëanor. She regrets it now, and cannot forget the sudden, sharp, agonizing feeling of loss that had driven her to her knees when he had died. She had been so sure, she thinks now, that there had been time. Time for reconciliation and apology and forgiveness. There are no words even Fëanáro can devise for her grief—and it has only been compounded by all that has come after.

“Perhaps not,” Míriel says. “The Valar relented once. Given time, they will relent again.” She sounds as confident as Indis remembers her in her first life, always certain of getting her own way in whatever endeavor she chose to pursue. Even now, Indis can find no reason to doubt her—but neither can she bring herself to truly hope. “But it will be long before he is ready, in any case, after the horror of the dark…” Míriel trails off, gazing out into the shadowy garden. Indis shivers, closing her eyes. Finally, Míriel speaks again. “I would have us be friends, as we once were, Indis, when we sat beside the reedy shores of Cuiviénen and laughed together. Though I shall come seldom back among the Eldar, I would be glad to know a friend awaits me.”

“Of course!” Indis grasps Míriel’s hand. “There is so much for us to speak of.” They were friends, once, and will be friends again—two widows of one king, queens who no longer wear their crowns. It is a relief beyond measure that Míriel bears her no ill will, after all that has transpired, after all that their sons have said and done to wound one another.

Míriel turns to her, expression solemn. It is unlike Míriel, who was always animated and bright, her mind moving fast and her expression following—in this Fëanáro has always taken after her. “My task for Vairë,” she says, “is to weave the tapestries that tell the tale of the world. My hands shall weave our children’s fates as they unfold.”

Indis meets her gaze, and knows already that too often the threads she weaves will be red. “I would hear all of it from you, if you would tell me,” she says. “Whatever their fate, I would know it.” Míriel nods, once, and squeezes Indis’ hand. They sit together, and silence again falls around them. Indis mourns the past, and fears the future, but in this moment, at least, there is peace, and comfort in ancient friendship.