*

We owe it to each other to tell stories.

Often she had whispered those words into the silence of her chambers, or murmured them in her mind as she worked. The tales were all, now, living in the warp and weft of the cloth she wove. She knew the Valar would prefer much of it forgotten, but this was why she had returned - to record the deeds of the House she had married into.

Our madness and our glory. 

She traced a finger over her work, outlining the faces – so many of them! And all Mortal now, save one. Her touch lingered on him, his features so like her son's, but old and careworn in a way that Fëanáro's would never be. Ai, Maglor. You are not forgotten, dear one. She had never met her grandson, but so she always addressed Maglor in thought – how could she not love him, the last of the Firstborn left on Arda, too broken by grief and guilt to return? 

Her mind reached out to touch another, one of light and fire and adamant. It flared in response, and she closed her eyes as his warmth and passion encircled her. My Fëanáro. The Valar may have him trammelled like a wild horse, but even the walls and will of Mandos could not keep her spirit from his – for was he not of her, wholly and completely? Had she not poured her life, her strength, her soul into the birthing of him, knowing what he would have to do at the End? The Valar believed that her son would reclaim the Silmarils so that Yavanna may rekindle the light of the Trees, but she knew better. She had known his destiny from the moment she felt his life inside her. 

He will reclaim his Silmarils, but not for the remaking of the Trees. When the Silmarils break open, my Fëanáro will remake the World.

But not yet. The Door of Night still held, and until it broke her task was to tell the story of Finwë's heirs – their triumphs and failures, their loves and losses, the repetitions echoing down the Ages. The Valar would take away her weavings and destroy them if they dared, for the Noldor had never truly been forgiven – but they needed her son and would not risk her anger.

And in the end, it will help them not at all.

She dreamed that in Arda Healed the House of Finwë would gather and learn the stories of those who had come before and after, and that all would walk free together, First and Secondborn alike. The Valar, she hoped, would fade and leave the New World for the Children of Eru – but these were idle dreams. She turned back to her loom. For now she must keep weaving the stories that were their right, their heritage – and there were many stories still to tell.