Chapter Text
The deep sound of the great iron door closing echoed off the walls for several seconds before granting her silence. Grey marble remained pleasant under her feet though slightly warmer than outside, as was the air. It had to be the winds, she mused. Even though the hallway had four high glassed windows it kept the nightly breeze well outside. The moonlight, however, was more than welcome.
With even steps she wandered unhurriedly, breaking moonbeams as she passed the windows. Soon she reached the high open archway at the end of the short hallway and entered a round hall that seemed excessive for a foyer.
Once she would have marveled at the sight.
Along the walls, each in separate archways, there stood eight lifelike statues. A chill traveled up her back. She knew who they were, and she didn’t want to see them, or worse, recognise them. Thankfully, the room’s architecture made it easy. The ceiling was a star-shaped dome with small windows that followed the shape in several layers; allowing moonlight and starlight to fall on nearly every surface in the hall, revealing its hidden treasure – ithildin.
The starmoon glowed brightly at the touch of the soft light and while the dome itself had the most intricate patterns, that surely would have left her breathless had she been someone else, her eyes fasten at the floor, and the all too familiar sigil that covered the entirety of it: A burning star in a circle engulfed by a square – The sigil of the House of Fëanor.
Turmoil erupted from deep within her, scorching her insides. It was impossible to define what exactly it was, (fear, sorrow, disappointment, shame, wonder, happiness, confusion,) but she stubbornly settled for anger. Ire and wrath were simple feelings; they blamed others and let her be in peace, or at least an illusion of it.
With newfound resolve she gripped her satchel tighter and marched across the hall. The echo of her steps made it easier to stay in the present and she made a point to step directly on the ithildin lines, stepping deliberately on the sigil. It was childish, but she still relished in the surge of satisfaction that it brought.
Pushing open the next pair of grand iron doors, leading to the grand courtyard, fresh air once again filled her lungs and the sound of running water graced her ears. It reminded her of Rivendell in some ways, she thought, and it surprised her, somewhat. Though perhaps it shouldn’t. This, too, was once a homely home built by Noldor elves. Unlike Rivendell, this home had since long been abandoned. It left a foul taste in her mouth, and, despite herself, a hollow ache in her chest. The courtyard was dead and the garden overgrown. She doubted the rest of the house was fairing any better. It told a story of a time of grace and glory, but was now only further proof of her family’s failures and doom.
Holding back a sigh, and in extension her despair, she stood still for a moment to gather herself. Once, she had scornfully sworn never to walk the floors of her grand sires, but need and desperation had no consideration for such petty vows. For a few seconds she was at total loss what to do.
She just needed to find a corner for herself to live in, she decided. Her father had said—
A mangled body flashed before her eyes—
She gasped. Her heart clenched painfully and she pressed a hand to her chest. She forced the image out of her head.
“The quarter furthest to the northeast, with a view towards Alqualondë,” she repeated her father’s words out loud, letting her own voice snap her back to reality.
Her mood fouled further when she realized the whole compound was built towards the east; it might take a while to find it. Big places like these should have signs for direction, was her sullen thoughts.
Then, her eyes caught an interesting symbol on the far east corner of the courtyard. If she hadn’t detested her paternal great grandfather, and his sons, she probably might have smiled appreciative at the sigil above the arch, possibly marking way to Curufin’s housings. As it were, she only felt a gush of irritation. She wanted to find every fault in them, and maybe accuse them for being egotistic for using their sigils every time they got the chance. However, that was only her bias talking. In this context it was not only helpful, but somewhat sweet. A whole family had chosen to live here, once, even as adults.
Brooding slightly, the last living child of the house of Fëanor made for, what she assumed was, her grandfather’s wing.
Her heart grew heavier with each step. This was how her story ended, she thought morosely — all alone in Tirion, in a great house as dusty and empty as her heart. On the good side, at least none of her actions had caused some horrifying problems for the world’s population to suffer for. Her family was rather famed for it, after all.
In the halls of Mandos, Míriel Þerindë eagerly started on a new pattern, singing softly. A brand new history had just begun for the youngest of the Finwë’s house, and for the first time in millennia Míriel felt hopeful.
Vairë watched her from a distance and could only pray that her elven ward would not have to weave yet another tragedy into the tapestry.
Only time would tell.