I own nothing.

It is rare that she can get them both in the room together with her at the same time, alone and apart from all the neri of the family. Irissë and Artanis are always in the company of their brothers or their cousins, it seems. Indis knows, knows all too well, the way a young girl or a grown nís might behave more guardedly amongst her male relatives than she would alone. Even these two, bold as they both are, they have masks that they put up amongst their kin. Indis knows, for so does she. There was only one whom she could be completely, totally honest with, and now that person is dead, now and forever, and it's partly her fault.

Oh, enough of that.

Indis finds herself shuffling thoughts of the ever-dead out of her mind, only to find it preoccupied by the silence. It is far too silent in this little side chamber in the palace, the only real sound the summer wind making the long curtains flap, Laurelin's light unusually gentle this day. They are quiet, the three of them sitting at the table, drinking their tea and staring down into their teacups.

Of course, Indis is quiet by nature. She often finds herself tongue-tied and lacking for intelligent words; that she does so today, unsure of what to say to either of her granddaughters, comes as no surprise to her, though Indis thinks she can feel the tips of her ears burning in shame.

Irissë and Artanis just don't have much to say to one another. It's not that they dislike each other, Indis believes. She's seen nothing to hint that, and if her two granddaughters disliked one another, Indis doubts that either of them would be able to keep quiet about it, or see a reason to. In fact, Irissë's reaction to certain recent incidents involving Artanis and Fëanáro would suggest that she feels much the same way about Artanis as she does about her younger brother and cousins—that she is someone to be protected and defended against any threat or unwanted attention.

But that's just it. Irissë is so much older than Artanis, and Artanis so much younger. One is a young girl still, and the other an adult. Certain behaviors Artanis engages in, behaviors Indis gets the impression are acted out for the purpose of disconcerting her brothers and cousins, only enforces the image of Artanis as a child. A child and an adult oftentimes have little to say to one another.

And yet there is so much potential for friendship here, Indis can't help but think. There's the hollow sting of melancholy in her chest. There is so much, as there was once, and now…

It is silent. Indis watches her granddaughters, runs her finger over the rim of her teacup. She looks at the tilt of Irissë's jaw, the glint of Artanis's hair, and remembers, and draws parallels.

Fëanáro likes to throw Arafinwë's Vanyarin looks back in his face as an insult, and does the same to his sons. Frankly, apart from their colorings, Indis has never seen that Arafinwë bears her much resemblance. None of her children bear her much resemblance, it seems like, no matter how much Fëanáro loves to claim that all of her children take after Indis in looks and mind. Even amongst her children, Indis feels as though her presence has no weight, as though she has left no lasting mark in this place. They are all Finwë's, and she leaves little mark on them.

For a short time, Fëanáro stopped making such remarks against Artanis, mainly because he was trying to get enough in her good graces to get her to give him a lock of her hair. Indis resists the urge to bury her face in her hands at the memory, knowing only that her two girls would ask her what is the matter. She does not make many demands upon Finwë, nor upon Arafinwë, but she would have liked, just a little bit, for someone to keep Fëanáro from harassing his niece as he did that day; if Indis had actually been there at the time, she might have done so. But as it stands, Fëanáro has gone right back to making comments on Artanis's Vanyarin-Telerin looks, and with frankly more venom than he ever leveled against Arafinwë or his boys. Artanis, at least, is strong enough and bears too little love for her uncle to mind his words.

But Indis knows something Fëanáro does not, and she can find amusement mixed in with her grief at his mockery of her kin, to see him remark about how much Artanis throws to her mother, and to her grandmother. If you could only see…

If he could only see what Indis sees. Artanis could have so easily been Míriel's true child, or grandchild, just to look at her.

Oh true enough, Míriel's hair was a dull, dark silver, not the radiant gold-silver of Artanis's long tresses. True that Míriel was not even so tall as this still-growing girl (Frankly, Artanis is already close to Irissë's height, and Irissë is no short wisp of a girl herself). True that Míriel's eyes were so dark a gray, and not glinting green. True that no one is so lovely as Artanis Nerwen, daughter of Arafinwë and Eärwen, and that is no boast; she is simply beautiful to look upon. But her hair looks dull silver under Telperion's light, and Artanis has a stillness about her that all of her siblings, her father, aunts and uncles, all of her cousins decidedly lack. The rest of them are tense and restless; Artanis Nerwen is still. A stillness of body and spirit, she possesses. It is a stillness that Míriel had, a stillness that can only come from confidence and far-sighted assurance.

And Irissë is rather like Míriel as well. Irissë is not gentle as Míriel was, and she loves hunting and the butchery of beasts as Míriel never did. There is something about her, though, that calls back to Míriel. Pale face with red lips and just a faint pink blush in her cheeks. And when she sets her mind to something, when she is truly resolute, Irissë is every bit as stubborn as Míriel Serindë ever was. This occurs in Irissë just as rarely as it did in Míriel, but like her, she does not give an inch. Artanis can be talked down (albeit with difficulty), but it's impossible to do so with Irissë. You can make her do what you want, but you'll never be able to make her believe that it is right.

The past is everywhere, Indis finds, waiting to spring out at her from dark corners. Her granddaughters, her bright, beautiful girls, they throw so strongly to someone who does not share their blood, to someone whom they have never even met. They remind Indis so strongly of someone who died before they or even their fathers could be born. The past is everywhere, and it only grows stronger with each year.

There are things that Indis never sees. She never sees how her granddaughters throw to her as well. She never makes a connection between Artanis's off and on again love of chariot racing and the footraces she was forced to give up with her marriage. Irissë wanders far and wide about the countryside of Aman with no fear of the dangers of the wild beasts, and Indis does not see how similar she is to her, when she would deliver messages along the shores of the Lake, knowing, but not fearing the horrors that lurked in the dark.

The past is everywhere, and Indis has an easier time seeing it sometimes than the present. It comes to her in brief flashes, Treelight on someone's hair, a high, clear laugh, a strain of music. She looks at her granddaughters, dark and light, pale and golden, and she sees the past.

Irissë—Aredhel
Artanis, Nerwen—Galadriel
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Arafinwë—Finarfin

Neri—men (singular: nér)
Nís—woman (plural: nissi)