Work Text:
Today it was a thick piece of red yarn she held in her left hand – weaving it between her fingers with her thumb, unweaving, winding it around each digit in turn, looping it around her fingers and creating stars and webs and knots, one-handed. She needed the other hand, for gesticulating (or for whatever else she was doing – the yarn helped, even though it took up a hand).
‘…and he didn’t seem to realise how insulting that is, why would he gush about the piece of work I had just said I wasn’t satisfied with – was he trying to say I have no taste, that I’m stupid, that I don’t know when my own work wasn’t as good as it could be – I had just told him the reasons why and it showed that he wasn’t listening to me at all, so yes, I got annoyed.’ She paused, although she could have said plenty more – but she’d been married to Finwë long enough to be able to tell when he had something to interject. So she let him. He had been married to her long enough that although she had been speaking at top speed for several minutes, he’d taken almost all of it in.
‘I would guess he thought you were being modest. And he wanted you to feel good about your work, so he praised it.’
‘Modest is another word for lying and I don’t see the point in it. If I made something beautiful, I’ll say so, and if the pattern is imbalanced, the underwork not smooth enough and the thread sub-standard, I’ll say that too – and I had just said that, he was only babbling to try and defend his useless thread, and the whole conversation…alright fine the whole argument, was because he couldn’t just say “I’m not able to make the thread you need, I don’t know how.” If he could’ve just admitted that it would’ve saved our tongues and ears…’ Finwë didn’t even need to interject at this point, she could tell what he was thinking. Her mouth twitched. ‘My tongue and his ears,’ she amended. ‘So you see, I need to talk to the Teleri about silk. It’s a long shot, but I think it’s worth a journey – I’m not going all the way to Alqualondë of course…’ she swallowed off her sentence. ‘Yes, well I’ve said that part.’
‘I completely understand your frustration.’ Finwë stood up, and gave her hand a squeeze. ‘I love your perfectionism. Very much. But…I hope it can wait? In your current condition-’
‘In my current condition? My condition of being ten weeks pregnant, as if suddenly now we know about it I can’t do a thing for myself, whereas a few days ago it was fine - shall I enter confinement already, after ten weeks? This is the condition you mean?’
‘Yes, that’s the condition I mean,’ he nodded. ‘I know it’s early, but you’ve already been sleeping longer in the mornings, and I don’t think you should strain yourself, or the rest of the pregnancy will just be even more difficult.’
‘Thank you for your expert and informed opinion on pregnancy, but I live in this body, not you, and I know it’s limitations – and the fact I’ve managed to sleep in has only put this project further behind, I need to-’
‘Míriel. We have all the time in the world. You don’t need to rush to finish your project before the baby’s born. You can continue it afterwards, you know.’
That was the thing about Finwë. In some ways he had gone native here in Valinor – time was meaningless, and everything was forever. There was no chance that one day they all might vanish into the shadowy trees and never return.
But Míriel had never quite been able to see it that way. Besides, this project was different. This one was vitally important that she finish before their child was born.
*****
Sometimes people said, “Must you keep talking like that? You do know you’re not making any sense?”
She wasn’t sure why she needed to make sense, when she wasn’t talking to anybody in particular. If people were around who were trying to concentrate, she held it in, as well as the fiddling with thread. But then their noises distracted her, and they didn’t seem to realise how loud they could be sometimes. That was when she muttered to herself as she worked.
She did so now, while examining thread. The Teleri craftsman blinked and leaned closer.
‘…sorry, I didn’t catch that…?’
‘It’s alright, I wasn’t talking to you.’
‘Oh.’ He looked amused. ‘Who were you talking to?’
‘Nobody.’
Now he looked concerned, as if any reason for making sound from your mouth other than communication implied a dangerously unstable mind. Míriel rolled her eyes. ‘This is good, this blue in particular – do you have anything else with a rich colour like this?’
‘Ah, uhm, the purple, of course is our best-’
‘You mean most expensive. I don’t need purple.’
‘Well, you’ll not find this colour sold by any Noldo. To dive for the clams we use is a particular skill-’
‘I know how it’s made, and I said I don’t need any. Is this all you have? Do you Teleri only work in blues??’
His mouth set. Apparently she’d offended him. ‘Here,’ he said. He opened a door to a side room – the woman working inside jumped, startled. She was working on a huge piece of embroidery – it was Uinen amidst the waves. The art wasn’t bad, but Míriel would have thrown out the design for lack of detail – she could use a thousand more colours, and add shadow and depth to the figure, although the water…hang on…
‘How did you do this?’ Míriel demanded, pointing to the foam at Uinen’s feet. ‘It’s…this thread, what is it?’
The man smirked, proudly. The woman simply held up a strand. ‘Shaved mother of pearl, as thin as we can make it, and spun in – it’s horrible stuff to work with, but when you can get it in right, it reflects the light and shines.’
Míriel was already holding out a hand. ‘How much?’
*****
Finwë reached around her, making her jump.
‘Finwë, I’m in the middle of something extremely delicate and I do not need your arms in the way!’
He rested his hands on either side of her growing bump. ‘My ears are bleeding from the language you’re using. I’m covering the baby’s.’
‘You are not funny, and you are in the way.’
‘It’s not going well then?’
She sighed. The trader hadn’t explained how to make thread with mother of pearl, although he’d sold her some at an outrageous price (she’d paid it. She hadn’t told Finwë precisely how much, it wasn’t really important). But he’d been confident she wouldn’t be able to recreate it – the skill takes hundreds of years to perfect, we’ve been making thread for our nets since before we crossed the sea, you couldn’t possibly…well, she intended to, starting from now. If she couldn’t find the materials she needed, she would have to make them.
Thus, her second stop had been a Noldo smith named Mahtan who she’d spoken to on a few occasions. He seemed both skilful enough, and able to mind his own business enough that he’d do what she needed.
Mother of pearl was all very well, but what she wanted was gold. And the Teleri woman hadn’t lied. It was monstrous to work with.
‘You look exhausted. I’ve never seen you look like this,’ Finwë said.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Míriel, you don’t need to finish this-’
‘I do. I can’t explain it to you, it’s a mother thing, but this is how I…no, words, see, I’m not a singer, words aren’t how I explain things, this is, and I need to-’
‘Don’t get upset.’
‘I’m not upset, but I will be if you interrupt me,’ she said, annoyed.
‘Alright. Alright. I’m sorry. Come to bed.’
‘I will, when I’ve got this piece of-’ her descriptions of the gold thread made Finwë wince. He wasn’t allowed to use that kind of language in court. ‘-into where I need it to be.’
‘Please, Míriel. You can’t work when you’re tired.’
‘I’m not tired!’
She hadn’t expected it to take this much energy, being pregnant, and she had to say she didn’t like it one bit. Not the child – she was very happy with the child. But she’d be glad when it was born.
But it couldn’t be born until she’d worked this out. In the end she sat awake, holding Finwë’s hand as he slept, still working with the gold thread.
*****
It came together in her head and in the fabric simultaneously, as she adapted her design, began to see – it wasn’t abstract at all, there was something alive in there, something…and then she knew it. She understood what her subconscious mind had been trying to express, and it came more sharply into focus, even with the last threads.
She went to fetch Finwë, and led him by the hand into where the banner lay.
‘Is it finally finished? Can you finally get some sl-’ He broke off, suddenly speechless.
It only reflected the light, of course, but as it hung there over what would be the child’s crib, it almost looked like it was shining – the gold, and silken red fading to orange, and hints of blue at the bottom of each flame – it looked as though it was moving, and the black background was being eaten by a flickering fire.
‘Our son’s name,’ she said, ‘will be Fëanaro.’
This was how she knew – maybe some mothers meditated or sang, or it came to them in a dream. But for Míriel, it was in creating something that she learned. And now she was sure.
Spirit of Fire.