Destiny

Canon compliant AU.  Though no one ever bothered to ask--or even understand--Míriel always had her reasons for throwing away her life.  Quenya names used (Fëanor = Fëanáro).  This is basically a story closely related to "Muse", "Dim" and "Exception" along with all of their many derivatives, including "Precious", "Murmur", "Devious", "Waste" and "Remorseful" among others.  Takes place in Tirion during the Years of the Trees.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Finwë x Míriel

Character: Míriel, Fëanor, Finwë (mentions the Valar, Vairë in particular)

Warning: canon compliant AU, post-partum depression of a sort, spiritual/cultural stuff, precognition/foresight, visions of murder and war

Song: Destiny of the Chosen

Words: 1,164
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destiny (noun): a predetermined course of events often held to be an irresistible power or agency; something to which a person or thing is destined: fortune
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/destiny

As soon as she felt him bloom into existence, curled within the safety and warm softness of her womb, Míriel knew there was something different about her child.

At first, she had believed it naught but the silly feelings of a prideful, wistful mother-to-be.  Like a modest woman, she had written off her suspicions as the fanciful imagination of a pregnant woman in the midst of her turbulent gestation.

That was what she told herself.  Until the first time she felt him move within her body, tiny nudging kicks pressing against her as if to solidify his reality.

That was when the visions began.

Eyes formed of Telperion's tears and Laurelin's shine, wide and bright and filled to the brim with calculating intelligence.  There was undeniable passion, and yet a lingering smell of rot--resentment and fear and heartbreak...

So clearly could she see him in all his terrible glory, tall and handsome and charming.  The man in her dreams had her husband's bearing but had her facial structure, a perfect blend of their best features.

And he burned.

Hands that could craft mind-rending wonders from nothing but molten metal and stone.  An imagination that could sculpt from the simplest of forms the most amazing and complex of creations.  A mind that could run through a thousand scenarios in the space of a moment's time...

They frightened her, those dreams.  For, as her son grew and her belly swelled further and became rounder, the images became more violent and confusing.  More horrifying.

Wild passion flowed through his body as water did down a riverbed, overflowing with an influx of emotion and turmoil.  The charisma innate in his every fiber and atom transformed, transcended the mortal plane and became something...

Until Míriel could not sleep for fear of what she might see.  Of what destiny she might behold in her mind's eye against her will and desire.  Long nights she spent curled against her husband's chest, tears a scant centimeter from overflowing down her cheeks as her silent, hiccupping sobs filled the night with their subtle harmony.

She did not want to tell Finwë.  She did not want to tell anyone.

Something that was not quite elven.  Something that was no longer beautiful, but splattered in crimson and grinning maniacally.  Something that could not even be called a child of the mortal realm for the unearthly, unholy gleam that lit up in its hungry, furious, cunning eyes...

But she could not hide the truth from herself.  And eventually the tears stopped even as the visions became more powerful and the strength of her spirit waned.

Perhaps she should have spoken sooner.  Perhaps she should have told her husband.  Perhaps she should have consulted a healer.  Perhaps she should even have taken her fears and anxieties and questions to Lady Vairë and begged for clarity in matters of the dangers of foresight.

But none of those things did she do.

Instead, she wrapped her arms about her distended belly and stroked her fingers carefully over the bumps and nudges of her unborn child, already thinking of what she would name him.  Already knowing what he would look like.  Already knowing where his strengths and weaknesses and loves and hates would lie hundreds or thousands of years beyond her demise.

For she began to accept the truth...

Something that thirsted for blood and vengeance.  For three glowing stars laid upon a scarlet sky.  And yet, alone, he still laid down his head and wept and begged and pleaded...

And asked why...

Míriel knew she would not long survive the birth of her son.  For he had become a part of her being, had taken in all she had to offer in unconditional love.  Taken and taken and taken until she felt the fault line of her soul quake and crack and part where he broke off from her.  Taking all of her fire and all of her spirit and all of her determination and iron will.

Taking everything, leaving a tired, wounded spirit behind.

Why had he been cursed to be as he was?  What had been so special about him?

What had Eru been thinking, creating him, such a monstrous beauty?

By no fault of his own, her son was slowly killing her.  But Míriel also knew that he was worth every ounce of her pain and fatigue.  Every fragment she donated willingly and eagerly to the strength of his soul.  For he needed to be strong and steadfast.  He needed her flame and her passion and her heart.

He needed everything she had to survive the role which he had been cast.

Damned as he was, he knew it would never end.  He did not regret his oath or his words or his vengeance, but part of him knew it would never cease.  Until the End of All Things, that which he longed for and desired would be just beyond the reach of his fingertips, his sworn words left unfulfilled in bleak torment.

He knew it was meant to be.  But nevertheless...

She knew it was meant to be.  And this she accepted.

Thus it was that she welcomed her son into the world, holding him gently as he squirmed and cooed, unaware of the path awaiting his eager, faltering footsteps just beyond the horizon.  Unaware of the pain and the suffering he had been forged to resist and endure.  Unaware of the fate of all the world resting heavily upon the immense power of his Spirit of Fire.

"His name is Fëanáro."

What else was there to say?

She had done her duty as his mother.  As the only woman who would ever love him without question or hesitation.  Without a drop of remorse, even knowing...

Nevertheless, he wished there had been some other way.  Some other man created to forge coveted wonders and fall to their spell.  Some other man created to lead his people on a foolish quest after foolish revenge.  Some other man created to catalyze the unfolding of the destiny of so many souls stumbling in the dark...

But there was no other man.  And, if ever there had been a man upon whose shoulders rested all the great faults and mistakes of the past, who would not crumble to pieces and burn out into blackness, it had been he.

Even knowing what he would become.

Now, though, it was time for her to rest.  Laying back against the mountain of pillows, her newborn child mewling in her arms and yet sounding so distant, she was resigned to her fate.  Míriel had played her part in the world.  Her tenure as the actress on the main stage of Eru's theater was over.

Only once did she stroke fondly his flushed cheek and downy dark hair.

It was all up to him.  Her son.