I. (Finwe)
For ages upon ages, the spirit of Miriel Therinde had not suffered the slightest motion.
You could picture her perhaps as an artistic rendition of a lady resting on wan-colored pillows layered onto a dais walled off by semi-transparent curtains, kept in some indistinct dim gloom with the heavy smell of medicinal incenses wafting through the air.
By which is meant that the Maiar of Mandos had taken every possible measure to make her comfortable as she languished under the weight of existence itself, even in the most minimal, most stripped-back form of vegetating awareness that could be contrived within Arda.
There would have been gloom because she could not bear the slightest suggestion of light, and there would have been silence because she would not suffer the slightest sound, not even the soft ambient tones that would welcome the weary visitors of later ages.
For ages she dozed, loathing both dream and waking, weary of the softest speech, hanging in the precarious balance of an all-consuming delirium.
In all the years she had spent here, she had never even asked about any of the events beyond her immediate surroundings, nor paid much heed to such messages as were passed onto her; Once, some unmeasurable time ago, there had been some ever-growing stack of letters piling up, but even their silent demand that could be indefinitely postponed proved too much of a drain on her, and she asked they be put out of her sight. Ever since, she had only longed to sense nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing, think nothing, seeking to escape even the limited being in death so much as she could – and for a while now, she had been succeeding.
It had been long now since she had even tried to move from this spot on her own accord, or even to open the ghostly memory of her eyelids which only recalled to her the leaden feeling that once weighed down her real eyes until she refused to open them ever again.
Thus, it had been long since she'd checked if she could have moved, should she so chose.
Until there was a commotion. Sounds. Noise. Urgent Voices. Something unprecedented, that would disrupt the order and habit of things even in a place such as this.
All of a sudden she had sat up before she'd thought of it, bare feet sliding off the dais without resistance, the silks of her clothing sliding down her calves without discomfort, her spine finding its balance with but the slightest wobble, and just the slightest pause before taking off, a voice long hoarse and drained asking whatever might be going on.
Before it even occurred to her to consider that she was out of bed, she had already sped down the endless labyrinthine corridors to kneel back down where her long slender fingers once again entwined with their place of old, some echo of a larger, sturdier hand.
Blue-grey eyes looked up at her, somewhat disturbed but mostly confused.
"It was supposed to have been over. We were supposed to have been safe here…"
And then: "I could do nothing." and at last: "Miriel?!"
His other arm found her shoulder. Realization dawned on him at last.
"...Miriel!"