Chapter Text
Curufinwë Fëanáro found his mother on a balcony, wistfully and unusually still, as she looked down on Tirion, whose streets were slowly being emptied in the soft light of the Trees. It had been a long day; the farmers had packed what remained on their carts to return to the countryside, the merchants were on their way to close their shops, and everyone was preparing to come together for dinner.
Fëanáro, nothing but a youth, had returned from his day among the loremasters. He still wore the long sleeves and muted colours he had to wear when among them, and in his arms; he carried parchments and notes concerning a tale originating from the days before the March.
He stepped out on the balcony, where Míriel Therindë sat in silence, and the question he had intended to ask – “why are you out here and not in the embroidery room?” – slipped his mind, for his mother bore such a strange expression; that her son fell silent. It was unusual that they were silent in each other’s company – Fëanáro’s insatiable curiosity often led him to asking questions, which Míriel always answered with patience as she had done for him ever since he was a babe sitting on the floor in her embroidery room, tugging on her dress or her current work or simply some thread he had found.
“Is something the matter?” asked Fëanáro at last, unable to sit still for long; the silence unsettled hinm. He shuffledthe parchments he had in his hands in an attempt to distract himself.
Míriel did not answer immediately; but continued to stare down at the city.
Had Fëanáro been older and sharper in the ways of expressions – which he would become, but he was still young; and in that stage where the strange intuition of the unspeaking babe is gone and the experience of a young adult is not yet gained — he might have noticed that Míriel’s eyes did not follow the people; or the carts or react to the sounds of horses and children and voices. No, her thoughts were far away; she was not looking out; but within herself. Her face was pale; as if a great and unkind revelation had come to her.
But worse would it have been for Fëanáro to also have noticed the determination that slowly crept over her face: the expression of one who stands against an opponent too great. And indeed, Míriel’s opponent was greater to her than all the beasts and dangers of Arda for it was herself.
All this her son might have seen had he been older and more experienced. Yet, he was not; he was young. He still loved with the uncomplicated and intense love of a child, which also made him blind.
Fëanáro broke the silence.
“Mother, soon dinner will be ready. Father is waiting for us.”
This woke Míriel up from her internal battle. She blinked and now saw the city; the streets were empty and the merchants’ houses closed. Therindë sighed and gracefully rose.
“Let us not make him wait.”