I own nothing.

Tirion upon Túna was much the same as Indis remembered it, though Finwë was not. He was pale and grieved, and from what he told her, Indis suspected that Míriel would not be as she remembered her either. She walked through the halls, towards where she would find Míriel Þerindë, and the words Finwë had for her when they had met outside the gates reverberated in her mind.

"She's just very…" He sucked in a deep breath, gray eyes over-bright. "Very tired, Indis. She says that… She says that she won't be able to bear another child into this world."

Remembering how much Finwë had wanted children—it had been all he could talk about sometimes, leaving Indis and Míriel both staring at him in a mixture of amazement and, in Míriel's case, amusement—Indis couldn't help but wince as she remembered those words. But when she remembered that Míriel, too, had wanted many children, the idea of her friend giving up on that desire could only leave Indis more alarmed than she was to see Finwë's wan face at the gates.

Malinalda's light glowed in the halls, catching on the windows like rain. To Indis, the corridor only seemed to grow longer the more she walked. The longer she was there, the more stale and constricted the air became.

Indis wished she could walk beneath the sky in the clean, free air. Míriel likely needed it too, so soon after having had a child. Had she been outside at all, since she had her son? As far as Indis knew, it had been a month, give or take a few days. The Quendi had gotten rather… odd notions of what a new mother needed after giving birth, since coming to Aman, seclusion from the outside world being one of them. While Míriel had always been a nís content to sew and weave, Indis had never known her to be content to spend all her days and hours confined within walls. Perhaps all she needs is to be allowed out of seclusion.

But really, how 'tired' is Míriel, exactly? Are nissi not usually weary after giving birth? Indis tried to console herself with these thoughts. Finwë was, after all, inexperienced with new mothers. Perhaps he had only blown the matter of Míriel's 'tiredness' out of proportion. But Indis remembered also, when they lived beneath the stars, the weariness that would sometimes overtake nissi after they had given birth to children. She remembered them wasting away beneath the stars. Despite the stale, constricted air, her pace quickened as she headed down the hall.

Indis came to the door of the chamber that she remembered as Míriel's, and paused. When Ingwë had resolved to travel closer to the light of the Two Trees, Indis had followed. It had been years since she had dwelled anywhere but in Taniquetil, in the strongest light of the Trees. It had been years since she had seen Míriel. Indis knew how the passage of years could change someone. She had already seen it in Finwë, weighed down by cares and the burden of responsibility for an entire people. How would time have changed Míriel as well? What would she see when she opened the door?

I must keep my nerve, Indis told herself. Míriel wants to see me. It wasn't Finwë alone who sent for me; she did as well.

Indis knocked, and received no response. She knocked again, once, twice, three times. All that met her was the silence. She drew a deep breath, dispensed with politeness, and opened the door without being bid to enter.

The spacious chamber was flooded with Treelight, so bright that even Indis, used to the light of Malinalda and Silpion observed close at hand, had to blink. Perhaps it was the glass in the windows that made it so bright. Once her eyes had adjusted to the dazzling golden light, Indis looked around the chamber, wondering what had changed, and what was still the same.

The spinning wheel was out. So was the loom. The furniture, couches and chairs, even the bed, was still strewn with bolts of cloth. Indis's lip twitched in the ghost of a smile. Míriel had always been rather… untidy when it came to her sewing materials; at least that much had not changed. She'd have to be careful where she stepped, though, or risk having her feet impaled by pins or needles or tacks.

But even if all of Míriel's sewing materials were out, all the signs that Indis should have taken as the surety that Finwë was just overreacting and Míriel Þerindë was strong still, the air smelled stale, and sticky. The corridor had possessed that odor as well, and Indis realized that it must have been coming from this room. It was a faintly sweet, stomach-turning smell, subtle and yet overpowering; Indis wondered how long it had been since the room was aired out.

And there, doused in golden Treelight, curled up asleep like a cat in the window seat with her dull silver hair falling loose over her face, there was Míriel.

Indis's heart pounded in her chest as she crossed the room, no longer caring about the possibility that her feet might catch on pins or needles or tacks. She had eyes for nothing or no one but Míriel. When she came to the window, she went down on her knees and paused, staring intently on Míriel's face. Half-obscured by her loose hair, it was (and when had Míriel ever worn her hair loose? Wasn't it always braided, or at least tied in a knot on her head?), but Indis could see that her old friend was wan, ashen pale. There were dark circles under her closed eyes. Her breathing was alarmingly shallow.

What has happened to you?

It was the height of rudeness to wake someone who was sleeping if there wasn't an emergency. Indis knew that. But fear closed in on her heart and she couldn't keep from shaking Míriel's shoulder, softly calling, "Míriel? Míriel? It's Indis. I've come to see you."

Though Míriel awoke nearly immediately after that, it took a terrifyingly long time for her heavy eyes to flutter open; she seemed to struggle to do even that much. Míriel looked at her, her dark eyes unfocused, and after another terrifyingly long moment, she seemed to recognize her at last. She smiled faintly. "So you've come at last," Míriel whispered in a weak, cracked voice.

Indis brushed Míriel's hair out of her face, smiling faintly back, unable to manage anything stronger. "Of course I have? How could I not? But you shouldn't be so impatient, Míriel." Indis tried to inject amusement into her voice, and failed miserably. "You know how long it takes to reach Taniquetil from Tirion. But I am here now. How are you?"

Míriel took a few thick, weary breaths. "A bit like a few strings stretched too tightly over a loom, and then left loose again." She looked at Indis, and her gaze grew sharper, more alert. "Finwë has told you that I am 'tired', has he?" There was a distinct note of bitterness in his voice.

"I think he's overreacting too, if that's what you mean." It was a lie, but one well-meant. Indis hoped that that would soften the blow of her sin somewhat.

"Overreacting?" Míriel might have rolled her eyes had she possessed the strength for it. "I don't think overreacting is the word you should be looking for, my dear. He's convinced himself that this will all pass with time." What was left unsaid, of course, was Míriel's certainty that the lethargy that had overtaken her was not something that would pass with time.

Indis did her best to swallow on fear and pain and the force of a thousand questions coming on her at once, settling on one. "You've had your son. What is he like?" Maybe this would encourage cheer in her friend.

Míriel's eyes grew dull and unfocused again. "I named him Fëanáro."

Yes, so it was said in the letter Finwë had penned to her. Míriel Þerindë named her son Fëanáro, 'Spirit of Fire.' She had been insistent upon naming him that, Finwë had written, even when he looked at his wife with shock, wondering why she would give her son, such a name. It was true that mothers often had flashes of insight as regards to the natures of their children, but if Míriel had experienced a flash of insight as regards to her own son, she had made no mention of it. From what he had written, Indis got the impression that Finwë was troubled that Míriel would give their son such a name.

Frankly, it troubled Indis as well.

"I named him Fëanáro," Míriel went on, in a whispery, faintly sing-song voice. "Spirit of Fire. He burned me, you see. And like a fire, he consumed me. All of me."

Stop it. Just stop it, please. "And what did Finwë name him?" Indis asked, and knew that she was not imagining the note of desperation in her voice.

At this, Míriel came back to herself, and snorted. "He called him 'Finwë.'" She rolled her eyes. "He said he might change the name later, but it's rather conceited to name the boy after himself, don't you think?"

A strained, high-pitched laugh tore from Indis's mouth. "Very."

"He's over in the corner," Míriel murmured, "by the bed, if you wish to see him."

Indis stared at her, surprised. She had heard none of the sounds of a baby when she entered the room, nor at any time since. But curiosity overwhelmed her, and she stood, and made her way towards the bed.

Indeed, there was a beautifully carved cradle, made from the wood of the malinornë tree, by the large bed. Indis stood over it, and she looked upon a sleeping infant, his head covered in a carpet of thin black fuzz. The infant awoke, and stared at her with uncommonly bright, piercing eyes for such a young child. Then, Finwë Fëanáro stretched, and reached up to her with tiny arms.

Indis couldn't help but lift the boy up into her arms, holding him against her chest. Fëanáro continued to look at her with those almost ridiculously-inquisitive eyes, roaming over her face with interest. His eyes flickered over to Indis's loose pale golden hair and Fëanáro reached out with a chubby hand and grabbed a lock of her hair. She laughed quietly, genuinely this time. "Quite a grip you have there, Fëanáro." It was nice to know that even if Míriel had lost much of her strength, her son was lively and alert.

Smiling at the boy, Indis started over back towards the window seat. "Míriel, he's love—"

Míriel had gone back to sleep.

Fëanáro—Fëanor

Malinalda—'Tree of Gold'; a name of Laurelin, the younger of the Two Trees of Valinor; a name I envision to be one of its older titles, and thus still commonly used by the Vanyar
Quendi—Elves (singular: Quendë) (Quenya)
Nís—woman (plural: nissi)
Silpion—'Shining Lights'; a name of Telperion, the elder of the Two Trees of Valinor; also a name I envision to be one of its older titles, and thus still commonly used by the Vanyar
Malinornë—Mallorn (plural: malinorni) (Quenya)

Note: I know that human children tend not to be so responsive when they're a month old, but it probably goes a bit different for Elven children, and Fëanor was supposed to have grown really fast to start with.