Fëanárë awoke in a pitch black room, lit by a single Fëanárii light crystal. It was one of the softer lit ones, inspired by the rare mingling of starlight in her husband's hair (though she would never have told him that.)
There was a silence, soft and sweet, and she had to strain her ears to hear the faint whisper of breezes through the many chimes that were strung about the bedrooms gardens of Valmar's Prince's Palace.
Ingwion was sitting at his desk, glass nibbed pen gently scratching across his paperwork. She curled up beneath the thin blanket, warm and content to lie still for once, mind silent unusually.
She watched the movement of his arm, the light falling on his hair and returning to her the memory of the trips they had taken to the edge of the light of the trees so she could indulge in astronomy.
There was the arch of his cheek, and the triangle of shadow the light pained on it. The curve of the edge of his lips at something he had written. She found herself soaking up the detail avariciously.
The gentle draw of the pen on paper paused. Ingwion's head had turned enough to see her and he stopped what he was doing.
"I did not wake you?" he inquired and she shook her head. "No."
"No. I merely woke up." And had enjoyed, unexpectedly, the sight of him.
He smiled at her and her heart lifted, queerly. She reached out her arm from beneath the sheets to him and he rose, walking over and taking her hand in his, warm and softer seeming than her own though that did not mean he worked any less than her.
He slipped onto the bed and wrapped an arm over her waist, drawing her back and she allowed him it. His body was warm, arm steady and strong over her waist and he curled slightly, forcing her body to adapt to the new posture which felt...safe.
She closed her eyes, without saying another word, when he kissed her hair, lips sliding down to press chaste and careful against her cheek.
Fëanárë awoke in a pitch black room, lit by a single Fëanárii light crystal. It was one of the harsher ones, a prototype that could be hastily and cheaply made, intended only to aid her in her study of bound light, and be any sort of a final design.
The room was cold, blankets and furred piled on top of her body, and her tent was constantly filled with the creak of its poles and the flapping of material from its outside layers, and beyond that the watery noises of the lake they were camping beside.
There was no one else besides herself within the private darkness of the canvas walls.
Irmo's dreams were no longer available to her. That did not mean Fëanárë did not dream. In the absence of dreams influenced by another's will, her own stretched far further than before.
