AN: So, if you haven't noticed, it's been a very long time since I've updated anything. That is due to a severe bout of depression that had me hospitalized for four days and recovering for the better part of a year. I will not be updating The Many-Named again–I have lost my inspiration and will likely be taking it down in the near future. I started it during one of the times that contributed to my poor health, actually, so I cannot bear to continue it. I am willing to send my notes to anyone who wants to adopt it. Pass In Time, Dreams Do Not will be finished someday, but it will definitely be a very slow rate of progress.
This story is a result of my trying to come to terms with my experience with depression and describing it in a way that would make sense to other people, who may not have experienced it the same way–or at all. This story does contain description of suicidal reasoning, depression, angst, and other possible triggers. This is not a story to read if you're already feeling down. That said, it is an accurate depiction of how some people experience depression, drawing on my own experience and those of my aunt and grandfather. It is, of course, fictionalized to fit into Tolkien's world and personalized for the characters. If you are not very familiar with the Silmarillion (and are reading this for some reason), you may not understand the references to various people, places, and events, but these are two character studies and the inner conflict is the important part.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion. Obviously.
It started when she was a small child. As other children would laugh and play, snatching what joy they could amidst the terrors of the dark, Míriel would sit quietly and watch, not understanding how they could muster such energy to combat the ever-present gloom. Míriel sat always in the corners, to the side, furthest from others. In the coldest hours, she huddled with her neighbors by the fire, seeking warmth that never quite reached her core. She was soft-spoken, often overlooked by the adults because her needs were subtler, her cries softer, her pleas quieter. She was haunted by foreboding, terrified of the ever-present darkness. Always were they hunted, and she felt it the most keenly. Míriel looked to the future and saw only darkness. For a time, the stars were her only comfort, but even that solace couldn't break the despair that lay over her heart.
Finwë blazed into her life like a comet. His passion for his people, his hope of a better life for the Eldar––she was mesmerized, swept up unwittingly into his life, his dreams. Suddenly, it didn't matter that she was always cold, always tired, always filled with fear. Míriel followed Finwë with every ounce of her being, followed him all the way to Aman, where they were wed.
Aman was beautiful. The light was so new to Míriel, who had known only the far-off lamps and the cold stars. Here there was no omnipresent darkness, no stalking terrors. Here she could find peace.
All was well for a time. Míriel poured her heart into her art, and the Eldar praised the work of her hands. But soon the praise was not enough, and Míriel was dissatisfied. The words of her kin seemed hollow, without meaning. Surely, she thought, the product of my labors is not so wondrous as they proclaim. Am I not the same fëa they disregarded, the one they overlooked? This praise must be false, for if I am truly so talented, how could they have not noticed me? And shadows grew in Míriel's heart.
Then she conceived a child, and they told her how fortunate she was, how joyful she must be! But Míriel's thoughts grew darker with each passage of the light of the Trees. These words also must be false, she said to herself, for I feel no joy, nor even peace. An emptiness grew in her heart, greater than any she'd felt even in Beleriand. The sole comfort to her was the child growing in her womb, and it was to him alone that she spoke of her misgivings. Míriel looked to the future and knew she would not live to see her child fully grown.
As the day of birthing drew nearer, Míriel began to take no joy in her life. All the bright colors and sweet scents of Aman grew dim and faded. Food gave her no pleasure, but she ate for her son. Waking each day grew more difficult, until finally she rose not at all from her bed.
Then her son was born, and never had she felt so alive as when the labor pains tore through her. Her child, the only of her creations in whom she could feel pride, her son was here, placed in her arms and held to her breast even as the emptiness inside her grew. No longer had she worth, for her greatest masterpiece was complete–she had nothing more to give.
And so Míriel never rose from her birthing-bed, refusing all food and comforts save one: to gaze upon her son. She clung to Fëanàro's image, hoping to last a little longer for his sake. But the shadows in her heart engulfed her, and Míriel departed for Lórien, where she fell into an endless sleep.
And when the Valar approached her bodiless fëa with an ultimatum, she pondered all that had come before, all the joys of her life laid against the sorrows. And, remembering the darkness, the emptiness, the cold–Míriel chose to remain formless.
