The kitchens of Tirion had never quite seen anything like it.
Queen Indis stood at the long stone table, sleeves drawn back, golden hair loosely braided so it would not fall into her work. Around her lay bowls of rice—soft, pearled, still warm with steam—and small dishes of fillings she had prepared herself: delicately seasoned fish, slivers of pickled plum, greens dressed with a brightness unfamiliar in Tirion. The scents were gentle and delicious.
Fingolfin sat nearby, watching with the solemn impatience of a child who knew something special was being made for him.
“Is it ready?” he asked for the third time, leaning forward again, fingers creeping toward the nearest bowl.
Indis nudged his hand away lightly without looking up. “Almost. Good things take shaping.”
He huffed, but stayed—watching closely, chin nearly on the table now.
With careful fingers, she pressed the rice together—not merely into balls, but into forms. Each one she molded with quiet concentration: a small horse and a crooked crown. Then, from a finely tinted layer of rice, she added soft blushes of pink across the tops, like petals just opening. They were not perfect, not symmetrical—but they were warm from her hands, made with love.
“Those are flowers,” Fingolfin said, brightening.
“Cherry flowers,” Indis answered, placing one into his hands. “A memory from Valimar.”
“They are pink,” he said, turning it over, and immediately took a bite, too big, rice sticking faintly to his cheek.
His lips broke into a delighted smile. “It is good!”
He swallowed quickly, already leaning forward again. “Can we make an eagle? A gigantic eagle like Thorondor! This one is too small.”
Indis laughed softly. “Finish that one first.”
Across the hall, unseen, another pair of eyes had been watching.
Fëanor had only passed by the kitchens on his way elsewhere—but the quiet laughter, the unfamiliar scent, and finally, the sight of Indis bending close to her son… it held him there.
He saw the way Fingolfin leaned into her presence without thought. The ease of it. The half-spoken demands, the certainty of being answered.
He saw the food shaped not for court or ceremony, but for love.
And something in him—sharp, sudden, unwelcome—tightened.
Later that day, the palace cooks received an unusual request.
“Cherry-blossom rice balls, my lord?” one repeated, puzzled.
“Yes,” said Fëanor, voice clipped, precise. “And also a horse and a great eagle, and a crown.”
The cooks exchanged glances. They had seen, though from a distance, Indis making something similar to the prince's request. Still, they were masters of their craft. Rice was rice. Form was form.
“We will make them, my lord.”
The rice was of the finest quality. The fillings were carefully prepared. Each piece was shaped with meticulous attention, the pink accents placed with delicate artistry. Perfect, not asymmetric and ugly like Indis’s—each blossom and color exact.
They arranged them on a polished tray and brought them to him.
Fëanor dismissed them with a nod.
For a moment, he only looked.
The rice held together perfectly. The balance of flavors was precise—measured, refined, impeccable.
It tasted exactly as it should. The texture was ideal. The seasoning was correct.
Fëanor frowned, sharper now, and set it down. He reached for another, as if repetition might reveal what he had missed. The result was the same.
His hand tightened slightly around the third.
In his mind, unbidden, came the image he had not meant to keep: Indis and Fingolfin shaping each piece together. Fingolfin watching, knowing—without question—that this was for him.
Fëanor looked again at the untouched tray.
No one had made these for him.
They had made them because he had ordered.
He stood abruptly, pushing the tray aside. One of the rice trees tipped, collapsing slightly where it struck the table. The shape broke easily, revealing nothing at its center but what had been carefully placed there.
