The Weaver and the Broideress by Lingwiloke  

The Undying Lands, they call these shores.

And yet, I remember well the first time Death found its way into the Blessed Realm. I remember, as I must remember, for it is my task to bear witness to all that there is through the weave of my work. And thus I transform memory into history, what-is into what-was.

There is a certain beauty to the image: You, as if sleeping, on a bed of white flowers, your hair fanning out around your head and surrounding your fair face like a silver halo. And as you slept, your fëa stole away, soundlessly and painlessly, to the Halls of Mandos.

Why did you go?

A challenge you could not withstand, they say.

Why did you stay, when you were offered rebirth?

Cowardice, some call it. A taint of the Shadow, of Arda Marred, a weakness of the fëa, a little of it all-

To me, it matters not.

I hear your soft song weave through the halls; see your fingers dance in rhythm as you work and threads form into history on the cloth. I see the smile that lights up your face as I enter. I feel the warm light of your fëa close to my being as I guide you in a new technique; hear the pride in your voice when you present your latest work to me.

And I am glad.

(But still, I must wonder – are you truly glad, too?)

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