I own nothing.
Of course he knew the tale of Míriel Serindë. Inziladûn, known as Palantir in private company, did not know anyone among the Faithful who did not, for in her own way, Míriel Serindë had had quite an impact upon the shaping of Númenor (Without her death, their first king could never have been born). The birth of Fëanor, the death of Míriel Serindë and the marriage of Finwë to Indis was one of the first stories his mother had told him, secreted away in alcoves and behind bushes in the royal gardens, or on the beaches of Andúnië, where the roar of the waves would swallow her voice and echo back promises of anonymity.
Actually, Palantir suspected that it had been the first story Inzilbêth told him, after all.
He remembered, of course. Míriel Serindë was the first queen of the Noldor, Finwë's first wife. They were married for many years, and were very happy together. Valinor was in its green and golden Noontide, full of bliss; why wouldn't they be happy? But when the queen found herself with child, she began to grow weary. She perished not long after Fëanor's birth. The great, fell fire of his spirit had consumed her, and taken all of her strength; Míriel's life could not be sustained.
Palantir had known the story since he was a toddling child. As it turned out, so did his daughter.
"Father?"
Míriel was seven this past autumn, though she was small for her age. Gimilkhâd's boy Pharazôn, though younger, had already shot up past Míriel in height. However, though Míriel appeared in body younger than her years, she was in no way lagging in intelligence. Palantir's daughter was a clever, perceptive child, and she loved Inzilbêth's stories as much as Palantir did. He really should have expected this.
They, Palantir, Inzilbêth and Míriel, were visiting their kin in Andúnië (Those who still lived in Andúnië, instead of Rómenna). Ar-Gimilzôr was not what anyone could call pleased—he routinely emphasized Inzilbêth's place as a member of his family, by extension emphasizing that she was no longer of the line of Andúnië and neither were any of their children or grandchildren—but there was nothing unmeet about family visits, so there was nothing Palantir's father could say. As such, they could speak of the old tales and of the Elves without being fearful.
"Father?" Míriel's dark eyes were wide and solemn, but behind them there lurked a hint of disquiet. She shuffled her feet just a bit before standing straight and tall as she'd always been taught. "Why did you name me 'Míriel'?"
Palantir sighed. "Zimraphel, remember, daughter?" Míriel was a perceptive child, but Palantir wasn't sure that she was at present ready for the concept of having a name one used only in certain circles, and another which was only used in other circles. Unfortunately, there were those among the Faithful of Andúnië who were already calling her Míriel, and Míriel had decided that she far preferred her Sindarin name to her Adûnaic name. It had taken very stern instructions to convince Míriel that it was better that she not insist on being called by her Sindarin name at court in Armenelos.
She frowned. "I don't like that name, Father."
"And yet it is the name you must use, for now." Until the day when I become King, and you can use it freely, daughter, Palantir thought. "It is safe to be called 'Míriel' in Andúnië, but I don't wish for you to become accustomed to it." Even if Míriel is what I call you in my heart. "Now, what do you mean by your question?"
Míriel cast her gaze downwards, staring off to the left. The distinctly shut-off expression Palantir had become entirely too familiar with wouldn't let him spy any emotion in her face. "I was just wondering," she said quietly. "Since Mother died having me, why did you name me 'Míriel'?"
Palantir froze.
Of course he remembered the story.
At this, Palantir dropped to his knees in front of her, trying to smile. It wasn't much of one, though, and he knew that it would do naught but add to his guilt. "I did not name you for Míriel Serindë," he attempted to assure her, "if that is what you think. I was not thinking of that tale when I named you, daughter."
Míriel did not look convinced, and Palantir felt his heart sink.
-0-0-0-
"She is a clever child, my son; did you think that she would never draw comparisons?"
Inzilbêth had very much behaved as a mother to Míriel since Arinlelya's death, the result being that Palantir often sought her wisdom when he was not sure of how to handle his daughter. Palantir had never known his mother to steer him wrong, especially not as regards to little Míriel. This might not have been a matter of earth-shaking importance, but he would not have approached anyone else.
They were situated inside of the chambers Inzilbêth normally occupied when she visited Andúnië. She was sitting in her favorite chair by the window, dressed in those garish black and red robes she had always favored and had frankly only seemed more garish since her hair went silver and her skin began to pale with age like cracked and wrinkled parchment left too long in the Sun. The look on her face was mildly chiding, an expression more fit for when Palantir was a boy and he had spilled ink all over his parchment again.
For himself, Palantir could only say what he had said to Míriel. "I did not have the tale of Míriel Serindë in mind when I named her," he protested. "It was the furthest thing from my mind."
"Nevertheless." Inzilbêth gazed at him sternly, criss-crossing her fingers from each hand amongst each other. "It is a rather unfortunate coincidence, that a man who lost his wife in childbirth should give their daughter the same name as a woman who is best known for dying in childbirth herself."
Palantir ran a hand through his hair, grimacing in regret as he did so. Really, he'd not given a single thought to Míriel Serindë when he was thinking of what to name his daughter. He was not thinking of Elves or the old stories; his thoughts had been firmly centered upon Númenor. But for how it looked to Míriel, his intentions barely mattered. There was a reason the Elves refused to intentionally name their children after others, especially those who had played prominent roles in history. A name could be a shackle, both for the one who bore it and the one who had given it.
Sensing her son's disquiet, Inzilbêth's severe expression softened slightly. "It seems to me," she said softly, "that if your intent was not to name my granddaughter for Míriel Serindë of legend, you need to remember why exactly you did name her as you did, and explain this to her."
He nodded.
"I… have another question, Mother."
She raised an eyebrow. "And what might that be, my son?"
Palantir frowned slightly. "I've been curious as to why you have never taken a Sindarin name for use amongst the Faithful*. I understand the importance of using Adûnaic amongst the King's court, but it would be safe here."
Inzilbêth's lips thinned; an aura of displeasure surrounded her. "Do you think that one must take a Sindarin name—or a Quenya name—to be counted amongst the Elendili, Palantir?"
"No, Mother, of course not." Palantir stared at her, bewildered and wondering where that bitter note in her voice had come from.
It was a long time before Inzilbêth answered his question. When she finally spoke, she said in a quiet voice, "You know that it was my father who gave me my name. He felt that it would be safer for me to only ever bear an Adûnaic name." She cast her dark-eyed gaze out of the window; something secret and shadowed flashed behind her eyes. "Perhaps it would ease the minds of the other Elendili if I were to take a Sindarin or a Quenya name. But it is not the name written on my heart." She stared at him, brow furrowed. "Why do you think your daughters is never at ease when called Zimraphel?"
At that moment, there came a knocking on the door.
Palantir and Inzilbêth exchanged tense looks. Even in Andúnië, being heard to speak Sindarin could potentially create problems if heard by the wrong people; how much had the knocker heard? "Come in," Inzilbêth called, nostrils flaring.
Neither could keep from sagging in relief when Míriel slipped inside, alone, and shut the door behind her. Míriel might have been the sort of child who had to be convinced to use her Adûnaic name amongst the King's court, but she knew well enough never to mention the fact that her father and her grandmother spoke Sindarin when out from under Gimilzôr's watchful eye.
The child made a beeline for her grandmother's lap, looking like a little white bird sitting in front of an oversized shadow. "Hello, my darling," Inzilbêth murmured, smiling gently and stroking Míriel's loose, dark hair.
Míriel smiled briefly up at her grandmother, looping her arms around Inzilbêth's neck, but then she turned her gaze on her father. Her dark eyes were wide and serious, her little face unsmiling. Palantir wondered what she was thinking. For all that his friends among the Faithful had dubbed him 'the far-sighted', he had little insight into his daughter's heart. Míriel had always been that way.
Palantir crossed the room with swift steps. He bent down to kiss his daughter's cheek, and left. He had plenty to think about.
-0-0-0-
Thought it was Inzilbêth who normally put Míriel down to bed, when night fell and the time came, Palantir came to see his daughter off to bed instead. Though some of the disquiet she had exhibited earlier in the day had faded, she still looked up at him with a troubled tugging on her mouth. Her eyes were sharp and glittery like glass shards.
Out of the depths of memory, Palantir dredged up his wife's voice. "You need to be more decisive," Arinlelya would tell him tiredly, her forehead creasing as it always did when Palantir ceded victory to his brother in an argument, not because Gimilkhâd was right, but because Palantir wasn't willing to pursue the argument further. "Whatever thoughts pass through your mind mean nothing if you never express them."
Out of the depths of memory, he recalled the moment when he first laid eyes on his newborn daughter.
"Míriel." She still seemed troubled, but Míriel seemed unable to help brightening to hear her father speak her Sindarin name; her sharp eyes softened, somewhat. She was sitting up in bed, her father sitting on the edge of the bed. Palantir leaned forward to stroke her hair, trying to smile. "…You asked me why I named you as I did," he said softly. "I tell you again that I had no thought of the Elves in mind when I named you. It was only… It was only that I saw you and thought you more precious than all the jewels of the earth."
When he leaned forwards to hug her, Palantir thought he felt something wetting the front of his tunic. But Míriel's eyes seemed dry, if bright. She was smiling at him, her small, reserved smile, but a smile nonetheless.
So, I realized that Ar-Gimilzôr was still alive until Míriel was about sixty, meaning that though she was one of the Faithful like her father, she was unable to act as one openly until adulthood. Suddenly, my whole image of her early life has changed.
* That Palantir uses the term 'the Faithful' while Inzilbêth uses the term 'Elendili' is meant to show that the former is using Sindarin, while the later is using the Quenya term.
Elendili—literally "Star-friends", but usually used with the meaning "Elf-friends" (Quenya); the Quenya name for the Faithful of Númenor