"Never again shall I bear child; for strength that would have nourished the life of many has gone forth into Fëanáro."
Even as these words leave her lips, Míriel knows she has stung Finwë cruelly, and turns her face away, unable to meet his eyes. She knows - oh, how well she knows of his longing for many children to love and cherish… but their son, the sleepy little bundle sprawled in the crib by her bed, has taken too much of her. Even now the weariness draws her back towards sleep, and she has barely woken long enough to feed him.
"I am sorry," she says softly, sinking back into the pillows, and feels her husband's hand take hers as he leans in close.
"All I ask of you is that you rest and grow strong again," he murmurs, and presses a kiss to her temple. "We will not talk of other matters until then."
She nods slightly, grateful for his kindness and understanding and love, and sleep claims her again.
Weeks later, she is still exhausted by even the slightest effort; more than once she has even fallen asleep in the middle of nursing, and now a lady in waiting is with her at all times. It is worrying Finwë terribly, now she has barely enough energy to eat, and instead of regaining her strength it seems to be draining even more swiftly.
She almost wishes she had never conceived; Fëanáro has taken so much from her that she begins to dread waking each morning only to feel the terrible lethargy, the heaviness of her limbs as she strains to rise. Sometimes she feels a true bitterness; is any child worth this?
But that feeling lasts only until he is placed in her arms, and she feels a swell of love for her precious child rise to drown her resentment at what he has done to her. For he is precious; she knows without a doubt that he is her first, and her last.
But as more weeks go by, even she begins to feel a pang of worry. Surely by now some of her strength should be returning? Finwë has called upon every healer he can reach, and in a fit of desperation has even sent emissaries to the Valar, pleading for aid. All the examinations so far have reached the same conclusion; there is nothing wrong with her in body, therefore her only true problem is that her soul is too weakened to recover.
After the last inspection by a serious-eyed woman with gentle hands and a soft voice, who has repeated the same thing Míriel has heard over and over again, she at last gets angry. Dismissing the healer with a curt word, the exhausted queen slumps back in her bed, her throat tight with sobs she is too weary to express.
Why can she not recover? Is is truly that her soul is weak? Will it bind her to a bed for the rest of her life, waking only long enough to see her husband and son for fleeting minutes?
In that moment, she wishes for death - for release from her prison of flesh and bone, from the all-encompassing need for sleep. It would be so easy, she thinks, to be free at last…
But some other part of her rebels against the thought. Why should she take the easy path, and give in to her weakness?
Her legendary stubbornness asserts itself, and her lips thin. No. She will not die, no matter how weary she becomes of life. She will not deprive her husband of a wife, nor her son of a mother, nor the Noldor of their queen.
Her fists close in the sheets, and with a surge of energy born of her abrupt temper, she flings them off. For the first time since the birth of her son, Míriel Ϸerindë stands on her own, and although her steps are faltering and graceless, she makes her way across to Fëanáro's crib with the determination of a woman who will not submit to her own body.
Her limbs scream in protest, but she refuses to listen, and reaches in to lift her son out, pressing her cheek against his downy head. This little one is her soul, and she will raise him to nurture the gift she has given him, her strength.
At last she begins to recover, and Finwë is overjoyed, the faint traces of fear fading from his expression as though they had never existed. The process is long and arduous, and there are many relapses, but she refuses to give in.
The day she manages to walk out, on Finwë's arm, to a celebration of the harvest is a triumph in itself; even though she spends most of the celebration itself seated in a quiet corner, she is able to endure it, and the company of those who come over to congratulate her. The best thing of all, though, is seeing her baby boy, her treasure, dancing and laughing and running about tirelessly.
That, she could watch all day.
By the time Fëanáro has reached his nineteenth year, she has even managed to begin her weaving again. Her projects are fewer and further between, but her creativity is undimmed and her skill only slightly faded from having gone unused.
She will never be as strong as she once was, and Finwë is slowly resigning himself to the reality that he will only ever have one child, but through her own determination alone, Míriel Ϸerindë lives.