monotone heartline by atlantablack  

When God's courage failed, Mary watched. Centurions with nail guns.
Monotone heartline. Homely spirit slipping out, whole as an egg.
Right hand of God bleeding like a lamb.

Mystery, Play | Traci Brimhall

☀︎

There are many things that have happened in her life that Indis had not expected to happen. Many things, where to expect them to happen, would have been to invite tragedy into life. 

Míriel's death and her subsequent marriage to Finwë had, of course, been the worst and best of those things. Never would she have even dreamed of a world where Míriel died. No longer can she imagine a world in which she was not granted the joy of being Finwë's wife. 

Now, Ñolofinwë’s sudden exhaustion as the weight of his many deaths crash down upon him is the next. For she is terrified and wishes this had never happened, but there is still something to be said for the novelty of having Fëanáro speak with her, voice free of resentment. Ñolofinwë’s life is not a price she is willing to pay for Fëanáro’s acknowledgement, but it is a price that is being dangled between them regardless of their wants. 

She had thought, all those years ago, Cuiviénen fading into the distance behind them, that life would stop placing all of these awful trade-offs in front of her. Perhaps she should have known better. Should have known that nothing—not even happiness, not even paradise—came without a cost. 

Later, when Ñolofinwë is once more drifting off to sleep, she says to Fëanáro, “Thank you," keeping her voice carefully even. She does not know what it cost Fëanáro to reach out to her when he has never before done so. Is thankful that he paid the cost and allowed her to be present. 

"Which hurts more? Losing the one who gave you life or losing the one who you gave life to?" Fëanáro asks in a low voice, eyes fixed on Ñolofinwë’s chest, on the slow comfort of his continued breathing. 

She is so taken aback by the question that it takes her a while to muster a response. Fëanáro’s acknowledgement of her beyond being someone to hate had already been more than she would have expected of him. This genuine consideration of a question she cannot answer far exceeds that. 

"Does it matter which hurts more?” She cannot believe that it does. “Pain is not a competition, Fëanáro. Even if I did lose my son to exhaustion, I would not set my pain on a scale against yours."

He scoffs quietly. “Easy to say when it has not yet happened.” 

It is a good point. An incorrect one, but a good one. A point she could challenge if she is willing to dredge up her own worst memories. In a way though, does she not owe Fëanáro this when she is a walking reflection of his own worst memories? 

“I saw my mother die,” she finds herself saying, the words harsh on her tongue. They have been long swallowed down in the face of Fëanáro’s resentment, for her pain is not equatable to his. It is not greater, nor is it lesser. It is just pain, muted after so many years except for the times she digs her fingers into it and brings it bubbling to the surface. "It was not a kind death." 

She keeps her eyes locked on Ñolofinwë’s breathing, even as Fëanáro’s eyes land hot against her skin. Once, when he had still been very small, before Findis had even been born, she had considered trying to commiserate with him. Had genuinely considered trying to win over a child by saying, here, look, my pain is similar, I understand loss, you are not alone. She had not; had lost her chance as he grew older, and she still does not know if she regrets it. 

The silence lingers, draws itself out, and as it begins to tighten uncomfortably, she asks, "If I were to place my pain on a scale against yours, would that pain not be better suited?" 

Fëanáro does not answer her for a long while, both of them watching Ñolofinwë sleep. She is not sure she likes how this is what it took for Fëanáro to care about Ñolofinwë. Has always known there must be some pressure point, some way to make something give so that Fëanáro would cease his pointless hate of her children. She had not thought it to be this, and that feels like a mistake on her part. For of course, of all things, what else could it have ever been? 

“What do you mean, it was not a kind death?” Fëanáro asks finally. He is not looking at her when she glances up, instead frowning at a wall. “How could death ever be a kind thing?” 

"How could it not?" she returns. "You were not there, Fëanáro. In those days, death could be far kinder than living. It could also be cruel in the way it allowed you to linger. We all used to pray, that if death were to come, it would come quick and kind."

“You are calling my mother’s death kind then,” he snaps, always so ready to fight. 

“I am saying, that it was her choice, that it did not hurt. So, yes, I suppose I am saying, in its own way, it was kind.” 

“How dare—”

“Do you think your mother did not know the shape of death already?” The question is enough to silence him. For no, why would it have been a thing he ever considered? “Do you think she did not make the choice eyes wide open? She knew well she could have continued to linger and draw it out and let it hurt all the more when she was torn away. In a way, that was her choosing kindness. Do not belittle that.” 

“It was not kind. Nothing that took her from me can be counted as kind.” 

“I did not say it was kind for you.” Indis is reminded quite violently of why she prefers to not think of these things. Wonders, as she always does, if Míriel would have chosen by now to return if not for her, if not for the audacity of what she had chosen to do. “If, after the song is steady once more, Ñolofinwë chooses to sleep, to go to Mandos, then that will also be counted a kindness. Not for us, but for him. If his pain is so great he feels that is his only option, then I will not begrudge him that choice." The tears that escape and slip down her cheeks belie her words, but she means them as much as she can. 

Fëanáro stays silent longer than she had expected. "I cannot believe that. Death is not a kindness. Not ever." The anger has gone out of his words, and when she meets his eyes, she finds no anger, only fear. 

“It is good perhaps,” she muses quietly, “that you cannot believe me. It means only that you grew up safe and with no need to have that belief carved into you.” 

“That belief you carry is borne of fear,” Fëanáro says, an insistent, almost pleading tone to the words. 

“And yours is not?” 

Silence falls after that, both of them sinking into their own thoughts, and Indis, for the first time in what must be centuries, allows herself to dwell on the scant memories she has of her mother. She does not do so often, for sometimes, thinking of her mother still leaves her so grief-stricken and angry that she wonders if she ever truly managed to leave Cuiviénen behind at all. 

Her mother had been beautiful and kind in a way that made it very easy to love her. Kind in a way that made it very easy for the things that hid in the dark to eventually lull her away from safety and into their arms. It had been unfortunate, that it had happened when Indis had still been young enough that she spent more time than not with her mind half-pressed against her mother’s. 

"He will live," Fëanáro says as the mingling begins. When he meets her eyes, they are full of a righteous conviction that she wishes she could match. "I will make sure of it."

“You cannot promise that, Fëanáro.” She wishes he could. If anyone could promise it, then it would be this wondrous, brilliant child that had swept through Tirion like a storm. But no one, no matter how brilliant, can promise such a thing. 

Fëanáro only shakes his head. “I will make sure of it,” he repeats. “We will not lose anyone else.” 

She does not argue, for she wants to believe him. Wants it so badly that it is easy to let herself be lulled into that belief. That will only make it hurt worse if later on Fëanáro turns out to be wrong, but if she denies the hope, then is the cause not already lost? Does her son not deserve her hope, difficult though it is to give?

"We will see," she grants him. "For all of our sakes, I hope you are right."

They speak no more, and Indis is not fool enough to think this will fix things between them, but for a brief moment, there is an understanding between them, and it is as sweet as it is bitter.

☀︎

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