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nathair_nimheVery last fic for this year, because I needed High Queen Míriel in Beleriand making things even more complicated.
Rating: Teen
Words: Around 930
Pairing: Fëanor/Míriel
Content Warning: nothing apart from the incest and Míriel being even less diplomatic than Fëanor ('cause we know she was)
Summary: High Queen Míriel gets news about the war, but is more interesed in her dinner (and her son).
Míriel was warming her hands before the fireplace when Fëanor entered the bedroom, carrying her dinner on a huge tray.
He set the tray down on the bed, and came to stand next to her.
Míriel turned, and smiled up at him.
The smile seemed to freeze Fëanor in place – staring at his mother intently, his eyes brimming with reverence, as if she were the single most awe-inspiring existence in the universe.
“What is that letter?” Míriel asked, warmed by her own fire's gaze more than by the fireplace.
“Ah yes, this.” Fëanor lifted the forgotten letter, and handed it to her. “A messenger arrived this morning, while you were still sleeping.”
“From Doriath,” Míriel said with a disgusted grimace, noticing the broken seal with the unimaginative many-branched tree. She opened the letter, but only skimmed its contents when she saw it was written in Thindarin, against her wishes. “What does it say?”
She could have read it, but she refused to let go of the war she had engaged with Elwë over Quenya.
Fëanor grinned. “It says Moringotto attacked the pass of Aglon, routed Findaráto's forces and took Findaráto himself prisoner.”
The news didn't faze Míriel. “Don't tell me he asks us to help him free his grand-nephew?”
“Demands that we do it in his stead.”
Míriel clapped her hands and burst out laughing. “I told him Findaráto's forces would not be enough to defend all the northern passes. I hope the orcs didn't get to the fortress we built on Himring, at least.”
That fortress had been their home before Míriel moved her people east after her quarrel with Elwë: when Elwë banned Quenya, she wrote him a letter – in old Quenya – saying that he was as much of a useless git as his brother was, but that it was to be expected, given how he had left the North Thindar to Moringotto's mercies, left Círdan – who had stayed in Beleriand for Elwë's own sake – to die, left orcs free to roam eastern Beleriand. She also pointed out that the Girdle could not last forever, and who was he going to beg help from, once the hated Kinslayers weren't there any longer to fight for him? Then she led her people out of Beleriand before the letter banishing them had a chance to reach them.
“I don't think they did. The fortress is too steep with no fitting reward for the effort of besieging it since they already had the lord of the place.”
“Good,” Míriel crumpled the letter up between her hands and tossed it into the fire. It crackled for a second before it was consumed. Míriel gave Fëanor a kiss on the lips while it burned, then turned towards the bed.
Fëanor promptly lifted the tray out of her way and held it up while she made herself comfortable under the warm, brightly coloured blankets again. Winters were even harsher on the eastern slopes of the Blue Mountains. “What are we going to do?” he asked, while he set the tray down in front of her.
“Well, for all his incompetence Findaráto is still Finwë's grandson, and I hate to think that one of Finwë's blood is Moringotto's prisoner.” Finwë had sacrificed himself to let her leave Mandos, and that sacrifice had allowed her to reach Fëanor while he was on his way to the sea. She was never going to forget her debt to him, now. “On the other hand, I'd hate to risk my own people's safety for his sake, and it would be interesting to see what Ñolofinwë's folk and Doriath might end up doing in an effort to free Findaráto...it might buy you more time for your research, if they clash with Angband and Angband forgets us for a while.”
Fëanor sat down, nodding. “The King of Nogrod wrote too, thanking you again for your tapestry of his mother. He also sent those materials I had been waiting for.”
Míriel gulped down a large mouthful of rice mixed with freshly fished salmon. “Splendid. I will have to visit your forge again.”
She ate more of the rice, her face lighting up with pleasure the longer she savoured it.
“I'd also be really interested to see how long the Girdle will last if Moringotto decides to attack it with all his might. In any case, Ñolofinwë must have written to us too, so let's wait until his message gets here before we decide anything.”
“As you wish.”
“Have you dined?”
“Yes.”
“I'm such a poor queen, sleeping through a whole day!”
“You need your rest too. Besides, Nelyo is a fine viceroy.”
Míriel drank warm honey-wine then handed the cup to Fëanor, who took a sip from it, holding his mother's – his lover's – gaze over the rim of the cup.
“Stay with me tonight?”
“Yes,” Fëanor said, handing the cup back to her. “I just have to get Curvo and Tyelpo out of the forge.”
“Of course.” Míriel bit her lower lip. She couldn't explain it: she would have died a thousand times over rather than have one more child with Finwë in Valinor, but here, out of Aman, in the midst of a ruthless war, with her own son, she almost almost wished to have more children of her own. “You could tell them to come here for a while? I would love their company too.”
Fëanor smiled. He leant in to carefully press a kiss to Míriel's lips over the tray. “I'll be back in a second.”
Rating: Teen
Words: Around 930
Pairing: Fëanor/Míriel
Content Warning: nothing apart from the incest and Míriel being even less diplomatic than Fëanor ('cause we know she was)
Summary: High Queen Míriel gets news about the war, but is more interesed in her dinner (and her son).
Míriel was warming her hands before the fireplace when Fëanor entered the bedroom, carrying her dinner on a huge tray.
He set the tray down on the bed, and came to stand next to her.
Míriel turned, and smiled up at him.
The smile seemed to freeze Fëanor in place – staring at his mother intently, his eyes brimming with reverence, as if she were the single most awe-inspiring existence in the universe.
“What is that letter?” Míriel asked, warmed by her own fire's gaze more than by the fireplace.
“Ah yes, this.” Fëanor lifted the forgotten letter, and handed it to her. “A messenger arrived this morning, while you were still sleeping.”
“From Doriath,” Míriel said with a disgusted grimace, noticing the broken seal with the unimaginative many-branched tree. She opened the letter, but only skimmed its contents when she saw it was written in Thindarin, against her wishes. “What does it say?”
She could have read it, but she refused to let go of the war she had engaged with Elwë over Quenya.
Fëanor grinned. “It says Moringotto attacked the pass of Aglon, routed Findaráto's forces and took Findaráto himself prisoner.”
The news didn't faze Míriel. “Don't tell me he asks us to help him free his grand-nephew?”
“Demands that we do it in his stead.”
Míriel clapped her hands and burst out laughing. “I told him Findaráto's forces would not be enough to defend all the northern passes. I hope the orcs didn't get to the fortress we built on Himring, at least.”
That fortress had been their home before Míriel moved her people east after her quarrel with Elwë: when Elwë banned Quenya, she wrote him a letter – in old Quenya – saying that he was as much of a useless git as his brother was, but that it was to be expected, given how he had left the North Thindar to Moringotto's mercies, left Círdan – who had stayed in Beleriand for Elwë's own sake – to die, left orcs free to roam eastern Beleriand. She also pointed out that the Girdle could not last forever, and who was he going to beg help from, once the hated Kinslayers weren't there any longer to fight for him? Then she led her people out of Beleriand before the letter banishing them had a chance to reach them.
“I don't think they did. The fortress is too steep with no fitting reward for the effort of besieging it since they already had the lord of the place.”
“Good,” Míriel crumpled the letter up between her hands and tossed it into the fire. It crackled for a second before it was consumed. Míriel gave Fëanor a kiss on the lips while it burned, then turned towards the bed.
Fëanor promptly lifted the tray out of her way and held it up while she made herself comfortable under the warm, brightly coloured blankets again. Winters were even harsher on the eastern slopes of the Blue Mountains. “What are we going to do?” he asked, while he set the tray down in front of her.
“Well, for all his incompetence Findaráto is still Finwë's grandson, and I hate to think that one of Finwë's blood is Moringotto's prisoner.” Finwë had sacrificed himself to let her leave Mandos, and that sacrifice had allowed her to reach Fëanor while he was on his way to the sea. She was never going to forget her debt to him, now. “On the other hand, I'd hate to risk my own people's safety for his sake, and it would be interesting to see what Ñolofinwë's folk and Doriath might end up doing in an effort to free Findaráto...it might buy you more time for your research, if they clash with Angband and Angband forgets us for a while.”
Fëanor sat down, nodding. “The King of Nogrod wrote too, thanking you again for your tapestry of his mother. He also sent those materials I had been waiting for.”
Míriel gulped down a large mouthful of rice mixed with freshly fished salmon. “Splendid. I will have to visit your forge again.”
She ate more of the rice, her face lighting up with pleasure the longer she savoured it.
“I'd also be really interested to see how long the Girdle will last if Moringotto decides to attack it with all his might. In any case, Ñolofinwë must have written to us too, so let's wait until his message gets here before we decide anything.”
“As you wish.”
“Have you dined?”
“Yes.”
“I'm such a poor queen, sleeping through a whole day!”
“You need your rest too. Besides, Nelyo is a fine viceroy.”
Míriel drank warm honey-wine then handed the cup to Fëanor, who took a sip from it, holding his mother's – his lover's – gaze over the rim of the cup.
“Stay with me tonight?”
“Yes,” Fëanor said, handing the cup back to her. “I just have to get Curvo and Tyelpo out of the forge.”
“Of course.” Míriel bit her lower lip. She couldn't explain it: she would have died a thousand times over rather than have one more child with Finwë in Valinor, but here, out of Aman, in the midst of a ruthless war, with her own son, she almost almost wished to have more children of her own. “You could tell them to come here for a while? I would love their company too.”
Fëanor smiled. He leant in to carefully press a kiss to Míriel's lips over the tray. “I'll be back in a second.”
no subject
Date: 2019-01-01 11:15 am (UTC)I love the way that your stories feel so grounded and true in physical sensations and emotion: the love she feels, the taste of fish and rice, her exhaustion and frailness, warm blankets, warm fire, hot Fëanor, the little details of daily life like Curvo & Tyelpo getting caught up in their work. ❤️
no subject
Date: 2019-01-04 11:22 pm (UTC)Also, I often think that the Fëanorians would have fared better in the war without the whole High King+King of Beleriand bullshit. They could have been allies even without trying to be all the same people in a way that makes a lot of people unhappy and in the end limits them (esp. when it comes to getting Doriath to do their part in the war). For the record Míriel and Fingolfin are grudging allies here - she probably had very blunt words about why he was left behind in Araman too. :D
(But yeah, I've lost hope that fandom ever starts seriously exploring other POVs. Everything always boils down to 'it was Fëanor's fault and everybody else was awesome (and poor weepy Maglor)'. ...Silm fandom sounds more like a broken record than a creative space.)
I guess that's because I like quiet, carefree domesticity more than anything else? (Apart from weird AUs, I guess...but even then it's often like 'everything is fucked up but we're having some delightful time together'). :D
no subject
Date: 2019-03-01 12:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-01 05:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-06-01 06:35 pm (UTC)Loved this. Thank you.
-vinterisen