DISCLAIMER: Everything's Tolkien's, and I'm not making a red cent.
A/N: Just a short little fic about Indis the Fair. You gotta feel bad for her; Míriel gets all the attention.
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The Eldest Son
By Kate Lockhart/Meressefers
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She knows she is no Míriel.
She is Indis, tow-headed scion of the house of Ingwë, and a stranger in the house of her husband. The Noldorin tongue -- which is in reality the Eldarin tongue, common to her people as well as Finwë's -- spills from her mouth with a lilt, provoking sympathetic but condescending smiles from the servants. Her locks, hanging and shining in the light like the finest white gold, stand out against the barrage of Noldorin dark as a beacon of discongruity. Her husband, Finwë the king, loves her and treats her with patient, affectionate care. But he does not love her infinitely, and the house of the king in Tírion upon Túna is beset with a sadness, one which Indis' heart, being made of light and air, cannot fully comprehend.
What plagues the followers of Aulë so? It is the memory of Míriel Serindë, the first wife, the first queen. All speak in awe of her, that great woman whose finesse and skill still reverberate throughout the household. On every wall hangs some great tapestry she wove, or a scene of legend which she embroidered. Her creations are living things, more than mere thread and cloth; surely Míriel was the peer of Vairë. This is a thought that pulls at Indis' heart. She is a Vanyar, she has dined with the Valar, those highest of beings upon Arda, but she has no such skill, no such renown. Indis cannot work miracles. She is jealous, yes, but that is not the biggest problem.
The real trouble lies in the heart of Fëanor, son of Míriel. He loathes his stepmother; it cannot be doubted. So often has Indis seen this heir of Finwë, his bright eyes burning with a keen interest and intensity. When he turns and sees her, however, it dulls to a low, quick hatred. It is subtle, but it is there, and Indis cannot ignore it.
She remembers the first day she came to live in the house of Finwë. She had turned to her husband's son, saying, "I do not seek to be the mother you never knew, Fëanor." She was delicate of the situation, knowing what strife might come of a mismatched family. "But I will strive to be your kin and ally."
Fëanor had looked at her then with his loathsome gaze, exuding an angry sentiment. "Do not," he said tersely, "call me Fëanor, for that is the name my mother gave me and is not to be used by you. My name is Curufinwë." With that, he spun on his heels and stormed out of the room, his wife shooting Indis an apologetic glance before following him.
Indis had been shaken. There was not a soul who did not call her stepson Fëanor, and not a soul who doubted his nobility and warmth. But here it was: Curufinwë, a cold name, a cold start. Indis forced herself to accept the alienation. It was, after all, a truth she could not change.
Now Indis is heavy with a child of Finwë. Fëanor, son of Míriel, treats her with deeper scowls and a fiery silence. He plans, she knows, to move his family away from her and to the untamed regions of Aman. The irony stings Indis; he will be nearer to her Vanyar kindred, who populate the plains and mountains of Valinor, than she. When he leaves, there will be harmony in Finwë's household, but not for long. Indis cannot see the future, but she feels an impending evil. What darkness the departure of Fëanor will bring, she does not know, but she ever readies herself, keeping the omen in her mind. Meanwhile, she will bear the sons of Finwë; let come what will. It is the fate of Fëanor, the eldest son, that governs them all.
A/N: Just a short little fic about Indis the Fair. You gotta feel bad for her; Míriel gets all the attention.
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The Eldest Son
By Kate Lockhart/Meressefers
----------------------------------------------
She knows she is no Míriel.
She is Indis, tow-headed scion of the house of Ingwë, and a stranger in the house of her husband. The Noldorin tongue -- which is in reality the Eldarin tongue, common to her people as well as Finwë's -- spills from her mouth with a lilt, provoking sympathetic but condescending smiles from the servants. Her locks, hanging and shining in the light like the finest white gold, stand out against the barrage of Noldorin dark as a beacon of discongruity. Her husband, Finwë the king, loves her and treats her with patient, affectionate care. But he does not love her infinitely, and the house of the king in Tírion upon Túna is beset with a sadness, one which Indis' heart, being made of light and air, cannot fully comprehend.
What plagues the followers of Aulë so? It is the memory of Míriel Serindë, the first wife, the first queen. All speak in awe of her, that great woman whose finesse and skill still reverberate throughout the household. On every wall hangs some great tapestry she wove, or a scene of legend which she embroidered. Her creations are living things, more than mere thread and cloth; surely Míriel was the peer of Vairë. This is a thought that pulls at Indis' heart. She is a Vanyar, she has dined with the Valar, those highest of beings upon Arda, but she has no such skill, no such renown. Indis cannot work miracles. She is jealous, yes, but that is not the biggest problem.
The real trouble lies in the heart of Fëanor, son of Míriel. He loathes his stepmother; it cannot be doubted. So often has Indis seen this heir of Finwë, his bright eyes burning with a keen interest and intensity. When he turns and sees her, however, it dulls to a low, quick hatred. It is subtle, but it is there, and Indis cannot ignore it.
She remembers the first day she came to live in the house of Finwë. She had turned to her husband's son, saying, "I do not seek to be the mother you never knew, Fëanor." She was delicate of the situation, knowing what strife might come of a mismatched family. "But I will strive to be your kin and ally."
Fëanor had looked at her then with his loathsome gaze, exuding an angry sentiment. "Do not," he said tersely, "call me Fëanor, for that is the name my mother gave me and is not to be used by you. My name is Curufinwë." With that, he spun on his heels and stormed out of the room, his wife shooting Indis an apologetic glance before following him.
Indis had been shaken. There was not a soul who did not call her stepson Fëanor, and not a soul who doubted his nobility and warmth. But here it was: Curufinwë, a cold name, a cold start. Indis forced herself to accept the alienation. It was, after all, a truth she could not change.
Now Indis is heavy with a child of Finwë. Fëanor, son of Míriel, treats her with deeper scowls and a fiery silence. He plans, she knows, to move his family away from her and to the untamed regions of Aman. The irony stings Indis; he will be nearer to her Vanyar kindred, who populate the plains and mountains of Valinor, than she. When he leaves, there will be harmony in Finwë's household, but not for long. Indis cannot see the future, but she feels an impending evil. What darkness the departure of Fëanor will bring, she does not know, but she ever readies herself, keeping the omen in her mind. Meanwhile, she will bear the sons of Finwë; let come what will. It is the fate of Fëanor, the eldest son, that governs them all.