The true nature of the Halls was such that few elves ever discovered what lurked behind closed doors. Of those that did, most became lost in the paths and had to be brought back by a Maia, soon to lose their memories of such in an effort to preserve their minds.
Míriel alone took to the doors, slipping in and out of them, weaving the history of the world before it ever happened and slipping back to place the weavings when they were needed. Vairë accompanied her sometimes, walking beside her through dark woods and starlit fields, through bedrooms made of carven wood and the cries of those left behind and past the graves of those who had left behind only bones and flower covered graves.
Other times they parted, Vairë whispering words of encouragement to some far future weaver who otherwise would lose hope and Míriel wandering cloaked in shadow, often through Imladris at its height and in its twilight, whispering the secrets of embroidery to an elf who could only hear her because the blood of a Maia ran through her veins.
It was after those partings that Míriel would return to Vairë’s home somewhat changed and somewhat lost.
It was not in the nature of elves to walk free through time.
It was not in Míriel’s nature to remain bound to what elven bodies would allow. She had left that behind when she walked through time, never to walk again in the Halls or among elves all the time, but somewhat in between, slipping from place to place and from dead to alive as time itself changed around her.
Vairë called her back each time they parted, the patterns of her weavings making a path through the music until Míriel found her way back to a door, led as though by a string until she found her way to Vairë’s side.
There Míriel would sit, watching the weaving until time settled again, and she picked up her own needle and thread and stitched the scene she had just witnessed onto her own tapestry. Days would pass in the space of a minute, bowing to their wishes, until finally the tapestries were done.
Then Vairë would stand, threads continuing to weave behind her, but not with their lady’s hands directing them. Míriel would stand too, walking ahead to their bedroom and falling into the bed, waiting for Vairë.
“You will not be lost to me,” Vairë said each time, the lost notes of a song half remembered echoing behind them. It was the same notes she had sung at the making of the lands.
Míriel smiled back each time, meeting Vairë’s lips in a kiss, the faint trace of a song hummed into the kiss. “Nay, I will not.”
There were no more words after that, just tugs at one another’s clothes until finally they both were naked and pressed against one another, teeth and lips caressing and tugging at skin until finally both could take it no more.
And then Vairë would sing again, a wordless song that nevertheless held everything that was between them, binding Míriel’s soul back to the present for just a moment as Míriel screamed in pleasure.
It was enough to remind her of now, to move back against Vairë and to delicately press her fingers into Vairë until Vairë too peaked.
Then they would rest for sometime, still kissing, sometimes trying new things they had seen in their wanderings and in the tapestries, until finally the urge to create was too much again.
Míriel would rise first, slipping into a gown gifted to her by Vairë, one that would remind her of where she was going and a cloak that would hide her and remind her of where to return.
Vairë would rise second, to follow or to keep the door open, as the song willed it.