Chapter Text
Indis had discovered, rather quickly, that there was no advice for someone in her position.
There were songs for brides and princesses, and endless treatises on diplomacy between the kindreds, but nothing on what to do when a child looked at you as though you had stolen the stars.
A stepmother.
She did not know what it meant to be one. And, as it turned out, nobody else did either.
So Indis learned alone.
She learned the Noldorin fashions, arranging her golden hair in silver-threaded loose braids. She softened her Vanyarin accent until speaking Quenya felt like wearing shoes on the wrong feet. She learned which nobles smiled because they welcomed her and which smiled because she was beautiful enough to tolerate.
Finwë's second wife.
The queen from the Golden City.
Indis of the Vanyar.
Every title except simply Indis.
And it seemed like Feanáro hated every effort she made.
"The cookies are wrong."
"I followed your mother's recipe."
"They are still wrong."
"Would you like help with your letters?"
"I already know them."
"What about poetry?"
Feanáro looked up from his book.
"How can you help me with Quenya grammar? You cannot even pronounce hecil correctly."
"What?"
"Hecil. 'Pariah.'"
His tiny face remained perfectly serious.
"Your accent is so thick. Everyone knows you are Vanyarin before they even see your hair. Or your face."
He was scarcely more than a child.
He spoke like a scholar and wounded like one who carried memories older than his years.
After months, exhaustion settled into her bones.
She smiled through meals.
She smiled through lessons.
She smiled when the ladies of Tirion whispered that even beneath the half-loose hairstyles of the court, she still wove golden threads through her hair.
Then one afternoon she stopped.
She took down the flowing Noldorin braids and dramatic ruby jewels and dressed in deep blue silk embroidered with gold, long flowing sleeves, and delicate jewelry. She pinned her hair with carved sapphire and placed fresh cherry blossoms among the golden strands.
When she looked in the mirror, she saw herself again.
Just Indis.
That evening the cooks served a Vanyarin supper at her request.
Steamed rice cakes.
Honey-glazed fish.
Pastries with sesame.
Tea with jasmine.
Feanáro stared at the table.
"I do not like this food."
His eyes moved suspiciously over the dishes.
"Where are the forks?"
Indis said nothing.
With calm hands, she lifted the wooden sticks beside her bowl and picked up a rice cake.
He folded his arms.
"I will not eat it."
"Then you will not eat."
Feanáro blinked.
The queen simply picked up another rice cake and ate.
"You may eat what has been prepared," she said. "Or you may eat nothing."
The hall went silent.
For once, Feanáro had no clever answer.
He picked up his own eating sticks.
And ate.
He complained under his breath the entire meal.
But he ate.