"Fëanáro was distressed too. He was really distressed."

"He was miserable, he can't stand going so slow -"

"Yes."

And so she sees it. Fëanáro, older, standing in this very spot. The Trees are gone, the world lightless, the people starving. The Valar plead with Fëanáro to give them a light he has created that would allow them to restore the trees. "No," he says, "or force me and prove yourselves no better than Melkor." They do not force him, the Trees crumble, time passes but not very much of it and Fëanáro holds a torch in the streets of Tirion, screaming. A hundred thousand people scream back at him. "Why, O my people,’ he cried, ‘why should we longer serve these jealous gods, who cannot keep us, nor their own realm even, secure from their Enemy? And though he be now their foe, are not they and he of one kin? Vengeance calls me hence, but even were it otherwise, I would not dwell longer in the same land with the kin of my father’s slayer and the thief of my treasure."

Torches bobbing in the streets of Tirion, the panicked movements of a crowd - Fëanáro, still speaking: "We, we alone, shall be the lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and the beauty of Arda! No other race shall oust us!’

And Fëanâro, surrounded by faces she does not recognize, all of them speaking the same terrible words before the crowd -" ‘Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean,
brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,
Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,
neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,
dread nor danger, not Doom itself,
shall defend him from Fëanáro, and Fëanáro’s kin,
whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,
finding keepeth or afar casteth
a Silmaril. This swear we all:
death we will deal him ere Day’s ending,
woe unto world’s end! Our word hear thou,
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting
Darkness doom us if our deed faileth.
On the holy mountain hear in witness
and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!’

And Fëanáro at Alqualondë - 'wait,' their King says, 'think it over' - rushing out to the shore, ripping the ships away from their sailors, and someone shoves him and falls into the water and he draws his sword -

- Fëanáro sailing away, tens of thousands left dead on the shores of Alqualondë -

- Fëanáro arguing with someone in a howling icy wasteland - 'we don't have enough ships for laggards and cowards, let's go' - lighting the ships afire on the other shore - charging directly for a terrifying iron fortress -

- dead. And the Halls of Mandos for the rest of the Ages, refusing to admit any wrongdoing, refusing to cooperate in his own rehabilitation.

The problem, Manwë observes, is not that he needs to move faster.

She had some idea of writing it down but that was not in a transcribable format and anyway she thinks it's all burned into her brain forever.

"I'm trying to get him to move differently too but it only works because he knows I'm helping, knows I want things he wants for himself, if he's desperate to be fast and I don't help him I don't, I don't see how to touch - anything else -"

"Will you let my necklace keep working if I loan it to him?"

if you don't like the look of fate why are you interrupting the interventions of a well intentioned person with free will?!!?!?! she does not say.

"Thank you."