'For still there are so many things

that I have never seen:

in every wood in every wood in every spring

there is a different green.'

JRR Tolkien, 'The Fellowship of the Ring'

1142

It was not quite clear to Indis in what way she and Míriel had come to be 'friends'. Of course it was all her mother's fault. Ingië saw the world in a way of her own, which bore little relationship to reality. This is not unusual. The only difference was that Ingië, obstreperous monster that she was, had a way of bringing the world into line with her ideas. The world usually went along with this. There were actually people in it who were charmed by her frankness.

They certainly had nothing in common, Míriel and Indis. Indis had never even tried embroidery. Over Míriel's works she oohed and aahed, appreciating the beauty in these things, but in truth they puzzled her. Why would any Elda spend such time and effort on mere illustrations of things that might be freely seen in the original?

Come to that, why marr the pure grace of Finwë's walls with these complications of thread and cloth? Why cage in the air?

Míriel did not seek out Indis' company or anyone else's, but she did not much mind if Indis was forced by Ingië to visit her: at her home, or, when she was working there, at the palace. It gave her a not unwelcome opportunity to talk.

Míriel liked to talk, not for conversation's own sake but because her mouth yearned to join in the action of her fingers. Working alone, she would sing without words. But it was just as good to meditate aloud upon her favourite colours.

"Mauve, I do like mauve. The colour of young rainclouds, so pretty! Goes with silver too. Do you like mauve, Indis?"

"Yes. Moderately."

"I like green as well, of course, so glorious, so various, so natural, somehow. A bit too various, actually. Have you ever visited the house of Aulë? Hundreds of trees, every one a different green! I could never find thread in all those colours. Not in a hundred Years."

Míriel's brilliant mind was not in this tosh, of course. Míriel's mind was in few of her daily activities. Her body ate, drank, slept, spoke, relieved itself. Her spirit wove subtle patterns on the linen of her thought.

They were sitting in the room of the palace that Finwë had given Míriel to work in. It had been a pleasant room on the first floor, with a large window looking out over the palace garden. Míriel had turned it into a mess. Discarded needles and odd bits of thread littered the floor. Half-finished pieces of embroidery, rolled up or on frames, had been pushed carelessly against the wall. Indis never entered the room without experiencing an almost uncontrollable urge to tidy up. She had tried, once or twice, but Míriel complained that she could not find anything afterwards. Indis was silently amazed that she could find anything before.

Finwë came into the room, as he sometimes did, unexpectedly, although Indis most certainly did not come to the palace in the hope of seeing him. She looked up, smiling. Míriel's eyes remained locked on her work.

"Ah, Indis! Are you distracting my little serindë?"

"I trust not, my lord!"

As he returned Indis' smile, so she sent it back again to him on wings of admiration. This was a perfect moment. Like all such, it did not last very long. Finwë moved over to Míriel to look over her shoulder at the piece of cloth on the frame before her. Indis could see only the crown of his bent head, his black hair falling smoothly. Míriel was hidden behind the frame.