'[I]f but one fragment of the broideries of Míriel were seen in Middle-earth it would be held dearer than a king's realm; for the richness of her devices and the fire of their colours were as manifold and as bright as the wealth of leaf and flower and wing in the fields of Yavanna.'
JRR Tolkien, 'Morgoth's Ring'
It was some twelve Days later that Finwë's butler brought him the news that a young girl had come to the palace to see him.
"A young girl?"
"Yes, my lord."
"How young a girl? What does she want?"
"Perhaps forty, lord. As for what she wants - she says she wants to see the king personally."
"Yes, but why?"
"That she will not say. I should say she was of a stubborn disposition, my lord."
"Well, show her in!"
As he waited to receive the mysterious young person, Finwë considered the mystery of her identity. It had occurred to him that she might be Ingwë's little niece, who must be forty by now. He had always been rather fond of that child; but what possible reason could she have for coming here like this?
The girl - she was not Indis - came in, shortly followed by Finwë's butler, whom she appeared to have overtaken in the hall. The butler looked apologetically at Finwë.
"Leave us," he said, smiling to show that it did not matter about the breach of protocol. The butler was a friend from the old Days in the Middle-earth, whose advice Finwë valued rather more highly than that of some of the lords in his council.
Soon he was alone with the young woman and able to look at her at greater length. She was both more beautiful and, as he judged, significantly older than Indis. The butler had been misled by her size, for she was remarkably small and slender. But her large, dark eyes were not those of a forty-Year-old. They held his own without the slightest sign of shyness or awe. Her most distinctive feature was her flowing silver hair, surely the mark of a Telerin mother.
"Well?" he said. "What do you want, my dear?"
"I want to show you this, my king."
What she held out was a small square of cloth, about six inches wide, covered with the most fantastically intricate embroidery. It depicted Tirion upon Tuna, with the Pelori, singing with whiteness, showing behind. The stitches were controlled and almost unbelievably tiny; the blue thread of the sea seemed to glisten and move. About all was a border of leaves and flowers, stylised yet almost starting from the page with reality.
"But this is marvellous! Little one, did you work this by yourself?"
"Of course, my king!"
"What is your name?"
"Míriel Serindë - and if you don't mind my mentioning it, lord, this sampler could be yours for a mere five silver pieces."
Finwë burst out laughing:
"Five! I will give you ten, if you tell me where you live. I may have other work for you."
Míriel told him her address, which was in a part of the city west of the Great Market.
"And do you live alone?"
"No, lord; with my mother."
"This is" - his lips curving into a smile - "rather small. Do you see yourself working on a larger canvas in the future?"
Míriel looked at him; and suddenly there was something rather young in her eyes after all.
"I have often wanted to, but we cannot afford the materials."
Finwë laughed again.
"Is that all? Then, clearly, I must give you something to pay for them. Would fifty silver pieces do for now?"
He rather liked her not obsequiously thanking him. Like a little princess, she seemed to accept the gift as entirely her due, watching attentively with those dark eyes as he counted the money into a bag for her. After she was gone, he went over to the window and looked out over the city.
Míriel Serindë. What a sweet name! What a charming girl!
