#Míriel Þerindë
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Marriage of Finwë
...and the thread of destiny is spun ever on.
aka Fëanaro is not impressed :) Not-so-transparent ghost Miriel under the cut
#my art#feanor#finwe#house of finwe#indis#tolkien#silmarillion#miriel#Míriel Þerindë#tapestry of time#this took me an embarrassing long time#but hey at least I have now a Finwe and an Indis design#weeeh
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Míriel Þerindë, because I love her and I wanted to play with my design for her. <3
#tolkien#the silmarillion#miriel#miriel therinde#míriel þerindë#i love herrrrrrrrrrrr#my girl just wanted to sleep#and honestly that is so relatable#i've had this in my wip folder#for so many months now it's embarrassing#i already see things i want to change#but NOPE#posting this and moving on!#i want to make more art dammit#one day i will learnt to draw backgrounds#but today is not that day#my art
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To put it simply:
Finwë was a rebel (we need to talk about this and it's implications more)
Finwë found Valinor less exciting for himself than he did for Míriel and how much she would love it and benefit from it and improve because of it (AWWWW my HEART)
Ingwë was just obsessed with Varda (he loves shiny goddesses ✨✨)
Elwë wanted to be there for his best friend (or something more ;) hehehehe maybe-one-sided Finwë x Elwë is something we've all thought about don't lie)
#finwe#ingwe#elwe#thingol#míriel þerindë#the silmarillion#silm#nature of middle earth#legendarium tag#There's a bit too much maths in NoME but apart from that and the last chapter it's VERY interesting#first NoME read#and it was not void
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milf4milf
#if tolkien didnt think they should fuck nasty. why silver and gold color schemes hmmm??? hmmm???#míriel#indis#míriel Þerindë#miriel#the silmarillion#mindis#my art#tolkien femslash#femslash#lesbian#silmarillion
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Sorry I have another one if you want :) Míriel and 'old and forgetton'
thank you for the asks @theworldisquietheretooquiet! got míriel-brain disease and ended up finishing this one first <3
the usual míriel & descendants warnings apply. 1458 words.
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Labours of the Living
Finwë found her hidden away, in the alcove she retreated to when her own working rooms were grown tiresome to her eyes.
It did not surprise Míriel. Finwë had always had a talent for finding her, a skill honed through many years; even, and most particularly, when Míriel sought an escape. He loved her too well to want her lonesome, and knew her to well to think she should always be given her way in living engrossed in her work.
“My lady, my bright lady, here I find you at last,” he said, and came upon the secret curve of the staircase like a vision of himself. Míriel saw him as he was, tall and well-braided, the darkness of his eyes gleaming for her in the light of the high window; for a moment a stranger, a new and beloved thing.
Underneath the heartbeat of her own breast another one jumped, calling to her, thrilled at the sight.
Your father, she told her child, agreeing. Let one of them delight in the world and in Finwë particularly, when she was too weary for it. That was what children were for, joy-making and living stores of joy - so she was told. Your high-hearted father, who shall love you better than all things.
Finwë loved her so well. Nearly as much as the promise of their child; a curious loss of preeminence for Míriel, who understood him perfectly.
“Such hurry, my lady,” Finwë-king teased, jumping up the steps around one pyramid of bolts of brocade like he had when jumping the lake-stone path over the waters of Cuiviénen to visit the dwellings of Míriel, where she had kept her wild goats and first mastered the spindle. “That is princely garment that you have wrought lately, for a prince in many ages.”
“Or many princes, of many ages,” said Míriel.
She looked down at her hand upon the needle, the brilliant floss strung through, the hoop in her lap and the organized disorder of fabrics around her and that same strangeness rose like sea-sickness, the hungry thing inside her restless and small, wanting always to know, know, know what it saw through her eyes.
It wearied her spirit. And the flesh was weary enough as was. It had been a great deal of baskets and bolts of fabric to carry, even if it was but a fraction of what she was working upon; and she was weary still after the climb, though Telperion’s light upon the window beside her had fractured in many changing angles since first she arrived. She had lost precious time with it; the child delighted in the spectrum of it, and her eyes, too, were passionate about colour, heavy enough to grow distracted.
Míriel of the needle with her strong will distracted from her craft! It had not happened before, even when she had been wounded, cold and famished; it happened far too often now. Much had grown tiresome to Míriel, as her child rounded her belly, her most ambitious project kicking at her bowels and sending her constant reveries of strong, flashing impressions.
She made a wardrobe entire: court robes and sturdy traveling layers knitted in complicated patterns, thin shifts for sleep of beautifully embroidered satin. Hats in fashion not yet invented, caps and veils and nets, stitched with golden coins and intricate lacework in gold-thread. Aprons of leather-work, embossed so a distracted craftsman might pass his fingertips over the designs as they thought.
The flaming of a poppy, and the blossoming of a new flame; the sweet purple-reds of the bougainvillea. Linen, velvet, brocade and samite, all of it red, and red, and more red. Her child saw nothing else, in the haven of her womb; that was all it knew to love. Míriel found many variety of it among the fabrics of her stores, dyed others, to her own perfect demands.
Not easy, to stand before the vats with the shifting paddles, moving cotton in water with heavy, forceful arms; and less so, when her ankles so ached and her back complained. Her shoulders ached still after the long labour of her early pregnancy. But Míriel would have no aid, nor even from her best apprentices. She had a reverie in mind, a dream that was no dream, the crafter’s perfect vision of the work to finish; and she meant for it to be impeccable, for it to last.
Her king knelt before her on the cold harshness of the stone, and kissed her hands affectionately, peering down to look at the work on the hoop.
“That shall certainly be marvelous,” Finwë agreed, “Many marvels for our children shall come from your hand; yet, Míriel, do not forego sleep for it! Thou art crafting many masterpieces at once.”
His smile was knowing, tender around the eyes. It suited him: the care he took with his lady, the last light before the Mingling curling around the stay hairs that escaped his crown. Prickly, goading and laughing and bold and full of wonder like a self-sustaining and warming fire: that was as she liked him best, the chieftain and the craftsmen she loved, her old friend from the old world.
Never had she resented him any softness, nothing of the gentleness that was in him. It had been pleasure, at first, how swiftly he nurtured it, beside his eagerness for the widening of their close and secretive family, the dear circle of their arms around one another; but she could not return it.
So much of Tírion-upon-Tuna was made exactly to his liking, from the materials he thought best, arranged in the angles of his thinking. Míriel loved the city so well. It was not Tírion’s fault Míriel was too weary to stomach the sight of it well, nor her husband’s tenderness.
She took his hands, that he might feel the child kicking inside her; and then took them, so he might help her down the steep path of her own devising.
-
Fëanáro’s rooms had gathered dust for many Ages, when at last Míriel returned to life, committed again to life. He had taken much with himself on his exile to the far northern fortress of Formenos, and among his many works and treasures had been the full collection of Míriel’s works: all his wardrobe, what of it had not been passed on to his sons as they grew.
Míriel knew this: she had woven him garbed with the long tunics of her own make, raising a torch and declaring a fell promise, his sons arrayed around him likewise: in capes, and hats, and embroidered robes of rich, blood-dark crimson. She did not look for her son in the apartments where he had been young and unhappy, nor the rooms set aside for the children he begot in love - did not open drawers, or press her mouth against worn fabrics made into paler shades by layers of dust through the Ages.
Nothing remained. He was not loved now, her son; the rooms were barred and barren, so they might not be destroyed in wrathful grief by the righteous.
The palace of Tírion was much changed. There were rooms enclosed and airless, like the chambers and cairns of stone where the dead had been buried on the journey out of Cuiviénen. There was Indis’ hand in the leveling of high stone walls and the raising of galleries crowned and surrounded in glass; Indis’ hand who had drawn the mezzanines, and decided on the colour of upholstery, the design of the candlesticks.
And Finwë, in all things Finwë’s fondness for soft fabrics and bold colours, his liking for meadows with many moss-covered boulders set together for conversation matured into a tendency for low tables, and vast rooms with many seats.
Míriel’s own marks remained, for they had been made to endure unseen: curling staircases; cunning doorways, alcoves with stained glass windows and a seat carved into the parapet, the sort of places a distracted broideress might retreat to work.
Some of the places had been plainly found. Childish, painstaking scratches lined the windowsills, tengwar in a faltering fashion, still inventing itself, scratching the first attempts. A quiet place, made in ancient times.
How young she had felt, sketching the project of it upon Finwë’s blueprints! Old, and forgotten; for no children ran now, joyful or wretched, through the secret hallways of Tírion’s great palace.
There and only then did Míriel raise her hand to lay over her belly, which had so shuddering with life when last she stood in her quiet hideout; only then did she weep, Þerindë of the needle, as her child had wept in secret against the sleeves she had dyed and sewn and embroidered with the last of her last life.
#míriel#finwe#feanor#the silmarillion#my fics#asks and answers#silm fic#theworldisquietheretooquiet#noldor#years of the trees#míriel þerindë
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Míriel Þerindë, for @finweanladiesweek
#finweanladiesweek#flw22#miriel#miriel therinde#Míriel Þerindë#Míriel#mommy? sorry. mommy? sorry. mommy?#my art#silm
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Míriel for @finweanladiesweek's Day 1. ✨
#tolkien#finweanladiesweek22#míriel#míriel þerindë#fan art#my art#joli's art#she looks better irl lol. 😅🤣#also background... kinda.
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Míriel Þerindë
Follow From: @eunoiaastralwings
Other RP Blogs: @luthriel-tinuviel | @quiet-flower-wonderlings | @illicit-unknown-shadows | @son-of-the-moon-and-sun | @tears-of-burden
Other canon character RP Blogs: @nerdanel-the-wise-istarnie
Míriel is an original character belonging to Tolkien - here are a few headcanons on now I imagine her character would be like to rp as her :) - - RULES
Ataresse: Míriel
- q. jewel-woman or jewel-daughter
Amilesse: Þerindë
- q. the Broideress
Titles: First Queen of the Ñoldor and Handmaiden of Vairë. In headcanon: Disciple of Vairë.
Proficiency: Embroidery, sewing, needlework
APPEARANCE:
Build: Lean, Lithe
Race/Ethnicity: Elf
Hair Color: Pure silver
Eye Color: Dark (jet black/deep brown appearing black)
Eye Shape: Almond
Skin: Fair, almost pale
Headcanons ahead!
Nicknames: Mír/Míre (as Finwë affectionately called her).
Visual Age: 27
Height: 7’2
Hair Style: Braided into intricate and exquisite patterns on the top of her head to keep away from her face.
Weapons: Sword fighting - she was definitely alive during the time Finwë led the Ñoldor to Valinor so I hc it is something she excels in.
Magical Ability: Perhaps none - but I hc her as becoming a disciple to Vaire (as she probably cannot become a maia), she is able to see a little into the future and weave it into tapestries (only from the line of Finwë), but obviously not as much as Vaire.
Hands: small, thin lithe fingers, squoval nails.
Types of Clothes: Gowns/dresses mostly made of velvet and unique colors like turquoise. Flowy dresses that are made to easy to move in and sat for her to sew.
How do they wear their clothes: Neatly and very put together - not a single thread out of place.
What are their feet like: Clean slippers or soft boots, rarely ever barefoot.
Mannerisms: Míriel is an expert at hiding her emotions - however she does give a proud smile and give sharp nods a lot once acquainted. She is a kind person with tough love, her affections are carried mostly through her actions and acts of service. After becoming a disciple sometimes she likes to speak in riddles.
Important/Usual Accessories: She wears classy hairpin sticks most of the time.
ABOUT:
Alignment: Lawful Good
Occupation: Disciple of Vaire.
Likes: Art, reading, sewing, embroidery
Dislikes: Arguing, war, swords - ever though she has good swordsmanship, she hates having to use it.
Favorite Colors: Any soft, unique and pastel colors. Her favorite turquoise because it is a color unique as her hair to the elves.
Literature: She likes to read a variety of genres - she loves mysteries the most, she is not able to tell what is coming in books so loves reading a lot and make up her theories.
Hobbies: sewing, reading.
PERSONALITY:
Personal Triggers: Weapons, abuse and wrongs in her family (yes, of course she considers Indis family).
What words or phrases do they over use: “By my lady Vairë” or “There is nothing I can do. . .only weave it.”
Are they more optimistic or pessimistic: Optimistic in Valinor, pessimistic in the Halls of Mandos at first but grew optimistic again when she realized she could weave the the deeds of her family. But pessimistic again when Fëanáro creates and commits to the oath and all events that followed - she was in depression for a long time until her sons and grandchildren regretted and served their punishments.
Love Language: Acts of service, quality time and physical touch.
Strongest Character Trait: Her abilities as a weaver and the expertness to hid her emotions.
Weakest Character Trait: Can be stubborn sometimes - but in her own calm way without having to raise her voice.
Greatest Fear: Morgoth winning - and Fëanáro at one stage.
Overrated Virtue: Temperance and solemnity
If they could change one thing about themselves: To be able to do something when she weaves in a misfortune in the line of Finwë - she is only just a weaver and cannot prevent fate, but she wishes to change it or fix it.
Songs I associate with Míriel: Skyfall by Adele, Can’t Pretend by Tom Odell and Scars Leave Beautiful Trace by Car the Garden (Alchemy of Souls OST).
EXTRA NOTES:
Later when Míriel becomes the handmaid of Vairë — they're bonding over the art of sowing — and became very close friends. Neither talk much; small smiles shared — but sometimes becomes each others words of advise and wisdom. Míriel then becomes the disciple of Vairë.
Míriel would be in two minds about seeing – heartbroken seeing her little flame has become someone as dangerous as Morgoth, that would scare her. She might refuse to meet him a few times as first – but would him from afar without him knowing.
Then, seeing how he acts in the halls of Mandos and if he regrets his actions and ready take his punishments, then she would be more willing to see and talk to him. Definitely a few awkward meetings at first – she would not know what to say and probably maintain a distance as much as it hurts her too. Then, slowly warm up go him seeing him grieve for his own sons.
#❛ 𝕭𝐄𝐉𝐄𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐃 ❜ ︵₊. ┊͙┊͙ ⸝⸝ 💎ˊ˗ ⇆₊˚ ｢ about muse ٪#about muse#Míriel Þerindë#pinned post#Míriel#the silmarillion#the silm Míriel#miriel therinde#miriel#the silm#silmarillion
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#tolkien elves#tolkien#tolkien roleplay#jrr tolkien#the silmarillion#the silm fandom#silmarillion#nerdanel#nerdanel the wise#miriel#miriel therinde#míriel#Míriel Þerindë#caranthir#caranthir the dark#morifinwe#carnistir#tarawrites
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silver & gold (or; míriel & indis)
for day one of @finweanladiesweek : míriel þerindë and indis
#finweanladiesweek#miriel#indis#miriel serinde#miriel therinde#miriel þerinde#indis the fair#silmarillion#silm#finwë#house of finwë#míriel þerindë#míriel serindë#míriel therindë#silm art#silmarillion art#tolkien#tolkien art#silm fan art#lis tag
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reblog this with three recent writing-related tabs/searches/research binges in the tags
#mine#reblog games#rb games#reblog bait#for fairness here are mine:#what did heralds do#míriel þerindë timeline#list of refractive indices
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Míriel þerindë
#throwing older art here till i finished comms#also new fav character unlocked#silmarillion#silm#silm art#tolkien#miriel#lotr#art#illustration#miriel therinde
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For @finweanladiesweek day one: Míriel Þerindë, the Weaver
#finweanladiesweek#míriel#miriel#miriel therinde#the silmarillion#the silmarillion art#my art#forestials art#and bonus fëanor#I have a friend who draws really good period clothes in her art and I was inspired#only my research is zero so it’s all vibes and no accuracy here
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Both Fëanor and Míriel I think have the same major flaw and it's that they don't know when to stop. Míriel went all in when she was giving Fëanor her spirit. She could have restrained herself perhaps, made him a normal child with a normal amount of spirit, but she did not, and thus caused herself untold harm. Fëanor might have (and I like this theory) also put some of his spirit in the Silmarils, and that was far too great a length to go for making a set of jewels (and the Oath and the rest of it certainly didn't make it better).
They both always go too far when they create, and by the time they've stopped themselves/slowed themselves down (or by the time someone else has stopped them or slowed them down) it's too late for the action to be of any good. Rather, both times it causes some sort of strife to the people around them.
#I just think the parallels are neat#míriel þerindë#feanor#the silmarillion#silm#legendarium tag#this is probably half incoherent don't mind me#and it was not void
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what is it like, to grow ill in paradise?
(Míriel Þerindë)
#míriel Þerindë#miriel#the silmarillion#my art#ur girls home from work today this is why the art spam#have a MOTHER#i think she keeps her hair short. it has been long once but she's lost energy to comb/maintain it#also mae gets her freckles :)
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I love your Míriel story. The melancholy comes across so clearly
-@outofangband
Thank you so much @outofangband! I am very glad you enjoyed it, I really enjoy writing Míriel. Her dedication to her craft, her ambition and her anguish have such an impact in the world. She had such an impact, and the descriptions of her as a person are fascinating.
This ask had so many excellent possibilities, but the idea that she made her son's wardrobe before his death was too sweet and heartbreaking not to write! The title is from the line where she says she has tired of the labours of the living; that of course has many meaning and a fun wordplay from Tolkien, but I was particularly interested in the idea of living as a series of labours. It is very much that, and you cannot have life without them, but it's telling to who she is that even in death Míriel chose other labours.
It would be interesting to make a study of what those separate kinds of labours are! Weaving tapestries tied to emotions as elves feel them in their bodies/Housed experiences vs. the weaving of the Halls of Vaire, that contains no personal self-expression but represents the ultimate events of history.
Does the fact that Míriel chose it give her some greater agency, or could any spirit in Mandos eventually be part of Vaire's weavers? Idk, but it's a cool question.
Her melancholy is both her own, foresight and existential awareness. She is certainly a character very strongly tied to the idea of personal expression and personal choice as a catalyst in great events and being self-aware about it, which might make her uniquely suited to the work of Vaire - maybe it takes a specific kind of temperament?
Certainly a great commitment to one's (personal and radical) truth in life might be useful in commitment to the absolute objective truth of the tapestries. Either way, material culture is great! Will probably return to her soon. Thank you!
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