#Mindy Indy

[mwitchipoo]

Tomorrow - Interview With Mindy Indy!

Tomorrow – Interview With Mindy Indy!

Since bringing back Comic Book Convo, I have returning guest, cartoonist Mindy Indy! Mindy is in the process of doing her second Kickstarter for her comic Aer Head. You can listen to the interview tomorrow, Wednesday Nov. 9th, 2022 from 7-8pm EST on WHCSradio.org.

[welcomingdisaster]

[oh-how-divinee]

Drawing more papa louie characters!! Im so addicted to drawing them

[imakemywings]

What Comes Naturally

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Characters: Indis, Miriel

Summary: Two queens of the Noldor discuss motherhood.

Length: 2.9k

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

“What a trial motherhood was,” said Míriel in the understatement of several Ages, leaning back with a huff, so that she almost knocked Indis’ nose with the back of her head. “Not that you would know.”

            “Not that I would know?” Indis echoed, her brows arched. However, she refrained from further remark, and Míriel elaborated. Since Míriel’s return, Indis had gathered that at times, Míriel would give explanation only if you kept quiet. (Other times, she would explain regardless of whether one wished it or not, but this was likely only with technical matters. On Míriel’s first day in the palace, Indis had received a three hour lecture on the function of various parts of a loom after fatefully inquiring how Míriel found her old tools.)

            “Well,” said Míriel, and despite her dismissive tone, Indis felt something rawer in her voice now, facing away from Indis, than she had heard from her all that day, more even than when she’d had Indis’ hands between her legs. “Elfinesse the realm over praises your sweetness and care; I assumed that motherhood and nurturing came naturally to you.”

            Indis resumed combing through Míriel’s sleek silver hair. Beyond the open windows, a dove whistled. The rest of the house was still and relaxed in the warmth of the sunlight as the day eased towards evening; perhaps the slowness of the day had led to this thoughtful (for so it was, even if Míriel feigned otherwise) conversation.

            “Perhaps,” Indis allowed slowly. “Though ‘naturally’ does not mean ‘wholly without effort.’ The joy of it came naturally, certainly.” Míriel said nothing else, and Indis, with great restraint, held back from probing or trying to change the subject.

            “For my part, I believe pulling teeth would have been a simpler and more rewarding task,” Míriel said at last into the silence of the bedroom.

            “Surely it was not so terrible,” Indis objected, then cringed. Míriel snorted mirthlessly.

            “Whatever Finwë told you of my efforts, certain I am that he was kinder to me than I deserve.”

            Indis worked carefully through a small knot near the ends of Míriel’s hair. “You were ill, Míriel,” she said gently, at length. Míriel grunted.

            “Yet still I was a terrible mother,” she said. “Even Fëanáro knew it, though he has since forgotten.” Indis opened her mouth, but Míriel silenced her before she could get in the air to disagree. “He always preferred Finwë,” she said. “Even as a babe in arms. How he wailed when I held him! And nothing could I do to calm him! At times I thought at the least he would eventually tire himself and then be content, but he seemed to have an endless reserve of energy for screaming, and the volume!” Míriel winced. “He could drive me to tears for want of a moment of quiet! So of course in the end I would give him over to Finwë, and it seemed at once he would be smiling and reaching out with his little hands and laughing! I cannot recall that he ever laughed for me. He must have, I suppose, but I…” Míriel trailed off, almost confused. Indis was not sure if her memories were muddled by virtue of her rebirth or the illness which preceded her death, or both.

            “Finwë had a way with children.”

            “I was told and told and told how naturally motherhood came, once the babe was born,” said Míriel, and Indis could picture the wrinkle of her flat nose. “Naturally! Not to me, but to Finwë, certainly. He seemed always to simply know what Fëanáro wanted, and if he did not, he would figure it out, or find some suitable substitute.” She shook her head.

            “You would have come into it,” Indis insisted. “If you had had the time. You would have learned.”

            “Perhaps. But if I must learn, then it was not natural.” Doubt shadowed her words. Again, she fell silent, and Indis forced herself not to fill it. Early evening light slanted through the windows, turning the mantle to gold, lighting up the dust motes floating around the bed curtains. Míriel lifted a hand as if to chase them with her touch; there were still times when she seemed amazed to be in the world again, to have physical sensations like touch and sight and sound (Indis, in the very new days, had found her by the fountain in the yard, weeping profusely over the sound the water made burbling up in the bowl of it, and often early she had touched Indis as if expecting her to dissipate beneath her fingertips.)

            “I cannot say I was ever one who weathered failure gracefully,” Míriel said then, as Indis slid off the bed and went to the bottles and jars on her vanity. “I was failing at motherhood and I could see it, and I felt sure the baby and the rest of the city knew it too. And do you know? I resented him. I gave everything of myself to this child, and he would only smile for his father, and he made everyone whisper behind my back—or so I thought, I haven’t an idea if it was actually true—and even when he was quiet for me, he looked at me with these great accusing eyes as if to say he knew I was the worse parent.”

            “Míriel…” Indis began uneasily, fingers lingering over the cosmetics. “Babies don’t…”

            “I know, Indis, I know,” Míriel snapped. “But as you say, I was ill, and in my illness I was convinced this child whom I had given so much to bring into the world loved me not, nor would, and every day it seemed I could not escape my failures. I asked for him less and less; I felt the more I left to Finwë, the better for the child.

            “Still he would come and see me, but even then I felt he disliked me. A-times I could hear him in the yard with his nursemaids, running and shouting and laughing as children do, but when he came to me, he had to play quietly, or not at all, for Mother’s head hurt, and Mother was tired, and Mother needed to rest. What joy is there for a child, sitting in a dark sick-room with a feeble shade of a woman who never knew how to be a mother?” Míriel lapsed into silence, scowling.

            “You know he loved you,” Indis said quietly, returning to the bed with a small vial. She dabbed a bit of osmanthus oil from the vial onto her fingers to brush through Míriel’s hair. “You were his mother, and he loved you without thought for your condition.”

            “What does a toddler understand of love? They know only safety and joy, or the absence of them. Love? What complexities of love could be grasped by such an infant? He knew that his father made him happy, and I did not; for him, what deeper considerations could exist?”

            “I disagree,” Indis said. “I think he loved you even then. Perhaps he did not understand it, but he did.”

            “Truly you think a babe can comprehend some notion of love?” Míriel asked, twisting around to look in skeptical astonishment at Indis.

            “I do,” she said firmly. “Truly you believe they cannot?”

            “A child who can barely string together a sentence, know love? Next you shall tell me mice and horses know it!”

            “Must one be able to articulate the feeling to feel it?” Indis asked.

            “I believe one must be able to understand it!”

            “I disagree,” was all Indis said.

            Míriel shook her head. “Yours is a gentle spirit I think,” she said. “Better not to comprehend an absence of love. I see why Finwë chose you.”

            “Gentle, perhaps, but I should think not naïve,” Indis replied with a hint of an edge. “I do not speak out of blind hope, Míriel.”

            Míriel regarded her a moment, and then said: “No, I did not think so. I would not accuse you of that. Perhaps it is only that I have grown cynical. No—perhaps that I always was.”

            There were things Indis could have said then—about the vain effort of cynicism to protect a weary heart, about Míriel’s struggles, about the necessity of not closing oneself off to feeling—but instead she just took Míriel’s hand and squeezed it.

            “I will not say I have never felt it, for that would be a lie. But you were telling me of Fëanáro’s infancy,” she said, and Míriel nodded. Still she was quiet a moment, and Indis thought the interruption would be the end of Míriel’s sharing, but then she continued.

            “Yes…the more my illness took me, the less reason girded my thoughts, as you can see. As my weariness grew, I convinced myself that I was doing him a favor; that he would, truthfully, be better off without me. One can always convince oneself that one’s desired course of action is also, coincidentally, the best for everyone else, isn’t it so?”

            Indis bit her lip against the desire to interject that that it could never have been that Fëanor or anyone else would have been better off if Míriel were dead.

            “What a little fool he was, too,” Míriel went on crabbily. “To think he had the fortune of a mother such as yourself walking into his life, and he pushed you away for want of me! I should pinch him if I could. The real tragedy would have been if you and I had traded places!”

            “I think you are too hard—”

            “All of that rather makes it sound like I cared not for him, doesn’t it?” Míriel let out another long sigh. “It isn’t so. He was the flesh of my flesh, how could I not love him? Or at least…in the beginning. At the end, I do not believe I loved anything. I had not the capacity any longer.” Indis was neither combing nor braiding, simply running her hands through Míriel’s hair in hopes of soothing her. “But there it is, you see? I think no matter how ill you were, Indis, you could not watch your children sobbing at your bedside, could not hear them begging for you to come home, to be a mother, and feel nothing.”

            “I do not think you felt nothing,” said Indis quietly. Míriel’s shoulders tensed.

            “Was it not near enough? Nothing he said, nothing Finwë said, would change my course. I broke his heart, and I knew I was going to do it. And out of sheer stubbornness, I refused to return once I had done it.”

            “You were—”

            “Yes, yes, I was unwell,” Míriel said forcefully. “And yet, I was myself still. I was not deprived of my faculties. I was aware of the consequences of my actions.”

            “Such knowledge may become subordinated to extended pain and discomfort,” said Indis. “We are, after all, still physical beings. True thought is difficult when one’s mind is focused on the struggles of the body.” When Míriel said nothing, Indis added: “I know not that I could have done otherwise in your place. I have never felt as you did then.”

            “I feel quite assured you would have borne it with more grace.” Míriel’s tone was breezy, and Indis could not discern if there was something heavier beneath it or not.

            “I know that you bore it a long time,” said Indis, beginning to weave Míriel’s hair into a set of braids. “I tend to doubt very much I could have managed so long.”

Míriel leaned back slightly into Indis’ touch, relaxing a little. “It felt like a long time,” she murmured. “Stars, it felt like such a long time. It was only a few years. But it felt so terribly, terribly long.”

            “I think ‘tis a credit to your love,” said Indis, “for Finwë and for Fëanáro, that you endured so long as you did.”

            Míriel said nothing, and Indis worked the second braid down to the tie. She thought back to what Míriel had said earlier. It had never occurred to her, in all her morose anxiety that she would never live up to the exalted former queen of the Noldor, that there was anything Míriel might have felt similarly about, looking at Indis.

            “I know you would have been a good mother to Fëanáro, if he had permitted it,” Míriel said at last. She twisted around on the bed to look at Indis. “And I am grateful, for what you did do.”

            “It was not much,” Indis demurred. Fëanor had not allowed it to be much, and at some point, Indis had given it up as a lost cause.

            “I fault you not for that,” Míriel said with a wry twist of her mouth. “When I died, I had hopes that Fëanáro would turn out to be like his father. Everyone likes Finwë. How could anyone not? In fact, I believe he was sometimes overconcerned with how well he was liked. And Fëanáro looked so like him, even as a child! Unfortunately, it seems he took after myself, and so I have great pity for you.”

            Indis could not help but giggle at this, try as she might.

            “I see you trying not to laugh,” said Míriel. “But you ought; ‘tis true. Finwë was liked and I was a bitch.”

            “You were liked!” Indis exclaimed. “Even still, you have scant idea how the Noldor lamented your absence.”

            “Mm. Liked, perhaps, but likeable? No, that was never me. If anything, I was liked in spite of myself. I never did understand why Finwë chose me.”

            “He was amazed by you,” said Indis with a smile. It was good, when they could speak comfortably of their pasts this way, without rancor or injury. “That never changed. Nor do I disagree with him.” Míriel’s lips curved into a smile as well, softly fond, and Indis found herself saying: “Do you remember how he would smile, that one particular way, where you could just imagine what he might have looked like as a child?”

            Míriel’s smile grew. “Yes, I know the look,” she said, flashing teeth. “Ah, but how he charmed me with that! He was a beautiful thing, wasn’t he?”

            “I will tell you,” said Indis, “I saw it very rarely, but once or twice, I have seen Fëanáro smile that way.”

            Míriel’s eyes grew distant, as if she were drawn into a dream, but her smile remained, close-lipped once more. There was such a silent ache about her that Indis could not resist throwing her arms around Míriel’s shoulders to embrace her from behind, squeezing her tightly as if to give physical reassurance that she was not alone. Míriel’s loose robe slipped down her shoulders at Indis’ touch.

            “But he was clever like you,” Indis whispered to her. There had been a time when she could not have spoken of Fëanor this way, when her anger and bitterness against him overbore any of the sympathy she had harbored for him in his youth. Half of her children and all her grandchildren he had stolen from her, and never had he missed a chance to spit in her face if he could. Yet there had been a time too when she had seen the better in him, and empathized with his pain, and there was almost relief, in speaking of him with Míriel, in purging the acidity of her wrath. It did little good, she reminded herself, to dwell perpetually in anger, even if the object of it would walk no more among them. Nothing in her garden grew of her anger. “I saw it in the work you left behind. Your minds ran the same paths.”

            “Pity the boy,” said Míriel ruefully. “And his father too!”

            “I think neither of them would have had it any other way.”

            Míriel put a hand over Indis’, and rubbed the back of Indis’ hand, slowly returning from that dreamy place where she at times withdrew to, as if her mind were still making sense of how much had changed since she last lived in truth. It was some moments before she spoke again.

            “I understand he was difficult for you,” said Míriel. “And for that I apologize...I am still…still learning of the full extent of all that transpired…” Míriel’s voice had grown thicker, and Indis could catch a glimpse of the grief that the queen tried so doggedly to shield from view. “I spoke again with your grandson several days past; he told me a little more of the fortunes of the Noldor in Middle-earth…” A place they never would have been but for Fëanor’s rebellion. Indis knew that Finrod would be cautious in what he shared, but Míriel was sharp enough to fill in many gaps. She knew how much ruin had come of Fëanor’s actions, if she did not yet know every detail of it.

“And I have spoken a short while with his wife.” Indis had hoped that Míriel and Nerdanel might share something of a grief the rest of the Noldor were not keen in hearing of, but as neither of them was particularly inclined to spill their hearts to a stranger, she could not say yet if introducing them had done any good. “But ‘twas you that knew him in his youth. Could you—would you—tell me something else of him, of my son?”

            “Of course,” said Indis, loosening her hold on Míriel. She eased back down onto the mattress and sat beside Míriel so that she could still hold her hand. “What would you like to know?”

            “Anything,” said Míriel. “Everything.”

[cilil]

AN: @niennawept reminded me that UFO can also be read as "unfinished object" among crafters which gave me an idea. Thank you, friend!

┊ ┊ ┊ ⋆★ Prompt: UFO | Indis x Míriel ┊ ┊ ★⋆ Synopsis: Indis holds on to Míriel's last work. ┊ ◦★ Warnings: / ★⋆ Drabble

The queen's last project remains unfinished. 

Indis holds it in her hands as she's done countless times, studying every detail of Míriel's masterful work. It's beautiful even in this state, and she knows how marvellous her other works are. This one would've been too. 

She's contemplated trying to finish it for Míriel; to honour her, to ease the pain that comes with leaving what you love behind. But Indis has decided not to, worried that she could never do it justice. 

Thus she keeps it safe instead, waiting for the day Míriel returns so she can give it to her.

There's something about small acts of care and kindness between fellow ladies that has me in a chokehold. Anyway. Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @elanna-elrondiel @i-did-not-mean-to @urwendii

[leocrazyart]

Pardocosas "Pitchbible"?

"Alright, as some of you may know, for some time I've been working on an indie animated series with my OCs: "Pardocosas" (in English, the title should be something like "Pardostuff") I decided to present this project for one of my classes (I'm studying animation), where we had to pitch our ideas. Below, I'll share a translated version of that work so you can learn more about my project.

[the-indie-owl]

I wanted to make a New Headcanon/Theory History involving around these Two Characters and their Parents together, after facing up my regards towards Mindy being part among the Pantheon.

So here we have is the Children of King Neptune (the 14th Member amongst the Roman Pantheon) and Queen Amphitrite (who is actually a Greek Goddess).

The Generous and Noble Princess Mindy.

And even lastly, the Rebellious Prince Triton.

If you'd like to read more of what I think that their own Family has, you may scroll down to keep reading because OH BOY did I really have a much thicker brain.

Now many people would say that the Two King Neptunes are Different Characters (that I used to believe) but looking back at each of those Characters, I'd like to think that they're the actual same God, just by different form (since most Deities tend to have the ability to shapeshift whatever appearance they can desire).

Neptune being the case here because he is their Father, he may have had a trouble relationship with either one of them only but still loves his children deeply, no matter if Amphitrite calms him down, I'd like to believe that King Neptune has his own Magical God Abilities and Skills to transform/shapeshift any form that he desires resulting his looks to change differently but is still the same God, no matter in what form he's in.

I'd like to believe that partially the reason as to why Neptune is sometimes always like this to his own Children, no matter on how hard he tries to be a much better Father than his own Father, is because that he wants to prove himself as a much better ruler just like his own Brothers than his own Father ever was as he constantly has much Father Issues deep down inside ever since the Titan War he and his Brothers were in.

Another Reason that part of Neptune's relationship with his Children is a bit Rocky, is because that Saturn (Neptune's Father and even the Grandfather of Triton and Mindy) is never brought up nor mention in the Entire Family.

Which I could believe that somewhere in the World of SpongeBob, Saturn was a tyrannical ruler during the Golden Age as he took things too seriously, resulting in eating gulping up his own Sons that he tried to eat just so that none of them wouldn't overthrow him and take his place.

But luckily, I headcanon that Ops (Neptune's Mother) and Jupiter (Neptune's Youngest Brother) saved Neptune and Pluto (Neptune's Oldest Brother) tricked Saturn as Ops had to rescue her own sons away from their Father as the Three Gods ended up in Crete where they had to be raised by the Nymphs (which I do believe that this Universe tends to alternate the Myths).

Now I know that a lot of folks would point Me out that there already was a Backstory of King Neptune in one of the shorts, but I tend to headcanon that the Backstory itself in that short could be a Lie as I do believe that there are more versions of Neptune's own backstory out there that Neptune tries to hide his Real Backstory, just so that his past wouldn't be brought up as much through other people, no matter on how hard he faced a traumatizing childhood with his own Father.

And judging on how that SpongeBob says "Sure" at the end, assuming that another one version of his backstories could be true, he is one of the people that doesn't know their God's actual history (nor his God Family) so it could be a possibility that anyone of the Bikini Bottom has not seen nor heard of a Non-Sea God or a Titan before in their life (which is a Good Thing for the Sea King).

Sidenote, in some versions, Neptune (or "Poseidon" as he was called, like his Greek Counterpart's Name in the Third Movie) and Jupiter (Zeus) were raised together without any of their Other Siblings when Ops (Rhea/Cybele) took two of her own Boys to be raised in a Flock of Sheeps, rather than having a She-Goat to nurse her Sons.

So assuming that based around the version that I just mentioned, I like to believe that maybe part of Neptune's origins is a mixture of both the First One (where he was swallowed alive at first) and the second one, being that he was taken care of other than his Youngest Brother.

My Theory is that Neptune and his Brothers were raised by their own Guardians (which were a Couple of Nymphs; Ida and Adrasteia) as they were nursed and taken care of through their own Days of the Island of Crete, as the Three Roman Brothers studied their own God skills and even reaching their own God complex through Growth, just so that they could save the entire World as they would grow up together to stop their own Father.

Presumably a Few Days after the Great Titan War (known as the "Titanomachy"), The Three Brothers decided to take their own Place as Rulers of Each of the Three Lands around the Earth (even after when Ops retired just so that her own Sons could takeover as New Rulers respectfully). Jupiter was taken as the Emperor of the Sky, Neptune was taken as the King of the Seven Seas, and even lastly, Pluto was taken as the Lord of the Underworld.

But the Brothers realized that they needed their own Queens, so they searched up any lady they could find for a perfect wife as they ended up having each of their own consorts (Jupiter had Juno and even Pluto had Proserpina).

And lastly, but not the least, Neptune had Amphitrite.

Considering that there is No Canonical Backstory for the Two of Them, it's possible on how it would explain on how they met, but it also possible on who Amphitrite's Parents could be in this Universe.

Hesiod believes that Amphitrite was a Nereid and was the Daughter of Nereus and Doris but Apollodorus believes that Amphitrite was an Oceanid rather than a Nereid, and that in a Second version of Amphitrite's Parents, suggesting that Oceanus and Tethys might be her Parents.

I have a Theory that somewhere Amphitrite could be Oceanus and Tethys' Daughter rather than Nereus and Doris (making her an Oceanid).

Although the Backstory for Neptune of how he met his Wife was that he saw Amphitrite dancing and was immediately in love with her but since Amphitrite was scared of him, she fled from Atlas where Neptune had to sent a Dolphin to find her. Amphitrite was found thanks to the Dolphin that she adored, in which she accepted him as Neptune made her his own wife.

Perhaps the Backstory for these Two Characters is different than the One on how they actually met.

I assume that somewhere Neptune was bored in his life doing his own duties of being Sea King, he decided to stop by through an Island where he passed by but was then caught the attention of a Young Sea Maiden (which was no doubt, his own future wife) as Amphitrite was startled when she was found by Neptune, so she swam away back to the Sea.

After that, he saw her again through a Dance performance upon the Oceanids (who were Amphitrite's Sisters as I recall from the Other version of her own Parents), Neptune presumably recognized Her as the Woman who he saw at the Beach, and much like in the Myths where he saw her dancing, he was probably over head heels in love with her (not just by her own Dance, but through her Beauty).

But given of what I truly believe is that Poseidon and Neptune do live within the same world, just by different timelines (as mentioned in "Spongehenge" where King Poseidon was first mentioned before his Actual Appearance), my Headcanon is that Poseidon and Neptune did knew each other but don't tend to talk about each other anymore, Poseidon was an Ex-Lover of Amphitrite as they fell in love once as Amphitrite was once Poseidon's Girl before Neptune even married Her.

(And Poseidon being Exes with Amphitrite makes sense in my Theory, judging by how they were one of the Most Overlooked Mythological Pairings throughout Centuries).

I mean, who else could blame Amphitrite for dating a narcissist like Poseidon? He probably wasn't even the perfect match for her (which could explain as to why Poseidon is seen as single, even without Salacia (Amphitrite's Roman Counterpart) (which I doubt that she still exists)).

So Neptune saw what was happening in the relationship between his Greek Equivalent and his Crush was that Poseidon wasn't really a Good Boyfriend to begin with and was focused too much on himself, rather than his own relationship with Amphitrite as Neptune felt bad for her trying to have a Romantic Relationship. He just wondered if maybe perhaps he would make a much better consort for her.

Sure, Neptune wasn't really that much of a Great Ruler (neither was Poseidon), but deep down, he still does his Duties as a King better, despite his own arrogance as he is now.

So with that in his own mind, Neptune decided to open up himself to Amphitrite as they got along quite nicely for a causal secret affair. Amphitrite grew found of Neptune as he was already fond in her (not just by the looks but with her as a Person). He was her Wrath as She was his Patience as Romance somehow blossomed into a Whirlwind one between them.

Although despite their own disagreements, they loved each other genuinely.

However, when Poseidon found out about their true affair, he felt cheated on by Amphitrite and wasn't too happy when their relationship felt betrayed (technically, Poseidon did had it coming for not paying any attention to her) as Poseidon and Neptune did had a big huge fight over Amphitrite's heart, in which Poseidon failed but Neptune won (ex; Bambi vs. Ronno over their Love for Faline in Disney's "Bambi").

In a few months later, eventually, Neptune was chosen to be the Rightful Ruler of the Seas (while Poseidon was chosen to be Second, due to his own Laziness which is why Neptune had to be the chosen one).

Neptune married Amphitrite as she became his Wife and Queen of the Seas, taking over Each of the Seven Seas as the Seas would always feel calm whenever Amphitrite was around with her Husband, which could explain as to why they had the most open-relationship ever (which was already a thing in their relationship the Mythos).

On the Topic about the Ages in the Royal Family, given that Neptune is around Five Thousand Years Old and that Poseidon is Three Thousand, I'd like to think that somewhere back in the Ancient Era of the Centuries, the Gods were around in their Adult Ages of 20s-50s but if they tend to stop aging (depending on what Age they hit at), they'd be stuck around in their Physical Adult Years in the Modern Centuries despite being very ancient, yet they're still physically in their Mid/Late 20s/50s such. Neptune could be around in his 50s and Amphitrite looks like she could be around in her 40s. So...I assume that Neptune was around 30 when he met Amphitrite (who was possibly around 28), but they stopped aging when Neptune was 50 and that Amphitrite was around 48. A Two-Year-Old Age Gap is what I assume that these two might have.

After passing through Decades of the BCE Era, when the World began to change throughout centuries of time, the Brothers received each of their own Children that their Wives gave birth. And Mindy was one of them through the Middlest Brother of the Big Three.

Now, for the record, Mindy's top looks like that she'd be a Princess from the Middle Ages. so this could lead to believe that Mindy was actually born around in the Medieval era at the time where Neptune and Amphitrite received their own first child after Neptune's Eldest Brother and Sister-In-Law (Pluto and Proserpina) received their own Heirs in Another Decade.

Now if you remember the Medieval Time Period Episode, "Dunces and Dragons" which in that Episode where SpongeBob and Patrick went all the way back in time after an accident through a Mounted Combat, they did met their own Friends' Medieval Ancestors.

Assuming that Mindy was born around in the Middle Ages where all of the Ancestors of the Bikini Bottomites were, this could lead into thinking that Mindy was probably either still a Baby in Months or a Child during that time period, even when when SpongeBob and Patrick went all the way back in a Different Century. So this probably leads into a Bigger Age Gap between Patrick and Mindy judging on how Pat had a Silly Crush on Her (because duh, his type is Mermaids, what do you expect?) and if Mindy was ever a Young Goddess from back then, she probably was a lot younger than 14 (either 8 years old or 12) as I HC that Gods receive their own Powers at the Age of 5-7 or 14 (depending on their deity puberty) but Mindy didn't had her own Powers when she hit 14, so she was probably a late bloomer (I mean, Neptune did felt disappointed in his first heir for not receiving any Godly Powers from both of her own Parents, yet he still chose her as Future Ruler because of how much the King and Queen adored their Princess).

Now as for Triton, judging on how Old he was when he first laid his eyes on Baseball, it's possibly assumed that he was actually born in the 21st Century around in the early 2000s when Mindy was around 17,985 years old when her Younger Brother was Born when Amphitrite received Another Heir (this time, being their own Son).

Unknown on how Old Triton was when Neptune had enough of his Son's rebellious behavior (even if Triton was only just trying to be himself in which Neptune didn't wanted to have a son like that), I assume around in his Teens, Triton was probably before 14 when he received massive Godly Powers as he's not a late bloomer like Mindy and was possibly a few years older after when he grew Magic Powers from his own puberty (which could mean that Mindy was still around in her Eldest 17,000 years).

I'd like to think that somewhere that the Brother and Sister have their similar contrasts of their own Father, being that Mindy has learn to become a Future Ruler but Triton wanted to be someone else, despite the fact that they had their own personalities similar to their Parents (Mindy being the Calm and Gentle one from her Mother and Triton being the Rebel against his Father's wishes). This could lead into a Deep Sibling bond that these two would have as the Two Siblings have deeply missed each other a lot. Neptune thinks he is trying to be a much better Father than his Actual One, not realizing the truth that he fails and is not at all a better father as he thinks he is, but deep down, still has strong Daddy Issues that would be passed on to either one of his children (most notably Triton).

Now on the topic of Mindy's Age when she first met SpongeBob and Patrick, given on how that her own Voice Actress was actually 18 years old when she voiced her Character in the First Movie, Mindy was probably around 18,000 years old when she met SpongeBob and Patrick (yet, Mindy is still physically either 17 or 18 deep down) (which makes Patrick a milf lover at this point for crushing a Thousand Year-Old Princess).

As for a personal reason as to why we didn't see Amphitrite nor Triton in the First Movie, I'd headcanon that somewhere before the events of the Film, Neptune and his Wife had an argument over some Family Drama and after a One Fight that they got, the Two Rulers decided to split apart and take their own children with them as Neptune had to take Mindy while Amphitrite had to take Triton and ruled their own separate kingdoms for themselves. So Neptune took a Different form of a King.

Taking his own new responsibilities as a Merman King rather than a God, he took his punishments very cruel but Mindy always had her Mother's Patience inside of her, so she never took any cruelty upon Mortals like her Father where's somewhere, Amphitrite did make her own Son Happy just to be free to do whatever Triton wanted, even when she would tell their Son of what NOT to do, this made the Parents' own decisions quite fairly hard (even when deep down, they loved each other passionately).

But given on how when Neptune changed at the end, I assumed that Mindy confronted her own Father that she wished to be a Happy Family again due to how that she really missed both her Mother and her Father.

So Neptune, being the Rightful God King, had to do the right choice for his Family in order to make his Children Happy (because he still loves them deeply) as I headcanon that Neptune and Amphitrite went back into ruling their own Kingdom together as Neptune explained to Amphitrite on how sorry the one argument was that they had and make up afterwards where Neptune went back to his true self and became a much more better responsible Father where he learned from his mistakes and learned on how to be a Real Better Actual Father than Saturn (his Father) as the Two Sea Rulers no longer split and things were just back to normal as the way they were.

And lastly, as for both Triton and Mindy themselves, where exactly was Mindy when she didn't appear at her Father's Party?

I'd like to think that maybe somewhere she was at a visit over her Relatives' places (presumably either any one of her Uncles or at least, her Grandmother, Ops) (since I headcanon that Mindy is the most Favorite Grandchild out of Ops' Sons' own Heirs).

But also of Note, since she did at least took a visit at SpongeBob's Party in a Cameo at the Birthday Blowout special, she probably is now still around in her Thousand Years of the Number of 18, but more than the Zeros as in 2019, she would probably be around 18,001 or something like that (which ever one it could be).

And lastly as for Triton himself, what happened at the end of his First Appearance after the Party he crashed?

Well, needless to say, in Mythology, Triton was actually his Father's Herald.

So I assume that when Triton didn't want to be the Next Sea King, Neptune thought that maybe a better job would suit for his Son in which he hired him to be his Herald (which Triton actually ended up liking his New Royal Job after he didn't agreed but felt like a New Title could suit for the better).

After all, he was much of a Messenger than a Prince, and Mindy always more of a Queen than just a Goddess. So the Two Siblings have their own Titles much to their own Parents' titles.

In Conclusion; Not exactly the Most Perfect Family under the Sea, but much more like a Regal Family with their own Complexity of Godhood. Not Good nor Evil, they're just Neutral.

[solmarillion]

mindis

pocky game ask meme

skill in hand equates to skill with tongue so i'm going to say míriel for this one 🤭

[fakeplasticmusic]

Crazy Love - Mindy Gledhill

[captainwormburner]

Have a Beer - Lofi House - Captain Wormburner

[melrodrigo]

Tardy, part 10

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11

Tara Carpenter x Fem Reader

Summary: Tensions rise as two of your friends are found in a suspicious position.

Warnings: Mentions of violence, angst

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: I’m sorry if this sucks…writing this chapter sucked the life out of me.

Sitting in the ambulance doesn’t feel right.

You don’t think you deserve to be here, getting taken care of; while the rest of the gang goes on searching for clues. You lean against the van door, struggling to keep your eyes open.

You can’t bear to watch as the police lift Ethan’s body and wheel him into their black van.

You’re so tired that you can’t even cry.

You turn and bury yourself in the crook of Tara’s neck, trying to distract yourself with her warmth, her smell, her. She hasn’t left your side for a second since the paramedics arrived, and she doesn’t seem to mind you clinging desperately onto her either.

It might be how exhausted you are, or the fact that her comfort makes you feel so safe, it lulls you to sleep quickly.

It feels like a blink of an eye before you’re getting woken up to the sound of Sam interrogating Anika and Mindy.

“Found them just a couple minutes ago, they were knocked out,” Tara whispers to you, reading your face in the blink of an eye and knowing exactly what you were going to ask.

You inspect the pair carefully. They look like they’ve been through it.

Along with red marks all over her arms, Mindy has a little scrape of peeled skin at the top of her head.

Anika’s looks even worse.

There’s a huge purple-ish green-ish bump just right above her eyebrow. It’s in the shape of a perfect rectangle like someone had tried to knock her out with a brick.

“Where have you guys been?” Sam’s asking, sort of calm but sort of rough at the same time. There’s no doubt there is an underlying tone of suspicion in her voice.

Mindy sighs heavily, seeing right through the fake calm facade Sam’s putting on.

“Sam, we swear we do not know anything.” She’s saying, eyes wide. “We saw Ghostface coming, we ran! And the next thing you know we both got knocked out. I mean, look at the wound Sam. I know Ghostfaces have done this before, the whole hurt yourself thing. But I swear. Please, Sam.”

She looks put-together, all things considered. But Mindy’s always been one of those people, she goes through life swiftly; with nothing on her mind except for obscure indie horror films and her girlfriend.

She doesn’t sound like she’s lying, you’ll give her that.

“So you just left Danny alone?” Sam asks, clearly not as persuaded as you are.

Anika breathes loud, a sound of growing impatience.

“We were being chased. I’m sorry Sam but if it was between Mindy and Danny there’s no way I’m picking your boyfriend.” She explains, waving her hands wildly. “And we don’t even know if he’s Ghostface.” She ends, the last statement said in nothing but a hushed whisper.

Sam can’t say much about that. She breathes heavily, very much resembling the look of an angry dragon as she stands; towering.

You snuggle into Tara, deciding that you in fact do not want to be a part of this conversation.

She looks down at you and smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Then she’s wrapping her arms around you and slipping a hand in your back pocket.

She wiggles around in there a moment before you feel her fish something out and shift away from you slightly, smiling.

“Now what’s this?” She’s whispering teasingly, quiet laughter shaking her body.

You crane your neck to look at it, but all you see is a backside of a tiny piece of paper, all yellow and old looking.

Paper? You don’t remember having paper in there.

Tara stills as she reads it, her heartbeat under you quickening at a rapid pace.

“What is it, babe?” You question, tightening your grip around her waist.

She tilts her whole body to show you what’s written on the paper.

Scribbled crazily on the note in thick red liquid, are five words.

NITEHALK CINEMA - TONIGHT. BE THERE.

You stare at it for a long time, like if you looked at it hard enough it’ll dissolve into thin air. The words look almost anthropomorphic, threatening to jump out and grab you by the neck.

“Huh.” You state, turning to blankly stare at Tara. She blinks back at you, obviously also taken aback.

You guys have a silent conversation until Tara carefully untangles herself from you and makes her way toward the older Carpenter.

You see her hand Sam the paper, all eyebrows furrowed and soft voices. Sam snatches it from her, but your view gets blocked off when a paramedic comes to stand in front of you.

You eye her a little wearily, confused as to why she’s standing there.

“Hey, hon.” She says, eyes crinkling at the sides when she smiles. She has some age, you can tell, but she still looks youthful and full of life.

You relax, almost melting at her term of endearment.

You were always a sucker for one of those. Especially if they were coming from an attractive middle-aged woman.

You quirk an eyebrow, signaling that she can keep speaking.

“So, I had a quick look at the wound on your stomach there. You’ve got an infection, sweetheart. It’s nothing to worry about if you get to the hospital immediately.” She tells you, sternly.

An infection?

You open your mouth to answer her, tell her that there’s no way in hell you have enough time to do that, but Tara’s heading back before you can say a thing; and you mumble a quick, “Don’t tell her anything.”

Because the last thing you need is Tara fussing over you when there should be Ghostface hunting to do.

“So what happened?” You ask your girlfriend, grabbing and positioning her so she’s standing in between your legs.

She doesn’t say a thing about it, but you see the blush start forming.

“We’re going to the damn theater together, and we’ll end the motherfucker. Once and for all.” Tara says and then tilts her head to the side, eyes flirting between you and the paramedic as if she’s just realizing she’s here. “Everything okay?”

You cut in quickly, shooting the paramedic a look and wrapping an arm around her waist for reassurance.

“Everything’s great.” You smile.

-

“Aren’t we rushing into this kind of fast? Like..why are we going to a random place Ghostface clearly wants us to go to?” Chad asks, his voice betraying his fear for the whole plan.

You’ll admit, it was a sort of sudden decision, even for you.

As soon as Tara showed Sam that paper, Sam turned into an animal. Asking for papers from the medical staff still around and gathering all of you to listen to her new plan; excluding Anika and Mindy.

“Seriously?” Anika’s saying, right after Sam informed her that they weren’t invited to listen in.

Sam doesn’t relent, just stares her down with those fiery eyes she only has reserved for situations like these.

“If you want me to believe you, you’ll have no problem staying out of this,” Sam says, nodding matter-of-factly.

“Well, I don’t want to be kept out of the loop and die.” Anika mumbles, but backs down nevertheless; walking back to join Mindy dejectedly on the sidewalk.

Now, you guys are stuffed into Sam’s van, ready to take on the weirdo in the white mask once again.

Funny, this is giving me déjà vu.

But after Sam’s monologue last night, where the older carpenter had talked about sacrificing herself, it seemed to ignite a fire deep in you; one that still wanted to fight.

You know you’re not the only one who’s feeling this way.

One quick glance at the gang and you can tell everyone’s feeling motivated. You can only hope it lasts so long.

Well, everyone except Chad.

You contemplate reaching over and gripping his hand for support, but wonder if it’ll be weird because you haven’t exactly had the best relationship with him, but decide fuck it, we’re friends, and do it anyway. He sends you a nervous but supportive smile back.

Sitting still hurts. Any kind of movement only worsens the pain. It’s like the conversation with the paramedic opened your eyes because you can feel every little thing bothering you now.

By the time you guys get to the theater, your anxiety’s at an all-time high.

Beads of perfectly shaped droplets fall from your forehead at a rapid pace, and your heart feels like it’s up in your throat.

You push open the doors and try to quell your fears by acting brave. The facade disappears immediately when you see what’s in the theater.

You pale.

It’s a shrine. A goddamn shrine of Ghostface.

“Well isn’t this nice? Ghostface has a fan.” Tara mumbles, pushing past you to see further in.

Everyone slowly files in and looks around curiously, murmuring soundlessly between pairs.

You sway as you walk further in, head whirling. You stumble and hit a glass box, and you have to grip it to steady yourself.

You stare at Sam unloading the big black bag shed packed full of weapons from just last night, getting prepared.

It doesn’t help with the haziness. You need to get your mind off this shit…you need something. Your head drops to peer inside the glass box.

You think your heart literally stops when you see the collection of pictures, paintings, a summarized biography, and a bloody knife. A familiar photo makes your breath hitch.

Stu Macher : The Second Ever Ghostface

You blink. Try and steady your heartbeat by closing your eyes and sucking in a deep breath.

Just when you feel like you’re about to pass out, Tara steps up beside you, putting a hand on your back to help steady you.

“You okay?” She whispers, a concerned expression painting her features.

You look down at her, flash her a tight-lipped smile.

“Yeah.” You try and say with as much positivity as you can muster.

She sees right through it, frowning so big you’d think you’d just told her you were Ghostface.

“I know when you lie to me.” She says pointedly, pouting.

You sigh, it’s no use to lie.

“No, I’m not doing great currently, but that’s not our top priority here Tar.” You murmur softly.

She punches you in the arm, with all the power of a marshmallow bouncing off you and crosses her arms.

“It’s a priority to me.” She huffs.

You raise an eyebrow. Tara wasn’t one to give you words of affirmation, but whenever she would, she’d get adorably shy.

She’s not this time. She’s standing tall and sure of herself, staring at you like if she lets her eyes off you for even a second you’ll run away.

You contemplate telling her about what the paramedic said.

You should, you know that, but you don’t want to worry her more than she already is.

She’s tired too, you can tell. It shows through the dark circles beneath her eyes and the way her hair is just a little more ruffled than usual.

Tomorrow I will, you think. After all this is over.

You settle for wrapping your arms around her and whispering an I love you in her ear.

Tara stills, obviously surprised at your confession. It surprises you too. You guys had never really said it before, even though you’re sure the both of you felt it.

“Um..I’m sorry. It just sort of came out, you don’t need to say it back. I understand.” You say quickly, sheepishly.

Tara quells your fears with a kiss, full of passion and urgency.

It feels like it always does, so goddamn dreamy. Her and her kisses never fail to send you straight into cloud 9.

When you pull back, you’re a little dazed.

“Well…okay.” You say, smiling goofily.

Her expression matches yours, albeit a little more composed. Her red cheeks and neck don’t fool you though.

“I love you too….idiot.” She says, adding the last bit to help put her racing heart at ease.

You snicker and shake your head. Your eyes drop down to the box again, but you don’t feel nearly as bad anymore.

“Man, I’m related to that guy? He looks like an alien dog.” You whine, only sort of half joking.

Tara chuckles heartedly and pats your back softly.

“He kinda does.” She murmurs.

“What does that mean…are you saying I look like that too?” You question, eyes wide and piercing, trying to look intimidating. To Tara, you look like a lost puppy.

“I never said that.” She quips, smirking. She’s teasing you.

“Yeah, but you didn’t rebut me so I’m led to believe you agree.” You press, forming your lips into a pout.

She reaches out to try and wipe it away, but you tilt your head; trying to fight for some semblance of control here.

She tries again, leaning to grab your face and kiss you, but you swerve as quickly as possible, a small part of you a little sad at the act.

The part that wants you to win this “argument” is bigger though. And it takes control once again.

“Nuh-uh. No kisses until you admit I don’t look like an alien dog and that I’m actually mighty gorgeous.” You say, proud smile; sure you’ve won.

“Oh really?” Tara smirks, leaning back until her back is pressed against the box and your hands on both sides of her waist.

She calls your bluff. “I don’t think you’d be able to take it; not kissing me.”

You have to bite back a gulp at her boldness.

God this girl was going to be the death of you.

You challenge her, happy to have your beloved banter with your girlfriend back.

“Funny…I vaguely remember you being the one who couldn’t keep her hands

to herself for a second. And who was the one that was so impatient the first time we had sex she tripped over and landed face first into the mat?” You tease, watching Tara’s cheeks heat up.

“Hey! We promised not to talk about that.” She grumbles, disregarding her bet from 5 seconds ago and tilting up to meet your lips.

You smile against her lips, victorious.

When she sees it, she huffs slightly, mouth still connected to yours.

“Whatever.” She says, pulling back.

“Guys!” Sam’s voice booms through the theater, echoing a couple of times before fading out.

Creepy.

“Get over here! Safety in numbers, remember? Who knows where Ghostface is? For all we know, he’s already in here watching us.” She continues to yell, watching as you and Tara saunter over; hand in hand.

Her words send chills down your body, and you’re suddenly aware again of your beating heart.

You look behind Sam, seeing multiple Ghostface mannequins standing tall. It’s scary how much eeriness some pieces of fabric can create.

“Well, isn’t this a dainty place to be having our conversation?” You chuckle nervously, turning your head to the left, then the right; where you see nothing but all 9 Ghostface mannequins from the Stab franchise, or in this nightmare reality, real life.

“Can you just shut-“ Sam begins, obviously done with your bullshit attempts at lightening the mood.

The lights turn off in the theater all at once, leaving you guys in complete darkness; all stunned.

“Up.” Sam finishes, and you can already hear her feet start to shuffle as she looks and grabs around.

You feel her rough hands as she grabs at your wrist and pulls, too hard for your liking.

“Sam- Could you be a little gentler please?” You huff, trying to weasel your way out her grip.

“What are you talking about?” Sam voices, but it feels kind of far away from you. The grip around your hand suddenly feels weighted. “I’m not touching you Y/N.”

Before you can react, the hand is coming up to your mouth and pressing hard, muffling any sounds that’ll come out.

“YN? Baby? What’s going on?” Tara asks, worry seeping through her words.

You try and scream, or say anything, but the sound dies in your throat when you realize there’s something pressed against your nose.

It’s a cloth: a smelly one at that. You realize what it is immediately, all those true crime documentaries finally coming in handy. Chloroform.

The fumes are practically shoved up your nose, and you feel your knees buck underneath you.

Fuck, Tara.

You wiggle and thrash around, but nothing works, the chemical’s doing its job, because in the next second; you’re gone.

[welcomingdisaster]

miriel pays indis a visit - one of my pieces for @tolkienrsb ! keep an eye out for the wonderful accompanying fic by @chrissystriped!

[oh-how-divinee]

Felt like drawing Willow to experiment with my artsyle, plus some other customers doodles.

[imakemywings]

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Relationship: Indis/Miriel (w/ Finwe/Indis)

Summary: Indis knows that Miriel is the only one who understands their connection. This is why it should be Indis who looks after Miriel's body.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

Warnings: Necrophilia/non-consensual somnophilia (not sure which is more applicable to Miriel's corpse here tbh)

Photo credit to Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash.

__________________________________________________

            The Noldor had a saying, that a craft object remembered the hand of its builder. This was said often about homes, which were no less a craft than anything else the Noldor built. Indis had found it a charming saying in her earlier sojourns into Tirion—the thought of a building holding its own care and memory for the hands that had brought it to being—but it was slightly less endearing to see it from this angle.

            For the house of Finwë remembered its builder well. Míriel Serinde breathed in the walls of the royal palace, not least because her tapestries still hung there, themselves the most wondrous memorial to the departed queen the Noldor could have contrived; because her son glared at Indis from doorways Míriel herself had erected. Those first few weeks she spent in that house she expected to round a corner and come upon that imperious look on Míriel’s round little face (She had held herself like a queen long before she wore the crown of the Noldor.)

            But of course, Míriel was gone. She had been gone for years. Her son was more than half-grown (He had all of Míriel’s haughtiness and pride with none of the temperance of age). She was gone, but not gone:

            When Indis commented on some decorative little pots Finwë had in his study: From Míriel’s foray into ceramics…it did not last long.

            When she complimented a rice pudding from the royal kitchens: It was Queen Míriel’s favorite desert.

            When the people came before her to speak to the queen: We hoped you would lend your favor to the Fiber Arts Guild; Queen Míriel always supported us most generously.

            Even where none meant to offend, the hand of Míriel Serinde seemed to hang over her husband and her son—and now Indis too. She had stepped into the shadow of this woman and it seemed there was no edging out of it.

             But of course, there were other, more concrete problems for her to attend to—for one, that the palace of the Noldor had been running without anyone to truly manage it since Míriel’s departure (and truthfully, since Fëanor’s birth). There were countless things for Indis to review, restore, and in some cases, rework, and there were varying degrees of resistance to each of them.

She made a point of leaving Míriel’s tapestries in place (though she made sure they were all given a good dusting), hoping this might placate Fëanor, but it did not seem to do much good. He still needed time to adjust, she thought (It was why she had talked to Finwë about putting off having any children of their own, so as not to overwhelm Fëanor with too much too soon).

            Indis found even her own thoughts trending towards the former queen. She had given Míriel little enough thought before, except to admire her from a distance and be admittedly envious of Míriel’s fortune. She remembered being in Tirion once for a formal appearance of the king and queen—how radiant and powerful she had looked, bedecked in all the Noldor’s finery, glittering in jewels beside her comely, noble husband. How Indis had wished to be in her place, even as she celebrated Míriel’s joy! What a childish wish, she thought as she knelt among the orchids, carefully plucking away the weedy ingrowths. Now she had it—Míriel’s husband, Míriel’s house, Míriel’s son—and yet it all still belonged to Míriel, didn’t it? Míriel’s handprints were all over it, just as her fingerprints were impressed into the porcelain pots. These things remembered their builder.

            It was in the spirit of these thoughts that Indis first lied to Finwë. Not that she had never told him an untruth before—though she tried not to, for she did not think much of lying—but it was the first time she had ever planned to lie about a thing, and carried it out. If she told the truth, she worried he would discourage her, by word or even only a dip in his dark brow, and Indis would acquiesce. He would not stop her, but Indis would stop herself, and she did not want that.

            “I thought I would go walking out of the city today,” she said at breakfast. Finwë smiled at her over the congee with the besotted look of a new husband.

            “Ah, yes? This day promises to be a lovely one. Shall we go together?” For a moment, Indis almost accepted. Wouldn’t it be nice, to go walking with her beloved, and enjoy the peaceful scenery, perhaps take some food with them for a picnic…perhaps even Fëanor would join them, and she would not do what she meant to do.

            But no. That would not do, not that day.

            “I had wished for a quiet time to think over some things,” she demurred, offering a little smile so he might not think anything amiss.

            “Do I talk so terribly much?” Finwë teased, and Indis’ smile grew.

            “Nay, my lord, only I am so easily distracted!” Finwë made a small gesture with his hand.

            “Trouble yourself not, wife. Míriel preferred her time alone as well; I understand.” This mention of her made Indis all the more determined to that day’s course (Although she had told him before she did not mind if he spoke of Míriel, for she had lived and been a part of his life and it seemed unfair to relegate her only to the past. Little had she known how unnecessary that concern was!)

            She dressed warmly, for spring was still early, and a chill still in the air, and stepped out into the golden light of Laurelin. Her gray palfrey she took at a relaxed pace up to the gardens of Lórien, fretting once she was on the path that someone might see her.

            Míriel was still there, of course. Privately, though Indis had never dared say it out loud, she had thought that once Míriel had made her choice to remain in Mandos, that her body would begin to decay, but no such thing had happened. She lay there as smooth and fresh as the day she had first laid down; when Indis knelt at her side, she half-expected Míriel to sit up and complain about her rest being disturbed.

            The queen was as lovely in death as she had been in life—or at least the last months of it. The full-cheeked, glossy-haired, strong-armed beauty in which she had existed before childbearing had robbed her of it had never completely returned. She was dressed in a simple robe, yet one whose soft fabric and delicately embroidered hem showed the time and care that had gone into it. A thin garment, off-white underlaid with blue; she would have been chilly in it that morning, if she had been awake to feel it.

Finwë had confided to Indis, during their courtship, of what it had been like with Míriel in the end. How the childbed crippled her; how the light went out of her eyes, how her warm tawny cheeks grew thin and sallow, her hair dull and lank. At times she seemed almost to be around a bend, he said, but each peak left her only worse off than before. By the time she went away to Lórien, she was nearly entirely bedbound, and even little Fëanor’s weeping and wailing could not stir her to more than dispassionate pity.

Finwë had been so sure that she could find the rest she needed in Lórien, and for a time it even it seemed she might. She gained back some of the weight she had shed, her eyes lost a touch of the glassiness they had acquired since Fëanor’s birth, and at times she even tolerated visits from her young son, though she avoided always any mention of when she might return home. Yet as with her other false starts, this brief healing seemed to leave her spirit only more drained in the end, and one day she simply laid down and closed her eyes, and never again opened them.

“Your son does not much care for me, I think.” There were so many things Indis could have started with, but it seemed somehow easier than all the rest to speak of Míriel’s boy. “I suppose I cannot much blame him. It is quite a lot of change, and we Elves do not always brook it well, do we?” She smiled thinly. A few wisps of silver hair stuck to Míriel’s lower lip.

The Maiar of the gardens tended to Míriel regularly, so that no animals disturbed her, and any debris from the dove-tree above her was promptly cleared away, so that the former (?) queen of the Noldor should not become covered in leaves or fallen buds. Yet she had worn the same hair and the same gown since she chose that hillock for her resting place, and somehow, abruptly, this seemed terribly sad to Indis. Clothes had been one of Míriel’s delights. (Indis would not admit it, but she had been through the storage room to where Fëanor had removed his mother’s wardrobe—she had seen the great variety of Míriel’s things and she could almost imagine the quick-fingered queen paging through her robes, the care with which she might construct each day’s outfits.)

“Finwë thinks of you still,” said Indis. She meant to say more on this theme, but found the words would not come, so she left it aside and moved back to the easier topic.

“He’s quite a clever boy, Fëanáro. You would be proud, I think. He has a mind as suits the crown prince of the Noldor. He’s a very beautiful boy too; I have no doubt that in a few years he will have all the young Elves of Tirion falling at his feet, if they have not already begun! He has a great deal of Finwë in his looks, but something else too, something just his. Yet Finwë says he is most like you in temperament.” Indis’ hands fidgeted in her lap.

“Your tapestries…in the palace…they are truly remarkable. I wish I could have spoken with you of them. I have some small crafts myself, but nothing so fine as that. I am trying to care for the gardens. Finwë says you did not pay overmuch attention to such things. Not as a criticism! Only a preference. I think your staff are unused to a queen’s meddling in them! I wonder if you would like the way they look now? Did you have a favorite flower? Was it the dove-tree? I could plant one for you,” she blurted out, as if she were seeking to appease some ill-content spirit.

She bunched her robe up in her hands against her thighs. She had not yet become used to the Noldor fashion and she found it at times awkward to move in; she thought again of Míriel’s aloof grace on the day Indis had seen her in Tirion. She moved like even the crown upon her head—which must have been considerable in weight given that it constituted possibly an entire mine’s worth of metal and gemstone—was simply a part of her.

“The Noldor remember you quite fondly,” she murmured. She reached out now, and brushed those strands of hair away from Míriel’s mouth. “I blame them not; by all accounts, you were remarkable beyond compare. If Fëanáro is anything on which to base a comparison, I believe it.” Míriel’s skin felt cool beneath her fingertips, yet it seemed to Indis not quite the same as the ice-cold frigidity of any other corpse. But perhaps it was only in her mind.

The gray lashes of Míriel’s wide, almond-shaped eyes lay delicately against her cheek. Her silver hair mingled with the spring green grass beneath her. Had she once rested so in the yards of the palace, Indis wondered? Napped in the afternoon light, enjoyed the rest of Aman, where no beasts or shadows preyed upon them?

“It seems unfair to me,” Indis said, feeling her throat tighten, “that you alone should be denied peace here, when all the rest of us have found it. I hope you have it now, my lady.” She touched her fingers to her lips in a gesture of respect. It was not a thing done among the Noldor, but it felt appropriate, and Indis thought Míriel would not mind one small Vanyarin tradition.

“I will let you rest,” she said, rising to her feet. In the end, she had stayed some two hours with Míriel, and could think of nothing more to say but the litany of her fears, doubtless uninteresting to anyone but herself. “I will do my best to care for them in your stead,” she concluded, offering a proper Noldor bow. “I hope this pleases you.”

She did not expect to visit Míriel again.

***

But she couldn’t stop thinking about Míriel’s hair. Specifically, that she had been wearing it in the same style for nearly twenty years now. It wasn’t at all how Míriel would have wanted it, was it?

How had Míriel worn her hair, Indis asked Finwë?

He was obviously surprised by the question, but he explained a few of the hairstyles she had preferred, which were relatively common among the Noldor—high, tight buns pierced with jeweled hair sticks and hung with combs, charms, and clips of all sorts. They still had much of it, he said, in the storeroom. Others, Fëanor had taken for himself. (Generally, Finwë allowed the boy whatever he wanted of his mother’s possessions, and there was a particularly soft look that came over his face when Fëanor entered the room wearing something of Míriel’s.)

Finwë said she was welcome to have a look, but Indis waited until Fëanor was out of the house. He disliked her giving any attention to Míriel’s things, and she did not wish to start a fight with him. There were chests of them, glimmering gilded hills of polished wood and jewels and filigreed metal. Indis spent some time sifting through them just to look. The Vanyar style tended towards something much simpler and far less inclusive of gemstone, which made Míriel’s cache of treasures particularly overwhelming to Indis.

Then, she selected a few things—more than she would need—including a lovely jade comb carved into the shape of koi, to stow into her bag. These things she took up to the gardens of Lórien.

Finwë had visited her often, in the beginning, both before and after her death, but Míriel had little desire for company in those days. Even at the height of her health, she had often wandered alone and preferred her own companionship to that of others, he had said. But after childbirth, it had seemed to weary her, having to converse with or even observe others.

Perhaps she would be irritated, if she knew that Indis was visiting her. (The Noldor had loved their queen, but few outside the most obsequious would claim she was a patient woman when it came to others.)

“I shan’t impose long,” Indis assured the queen when she knelt down beside her, setting her bag in the grass. “I thought only you might wish for a bit of change.” It seemed a silly thing to say to a woman who had chosen the constancy of death. Nevertheless, Indis called over one of the Maiar.

“Would you hold the queen upright for me?” she asked. “I desire to fix her hair.”

“Is there something amiss with it?” The Maia spoke softly, but her words seemed to resonate inside Indis’ head, as if she spoke at once with voice and with ósanwe, creating a faint echo.

“No, but it has been the same for such a long time. Do you not think she might like it changed?” The Maia might have shrugged, if she were an Elf; as it were, she only stared blankly at Indis, then moved forward to do as she had been asked.

She had to hold the queen’s body up, and her chin as well, as if she were a rag doll in the hands of a pair of children, so that Indis could undo the braiding already there, slightly mussed where the back of her skull rested against the ground. With her own comb, Indis carefully brushed out Míriel’s hair until it hung in a sleek silver curtain down her back.

It occurred to her as she brushed through small knots and tamed fly-aways, that Fëanor still regularly visited his mother, and might notice if her hair was different. It left her with some unease; Fëanor still had not reconciled himself to his father’s remarriage, and while Indis had much hope on that account, the boy was still quite sensitive about it, and was unlikely to respond well to Indis meddling with Míriel. Perhaps he would think one of the Maiar had done it, she hoped.

“She has such fine hair, doesn’t she?” Indis murmured as she swept it back behind Míriel’s cold ears.

“She is a very beautiful Elf,” agreed the Maiar.

“She must have been proud of it,” Indis thought aloud. Onto her fingers she dripped some of the osmanthus oil she had brought, and this she combed through Míriel’s hair to make it smell fresh and pleasant. “This is mine,” she murmured. “I hope that does not trouble you. I could not find any of yours left; I imagine Finwë has used it or given it away. This one is rather popular among the Noldor; perhaps you used it as well?”

She began to twist Míriel’s hair into the bun which she had planned for her, and then realized it would put her neck at an awkward angle when she lay back on the ground. Indis had failed to plan appropriately for a dead woman. So she let Míriel’s hair fall loose again, and instead began to weave it into a fresh set of braids.

“He took your pots down from the study,” said Indis as her fingers worked through Míriel’s hair. “But I told him to leave them be. Why should I need to erase the memory of you to be comfortable here? Can we not live together, you and I? In peace?” She combed the small, frail hairs behind Míriel’s ears into the braid. A few of the strands had come loose in Indis’ hands, and she wondered about that. Míriel would not regrow them now, would she?

“I wish I had known you more in life,” Indis sighed. “Perhaps then I would know better what to do, what to say. Fëanáro seems so certain I bear you ill will, but it isn’t so. I should never desire to have benefit of another’s unhappiness.” She almost blurted out that she had taken Míriel’s hair accessories without Fëanor’s knowledge, but at the last second remembered the Maia, and held her tongue. Instead, she quietly worked the jade comb into Míriel’s hair and clipped the hair along her forehead back with a small clasp on either side.

“There,” she said. “I’ll take her.” Gently, she took Míriel’s body from the Maia, and cradling the back of the former queen’s head, laid her back down in the grass. Míriel weighed but little to Indis; she thought she could have lifted her without much effort. “That will please her some, don’t you think?”

***

It was in the soft dark of early morning that Indis jolted awake, breath stopped up from a dream of something chasing her. The terror of being hunted was not pleasant, but it was the sickening feeling of only being able to move her feet at a snail’s pace that shoved her heart up into her throat. It was a familiar nightmare to her—perhaps because she was a runner, her mind focused excessively on situations where she was not able to do something which came naturally to her.

She threw herself out of bed (Finwë had offered to take Míriel’s side and give Indis his own, but Indis had waved this off as an unnecessary accommodation, and so she slept in the space where once Míriel had lain, where she had slept and stayed awake whispering to her husband and where she had made Fëanor) and padded quickly into the adjoining dressing room, which had blessedly been cleared of Míriel’s clothing before Indis’ arrival. Into the washbasin she poured a measure of water to splash against her face. She pressed her hands against her too-warm cheeks and looked up to the mirror to calm her heart.

But in the glass she saw only Míriel’s face; Míriel’s hands; Míriel’s long, silver hair; Míriel’s embroidered nightdress.

The scream that left her throat was still hers, at least.

Thankfully when she woke in truth it was silently, a chill sweat prickling along her spine and beneath her breasts. She turned onto her side and grasped weakly at Finwë’s back. He stirred, still mostly asleep, but rolled over and flung an arm over her. And yet, Indis could not shake the feeling of another body at her back, and she was not sure it troubled her as much as it ought to do.

***

Indis could have taken the dream as a sign Míriel was displeased about the changes to her hair, but she did not think dead Elves had that much power. Still, she kept to her work and her gardens in the days after. Finwë seemed to sense something amiss, but when he inquired, Indis put him off. He suggested they go for a ride, and the fresh air did seem to clear Indis’ head. Fëanor refused to go with them, and stalked off in disgust when Indis invited him. Finwë made to go after him, but Indis waved this off as well.

“He is upset,” she sighed.

“He need not take it out on you,” Finwë said with a frown.

“Give him time,” she said, reminding herself as well as Finwë. Fëanor was clever enough to be quite cutting, and young enough not to have the grace to restrain himself, but he was still a youth, and he had taken the news of his mother’s refusal to return to life quite hard. It would be difficult, she thought, for any child not to feel that a dearth of his mother’s love had caused her choice, even if it were not so. She was not surprised that the years since had not yet been enough to move him past it.

So they went out just the two of them, and Indis had not realized how much she had cooped herself up in the house with chores until they were out past the city limits with the breeze in her hair and Finwë’s laughter beside her. They alternated riding and walking alongside their mounts, and the vibrance of Laurelin was glorious to see.

It was in this relaxed, ebullient spirit that she blurted out to her husband that she had visited the body of his dead wife.

That brought the morning to a swift halt.

“Oh?” said Finwë, in the voice of someone very much attempting to remain casual about something they certainly did not feel was a casual topic. “Is that what took you away the other day?”

“I only wished to see her,” Indis said, somewhat breathless. “To pay my respects. I…we share so much now, she and I. It seems only right that I…offer some…” She fumbled for the right word.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Finwë said quickly, when Indis did not presently come to a decision on how to describe whatever offerings she had made to Míriel. “Only I…” He hesitated, and drew his horse nearer to hers. “I know it has been difficult for you,” he said softly. “There are many who have not forgotten that Míriel was queen. Yet you should not feel now that you live in her shadow. She would not wish that.”

“How can you say?” Indis asked, locking her eyes on his.

“Because I knew her,” he said. “She was not sentimental. A touch possessive, perhaps, but not sentimental. She would not blame you for taking a place offered to you. If she were wroth with any, it would be with myself! So.” He reached out and placed a hand over Indis’. “Do not feel you must placate her, or make some obeisance because you now sit on a throne that was hers. It would not be just to invite you into my home only to ask you to leave space for one who came before.”

“I’m being rather foolish, aren’t I?” Indis gave a breathless smile. “You have given me more than enough reassurance. Still, she was here, and I wish to give due respect to that.” She paused, considered, and then felt it not inappropriate to say: “She looked so…”

“Live?” Finwë said grimly, his hand tightening over Indis’. “’tis a trick of the gardens. I have almost though to ask them to release her body from their spells, yet…I believe it comforts Fëanáro, to visit her. This I would not take from him.”

“No, neither would I,” Indis agreed at once. “It was only stranger than I imagined it would be. It was not like death in Endor.”

“Praise Ilúvatar for that!” Finwë said fervently. On this, they agreed whole-heartedly, and Indis let the matter drop, and even Fëanor’s sour scowls when they returned that afternoon did not unsettle the peace she felt after their outing.

The unsettling Indis did herself.

Too many times that night she almost turned to Finwë to say that she agreed with what he said about not fixating too much on Míriel, but—surely someone should do something about her clothes! Surely Míriel Serinde would not be happy wearing the same gown for years on end! She had enough presence of mind to realize she would be returning this conversation to an uncomfortable place, yet the thought persisted.

Surely someone ought to change Míriel’s clothes.

Indis timed her visit in and out of the storage room quite early in the morning, when neither Finwë nor Fëanor was likely to be about. It took her two and a half hours of sorting through Míriel’s clothes to choose something. Her first had been a vibrant red robe accented with gold, but she realized what a shocking change this would make for anyone visiting Míriel’s body, so she forced herself to put it back (despite knowing how its colors would flatter Míriel’s complexion, its cut her shape), and choose a pale green with a pearly white complement. She stuffed it into a sack and put the sack in her own wardrobe to be retrieved later.

Only by the barest margin could she convince herself she wasn’t intentionally deceiving both her husband and his son, but she assured herself that even if it were so, this was necessary, and once it was done she would feel better, and she could let the matter rest.

Míriel lay undisturbed where Indis had last left her. No one had commented on the change in her hair style, so Indis could only assume that no one was bothered, or no one had traced it back to her.

“I brought you something,” she announced to Míriel as she knelt beside the former queen. “I thought you might enjoy a change of dress.” She patted the sack she’d brought with her. “It shan’t take long. I know not which were your favorites, so I picked one rather similar to what you have now.”

She reached for the close of Míriel’s robe and then hesitated. In her mind, the change had been perfunctory and painless, but now beside Míriel’s limp and lifeless body, Indis was forced to concede it would likely be rather difficult, and involve quite a lot of intimate touching.

“Allow me, Your Grace,” she murmured, casting her eyes down as she loosened the ties of Míriel’s outer robe and spread the creamy fabric open. It occurred to her she could have brought Míriel a fresh interior robe as well—but did she really need such things? Her body secreted no oils nor fluids anymore; she didn’t move to dirty it.

Shaking herself out of these thoughts, Indis moved her attention to carefully working Míriel’s arms out of the robe. It was hard to do, and she had to bend the queen’s arms and shoulders at awkward angles to slide them out, which spiked her anxiety.

“Finwë and I went for a ride the other day,” she said quietly. “How lovely it is to go riding here, knowing nothing will trouble us…he seems content now, but I wonder if he still misses you. He must, mustn’t he? How could he not? Could one ever cease to yearn for a lost partner? None can truly replace another person.” When she had Míriel lying flat on her robe, she worked her slippers off (she had brought a fresh pair of these as well) and then frowned. It seemed to her inappropriate to be manhandling a body this way, and she hoped none of the Maiar were watching her, but she was committed to the course at this point.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said, and hooked an arm around Míriel’s chest, under her arm, to lift her up. Míriel had always been lean of figure, with skinny hips even after childbirth (it had given her great pains then) and small, neat breasts. Quite different, Indis thought, from her own body, thick around the thigh from the hours she spent running, and much taller than Míriel, who had stood more than a foot below Finwë in height. 

Slowly, Indis eased the old robe out from underneath the queen’s body and as she folded it to set aside, felt that she had broken out into a nervous sweat. Several times she looked around her, worried someone else might have come into the gardens and observed this act, but it remained empty of other Elves that she could see.

“This will make you feel better,” she asserted as she started to shrug Míriel into the new robe.

“Recently I mentioned to Finwë about that face he makes when focused on something in particular—I do think it’s a rather charming look—and he said that you told him often of how ridiculous it looked.” Indis gave a high, girlish laugh. “I thought it terribly amusing, that we both had noticed the same thing. It is rather silly-looking, isn’t it?” She hooked an arm under Míriel’s legs to lift the lower part of her body off the ground so she could smooth out the new robe underneath her. “Perhaps I should have told him I agree with you.”

She wrung her hands a little, and then started to pull the new robe closed, feeling her heartbeat in her ears as her fingers skimmed over Míriel’s chest. No warmth came from her now, and Indis felt acutely aware of the stillness of Míriel’s ribcage.

“I told him I had been to see you,” she said quietly, almost in a whisper. “But only the first time did I mention. I think he worries…he worries because we share so much. But I see it another way. It makes us sisters of a kind, do you not think?” She took great care in tying the close of the robe, to make sure it looked nice and sat well and wasn’t too tight or too loose. “I am happy to share things with you, Míriel Serinde,” she said. “It is an honor.”

She slipped the new shoes onto Míriel’s little feet, making sure the heel was tucked neatly inside.

“There,” she said cheerfully, almost panting. “Is that not more comfortable, my lady? Although, as we are both queens, perhaps I should call you by name. Do you think we might have been friends?” For a moment she fidgeted, then stuffed Míriel’s old robe and slippers into the sack. “I had best be gone,” she said. “The house will wonder where I am.”

For dessert that night, she made a special request: rice pudding.

***

At the party, Fëanor was the perfect young host. He was gracious with their guests and smiled charmingly at all who greeted him by name (although little of his bearing came from his father, he could at times sport Finwë’s heart-meltingly winning smile). He was present and talkative which was certainly not always the case, and even toured them around the house, expounding on the histories and techniques of Míriel’s tapestries and Míriel’s looms and Míriel’s inventions-that-did-not-come-to-be. It all would have been terribly laudable, and Indis might’ve even been proud, if he hadn’t done it all to humiliate her.

He made sure throughout the night that she was watching, and that sharp-eyed gray glare with which he caught her gaze left no doubt that his praise of Míriel was meant to show how unaccomplished and feeble-minded Indis was by comparison. But how could she or Finwë chastise him for honoring his mother in front of their guests? Clever boy, Fëanor.

He wasn’t wrong, either. Indis did not have great deeds or a fearsome temperament or a history of leadership to her name. At times, admittedly, his words stung, but she couldn’t truly be angry.  It was not even worthwhile to suggest to Finwë that it had all been done as a petty jab at her. Certainly it would improve nothing in her relationship with Fëanor to be seen as tattling on him to his father.

So she said nothing to either of them, and when she woke later that night and eased out of bed, there was a pleasant ache between her legs. Wrapping a dressing robe around herself, Indis slid open the bedroom door and entered the hall.

The path to the storage room was relatively undisturbed at that hour. Indis let herself in and then leaned back lightly against the door, exhaling quietly. The impulse that had driven her had not died down, but standing then among Míriel’s things, she could feel the shame of knowing she was doing something of which others would not approve trying to force its way into her consciousness.

It did not overcome the thrill of being there.

Alone amidst Míriel’s wardrobe, Indis shed her dressing robe and stood only in her underwear, the gooseflesh over her arms not a marker of any chill in the room. Her inner thighs were still tacky with Finwë’s release from earlier in the night; as he had pressed tender kisses to her throat, she could not help but wonder: Was it like this? With her? Was it like this when you made Fëanor?

Indis walked among the rows of fabric, running her fingers over Míriel’s tiny, meticulous stitches. Clearly the queen had favored warm, bold colors, and Indis could see at least some of the places where she had tried things that were not typical for Noldor fashion. Others she knew where styles or methods of Míriel’s own invention which were now commonplace among them.

Indis pulled a salmon-pink robe down from the rack and held it up to herself. Did Míriel’s friends try her things on, she wondered? Did Míriel make things for them? Did Míriel have friends? She must have! Certainly there were many among the artists’ guilds who held her in great respect. She put the robe back and continued, selecting next a sapphire blue gown, which she twirled about with herself, and then something which appeared to be an underrobe, but which was made almost entirely out of lacework, painstakingly hand-done. It would have obscured very little.

“For what did you wear this?” Indis murmured, rubbing the delicate lacing between her thumb and forefinger. That it was fitted quite well to Míriel’s size Indis guessed even from her limited knowledge, and judging by how short it was on Indis, could not possibly have reached below Míriel’s knee. (Nothing of Míriel’s was sized in a way that would fit Indis; even the queen’s bracelets were too small to clasp around Indis’ wrists.) With some reluctance, Indis replaced it and went on digging.

Next, she pulled down a bright yellow robe and its cut was so loose she couldn’t resist sliding it off the hanger to see if it would fit on her. It was pulled taut across her shoulders, and she could only just tie it off in the front—and it seemed somehow more obscene than simple nudity in regards to her breasts—but she did get it on, and the color wasn’t a bad look on her. There was a mirror which Indis had brought in before, when she was selecting a replacement outfit for Míriel, and she went up to it now, and turned this way and that to see how she looked in Míriel’s robe.

“What do you think?” she murmured. “I carry so much else of yours. I may as well wear your clothes. Who else will?”

For a moment, she fantasized about returning to the bedroom in this, about climbing on top of Finwë, and feeling their bodies join, about rocking on top of him in that robe and feeling it come undone around her as she moved and watching him look at her in this robe.

Biting her lip, she turned her head to sniff at the shoulder of the robe, but it smelled only of dust, and the powder with which Indis dusted her skin at night. When she took the robe off, the smell of the powder remained and when it went back on the rack among Míriel’s other things, this touch of Indis lingered. Now there was another thing they shared.

No, Indis could not be truly angry with Fëanor, for at the end of the day, Indis was queen just as Míriel had been, and she pitied him.

***

There was not much more that Indis could do for Míriel, but the notion of ceasing to visit Lórien made her stomach twist unpleasantly. Surely she could think of some other task for the former queen that might bring her again to Míriel’s side. It crossed her mind to wonder if the Maiar who tended the garden bathed Míriel’s body. She might require it less than a living body, but it must still need care! But this seemed a task perhaps to leave to them.

So it was without any clear motive that Indis went next to Lórien, and perhaps it was fitting that as she had no purpose, this was the visit she was interrupted.

The air always seemed to still when one stepped into Lórien: not in a stuporous way, more akin to the quiet lulling of laying about in the warmth of late afternoon, not dozing, yet neither waking, and feeling ever so content with all the world. (Had Míriel believed that Lórien would fix her, when she came?) The trees seemed to stir their leaves only lazily, and the heady scent of jasmine filled the air. Sound seemed softened in the slow air, and Indis did not see until she had rounded a clutch of glossy-leafed bushes playing host to a gossiping quartet of white-faced plovers that Míriel already had a visitor.

Fëanor sat by his mother’s side, reading something open on his lap to her. Indis came to a halt and the sound of his voice reached her when she turned her attention to it; from the tone and tenor, she guessed he was reading an academic text to Míriel.

He made some inquiry, and paused for several long seconds, looking down at Míriel, before continuing.

Indis felt her throat tighten and her eyes grow hot at the sight. She wanted to go over and pull Fëanor away, for a child did not deserve to call out so plaintively to one who would not answer. Yet she knew he would not listen; indeed, he would be in a fury to see her there at all, and she had best get herself gone before he turned and saw her.

Míriel had not wept when she left her husband, nor her son, and no Maiar reported she had shed any tears when she lay down to die, so Indis wept for her as she left Lórien, shed bitter tears for the grief of Míriel’s family, and all of the love of her that now had nowhere to go.

***

The Vanyar were the only ones in Aman to make regular use of public baths. Naturally-occurring steam vents and hot springs in their territory made such things easier, perhaps, and ease had paved the road for cultural norms. Indis found herself missing those days, of joining friends in great pools of steaming water to catch up on the day’s happenings. Tirion’s palace had a bathing room, of course, but it was for the private use of the family, and as she sat in the cooling water, she thought of the baths of Valmar, and wondered if Míriel would have ever joined her there. Finwë, she was certain she could convince, unless some need for dignity of office held him back, but what of Míriel?

As Indis rubbed a bar of sweet-smelling honey soap over her shoulder, her mind drifted back to Míriel lying in the garden of Lórien, still and cold and alone, and she wondered if she had company in the halls of Mandos, at least. Was it lonely there, she wondered? Did she ever yearn for her life in the treelight? Or was she as indifferent to her separation from the living as she had been when first she refused to return?

Indis had never gotten to make her final trip to see Míriel, and she had not gone back since nearly running into Fëanor there. Perhaps it was only right to close things out officially, she thought. It wasn’t that she thought the Maiar of Lórien were doing a poor job taking care of Míriel—only wasn’t it different, coming from another Elf? One who knew what it was to have a hröa?

And shouldn’t it be Indis? Míriel’s spiritual successor? Would Míriel not do the same for her?

Indis gathered the necessary supplies and hauled it all up to Lórien. As usual, no one stopped her or even inquired into what she was doing. The Maiar did not have Elves’ natural sense of curiosity, nor an innate understanding of what was or was not typical Elven behavior.

“The water is cold, I’m afraid,” said Indis as she squeezed one of the waterskins into the small wood basin she had brought with her.

This was the difficult part—once more she had to strip the queen, but this time, to the skin.

“It is too soon now, of course, and I have told Finwë as much,” Indis began as she made the most business-like approach she could to undoing Míriel’s robe, “but I was thinking of children last night.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Perhaps it would be nice, don’t you think, for Fëanáro to have a little sibling? I sometimes wonder if it was lonely for him in the palace, without a mother, and with no brothers or sisters to play with.” She first removed Míriel’s outer robe before attending at all to the inner. “There are many things he could teach one.”

Her fingers trailed down Míriel’s breast, over the cold, bare skin before reaching the close of the robe, and she swallowed with difficulty.

“Do you—did you—would you have had more, do you think? It is lovely, is it not, to have such fruit of a marriage? Something made of both of you?” Her fingers trembled lightly at the tie of Míriel’s inner robe. “Finwë makes at least the start of the job quite easy.” She gave a tittering laugh, shifting so that her thighs rubbed together. “Was it so easy for you?” she asked unevenly, tugging at the tie until it came loose, and then gently easing Míriel’s inner robe open to bare her from throat to ankle. “I wonder about this. I would think it improper, but…well, it is something we both share, is it not? I wonder if he touches me as he touched you,” she said softly. “If it felt to you as it does me.” Her trembling fingers skimmed over Míriel’s exposed sides, pushing the fabric away until Indis could ease her arms out from it. To keep her clothes dry, she lifted the slight queen of the Noldor in her arms, her heart thudding against her burden, and laid her down in the grass nearby.

“I have not decided if I would name a baby something Noldorin or Vanyarin. I know her primary name must be Noldorin, of course, but I know the Noldor give also a mother-name, and perhaps it would be alright for this to be a little Vanyarin. It will be in their blood, after all.” She dipped a small cloth into the basin and began at Míriel’s collarbones, wiping her down with all the care of tending an invalid.

“How long did it take you to decide on Fëanáro’s name? Do you know he prefers your name? He’s almost never called Finwë.” Indis worked the cloth down each of Míriel’s arms, between her delicate, calloused fingers, over her palms softened by years of idleness. “Perhaps I should name my child something to match.” She sat facing Míriel and pulled her upright, leaning against Indis’ shoulder, so that she could wash her back, and then laid her down once more. Míriel’s breasts were still soft under Indis’ hand through the cloth, and Indis’ breath caught in her throat as she washed them, her hand trailing halfheartedly down to Míriel’s belly button. Indis removed the former queen’s shoes and thoroughly washed her feet, moving studiously up each leg. She had meant to wash between her legs as well, but courage fled her then, and instead she moved away to wipe Míriel’s face, her fingers moving carefully around Míriel’s heavily-lidded eyes and broad nose.

When this was done, Indis let out a long exhale. Her cheeks were hot to the touch; she nibbled at her lower lip, and had to jerk herself into action to redress Míriel and get her back into her usual position.

“Is this not more comfortable?” she murmured as she situated Míriel back onto her discarded robes. “’tis a far cry from what I would give you were you still here, but…alas, I cannot presently take you back to Valmar with me, even if I were to take such a trip. The baths there are quite wonderful though; always hot, and one almost always runs into a friend there.” She smiled. “Ah, and this, too—” She took some of the powder she herself liked to use and dabbed some of it under Míriel’s arms and beneath the curve of her breasts. A satisfied look passed over her face as she neatened the front of Míriel’s inner robe and secured it around her. “I am sure the Maiar here think not of everything.”

It often felt like stealing time with Míriel, so when her task was done, Indis did not linger much, and quickly packed her things to go.

Back in the palace, when she had put the bathing supplies away and left her horse in the stables, she sought out Finwë in his study, where she greeted him with warm kisses and pulled his hands away from his work.

“Had a nice ride?” he asked with a smile.

“Mhm,” Indis mumbled, leaning in for more kisses. “But I am not weary,” she added.

“Ah?” He finally grasped her insistence and it took little enough cajoling and groping for him to hoist her up onto the desk; she exhaled with mingled relief and pleasure as he entered her. She wound her fingers into his thick, dark hair, tugging and gasping quietly as his hips struck against her.

Was it like this with Míriel? Here? In this room? On this desk?

It was not the first time she had envisioned herself overlayed with the ghost of Míriel, but that afternoon it was different. Míriel was not a shadow over her, nor alone with Finwë, but rather besides Indis—or even alone with Indis. For a moment, it was not Finwë but Míriel she pictured thrusting between her legs, and then it was both, and she moaned, tipping her head back. Her stomach felt knotted with desire to feel Míriel’s stone lips against hers as Finwë drove her up to the heights of pleasure; she thought of Míriel’s stomach under her hands that morning, of Míriel’s shoulders and her fine fingers and her well-shaped calves and reached down to rub herself furiously, choking on a cry as she and Finwë finished her together.

Was it like this for you? she thought as she fell backwards against the desk, her toes curling, spots in her vision. Oh Míriel, Míriel, was it like this?

***

The ghost of Míriel haunted her son, and to a lesser degree her husband, and now she haunted Indis too, but Indis could not regret it. Míriel’s presence in her mind was not an unwelcome intrusion, but rather a warm companionship. It assured her there was nothing wrong with being compared to Míriel, for they were two of a kind, and they understood each other as outsiders did not. Even Fëanor’s most vitriolic words slid off of Indis after just a moment. He did not understand, but he could not be expected to understand.

If Finwë and Míriel’s marriage bond could never be fully severed, did it not stand to reason Indis had espoused herself to Míriel as well?

She lay in the divot in the bed where once Míriel had lain, and Míriel’s husband kissed her goodnight and good morning, and she bid Míriel’s son goodbye when he left for the day, and she sat upon Míriel’s throne—how could they not be bonded?

The light of Telperien shone gleaming silver above the rooftops of Tirion when Indis swung her feet out of bed. She smiled as she braided her hair back simply and dressed in something comfortable. The ride up to Lórien was quiet, though she passed some acquaintances on her way to the edge of the city and gave them a cheerful wave.

Lórien seemed cast in blue in the night light, and Indis felt almost that she walked in another world, some place removed from the rest of Aman, from the rest of Arda. She left her shoes with the horse and let the blue-green grass poke up between her toes as she made her way through the carefully-tended plants to where Míriel lay beneath her sepulchral tree.

“Think you of me now?” she whispered, laying down alongside the former queen. “You must; you are in my thoughts day after day.” She lay quite close, and rested a hand on Míriel’s chest. “Do you send me these dreams? Am I here with you now, or at home in bed?” She lifted her head and pressed her lips to Míriel’s; they were still and cold, yet soft, not how a corpse would be, not like the kisses Indis had left on their lost compatriots on the journey from the east.

Her hand fumbled at the front of Míriel’s robe and she slid her hand in until she could grasp and stroke Míriel’s thigh.

“Have you watched us, Finwë and I? Does it please you? I hope you are pleased. I think of you then, too,” she confided. “It would please me if we were seen by you, as you cannot join us.” She made little circles on Míriel’s inner thigh with her index finger. “I think he has great pleasure in lying with me…but I would give it to you as well.” She leaned over Míriel, her breasts flattening against Míriel’s body, and kissed her again. “Would you have it from me?” she whispered, her hand moving up to the juncture of Míriel’s legs. The nest of coarse silver-gray hair brushed against the first knuckles of her fingers. “Would you permit me, Míriel?” She turned her face into the crook of Míriel’s neck, where there remained traces of the scent of her own powder beneath the smell of grass that embraced Míriel. Her fingers lingered at the apex of Míriel’s thigh.

“I would have it from you,” she breathed, and plunged her fingers into Míriel’s cold sex.

Indis shuddered against her, pressing nearer, and moaned softly against Míriel’s shoulder. She bent her head down and closed her mouth around one of Míriel’s breasts, sucking and laving her tongue over the nipple until the clammy flesh glistened in the white treelight.

“So much already do we share, we should have this too,” Indis breathed, working her fingers in and out of Míriel. The flesh was not slick as it would have been were she alive; there was not the looseness of her muscles that would have come with arousal, yet neither was she a desiccated corpse. She was a dormant body; a thing in suspension; an almost, a maybe, a should-have-been. “I know our husband in his pleasure; I should know you the same.” Indis’ hand went on, but it was only she who reacted, flushing, whining, arching her body towards Míriel as she stroked the dead queen’s sex until her hand cramped.

“I shall care for them,” she whispered to Míriel, spreading her fingers and pressing her thumb against Míriel’s pearl. “I shall care for them.” She gasped at the aching throbbing between her legs and fought the urge to rut against Míriel’s leg like a beast. “Will you care for me too?”

When she could bear no more, she took her hand from between Míriel’s legs and lay beside her, staring up at the sky, panting, overheated.

“I wish you had lived, but if you had, I would never have met you,” she said. “What paradox is this?” She turned her head to look at her companion. “You have this feeling as well, do you not? This connection? There is a point of the thread of fate which weaves us together…and I am glad to know it.”

Míriel, of course, said nothing, and Indis looked back up at the star-strewn sky. For a long while then she lay in silence. So they might criticize her for wedding one already wed—but what did they know? Did they think Míriel was no longer a part of this marriage? Did they think her gone away? Gone in body perhaps, but not in spirit!

Indis rolled over and pressed a kiss to Míriel’s lifeless cheek. “Fear not. I will return to see you again soon,” she whispered.

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

(4) TENDER LIKE A BRUISE ─── ethan landry 𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “The heart is the toughest part of the body. Tenderness is in the hands." — ‘The Country Between Us’, Carolyn Forché

pairing. spiderman!ethan landry x reader

warnings. swearing, mention of blood, death, alcohol, and sex

summary. after that stint with the spidersuit on halloween, quinn’s getting suspicious… (1) (2) (3) (4)

a/n. sorry for the long wait everyone! also sorry that this is such a short chapter, i sprained my ankle the other day LOL

iiii.

The night after you save Ethan in the Spidersuit, you and your entire friend group are crowded in the apartment, ready to watch a shitty indie movie Mindy got from her uncle, who was as big a movie-geek as she was. 

First, however, Quinn had flicked on the news. She coursed through every channel, until she stopped on an opinionated broadcast by the name of the Daily Bugle, some obscure network that Ethan had worked at for, like, a year while he was still in highschool.

“He’s kind of, like, the devil,” Ethan told you one time at a diner, a place you landed in since you two couldn’t choose which place you wanted to order at. 

“J. Jonah Jameson seems like a very interesting creature. Devilish for sure, though,” You said, scrolling through the man’s miniscule Wikipedia page, alongside a handful of tweets using his biased shaming as reaction videos. 

Ethan held the plastic-lined menu in his large hands, turning it over to see the other side. “He was big on work ethic, meeting your quota, having to show him every article before it was published, stuff like that. It was really efficient, actually, but he was just… insufferable.” 

“Worst boss ever?”

“Worst boss ever,” Ethan said, shaking his head and taking a sip of his drink - a chocolate milkshake. 

So, it really was a surprise that Quinn was itching to watch his news, practically vibrating out of her skin. Even in general it was uncharacteristic of her, as she always seemed bored to death by the news Sam watched in the morning. 

“Quinn, I thought you hated the news.” Tara said, mild mannered and sitting down next to Mindy. 

“Especially this bald head-ass,” Mindy said, scooching over to make room. 

Quinn waved off everyones protests. “Someone I know is in this.” She then sat on the floor close to the television screen, “I just need to watch this one bit, ‘kay? Then we’ll get to whatever epistolary movie you want, Minds.” 

“It’s not epistolary, it’s a mockumentary about—“

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, Uncle Randy’s got you all educated.” Chad walked in with a pillow, pushing his sister over and plopping down right in between her and Tara. 

You were in the kitchen with Ethan, heating up bags of popcorn in the microwave, when Quinn cranked up the volume of the news way high. You could now hear it from there, and you both caught the segment's tagline. 

“Spiderman’s New Sidekick: Menace, or Martyr? Just last night, the attention-seeking “hero” was seen causing more mayhem in the city of New York. The troublemaker was accompanied by a similar web slinging partner - though still suspiciously hiding their identity. The following clip has been sent anonymously to us.”

The tv network then played a clip of you, fidgeting with the web slingers, clumsily making your way through New York and hitting several garbage cans over in the process. Your suit, however, was encapsulated in darkness, and all anyone could see was that white hood and those big curved eyes the mask had — tell-tale spiderman features. 

Your eyes darted to Ethan’s own, who was wide-eyed and pale. 

Ethan had long grown inured to the media’s attention on him, seeing as he had been doing this spiel for two years now - but you being in the news was a whole other story. 

The boy leaned over, presumably to whisper pretend sweet nothings in your ear (truthfully completely panicked thoughts about you in the suit) when Mindy interrupted your thoughts. 

“Oh my god, Quinn, don’t tell me you’re watching Jameson bash Spiderman because you don’t like him?” Mindy groaned, sinking into the couch. 

Quinn was quiet, which was really just an answer. 

Mindy leaned over from her spot on the couch. “Give me —“ she and Quinn wrestled for the remote, “the remote, I can’t listen to this entitled senior citizen bash Spiderman any longer—“ 

“He’s informing the public about a troublemakers misdeeds—“

“He should be informing the public he’s getting admitted into a senile care home—“ 

Then the two of them landed on the floor with a thud, the microwave went off, and Chad took over Mindy’s space on the couch, artfully “yawning” and placing an arm on Taras shoulder, who gave him a look but didn’t shrug him off. 

Well. So much for a peaceful night. You can see why Sam spent so much time at Danny’s place. 

The majority of you were sporting hangovers, and had wished to experience a relaxing evening, falling asleep to the droning of a Meeks-Martin Movie Recommendation (a name Chad protested everytime you said it, saying, “it’s associating me with Mindy’s movie-geek bullshit”) whose philosophical points generally flew over your head. 

(Hangovers excluding you and Ethan, who had spent the rest of the night patching eachother up, in which you were privy to Ethan’s nursing skills - or more accurately, the lack thereof. 

You had found yourselves once more in the apartment's cramped bathroom, except this time you were getting bandaged up for the scrapes on your elbows. 

You were squirming under Ethan’s touch, his hands in a heavy grip on your forearms. At some point, Ethan had enough of your movement, used his large hands to pull you close by the waist, and continued his idle work on your arms there. 

The manhandling had you so flustered you dared not move for the rest of treatment, turning your head away from the mirror so as not to reveal the terrible blush on your face. 

On the other hand, Ethan was completely oblivious of the nature of his actions, focused on bandaging your wound correctly. 

In the end, despite all the fuss, he forgot to use rubbing alcohol, and didn't know how to tie the bandage, leaving an articulate bow to finish the wraps off instead. Still, you appreciated the effort. 

He had done it in his awkward, stilted way, which was incredibly endearing in its own right.)

Silence flooded the room, until you pulled the popcorn out of the microwave, and you and Ethan poured the bags into their respective bowls for each person. 

Mindy and Quinn then untangled themselves from each other, getting up and wiping the dust of their clothes like nothing had ever happened.

“So,” You said, trying to play it cool, “what’s the deal with Spidey, my boyfriend's boyfriend?” 

Ethan followed from the kitchen, pushing you playfully (and hoping this fake nonchalance was convincing enough). “Turn that nonsense off, Q. Don’t you remember Jameson’s outburst when I quit?”

The man had had a tantrum when Ethan quit the poor summer job he was working in their offices. 

Ethan got the job in the first place because his dad was part of the NYPD, and Jameson thought Ethan might be able to spill some incredibly confidential “juicy” details about ongoing cases. When Ethan failed to deliver, Jameson forgot about him, and he spent two months doing miniscule tasks, like sorting paperwork or going for coffee runs. 

Suffice to say, it wasn’t the office experience Ethan was hoping for, so he promptly quit. There was also the awkward matter of Jameson’s increasing hatred of Spiderman, wherein Ethan was forced to regularly voice his “irritation” toward the hero. 

(Which was kind of hard to put his heart into when, well, he was the hero.)

And although it was a proper quitting, too, with a two weeks notice and everything, Jameson didn’t care, and berated seventeen-year old Ethan in front of the twenty something workers he had under his feet. But Ethan hadn’t cared too much either, and went to the theater to watch a movie right after. 

You and Ethan waited for Quinn’s familiar jabs at Ethan’s old job (in which Quinn had laughed for a solid ten minutes when he came home from quitting, in utter shock that her little brothers first job ended with a 60-year-olds toddler tantrum), his “love” of Spiderman, or even just Ethan in general - but nothing came. She merely shifted her gaze from you to him, before shrugging, and handing the remote back to Mindy. 

So movie-night was back on, but a certain feeling was creeping up both your spines, twin looks being traded between you and Ethan. 

What exactly had prompted Quinn to watch a broadcast about Spiderman? No matter how much she ranted about the hero, she equally hated Jameson and the news. 

You wracked your brain for a single solution throughout the entire movie, and it had only clicked when Mindy began her routine film-analysis, bringing out the small, rollable white board you all had tried to hide from her, just so you wouldn’t need to listen to any more movie essays. 

You got up, and pulled Ethan along with you, Mindy shooting you two a disgusted look, and Chad throwing you a thumbs up. 

(You hadn’t noticed, but Quinn’s eyes trailed after you with a glint of suspicion.)

“She knows,” you said, hushed and ducking in the dimly lit apartment hallway near your bedroom. 

“What?” Ehan said, brows furrowed. 

“She knows. Quinn.”

“Quinn knows what?”

“Oh my god,” you refrained from hitting him, “Quinn knows you’re Spiderman.” 

“What?”

“Quinn knows y—“

“No, I mean, what as in what the fuck?! Are you sure she knows?” 

“I just - she was looking at us weirdly during the Spiderman broadcast, and through the entire movie, too—“

“That doesn’t mean she knows, right? She could be looking at us because we’re “dating”, or because — ‘cause I’m her stupid Spiderman geek brother, or—“

“Okay, but she could also be looking because she knows you’re Spiderman, knows I’m the weird sidekick on the news—“ 

“[Name]! Just,” Ethan pressed two fingers between his eyes, “can we let this go? Just for tonight?” 

You sighed, leaning your head against the wall. “Fine! Let’s just… pretend none of this ever happened. That she, like, probably doesn’t know.”

“[Name].”

“Okay! Okay, you win. But just for tonight, because I swear, if I wake up tomorrow and my mom’s blasting my phone because Quinn told someone about it—“

“She doesn’t know!” Ethan repeated, before sticking his fingers in his ears and walking away like a little kid. 

You shook your head at his immaturity, but stuck your tongue out at him when he wasn’t looking, anyway.

After that isolated incident of suspicion, you and Ethan kept a particularly close watch on his sister's actions, reactions, and movements.

How she reacted when Ethan raved about how much he “adored” Spiderman, the faces she made when Sam passed The Daily Bugle channel on TV, how guarded her body language was when you walked around Central Park and someone called out from afar that Spiderman had just swung by. 

And she was so fucking suspicious. 

Quinn’s eyes would thin, looking at Ethan and you when he talked about Spiderman, she’d watch intently when Sam passed Jamesons channel, if even for a second, and she’d look to the skies every time somebody shouted “Spiderman” in the park or the streets. 

Ethan countered your every thought, however, constantly reminding you of her previously mentioned hatred for the hero, using that as an excuse for her every move. 

You two find yourselves arguing over the matter again, this time while walking across campus to your next classes, having to hold hands as you did so just so people wouldn’t think your arguing was actually you two in the process of breaking up. 

“E, she knows. I mean, for gods sakes, what person who doesn’t know sends their brother nasty looks when someone talks about Spiderman?” 

“Well, maybe, I’m her little brother who she’s made fun of every moment for the last nineteen years?”

“Oh my god, Ethan, we can’t keep pretending she doesn’t know you’re Spiderman!” you whisper shouted in his ear, pretending to pick something out of his hair. 

“Well, I was just suspicious, but you two have gone ahead and confirmed it for me.” Quinn suddenly appeared beside you, walking in tandem with your paces. 

Then, you and Ethan both stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, shock still, jaws dropped, almost getting hit by a bike in the process. 

“What?” She said, tilting her head to the side. 

“What?” Ethan said back. 

“What -“ You began, but the irony sunk in rather quickly. “No, fuck— Quinn, how the f— how did you find out?” you whispered low, pulling her by the sweater sleeve as you began walking again. 

Quinn looked back to make sure nobody was listening secretly, like she had done just moments prior. “Again, I was just suspicious. Knowing was all you two. But… you guys are kind of, like, really obvious. Like, on movie night, you were fighting in the kitchen about the popcorn, and when I turned on the news you went quiet. When me and Mindy argue about the better heroes, you look at eachother like you’re about to burst out laughing every time I say I hate Spiderman. And your Halloween costume,” she pointed at you, “had a hood that looked a lot like the one on TV.”

You scratched your cheek sheepishly, considering the facts against you. “Okay, we are… more obvious than I thought.” 

“We?” Ethan said, incredulous. “I’ve hid this for years.” 

Quinn snorted, stifling a laugh. “Ethan, you’re fucking terrible,” she punched her brother, “at lying. I just never brought it up. Honestly, what the hell is “I’m going out for patrol — no, I meant I’m going on a date with [Name]” supposed to mean to me?” She mocked Ethan’s nervous stuttering. 

Ethan went red. “I— well, — I mean, dad doesn’t even know, and he’s like a bloodhound.”

Quinn shrugged. “Sure, he doesn’t say anything, but he also never reports any unnatural cobwebs he finds on the criminals either.”

“I’ll be damned,” Ethan said, starstruck. You patted his shoulder pitifully. 

“Does anyone else…?” You gestured lightly to the general population on campus.

Quinn shook her head. “Not that I know of. And I won't tell anyone, if that’s what you mean.” 

The three of you stopped to sit at a water fountain, the conversation becoming much more serious by the look of Quinn’s face. 

She had bit her lower lip, suddenly looking far off, a mix of melancholy and fury shining in her brown eyes. “As long as you don’t get yourself killed, Ethan, I won’t tell anyone.” 

Ethan gulped, probably remembering all the times he did exactly that. “I promise, Quinn, I—“

“Because I know you will, Ethan. And I will fucking dig our brother out of the earth if you dare to—“

All of a sudden, this didn’t feel like a confrontation between friends — it felt like a heartfelt conversation between family, and you felt very out of place. 

Just seeing how furious Quinn looked, but how her lip trembled, how fists clenched with the memories of their brother, how Ethan leaned away, trying to escape any confrontation in relation to their brother, how his expression tensed - it made you feel icky, like you were interrupting that which was none of your business.  

As you were about to leave, step away from the incredibly private situation and duck into your school building, Quinn grabbed you by the hand. “[Name], promise me, please, keep my brother safe. You’re in this way deeper than I am, so…”

She waited for confirmation. When you didn’t respond, Quinn continued. “You love him, I can tell, so please, just… keep him alive, for me, okay?.” 

Your mouth opened and closed. She still thought you two were— 

You considered telling her the truth, but - but her gaze was so desperate, tone so heartfelt, the only thing you could do was nod.

From there, you could feel the guilt eat at you, simultaneous to the burning you felt in your heart. You wanted to protect Ethan, you wanted to keep him safe - you did not want to lose him, for that would be like losing a limb. 

And then Quinn’s words echoed in your ears once more: you love him, I can tell—

You breathe, in and out, conscious coming back to the Earth, and you slip away from the pair of siblings, Quinn’s words ringing in your ears, Ethan’s gaze lingering on you as you stepped into Blackmore.

taglist: @iloveneilperry @backtotheshitshow @hazehepburn @powowowy @ifilwtmfc @oscarisdaddy69 @al1v3cvp1d2@bloodyeverything @diamondci1ty @l5bryinth @gojosbucket @volturi-girl-imagines @sflame15-blog @thatoneembarrasingmoment @bajadotcom @cerealzzz @elynk @theapulidooo @solaceinwritings @1horrormoviewhore1 @anthemabby @mia-luvs @dont-get-upset @knxv1lie @verveta345 @im-in-a-pansexual-panik @xyzstar @ihearttokissboys

strikethrough = wouldn’t allow me to tag, sorry!

[cilil]

Femslash February

⬡ Prompt: Haunting & jewelry (sweet bingo) | Míriel x Indis ⬡ Synopsis: Indis becomes enamored with Míriel's memory ⬡ Warnings: / ⬡ Drabble ⬡ AO3

The queen's presence lingers, like a ghost haunting the palace. 

Indis has seen her before, of course, always admiring her from afar. She beholds the paintings of her, she caresses their frames, she holds dear the magnificent works Þerindë left behind. 

Awe and reverence are what she feels, yet also a strange, forbidden longing. 

In a way, she too misses that wonderful wife Míriel was; she too would have liked to have her.

Indis knows where her ring is kept. Guilt and yearning alike tearing her heart apart, she secretly slips it onto her finger and dreams of the queen. 

Thanks for reading! ♡