I own nothing.
Indis never liked to learn that the more personal details of her life had become matters of history, that chroniclers were of the opinion that her life was something that was fair game to be pulled apart and dissected and put on display for posterity. She liked even less to see the details mangled. In the absence of facts, they would make assumptions, and once those assumptions were written in the histories, they became set in stone.
Some observant Quendë had noticed her affection for Finwë when the Noldor and the Minyar dwelled still together in Tirion. Indis wasn't surprised by that; she had never tried to hide it, never seen a need to hide it. Neither did she feel a need to hide her affection for Míriel. However, the latter was excised entirely from the histories, and the former was made to seem as though it dated back to those days, made to seem like nothing more than a childish infatuation.
"It's true, then?"
She had seen him when he had come to Elerrína (or Taniquetil, as so many were calling it now), of course. Indis stood with her brother, his wife and their daughter, so when Ingwë welcomed Finwë to Taniquetil, Indis was there. She saw Finwë, saw how pale and strained he seemed, how weary. Indis could see Míriel's pale shadow behind him, insubstantial and disappearing in Malinalda's light, and her heart sank.
But they had had no opportunity to speak. Ingwë seemed intent on keeping Finwë occupied, so intent, in fact, that Indis had no opening to speak to him beyond offering him a greeting upon his entrance. That they hadn't spoken barely mattered; she only needed to look at his strained face, the muscles pulled too tight, only needed to look at his twin shadows, one far smaller than it should have been, to know the truth.
Eventually, Finwë wandered outside of the walls of Taniquetil, into the rock-strewn hills in the full light of the Two Trees, and Indis followed, light-footed and silent, familiar enough with the terrain of the steep hills to follow behind him without drawing any attention to herself.
He paused to hear her voice, but did not start or jump. That lack of surprise only deepened the certainty in Indis's mind, only deepened the heaviness of her own heart. "Míriel is dead," she says, her voice flat, her pulse pounding in her ears.
After a long moment, he turned to face her. There were no tears on Finwë's face, none at all. He had never wept easily; in Endóre, when one of his people died, he was more likely to numbly turn away and say nothing. Indis would have thought that he would weep to be reminded of his wife's death, but perhaps he had already exhausted himself of tears. Or perhaps he was still restraining himself. Slowly, Finwë nodded, staring at Indis's feet rather than meet her gaze. "Míriel's spirit has gone to reside in the Houses of the Dead."
It was as though, for a moment, the light of the Two Trees had grown dim and extinguished entirely. A memory rose, unbidden, in Indis's mind, or Míriel lying down in a room full of golden light, weak and tired and so very bitter, barely able to keep her eyes open or cling to wakefulness. Had her spirit fled her body while she slept? And why, why would something like this happen in Aman?
Though she was unaware of saying any such thing aloud, Finwë seemed aware of the questions inside her mind—one last vestige of the insight and knowledge the Quendi had once possessed beside the lake. "I… I tried to change her mind," he explained helplessly. Shaking, just a little bit. "I kept saying to her, her weariness would pass if she would just rest and give it time. Everyone was saying as much. The Valar said as much. But she… she would not listen to me, nor to them. She would not listen to anyone." Finwë laughed hollowly. "You know how Míriel is."
Yes, she knew how Míriel was. Once she was convinced of something, nothing and no one could dissuade her from her certainty. But I saw her. She was so tired. She was so weak. She was starting to let go, even then.
How can this happen in Aman? The Valar promised us that mothers bearing children would not experience this weariness under the light of the Trees, that they would not die from the weariness accompanying childbirth. How can this happen here?
How could it happen to her?
Finwë crumpled then. It amazed Indis that he could hold it in for as long as he had, but here, on the rock-strewn hillside in the light of Malinalda, he crumpled. He leaned up against a boulder, his shoulders sagging, face contorting, chest heaving with restrained sobs. Behind him, Míriel's shadow flickered in and out of sight. She turned her eyes on Indis in a long, steady stare, before vanishing entirely.
Indis took a single faltering step, hesitating, wondering what right she had to either seek or give comfort, when Finwë and Míriel had wed one another, sworn oaths of loyalty and fidelity to one another. They had done all this, and Indis had remained with her brother; what right had she to comfort? Finwë and Míriel even had a child together, named Fëanáro by Míriel. He was a bright, lively child, the fruit of love and labor. What right did Indis have to comfort?
She moved forwards anyway. Indis flung her arms around Finwë's neck, he wrapped his arms around her back, and they sobbed miserably together, remembering she who had once been so full of life, now lost to them both.
Not long afterwards, Finwë and Indis announced their intention to marry.
There were those who looked askance upon their haste. There were those who looked askance upon Finwë's decision to remarry at all. Remarriages had not been unheard of in Endóre, not at all, but in Aman, it simply wasn't done. Knowing what they did now about death and rebirth, living in a land where death was nearly impossible to come by, remarriage had become taboo. There were many among the Noldor who muttered about Finwë's lack of fidelity to Míriel's memory, many among the Minyar who questioned the wisdom of their King's sister in casting her lot at a married nér.
Finwë was lonely. He was grieving. He had wished for more children; he did not love Fëanáro any less for this desire, but he longed for many children, not just one. His home felt empty when only he and his son lived there. He was lonely. He missed Míriel, but his loneliness outweighed his wish to wait for her. Finwë knew Míriel Þerindë, knew her very well. She had made her choice, and would not retract it. She would not even consider it, not for any reason.
Indis was crushed by the loss of Míriel, but her love for Finwë and Míriel both was not lessened for this. Finwë was lonely and grieving; there was no way for him to hide it. Even though she retained familiarity with death, it still stunned her, the pain she felt to know that Míriel had died, that her spirit had abandoned her still-perfect body in the Gardens of Lórien. And she had left behind a child who needed to be cared for, needed a mother as well as a father.
They understood each other. That was all.
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Quendë—Elf (plural: Quendi) (Quenya)
Minyar—the name of the first clan of the Elves, the precursors of the Vanyar, and the name still used by many of the Vanyar to name themselves
Elerrína—'Crowned with stars'; another name for Taniquetil, one I envision as being one of its older names
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
Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)
Nér—man (plural: neri)