A Fire Consuming

Children are naturally curious things; elflings are even more so. There has been much debate on the differences of elven and mortal children. The Edain grow at a faster pace, leaving their elven peers behind, whilst the elven children far surpass their counterparts in intelligence. Even so, there is a single moment when they are one and the same: the moment of birth. It is the first time an innocent child is made to breathe, to open its eyes and behold the face of its mother. That is the first memory of every child; some are pleasant and some are not.

The child was born in the dawn at the mingling of the lights of Laurelin and Telperion. His first memory was one of a beautiful woman with a silvery voice to match her hair, and dark, tired eyes. She smiled as she touched her weak hand to the child's dark brow. "This is your son." The woman looked up to see her husband rest his hand on her shoulder. "Curufinwë. What do you think of the name?"

With a tear in her eye she nodded. "Yes, that is a good name. But-" She was cut off by a series of coughs that attacked her already ailing form.

"Niquessë, please come take the prince." Finwë motioned for a nursemaid and the young nís hurried to their side. As she was about to take the child from his mother's arms, a new-found strength entered Míriel's arms as she grasped her arms tighter around the child.

"No-" Shocked at the raspiness of her voice, she cleared her throat. "Please. Not much time. Fëanáro, my boy." She smiled as she cradled his delicate hands, as his electric blue eyes bored deep into her soul. She was unsure of how to react to the fire that seemed to leap from his very eyes, his fëa. So it was he who had sucked the life out of her; she had previously assumed that it was her incapability to carry a new child. It was not, it was this child- Fëanáro.

As she rubbed her weak hands across his dark hair, the elfling looked up into his mother's dark eyes. A tear escaped her eye as she looked down into his shocking grey eyes from which a fire seemed to leap, grasping any sight of knowledge and all that occurred around him. Deep in her heart, Míriel knew of the greatness for which Fëanáro was destined; what greatness it would be was not known. From his hands either great life or great death would arise. "Or maybe both."

Míriel sighed and closed her eyes, leaning against the pillows that cushioned her back. She felt her strength fail as she closed her eyes. It was the last thing she knew.

She did not immediately release her hold on life, instead hanging on to her hröa for several more weeks to follow. In those ensuing weeks, she never once woke. Any who saw her might have mistaken her condition for mere sleep. But no elf sleeps with their eyes closed.

When Míriel Serindë faded, she left behind a mourning husband, a grief-stricken nation, and a young child who would never know his mother.