a riot of shadow and shine by Elrond's Library  

The earliest times were shrouded in shades of black. The whole world was lit only by the bright points of light wheeling and dancing above them, and the reflection of the waters of the vast lake below.

Shades of black, and grey, and white. The world was new, and dark, and as of yet simple.

But Míriel’s eyes picked up the briefest flashes of color in the time before fire had been harnessed and kept, domesticated for the Quendi’s use – hints of red in the splattered blood of a successful hunt, orange in the pelt of the clever fox, yellow in the yarrow flowers blooming in the meadows.

But these were simply flashes, a hint of a wider, greater world. A tantalizing glimpse of more, always at the edge of awareness, never within reach. Míriel would grasp it, if something as intangible as the concept of color could overflow in bounteous wonder over her hands.

But then fire was caught, tamed and kept and cherished, and their world was suddenly awash with light. The world expanded, a pageantry of blues and greens and browns. A cacophony of color, overwhelming in its saturation.

And yet the most tantalizing sight – the one that drew Míriel’s attention with such intensity, that which swam before her sleeping eyes – was the golden glitter of a single dancer’s hair in the firelight. 

Indis. 

Míriel watched from the edges of the great fire as fair Indis’ golden hair swept out behind her in a graceful arc, following the path of a dance that took her around and around herself, twisting in place. Her feet fell with the drums, beating in ecstatic rhythms. Faster and faster she twirled, heels flying, hair twining around her. The drums beat out their crescendo, and with a shout Indis reached to the heavens, as if she could pluck a star out from the Pale River and bring it back to shine amidst the Quendi below. 

Indis breathed, her skin shining with the sweat of exertion, exhilaration brightening her face with joy and laughter. She glowed, an inner light that rivaled the flames behind her.

Míriel could only smile, enchanted.

Whose bride would this dancer be?

Could she be Míriel’s?

And so Míriel began her slow courtship of the dancer.

They went on long walks through the forests, Indis armed with spear in her hand and gathering basket on her back, her knowledge of the land exceedingly helpful as Míriel experimented with adding color to woven cloth, spun thread, and tanned leather. Walnuts and buckthorn for deepest browns and lightest oranges, madder and crabapples for brightest reds, elderberry and tansy for palest greens, celandine and yarrow for cheery yellows, gallnuts and woad for watery blues. 

They talked as they walked, sharing thoughts and laughter as easily as breath with a language so new Míriel could remember a time before it. Indis was not so old as that, being among the first generation born to inexperienced, instinct-driven mothers and fretful yet curious sisters. Many children were born to the Unbegotten in those times, but Míriel herself took neither lover nor spouse, devoting her time to the work of her hands, an exploration of color and the way it sang in breathless harmony with the Music of the star-spangled waters by the shores of Cuiviénen. 

It mattered not, in those times, the differences between them.

Míriel presented Indis with gifts – woven bands to adorn her golden tresses, sturdy leather shoes to protect her delicate feet, fur cloaks to keep her lithe body warm, dresses of the softest linen to accent her dances. Each gift was received with a gem-bright smile and a fleeting kiss to the forehead, to the cheek, and, occasionally, the mouth. Each kiss made Míriel’s heart flutter, her skin burn in the place where Indis’s lips had brushed against her. 

And beyond Míriel’s wildest dreams and expectations, Indis reciprocated, in her own way. Each meal shared was crafted with such care, each song was sung softly just for her. Indis gave her trust, with the tentative explorations of tone, of rhyme and meter, of chanted songs without drum or flute. Poetry lived in the spaces between her breaths. No craft of the hands did Indis specialize in, as Míriel did, but under her careful feet and clever mind intangible joy grew for all who knew her. 

With time, they began to live together, there on those primordial shores. Live together, and lie together. Míriel’s lips explored with tender tentativeness the burnished skin of her beloved, brushing against sensitive skin. From the tip of pointed ear to the soft mound of breast to the rounded curve of hip and thigh; she traced all and more with lip and tongue and finger. Míriel harvested the plumpest, sweetest fruits between Indis’s thighs, caught sighs in nets of adoration, wove moans and shouts into songs of pleasure sung for her and only her.

And in time, with experience and joy and laughter, they came to know each other so well, had learned each other’s bodies and minds as well as their own, that it seemed as if they could reach out and inhabit each other’s thoughts. Some incorporeal force linked them in those dark days, such that Míriel soon realized she knew where Indis was even when they were parted, and with little effort, they could even speak across the vast distances between the shores of the lake and the dark forest beyond. 

And so Míriel held the heart of her Indis, at long last. This bride was hers, hers to love and kiss and adorn with the works of her hands! There was no need, in those times, to announce such a binding. No ceremony, no feast, no rings of silver or gold, no grand gesture before all and sundry. No, nothing that would be known in the time that would follow. The binding was in their hearts and minds, and it was visible to all in their eyes, the meals cooked together, the devotion shared, the listening ear and open heart and the home they built together on the shore.

Nothing lasts, of course. The Quendi knew that from the first Awakening; mourned it despite expecting it. Even with the color revealed by caught and bound fire, darkness and deepest Shadow ever haunted their footsteps. 

Indis’s parents were taken. Then Míriel’s companions – they who had Awoken by her side – were gone, leaving a young son behind. Others, too, were taken – shattered screams and the stink of fear permeating the forests as they dared not drift very far from the shores of the lake. Lost they were to the Shadow, to the Dark Rider with his horn of jet and a beast so large it blotted out the stars of the Pale River when it passed.

Grief cast a long pall over their home. Míriel mourned the companions of her Waking, wove the story of their life into thread and memory. Indis could not find reason to dance. Words that used to flow like water now tripped and stumbled over her tongue. Míriel could find no way to cheer her. Her wife’s heart was not a sock that needed darning, to be mended with the application of skill and stubbornness. No song sung could lift their hearts. No flower could bring them joy. The colors of a life well-lived faded into blacks and greys. 

They grieved, and they watched.

Time did not heal this shared sorrow.

The stars continued to spin in their celestial dance.

Hope came on a gold and white horse.

This, then, is why they left. This, then, is why they sundered themselves from their home and all they had ever known. This, then, is why they walked, and walked, and walked. In the dark, under strange stars. 

The promise of protection.

Light.

Life.

Color.

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