|* Disclaimer: The garden of Lorien, its location in Aman, and its current inhabitants do not belong to me. They are property of the imagination of J.R.R. Tolkien, and presently belong to . . . whoever.*|
| First to be Joyless |
Slender and sorrowful the trunks of willows bowed over the mound on which lay the body of Míriel Serindë, their gentle branches weeping silent, grey-woven tears. But their tears were not for Míriel, whose spirit passed from great weariness to peace; no, they stooped in compassion for the still figure who sat at their feet, whispering to his beloved. His head was lofty when it bore upon gleaming black tresses the king-helm of the Noldor, but now it was low, brow bent to the tender grasses on which his tears laid as dew, his grief caught in perfect crystal gems that lingered not on his white face, falling to disappear in the silver-laced turf even as another was birthed on his cheek.
"Míriel," he cried aloud, for he was Finwë, her husband. He reached for her hand, but he did not take it, his fingertips trembling as they passed over the smooth skin, as one touches a petal fearing to crush its softness. "Míriel," he whispered and bowed his head again, tasting the cold dew poised on grass-tip, and it hung on his cheek, startling the heat of his tears.
"Do not leave me to be alone."
His fingers lifted to her throat and he caressed her, delicate strokes which brought warmth to her pale, lifeless skin. His face he laid against the flowers on which she lay, bruising the blossoms gold, white, and green, seeking her in the muted honey fragrance which clung to their stalks.
"For I am truly alone, as no other is. Alone in joy: there is none with whom to share Curufinwë my firstborn, a beautiful babe who lies in my arms and weeps not for his mother whom he does not know. Alone in sorrow, for there are no others who have known it, no others deprived of joy. I alone in Eldamar can name this pain: nyérë. Nyérë," he said again, and his voice echoed lonely in the silence.
Finwë lifted his head, and reverently he touched two fingers to the pillowed softness of her lips, parting them to place his mouth against hers. And he breathed into her mouth, lovingly, as though he could restore breath to her lungs by doing so.
"Serindë," he called her softly, and he took her limp white hands, and held them to his face, her palm contouring the rise of his cheekbone. "How these hands despised idleness. How can you now let them lie unused upon your breast?" But when he let go, the hands sank from his face, resting motionless at her sides. "Such delight you took in the skill of your hands, as did we all. Many things great and beautiful did you weave, but most skilful was the web of enchantment around my heart."
He took her hand again, kissing her palm. A light wind stirred Míriel's hair, so that it moved, silken shadow strands glancing across her still face, brushing against the face of Finwë. He moved his lips to her wrist, probing lightly for the rhythm of a pulse.
"My heart was torn at our parting, Serindë; torn apart, and who will mend it? Who can even touch it but you?"
The wind lifted again, filling his nostrils with the sweet musk of nightflowers. Finwë hid his face in Míriel's throat and in the scent of her skin enveloped himself in memory, where young and alive Míriel sat beneath green-leaved tree, bathed in the gold and silver light of Aman even as her fine hands twined threads of the same hue into pictures strange and beautiful. She would speak to him, her voice swift and clear and breathless, weaving story and song around him until under that same tree he had wandered the length of Valinor, seen rivers bright and towers majestic and through it all her starlit eyes shining into his.
Alone he knelt at the side of her spiritless body, his knees damp from the grass, his fingers clasping desperately at hands which as elusive dreams fell from his with little regard.
"Mírënya," he spoke to her, and his eyes shone silver in the dusk, shoulders bent in grief. "Do you hear me call you? Answer me, Míriel Serindë, or I will follow your spirit from this world to the Halls of Awaiting that I might be heard." And he laid his head upon her unmoving breast and wept.
The willow branches trembled at his weeping, feathery fingers passing over the elf-king's brow as a great sigh rustled through the grasses of Lorien. Nightingales yet whispered to one another, tarrying their song for an hour that would hold more joy. A butterfly hovered near Míriel's death bed, its wings fluttering splashes of deep red and violet, until fearlessly it perched on a large white blossom nodding above the elf-maid's head, dunking, serene, into wells of nectar.
"Míriel . . ."
Finwë's call cut stark through the garden, the deep grief of his longing set adrift in the air, the first to startle the birdsung peace of Lorien. Yet it was not refused, but drawn in, wrapped in warm winds of comfort, echoed in murmurs by gentle, half-heard voices. Still he wept, for she who he called alone had not stirred at his cry, she alone lay as a stone beneath him. He heard his own cry return to him, reflected off the surface of cutglass streams, between the cracks of river-worn stones, and it died, leaving Lorien to the faint hum of bees and twitter of birdcalls.
"Tye-méla, Mírënya," he whispered at last.
His eyes closed, Finwë lowered his head and kissed her lips, letting all his breath again into her mouth as he fell forward, sapped of strength.
The maidens of Estë held their voices, and the nightingales stood silent upon tree branch in the brilliant twilight painted over the garden of Lorien. The wind fell still, touching not the collapsed bodies of elf-king and beloved, holding water and flower immobile.
Then a single voice arose, soft at first, like silver fallen from the stars to ripple in dark pool-water. It grew stronger, richer, taking shape even as honey crystallizes, cutting sweet words to open veins of feeling.
Finwë was roused by the sound, and against his will he again drew breath, lifting himself from the mound of Míriel. He looked at first to her face, for hope had sprung anew in his heart, and it died quicker for she lay grey and quiet. The song reached to him, drew back, gathered about him in a dizzying veil of harmony. He stumbled forward as one in a daze, and though he sought the source of the song, in the glade it was not to be found.
His feet carried him from Míriel, and he wandered through grove and vale, beckoned ever onward by the song which knew no words but those which it invented to cover the whisper of water, the beat of bird wing, the heat of heart nourished by love. He wandered until at last he came to a clearing, and beheld there the singer, an elf-maiden. Her hair hung as a mantle of white-gold, the light of Laurelin mirrored in hazy cloud, and it glimmered in the starlight. Her skin was a pearl washed by many oceans, her eyes half-shut, half-lit, her hands as lilies held to a harp she did not play. She seemed startled by his intrusion, and yet her eyes knew him as he whom she sang to.
So it was there that Finwë first came upon Indis of the Vanyar, and he sat by her to listen. She understood not his pain, yet she sang with compassion, sang of healing and of light, and knew that in finding her he had already answered her beckon to return to the Morning. The birds joined with her song, and their wings beat blue, brown, and yellow against the sky, beating back night and its torment. At length Finwë took up the harp of Indis, and nimbly, though his fingers trembled, he played the deep joy and the deeper sorrow of his love for Míriel, which in his immortal fëa would not die.
And when he had ended the song, Indis smiled softly, and lifting her eyes to the stars, began a new one.
He went never again to the garden where Míriel's body lay.
| The End |
_____________________________
Quenya translations:
Mírënya = "My jewel"
Tye-méla = "I love you"
| First to be Joyless |
Slender and sorrowful the trunks of willows bowed over the mound on which lay the body of Míriel Serindë, their gentle branches weeping silent, grey-woven tears. But their tears were not for Míriel, whose spirit passed from great weariness to peace; no, they stooped in compassion for the still figure who sat at their feet, whispering to his beloved. His head was lofty when it bore upon gleaming black tresses the king-helm of the Noldor, but now it was low, brow bent to the tender grasses on which his tears laid as dew, his grief caught in perfect crystal gems that lingered not on his white face, falling to disappear in the silver-laced turf even as another was birthed on his cheek.
"Míriel," he cried aloud, for he was Finwë, her husband. He reached for her hand, but he did not take it, his fingertips trembling as they passed over the smooth skin, as one touches a petal fearing to crush its softness. "Míriel," he whispered and bowed his head again, tasting the cold dew poised on grass-tip, and it hung on his cheek, startling the heat of his tears.
"Do not leave me to be alone."
His fingers lifted to her throat and he caressed her, delicate strokes which brought warmth to her pale, lifeless skin. His face he laid against the flowers on which she lay, bruising the blossoms gold, white, and green, seeking her in the muted honey fragrance which clung to their stalks.
"For I am truly alone, as no other is. Alone in joy: there is none with whom to share Curufinwë my firstborn, a beautiful babe who lies in my arms and weeps not for his mother whom he does not know. Alone in sorrow, for there are no others who have known it, no others deprived of joy. I alone in Eldamar can name this pain: nyérë. Nyérë," he said again, and his voice echoed lonely in the silence.
Finwë lifted his head, and reverently he touched two fingers to the pillowed softness of her lips, parting them to place his mouth against hers. And he breathed into her mouth, lovingly, as though he could restore breath to her lungs by doing so.
"Serindë," he called her softly, and he took her limp white hands, and held them to his face, her palm contouring the rise of his cheekbone. "How these hands despised idleness. How can you now let them lie unused upon your breast?" But when he let go, the hands sank from his face, resting motionless at her sides. "Such delight you took in the skill of your hands, as did we all. Many things great and beautiful did you weave, but most skilful was the web of enchantment around my heart."
He took her hand again, kissing her palm. A light wind stirred Míriel's hair, so that it moved, silken shadow strands glancing across her still face, brushing against the face of Finwë. He moved his lips to her wrist, probing lightly for the rhythm of a pulse.
"My heart was torn at our parting, Serindë; torn apart, and who will mend it? Who can even touch it but you?"
The wind lifted again, filling his nostrils with the sweet musk of nightflowers. Finwë hid his face in Míriel's throat and in the scent of her skin enveloped himself in memory, where young and alive Míriel sat beneath green-leaved tree, bathed in the gold and silver light of Aman even as her fine hands twined threads of the same hue into pictures strange and beautiful. She would speak to him, her voice swift and clear and breathless, weaving story and song around him until under that same tree he had wandered the length of Valinor, seen rivers bright and towers majestic and through it all her starlit eyes shining into his.
Alone he knelt at the side of her spiritless body, his knees damp from the grass, his fingers clasping desperately at hands which as elusive dreams fell from his with little regard.
"Mírënya," he spoke to her, and his eyes shone silver in the dusk, shoulders bent in grief. "Do you hear me call you? Answer me, Míriel Serindë, or I will follow your spirit from this world to the Halls of Awaiting that I might be heard." And he laid his head upon her unmoving breast and wept.
The willow branches trembled at his weeping, feathery fingers passing over the elf-king's brow as a great sigh rustled through the grasses of Lorien. Nightingales yet whispered to one another, tarrying their song for an hour that would hold more joy. A butterfly hovered near Míriel's death bed, its wings fluttering splashes of deep red and violet, until fearlessly it perched on a large white blossom nodding above the elf-maid's head, dunking, serene, into wells of nectar.
"Míriel . . ."
Finwë's call cut stark through the garden, the deep grief of his longing set adrift in the air, the first to startle the birdsung peace of Lorien. Yet it was not refused, but drawn in, wrapped in warm winds of comfort, echoed in murmurs by gentle, half-heard voices. Still he wept, for she who he called alone had not stirred at his cry, she alone lay as a stone beneath him. He heard his own cry return to him, reflected off the surface of cutglass streams, between the cracks of river-worn stones, and it died, leaving Lorien to the faint hum of bees and twitter of birdcalls.
"Tye-méla, Mírënya," he whispered at last.
His eyes closed, Finwë lowered his head and kissed her lips, letting all his breath again into her mouth as he fell forward, sapped of strength.
The maidens of Estë held their voices, and the nightingales stood silent upon tree branch in the brilliant twilight painted over the garden of Lorien. The wind fell still, touching not the collapsed bodies of elf-king and beloved, holding water and flower immobile.
Then a single voice arose, soft at first, like silver fallen from the stars to ripple in dark pool-water. It grew stronger, richer, taking shape even as honey crystallizes, cutting sweet words to open veins of feeling.
Finwë was roused by the sound, and against his will he again drew breath, lifting himself from the mound of Míriel. He looked at first to her face, for hope had sprung anew in his heart, and it died quicker for she lay grey and quiet. The song reached to him, drew back, gathered about him in a dizzying veil of harmony. He stumbled forward as one in a daze, and though he sought the source of the song, in the glade it was not to be found.
His feet carried him from Míriel, and he wandered through grove and vale, beckoned ever onward by the song which knew no words but those which it invented to cover the whisper of water, the beat of bird wing, the heat of heart nourished by love. He wandered until at last he came to a clearing, and beheld there the singer, an elf-maiden. Her hair hung as a mantle of white-gold, the light of Laurelin mirrored in hazy cloud, and it glimmered in the starlight. Her skin was a pearl washed by many oceans, her eyes half-shut, half-lit, her hands as lilies held to a harp she did not play. She seemed startled by his intrusion, and yet her eyes knew him as he whom she sang to.
So it was there that Finwë first came upon Indis of the Vanyar, and he sat by her to listen. She understood not his pain, yet she sang with compassion, sang of healing and of light, and knew that in finding her he had already answered her beckon to return to the Morning. The birds joined with her song, and their wings beat blue, brown, and yellow against the sky, beating back night and its torment. At length Finwë took up the harp of Indis, and nimbly, though his fingers trembled, he played the deep joy and the deeper sorrow of his love for Míriel, which in his immortal fëa would not die.
And when he had ended the song, Indis smiled softly, and lifting her eyes to the stars, began a new one.
He went never again to the garden where Míriel's body lay.
| The End |
_____________________________
Quenya translations:
Mírënya = "My jewel"
Tye-méla = "I love you"