Star of the Silmaril- Prologue
Author’s Note: This is the beginning of my Star of the Silmaril fic. It deals with the forging of the Silmarils and the eventual downfall of Fëanor. When they speak Elvish, I know it’s Sindarin, not Noldorin, but I don’t know any Noldorin, so bear with me. Also, this is going to be a slightly different version than you read in The Silmarillion, because I wanted to make it my story. I will have a few OC, just for your information. Anyway, I am shutting up now. Please enjoy the story.
The Noldorin Elf-lord turned. “What is it, Elath? Tell me that Míriel has not had another fit of madness. Why should the birth of our son so grieve her? I have already begged Manwë to take her to the gardens of Lórien.”
“No, it is not that,” the younger Elf said, bowing before Finwë. “It is only that Manwë says that she languishes more each day. He does not think…that she will live much longer. For some inexplicable reason, the birth of Fëanor deprived her of the will to live, and she begs for release. You should go to her, my lord – time wanes for your wife.”
“My dear Míriel will live,” Finwë said stubbornly, setting his jaw. Although he was tall, as the Eldar were, he was slight, and Elath felt that he could upset the Noldor lord with a slight shove. “She would not leave me for the halls of Mandos. She would not. She might be languishing, but she still loves me.”
But he turned, went to his chambers, and gathered his things. Pulling a dark hood over his face, he climbed onto his horse and rode from Aman.
Míriel walked into the gardens of Lórien, her white dress smeared with stains – grass and dirt, and soaked from the recent rainfall. She did not care. The Noldorin woman’s eyes stared past the thick trees of Lórien. Her dark hair fell uncombed down her back, and her arms were scraped and scratched from when she had run crying through Lórien for no reason.
Hands pulled at her arms, but Míriel continued on her way, walking beneath the trees, her stained skirt trailing over the grass. She lay beneath a spreading oak, staring up into the leafy screens of its branches.
“My lady, you must not sleep,” Laira, one of the maidens of Estë, said, timidly arranging Míriel’s hair in ripples on the ground. “In such condition as you are now… your soul could fly to the Halls, and nothing would stop it.”
“Hand me that little white flower,” Míriel said slowly. When Laira did so, she clasped it to her breast with halting motions. She closed her eyes, smelled the flower, and let her head fall back. “A short rest, Laira, no more.”
Then Míriel fell into sleep, and the maidens of Estë left her. But while she slept, the invisible wardens of night came, lifted her soul from her body, and carried with them back to the Halls of Mandos. And so it was that fair Míriel never awoke again, and when Finwë came to Lórien from Aman, his wife had already gone.
“I told her not to sleep,” Laira whispered, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet.
His face dark and grim, Finwë walked into the gardens of Lórien and knelt beside his wife. Cradling the body of fair Míriel, he closed his eyes and languished long there beside the only earthly remains of his love.
“You are what?”
Fëanor stared at his father. “Surely I must have heard you wrong?”
“Not wrong at all,” Finwë answered easily. “I am to be wed again, to Indis the Fair, one of the Vanyar She is a good woman, and I think that you will find her a wonderful new mother. “
Fëanor started to laugh. “Wonderful new mother? Hardly, Father. You recall that my mother is dead. You killed her, almost, and now you are heartless enough to remarry? Ha. Pathetic, Father. Well, do not expect to see me at the wedding.” Whirling, he stormed away.
Finwë, gazing after him, sighed.
When he and Indis were taking their vows, he thought he saw Fëanor flickering about, never quite visible, but still reminding his father that he was there, present, and angry.
“Is that Fëanor?” Indis asked Finwë when the ceremony had finished.
Finwë sighed. “Yes.” He raised his voice and called over to Fëanor, “Come meet Lady Indis the Fair.”
As his son approached, looking resentful and angry, Finwë said to Indis, “Pardon him if he seemed less than pleased. His mother, Míriel, died not long after he was born.”
Indis smiled kindly and extended her hand to Fëanor. “Greetings, my son. I am Indis.”
Fëanor’s eyes flicked from her hand to her face and back again. Slowly, a smile spread across his face. Finwë was gratified to see that his son looked pleased. But his hopes were dashed as Fëanor spoke.
“I am not your son.” Suddenly, anger flared in his eyes and he spoke bitterly, the words flying from his mouth like knives. “Amin delotha lle. Lle holma ve’ edan, ar’ llie n’vanima.” Bending closer to her, he spat the last two words like poison. “Amil-unquale.” (I hate you. You smell like a human, and you are ugly. Mother-death.)
Indis gasped and recoiled back. Finwë steadied her, then turned on Fëanor with fire in his eyes. “How dare you? Apologize to the lady Indis at once.”
But Fëanor laughed bitterly, whirled, and ran from the pavilion where the wedding was being held, leaving Indis behind him with tears filling her eyes. Finwë put his arm around her and stared after his son.
Fëanor ran into the gardens, where there were many graceful flowers and arches, filling the entire space with loveliness and sweet scents. There were many reflecting pools, set in hollows that caught the sun. The sun broke on the water and scattered in shards, sending the light everywhere.
As Fëanor ran through the garden, he thought that there was a dark mass at the edge of the reflecting pool. He whirled and crossed over to it, making a note to scold the gardeners for being so careless – and froze.
This was no bundle.
This was a baby.