#its miriel Þerindë

[raven-dame]

Míriel Þerindë, Indis of the Vanyar and High King Finwë

I already have sketchs ready for Nerdanel and Ëarwen , now i only need the motivation to finish them

[crownlessliestheking]

Hi! Your writing for your silm fic & the insight you have into silm characters is always such a joy to read. For valentine's day prompts -- miriel/indis, sometime during the fourth age?

Aaaah! Thank you so much, that means a lot to hear <3 As for the prompt, wow, what a banger >:) I've decided that Miriel gets to be a little bit eldritch. You know, as a treat.

Also on AO3!

---

“Þerindë,” comes a murmur from somewhere above her, barely louder than the rustling of fabric, the drag of thread against skin.

“Indis,” Míriel makes herself answer. Her voice is hoarse as if from sleep, though sleep has not found her. Indis’ name is not a balm on her throat, but she lets herself savor the weight of it in her mouth, on her lips.

Cloth moves, layers peel away, and Míriel is soon left with nothing above her but Indis, golden as the sun and twice as difficult to look at sometimes. She’s smiling. Míriel feels achingly lucky that one of her children – their children now, really, for all that they’re all more grown than Indis had ever thought they would be – inherited it.

That doesn’t make it any easier to bear, sometimes.

Especially on the days where Míriel is too aware of her body, when she feels her fëa flutter within its confines – when it becomes a cage with fingers no longer deft enough to call the threads of Memory into being, to weave what May Be into what Was. There had been a nice finality to that, even if all it meant was that she looked backwards.

Indis, though.

Indis has only ever looked forward.

“You heard the news.” Indis does not bother elaborating; there is only one thing that she could be referring to.

More rustling, and then warmth along Míriel’s side, shocking enough to make her gasp.

“You told me yourself two days ago,” she answers. Shifts closer, feels the point of Indis’ shoulder against her own. Bone to bone, flesh to flesh. The world constricts into something a little more bearable.

“And I see that you’ve made no preparations,” Indis says, not without reproach. It grates sometimes, that she can care about things like that. Preparations. Whether there is food in the cupboards, whether there is spare bedding or fresh milk or that lavender scented soap she favors. Whether there are flowers laid on the private shrine she keeps and that Míriel turns a blind eye to.

Indis makes herself so small. She makes the entire world small, narrows it from the footsteps of thousands and thousands of spiders, the rainfall whisper of glowing silk in a vast, dark room, to these things: Her voice, a bed being made every morning, the scent of her hair at night.

“They’re coming in three weeks,” Míriel says by way of explanation.

“They’re coming in two days,” Indis corrects her.

An edge.

Time lost, slipped through her fingers. Míriel tries very hard to care, to muster up the panic that should come with something like this – but she was bad at that before, wasn’t she? Not a queen, not born for it in the same way that Indis is.

“Then you’ve prepared,” Míriel hazards a guess. Indis shifts beside her, confirmation lurking in her silence. Míriel sighs.

A peace offering: “I’m sorry. It’s been – hard.”

More quiet, and the worry comes now, gnawing at her fingers, gnawing at the spaces where she and Indis are not touching.

“I know.” Indis sighs too, and moves closer. Their legs tangle. “I’m sorry, too. I thought you needed space this time.”

“I did.”

“Not as much as I gave you.”

Indis hums, and Míriel can picture her smile even without turning: The curve of her mouth, ruefully tilted up, a thousand permutations of the same expression in a hundred versions of the same situation, the same emotion. Míriel has woven the tapestry of how Indis’ lips curl. In anger, in joy, in fond exasperation.

“You wander, my Þerindë, and I have not been as attentive in following you as I ought to be. Forgive me.” It hangs in the air, thick.

“Only if you forgive me my wandering,” Míriel counters. “For I have ventured further than I meant to, and I do not mean to go where you cannot. Not again, Laurëtari.”

“Once,” Indis says softly, “was quite enough.”

They both are changed from the women they once were in Valinor, in its golden days; in the twilit beauty of Cuiviénen. They are still relearning one another, finding new sharp edges, finding where they no longer quite fit. It is a slow, tentative thing, and Míriel does not know it at all – this thing like marriage between them, this love that they are growing. She knows its past, but its future terrifies and enchants her in turns, simultaneously insignificant and all-encompassing in the way that only eternity can be.

And they will have that, finite though it is.

“I am still here,” Míriel says. And then again: “I am still here.”

She means it, she believes it.

“I do not forget how this world hurts you,” Indis starts, cautious.

Míriel is already shaking her head.

“Not the world, but – what it would become for my son.” Her voice turns to a rasp. Her son, visiting soon, her grandchildren in tow. Her son, whose History she faithfully recorded, weeping as she wove in the same way she had when he was born. Her grandchildren, whose deeds she plucked out in dark, dark threads that cut her fingers until they bled, whose possibilities dwindled down to nothing, nothing, nothing.

“It will be good for you to see him,” Indis tells her. “Fëanáro is many things, my dear, but I cannot deny that he has embraced the world wholeheartedly. Despite all that he has done to it, and all it has done to him. It is not so cruel as you think, my heart. You know this.”

“It is hard to look to the future when you know how it ends,” Míriel admits, forcing the words out. “Of late, all I see when I close my eyes is fire and then ash.”

“And yet the sea is still here,” Indis murmurs, and cups a hand to her ear so that Míriel can hear it, the distant lap of waves against the shore so close to where they have made their home.

“The sea,” Míriel whispers back, and for a moment she feels it pulling at her, deep and endless in possibility, chords of a Music that she was never built to hear let alone understand pulling at her consciousness.

Indis’ hair tickles at the side of her neck. The ocean waves lull. There is skin against her own, and she can see the glow of light spilling into the room where the door has been left open.

“Thank you,” she finally says. “That is all I can say, before we become mired in endless apologies. Thank you, always, for your patience. For staying with me.”

For reminding me that the world is not all grief and darkness, Míriel does not say. Or perhaps for reminding me that not all darkness is bad, for how could it be, when the stars caught in your hair and I kissed you before I knew what that meant, before we ever set foot in Aman?

“You chose this. You chose me. Patience is easy in exchange, doing the dishes is easy, even hosting your son who hates me is easy,” Indis says with a hint of a smile. Their fingers interlock and Míriel is very, very acutely aware of the five she possesses, the sweat that slicks the palm of her hand, the reality that she touches. Indis; immutable, undeniable. “Well. Easier than it was in the past; I imagine he’ll be nice to me, since he desperately does not want to offend you.”

Míriel cannot help it – she laughs.

Indis leans over to kiss the echoes of it from her lips.

“Well,” Míriel murmurs. “I suppose it’s hard to argue with that.”

[dewffin]

A bit on the soundtrack of this little game...

I decided to start trying to make some songs, melodies and such for the game, as a way to search a bit the vision i have of this game... And also it was really awkward to be testing the game without any sound on it.

SO this was a bit the process...

The first one was also the first one i made. It was really me trying to make something medievalesque and fantastical, and also trying to make something not that convoluted as this was the placeholder i would have for the background music in the game, although maybe i will use a rendition of this as a main menu theme.

The second one was a bit trying to find a main song or melody for the player character, trying to go in a more fantastical yet simple song that in case i make an evil route or some something like that i can completely corrupt. For this song i went for a feeling of wandering, curiosity, of a bit not knowing where you are going but you are going to get there.

Now the third one...

So, actually i was going for something completely different, as i wanted to make like a main song for Fëanor as i am focusing in his storyline first as i think it will be the shortest. But then i was like "Hey, i could make a sad, or just melancholic, rendition of this and just milk it for every time his sons get fucked by the Oath" and so this thing was born. For now this will be the sad rendition that plays while nothing bad happens, but you get a high relationship with Fëanor and get to talk about Miriel and stuff.

Furthermore, this song is plagued by one of the only musical concepts I know... and i think the name is anticipation, or at least in spanish its anticipio.

Now, what is this? This is when you anticipate one note or more from the next chord.

It was used a lot by Bach to show suffering, but not just like a bit of pain, it was to show the greatest suffering, but also a noble one, as he used this anticipation to show the suffering of Jesus while carrying the cross (trauma from catholic school? maybe). This anticipation makes you feel the heavy pull, the pain of carrying a chain that makes your walk impossible under its unbearable weight.

This has been used in a lot of soundtracks and such to show this pain, this suffering, this doom.

And also I learnt all of this from an analysis on the music of Star Wars and i was like yep, let's use this that it's in all of Anakin's songs and let's use it on Náro :D

More about the game

[feanarotherindion]

Why Fëanor is the Way He is

Fëanor's possessiveness over Silmarils brought his doom. He drew sword on his brother. He was brash. He opposed the transition from Therindë to Serindë so much that there are memes out there. But if you look at his childhood, then it is not that surprising. You'd realise that he's most human of all elves.

He lost his mother in childhood. Why? Because she had postpartum depression and his father could not even wait more for her to heal mentally. He could not keep it in his pants because he wanted more kids.

Finwë went to the Valar because he wanted more kids and he's sad because he couldn't get them, and the Valar condemn Miriel to spend eternity in the Halls of Mandos. Why? Just to prevent divorce and preserve monogamy. Seriously? Also they allow it because according to Namo, iirc, Indis's kids will be super awesome. Who cares about Miriel or Fëanáro.

In Feanáro's eyes, the Valar took his mother and his father replaced her easily. If his father can replace her so easily then maybe he is also replaceable. He already has abandonment issues. He loves Finwë and he wants to guard it at any cost. And that leads to excess possessiveness. At this points he needs some love and understanding. He doesn't need his mother's passing being called the result of Arda Marred or some shit like that.

He sees perfect families all around him. He sees little kids with both their mother and father and feels the absence of his mother. He has Indis but in his eyes she is part of the reason why Miriel will never come back and her children as potential replacement of him. His mother hadn't been enough for Finwë and he feels he would not be either.

And if nobody would fight for his mother then he will. That is why he preferred Feanáro over Curufinwë. That is why he opposes the transition from Therindë to Serindë. It is not him being petty. It is him fighting for his dead mother.

The names of his step-brothers don't help any. Finwë gave them such names to announce it to all that they are his children. To give them legitimacy. But in Fëanáro's eyes they are Nolofinwë and Arafinwë- the wise and the noble Finwë- while he is Curufinwë- the skilled one. Yes, it is a nod to his skills but their names are more royal. And that is why he names his children NelyaFINWË, CanaFINWË.... because he feels that he has to keep on asserting this.

His father loves him but that is not enough. The damage is done and it keeps piling up. Presence of Melkor doesn't help any. He is totally against Melkor who is pardoned by the Valar and everyone is totally chill but Feanáro can see a Trainwreck but nobody believes him because they are busy licking the boots of same Valar who took his mother.

He talks shit about the Valar and people give him stink eye (which honestly if a god did that shit to me I'd bash the hell outta them god or no god. So Fëanor has not done anything wrong so far.)

He also says Melkor=bad but nope Valar pardoned him and they must have had a reason. Things happen meanwhile and it gets so bad that they hold trial for this mess. Because Fëanáro had been talking shut about them majorly. Valar learn that indeed Melkor was indeed up to No Good. But it's all derailed and Feanáro draws sword on his brother who had been talking shit about him to their father Finwë. Valar usurp Finwë's authority. They exile him. They are more concerned about Feanáro than Melkor.

His exile must have been another offence to him by the Valar. He has his father at least. So that's alright. Right? Nerdanel goes to stay with Indis. In his mind, Indis stole another person dear to him. He feels attacked from all sides.

Again, shit happens and the Valar now want his Silmarils, the shiney jewels which sound like proto horcruxes... But yeah they want Silmarils. And Feanáro would not give the Valar his shit. The same people who took his mother, who exiled him, who usurped his father, who did nothing against Melkor. Who want him to break his greatest work so Yavanna can save her greatest work. In his mind, nope. Never gonna happen.

Then his father dies. Valar do nothing. As usual. Nothing new there. Also the guy who killed his father? Now named Morgoth, about whom Feanáro warned all and sundry was one of the Valar. So by now they have taken both of his parents. His mental condition is not good but who cares since he lived in literal paradise and they don't care about such inconvenient things when singing praises of Manwë will solve every problem.

Now onto Kinslaying. Well, that was really bad decision on his part. Not gonna defend that. But I will try to explain what he might have been thinking. He saw two options. One would save more of his followers. He took that option. I'm not excusing it. Just explaining.

Onto the ship burning, if you believe Shibboleth of Fëanor to be canon then "Fingolfin has put the prefix "Finwe" to his name Nolofinwe before the Exile reached Middle-earth. This was in pursuance of his claim to be the chieftain of all the Noldor after Finwe's death, and so enraged Feanor that it was no doubt one of the reasons for his treachery in abandoning Fingolfin and stealing away with all ships."

In his eyes Nolofinwë had done exactly what he was fearing. Maybe he also feared war on two fronts. So in a colossal fuck you, to Nolofinwë and probably Teleri as well, he burned those ships.

In Silmarillion, he seemed a mad dog for this. In Shibboleth, that was hilarious.

~*~

In the end, if you look beneath the surface, Fëanor was a really interesting character and hate him or love him, you'll definitely remember him. He is one of the most compelling characters of Tolkien. And honestly, it's Miriel THERINDË. And he was entitled to desire that his mother's name is pronounced correctly. I'd hate it if someone messed up mine.

[aglaecan]

@mercysought  asked: ( SIT ) sitting on their lap. AND ( FACE ) stroking mine’s face. from the priestess to caranthir!   || Seduction Starters; accepting

In the high keep upon dark Rerir’s black slopes, there were eyes always upon them. The eyes of Caranthir’s folk, who had followed him to this high and distant place, this boundary and border between the lands which they had traversed, and the lands, beyond the mountains and sprawling eastward, in which their ancestors had first waked beneath the stars upon a distant shore.

His folk, who had followed him here, who would follow a man called Dúath, or Dark, were folk muchly of a mind with their Lord. They were audacious, bold, curious, wild of spirit, questing of heart; and he loved them, and they him. He knew this, and knew their eyes clung to and followed him from curiosity and not disapprobation. But it was still difficult, at times, for him to shake the lingering sense of… shame.

Amanyar did not remarry. They were not meant to. That his own grandfather had done so had been a source of much tumult and upset, of trouble and even of trauma; and in the end, it had been allowed only because Miriel Þerindë his grandmother had chosen never to return to life, but to rest eternal in the Judge’s halls.

Caranthir’s wife was not dead. She lived still on the far side of the sea, in the western lands now barred to the Exilic. She was *as* dead to him, but… would his people see it thus? Would they care, that he violated with this Moriquendë woman the norms and laws by which all had been made to live beneath the Valar’s watchful eye?

And so he had left the Keep, where eyes were on them. Left the Keep, and with him had brought the woman whom he called by a word in his own tongue which meant Sparrow. Left together, into the wide rolling lands of Thargelion to a place Caranthir knew, a place among trees where a spring of fresh water sprang forth from the earth, among the dark boughs. A place protected and still, a place quiet and silent and close.

A place for them. A place to be alone, together, with no one to see them but the trees.

The sun set, and Varda’s thousand stars appeared, spangling the skies over their bowered nest. They lay upon the cool grass where the water of the spring ran out, its sound a song soft and quiet. He spoke quietly in the night, pointing out the stars above, accounting their constellations to her, telling her the tales his father and his mother had told him, that their parents had first told one another upon Cuiviénen’s lost shores.

She listened, at first; but swiftly he felt her impatience grow with his endless talk, with his stories, his words. When had he become so sensitive to her moods, to her thoughts? At last, she interrupted him, not by words but deeds. She rolled to perch herself upon his legs, upon his lap, looking down at him in the dark sweet night, and she placed her finger over his lips, and then touched his cheek.

She did not need to speak. He knew. And he surged upward then to meet her as she yearned for him to do, closed his lips upon hers and silenced himself in her.

[aglaecan]

something i’m always interested in is how, in the Tolkien legendarium, the West -- the Uttermost West, the Undying West, etc -- is always conceived of as the place of light and life, closer to the Valar, where the Trees once stood, where all things which have ever sent down roots or been birthed into the world live, along with some that have never yet been seen in other lands. it’s almost a paradise, in a sense; the dead go there for their rest and are reborn into it, in new flesh, to live again in a place where death isn’t meant to touch. elves who hear or see the sea are meant to have this immediate longing to cross it, into the farthest west. the elves leave middle-earth to go there. the numenoreans sought to go there, and were punished for their presumption. the west is the place to be longed for, the legend.

and yet.... the elves were never meant, in the original plan, to go there. to be taken away from the lands where they were born (or awoke) and raised up at the side of the Valar and Maiar. it might even be symptomatic of the Marring of Arda, and when Fëanor, in an early draft from HoME, says:

"Lo, now do we know the reason of our transportation hither as it were cargoes of fair slaves! Now at length are we told to what end we are guarded here, robbed of our heritage in the world, ruling not the wide lands, lest perchance we yield them not to a race unborn. To these foresooth -- a sad folk, beset with swift mortality, a race of burrowers in the dark, clumsy of hand, untuned to songs or musics, who shall dully labour at the soil with their rude tools, to these whom still he says are of Iluvatar would Manwe Sulimo lordling of the Ainur give the world and all the wonders of its land, all its hidden substances -- give it to these, that is our inheritance. Or what is this talk of the dangers of the world? A trick to deceive us; a mask of words! 0 all ye children of the Noldoli, whomso will no longer be house-thralls of the Gods however softly held, arise I bid ye and get you from Valinor, for now is the hour come and the world awaits."

can you even really much blame or criticize him? for the casual racism toward humans, sure; but also he’s never met them and has only been told of what they’ll be like (quite a bit of this knowledge having come from Morgoth and having been deliberately skewed, mind you), and has had all his fury and anger stoked against them, for they are to be the inheritors of what should have belonged first to the elves, even according to Eru’s plan... which the Valar did not abide by in bringing the three kindreds of Calaquendi to Valinor.

and so the Noldor travel again... not west this time, but east. east, into the darkened lands. east, which becomes instead their goal and the place of wonder for them, instead of west. and while they stopped in Beleriand, because that’s where Angband was, and Morgoth, and the Silmarilli... they dreamed, it’s clear, of going further east, back into the lands which had birthed them originally.

But in the days of the Siege of Angband the Gnomes had yet small need of hiding places, and they ranged far and wide between the Western Sea and the Blue Mountains in the East. It is said that they climbed Eredlindon and looked eastward in wonder, for the lands of Middleearth seemed wild and wide; but they did not pass the mountains, while Angband lasted. In those days the folk of Cranthir came first upon the Dwarfs, whom the Dark-elves named Naug-rim; for the chief dwellings of that race were then in the mountains east of Thargelion, the land of Cranthir, and were digged deep in the eastern slopes of Eredlindon.

you have to think that they’ve heard stories, from the first elves, the ones born there -- Finwë, Mahtan, probably Miriel Þerindë, and others -- about what those lands were like. the east, Cuiviénen where the waters ran sweet and a people could walk free... and so for those born into the west, it is instead the east which has taken on the mystique of longing.