1186
"Ready or no-ot, here I co-ome!"
Fëanáro could hear Ingwion calling, but it brought him no particular agitation. This was because he was not, as the older boy supposed, hiding in the garden. He had stolen back into the palace and was now watching Ingwion out of the window of his mother's old workroom. Nor did he find this situation particularly amusing, as he might once have done. It was all too emblematic of his current position as a stranger in his own home.
It may well be asked what Ingwion was doing in the palace of Finwë. Fëanáro himself was far from sure. Even his new stepmother, who had invited her Aunt Malwë to be with her during her first pregnancy, had apparently not taken into consideration the fact that the Vanyarin queen would want to bring her own children with her.
Ingwion most certainly did not mean to make Fëanáro's life into a misery; he was merely pompous and patronising, nothing more malicious; but he apparently believed himself honour-bound to amuse his host's son. The problem was that Ingwion and Fëanáro liked doing entirely different things. Ingwion enjoyed hearty outdoor games. Fëanáro did not. Of course he loved walking in the countryside, but that was quite different. It was out of a sense of growing desperation that he had suggested the game of hide-and-seek.
Now Ingwion was poking about under bushes, as if Fëanáro might have compressed himself to the size of a rabbit. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous!
Fëanáro wondered what would happen when Ingwion failed to find him in the garden, and when he himself should emerge from his mother's room. He would not want to disappear for long enough to worry his father. Though Finwë no longer seemed to have time for anything but Indis and her swelling belly. For this time at least, the world of the palace revolved around her.
Now, if he had a nightmare, Fëanáro could seek no comfort in Finwë's chamber; Indis would be there. Sleeping in his father's bed, as he had sometimes done in the past, was out of the question. Her pregnant bulk hardly left room for the royal pair.
She had taken over the household; it was impossible to avoid her. No sooner did Fëanáro settled down with a book, or his secret notes for a new alphabet, than she would appear, smiling brightly.
Shall we have a little chat?
(On no account.)
Would you like to feel the baby move?
(Yes, very much, but this could not be admitted.)
But Indis would not dare to seek him out in this room which was sacred to the memory of Míriel Serindë. Even the servants recognised this, for, while the place was dusted regularly, her half-finished embroideries were always left in their places on the floor.
His mother! Had she been like Indis, he wondered? Had her gay laughter run through the corridors like a thread of gold, filling the 144 rooms of the palace to overflowing?
No, for he had seen her slightness in Lórien. She must surely have been an innocuous and unobtrusive being. - The strange thing was that Fëanáro had hardly ever thought of Míriel before the coming of Indis. She was no part of his world, only a strange thing of Lórien, an occasional sadness to his father. The two of them did not need her. They were complete in themselves for ever.
