Dim

Canon compliant.  Míriel begins to fade after the birth of her first and only child.  And Finwë can do nothing but watch.  Quenya names used (Fëanor = Curufinwë or Fëanáro).  This piece is, of course, related to "Exception" (though not directly) and "Reunion".  It could also easily be vaguely related to "Muse".  Anyway, this is sort of the start of a new arc focusing on Finwë, who I admit I have most likely rather neglected.  Takes place in Valinor in the Years of the Trees, shortly after the birth of Fëanor.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Finwë x Míriel

Characters: Finwë, Míriel, Fëanor

Warning: canon compliant, canon character death implied, depression (possibly post-partum), sort of assisted suicide implied, elven culture stuff

Song: Davy Jones Music Box

Words: 924
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dim (adjective): emitting or having a limited or insufficient amount of light; dull, lusterless; lacking pronounced, clear-cut, or vigorous quality or character; seen indistinctly
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/dim?show=0&t=1377204074

Much had changed with the coming of the firstborn.

The birth of a child was supposed to be a happy event, celebrated by the parents as the most sacred of joinings and most wonderful of blessings.  It was supposed to somehow make life more vivid, more colorful a miasma of experience and passion and adoration.  Make the day brighter.  Make the ecstatic parents happier than ever they had been before, despite the long nights of crying and the changing of soiled nappies.

Finwë had held his firstborn son in his arms and felt his entire world shift around the child, so powerful was his sudden and all-encompassing love for the dependent little star.  Brightness hung on the horizon, for this was his heir, his first child.  His first son.  A strong little boy with a deafening set of lungs and bright silver eyes filled to the brim with curiosity.  His little Curufinwë.

From the moment he beheld his son, Finwë could honestly say that never had he seen anything more glorious than that wrinkled, reddened little face wrapped in soft which cloth and shadowed with a tuft of dark hair.

Then he had handed the boy to the mother expectantly, grinning down at them--his wife still sweaty from her ordeal and pale-faced but shimmering as her arms wrapped about the precious little bundle.  But Míriel had not smiled in delight at the sight of the cooing infant as had he.  Rather, she had looked down at the baby with such wrenching fatigue, a quirk in her lips when her fingers stroked over a soft cheek and around fire-bright eyes.  A faint glimmer in her half-hooded eyes as she beheld the fruit of their union.

"Fëanáro.  I name him Fëanáro."

It was a proud name, one that boded well for the child.  One that offered innate strength and resilience.  One that foretold of greatness in blood and spirit.

Every day that fire seemed to grow.

And every day, his wife's fire seemed to wane.  Until he knew the balance was upset.  Somewhere along the way, something had gone terribly wrong.

They were supposed to be happy.  But more often than not, Finwë found his sweet Míriel staring blankly down at the child, sighing with resignation to herself as she tended the child with vacant eyes, lost in faraway thoughts he could barely comprehend.  No more did she laugh and smile, not even when he cooed at their infant son, tickling the baby into gales of childish laughter and squeals.  There was none of that resplendent wonder in her as had been when her womb had been rounded with child, when her hands had run over her bump and cradled it tenderly.  None of the companionship he remembered when he had sat at her feet and crooned to his unborn son amidst her amused giggles and affectionate smiles.

It was like a ghost had taken her place in mind and spirit, leaving behind only a shell.

Her hair, once outshining Telperion with its silvered sheen, was growing dull and limp.  Her curls were wispy and frail to his fingers; they had gone strangely gray and dry.  Her skin, always pale but with a healthy rose flush, was now whiter than milk and stretched over her bones as though it no longer fit her form.  And her eyes--he shuddered to look upon them.

No luster of liveliness and inspiration gleamed there as had once like twin stars.  Once, she had been filled to the brim with visions of creativity and strokes of genius, always going somewhere and always setting her mind to something.  Unstoppable and unbearably stubborn.  Filled with vitality.

But this woman before him was dim.  Her glow was gone.  Like a doll, she sat still and stared out the window, disconsolate and unseeing.

And the life he had built around her spun to a standstill.  The happiness that so Finwë had anticipated upon the birth of his first child--the first of many, he had prayed--was a daydream proven a false hope.  A morning mist chased away beneath unforgiving light and heat, casting garish emphasis upon the truth.  The truth that neither he nor his wife were content.

That she no longer smiled and wanted to hold his hand.  No longer wanted to work on her embroidery projects or visit her friends for afternoon tea.  No longer wanted to make love or share sweet, lingering kisses in their moments of silent peace.

No longer wanted to hold and rock her son to sleep.  Or to sing him the ancient lullabies and kiss his chubby little cheeks good-rest.

And with the dying of her light was the fading of the world.  Finwë, for all that he loved his newborn son and cherished the tiny, fiery life, missed terribly the woman he had loved with all his heart.  Yearned and longed and wistfully dreamed as they drifted asunder.

Until her fingers slipped from his grasp entirely, severing irrevocably.  Until she was out of his reach entirely, drifting away.  Until she bled their life of vibrancy.

Until, one day, she told him that she wanted to rest.

And he knew--the truth resonating in that aching emptiness delved into his chest--that he had lost her completely.  That there were neither actions or words that could bring back her light.  That his everlasting love was not enough to make her happy.
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This is just sad.  I blame the music for most of that, but it was also kind of intentional.  Davy Jones Music Box (I don't know the actual name for the song, because it doesn't have the organs in it--it's the music box theme that plays on the main menu.) is a gorgeous but incredibly sad love theme, and for some reason it just clicked, you know?  I've always liked it just by itself, as it without all the organs stuff in the background, though I like that version, too.  It's just that this has a pure and tragic sort of quality with just the bare bones of the melody and harmony that's very enchanting.

This isn't the first thing I've written for this pairing, of course, but it's the saddest at the very least.  I don't remember how old Fëanor was when his mother "died", but for the sake of my AU he's going to be very, very little.  It's just... I can understand her being depressed.  Some women get post-partum depression this severe or more severe.  But if he was older, I couldn't understand her just abandoning her family.  Personally, for me, unless she is vilified, it has to be like this.

In any case, maybe next time I'll try writing something sweet for them.  Maybe meeting before Finwë goes to Valinor--romance in Cuiviénen under the stars?  Something cute and sweet, you know.  I've considered making her distantly related to Elwë but have mostly scraped the idea.  I guess we'll just have to see where the prompts take us, yeah?

One more thing: found an interesting custom journal cover with her on it.  Her face... it just makes me sigh, it's so perfect.  Miriel Journal by ~Achen089 on dA.