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Chapter Text

The world had grown old. Long had the echoes of the Elder Days faded into silence, and the tides of time had washed away the memories of Middle-earth as it once was. It had been two millennia since the downfall of the Dark Lord Sauron, a millennia since the last of the Elves had sailed westward into the Undying Lands, their light departing from the world of Men, and centuries since the Dwarves and Ents, having long since been put to slumber by the One Above All. And in their absence, Arda had changed beyond recognition, reshaped by the unrelenting hands of those who remained.

Once, the lands of Middle-earth had been adorned with ancient forests, rolling plains, and rivers that sang the songs of forgotten days. The whispering trees of Lothlórien, the stone halls of Khazad-dûm, the natural wonders of Fangorn Forest, and the green hills of the Shire—these were no more than dust upon the wind, lost to the ceaseless march of time. And with their end, came a new beginning.

The dominion of Men had came long ago, their hands molding the world in their own image, and where once stood the kingdoms of old, now stretched vast cities of steel, glass, and ceaseless light, with might and methods greater than the height of Númenór that once crushed even the armies of Sauron himself. Magic, that ancient and ineffable force, once woven into the very fabric of the world, had faded into obscurity, but by no means were Men left helpless. Instead, they had reached such heights that, in a confrontation between races, not the crafts or the magic of either Elf, Dwarf, or Ent would allow them to prevail against the current generation of humanity.

The crafts of the Eldar, the spells of the Istari, the power of the Rings—all were now nothing more than whispered myths at best, dismissed as the superstitions of a primitive past, or entirely forgotten even in any whispers of it's existence. The once-blazing fire of enchantment had been quenched, replaced by the cold and clinical glow of technology. Where once the stars had been mirrored in the waters of enchanted lakes, now their reflection flickered upon the polished windows of towering skyscrapers.

Knowledge, no longer bound to scrolls and tomes, was confined within glowing screens, and the wisdom of the old Ages were buried beneath layers of skepticism and disbelief. The Gift of Ilúvatar demonstrated it's worth, for without magic, humanity had been forced to discover many new methods of living and advancing civilization, and they succeeded, although to a degree that could be close to being as harmful to Arda as it was to being it's glory.

Through the freewill gifted by Eru upon Men, they succeeded in their own merit as they forged their own paths to the future, using the natural inclination towards creativity that had been the crux of their ability to prove themselves worthy of inheriting Arda once all the other Children of Ilúvatar, to somehow manage to accomplish victory where even the great Elves or the hardy Dwarves could not, and for centuries, so it was that they had became the undisputed lords of the world, bending it to their will with a mastery far beyond what their forebears could have dreamed.

The machines of Men burrowed deep into the bones of the earth, unearthing its treasures, carving highways through ancient mountains, and raising towers that defied the heavens. They sailed upon the skies in great vessels of metal, speaking to one another across continents in an instant, wielding the power of lightning and the atom as the Elves once wielded the light of the Two Trees, not requiring magic as their newfound technologies had proven a remarkably effective replacement. In knowledge of the material world, they had surpassed even the greatest minds of Númenor in its prime, yet in wisdom, they had long since strayed from the path.

The realms of Gondor and Rohan, once the heart of Men’s strength and virtue, had crumbled into dust, their banners and lineages lost to the annals of forgotten history, with those who survived having long since abandoned the memories of the old. The White City, once gleaming upon the slopes of Mindolluin, was but a ruin buried beneath the expansion of newer empires. The Rohirrim, whose songs once echoed across the plains, were now but nameless figures in half-remembered tales.

The deeds of Aragorn, Éowyn, and Frodo Baggins, whose courage had once shaped the fate of the world, were now dismissed as mere fictions—fairy tales told to children, unrecognized as the echoes of true history and distorted. Almost none of the tales of the First and Second Ages remained, aside from a few exceeding oversimplifications and fairytales.

In place of the great kingdoms of old, new empires had risen, their dominion stretching across the continents. Some were ruled by the voices of many, governed by the principles of law and order, yet in almost all of them, there was the seeds of tyranny, their rulers grasping for ever-greater power. The ancient bonds of kinship and honor had been replaced by contracts and politics, and the purity of old oaths had long since been forgotten. Peace had reigned, still, but the professionality of such relations lacked much of the sincere nature of the bonds of kinship amongst the old kingdoms.

Men had built their nations upon ambition, upon an undying desire to improve themselves, upon conquest, upon the endless pursuit of dominion, and in their arrogance, they had come to see themselves as the masters of all creation. Yet, despite all their triumphs, they had lost the most fundamental truth of their existence. Arda had only one religion now, with the worship of Dark Powers all but forgotten, but the way with which the One and the Ainur was worshipped was filled with many flaws. The religion was unchallenged it was for anyone with faith addressed it, and it was known only as "The Faith".

The understanding of Eru Ilúvatar, the One who had sung the world into being, had been obscured by the passage of time. No longer did Men remember Him as the source of all things, the giver of the Gift of Mortality, the father of both Elves and Men alike. With the existence of the Elves, Dwarves, and Ents forgotten, Men believed themselves to be the only talking creation of the one who they now worshipped simply as "God," His nature was understood only through the imperfect lens of mortal belief.

By default, His dominion was still seen as the vast tapestry of Arda and beyond, but the Music that shaped it was all but forgotten, replaced with presumptions that it was through just the equivalent of a finger snap or the whispers of a few words with which "God" created the Universe. Not only that, but Men believed that he resided within a realm far removed from the world—a Heaven beyond the sky, where only the faithful would dwell, while those who are unfaithful would be cast down to a fiery pit below the deepest depths of the World, called "Hell".

While the Dominion of Men had always been destined to happen, it came at the price of Men casting themselves as His chosen, the pinnacle of creation, and in doing so, they had forsaken the memory of the other Children of Ilúvatar. While their views of "God" favoring them above all others were partially true, they did not know that even now, the creator they worship was ever-patient, ever-loving, waiting for the day that would come, no matter what, in which they would finally remember the truths and be reunited with their fellows.

Meanwhile, the Valar, the mighty lords of the world, the keepers of its order and balance, were no longer known by their true names. They had been transformed by the myths of Men into "Archangels," celestial servants of the divine, stripped of their history and purpose. Only some of the knowledge of the domains and powers of each of the Valar survived, in that their capabilities were somewhat correctly acknowledged, but no longer were they understood as the shapers of the earth, the stewards of the seas and the stars. Instead, they were seen as distant figures, beings of light who dwelled in the heavens, detached from the world of mortals.

In fact, the Maiar, once messengers and warriors of the Valar, had faded into obscurity, remembered only as nameless angels in the prayers of the faithful. They were rarely prayed to, in fact, Men focusing more on the majesty of the "Archangels" and the omnipotence of "God". The only ones amongst the "Angels" who survived in the memories of Men were the Four Seraphim, each of them having accomplished such a significant deed they could not be fully forgotten, but the way with which they were portrayed as figures of nigh-equal status to the "Archangels" were nothing like the real truths.

And Melkor—Morgoth, the great enemy, the first Dark Lord—had become but a shadow in their new theology. He was no longer seen as the fallen Ainu, the one who had sought to mar the Music of Ilúvatar, but had instead been reduced to the figure of "the Devil," the ruler of a realm of fire and torment, a place of eternal damnation. Sauron, once his greatest lieutenant, had been folded into this belief, his true nature lost beneath centuries of distorted legend.

Yet, of all the things Men had forgotten, none was more tragic than the truth of their own fate.

The Gift of Ilúvatar, the great and solemn blessing that set them apart from all other beings, had become a thing of fear and dread. Death, once the path through which Men would depart from the Circles of the World and pass beyond even the knowledge of the Valar, with only Mandos and Manwë knowing their fates, had been twisted into something dark and terrible. Men no longer accepted it as their birthright, as the freedom granted to them beyond the fate of Arda. Instead, they feared it, sought to delay it, built faiths around the promise of eternal reward or the threat of endless suffering.

The end of life had become a thing of sorrow, not of hope, and the wisdom of old had been lost to despair. Though they had conquered the world, though they had unraveled the mysteries of the stars and the atom, though they had risen to heights beyond imagining, there remained a hollow space within their souls—a yearning for something they could no longer name. In the pursuit of knowledge, they had forsaken wisdom; in the mastery of the physical, they had abandoned the spiritual. And no matter how far they delved deeper into the secrets of the World, they would never truly succeed at finding what was missing.

Yet, even as Men cast their eyes skyward, toward the great expanse of the heavens, even as Men prayed to "God" or the "Archangels" they did not know that they were still watched. And though Men no longer feared the return of darkness, though they no longer spoke of Morgoth or his designs, the Ainur knew the truth: the world’s doom had not been averted, only delayed. The End would come, as foretold. The Dagor Dagorath—the Last Battle—was inevitable, and when the final war was waged, when the fate of Arda was decided, Men would finally have to face, whether they were ready or not.

Chapter Text

Across the vastness of existence, beyond the knowledge of modern Men and beyond the reach of even the mightiest and most advanced of the minds of Men, there remained a realm untouched by time, unspoiled by the hands of mortals. Aman, the Undying Lands, stood resolute, preserved in its pristine majesty, unchanged even as the world it had once been a part of moved on without it. It was a land of eternal beauty, of golden shores and silver-lit towers, where the Two Trees had once stood, where the great halls of the Valar remained in silent grandeur.

The very air hummed with the Music of the Ainur, and its light had never dimmed. Though Eru had sundered Aman from Middle-earth when He bent the world into its new shape, it was not truly lost, nor wholly removed. It remained bound to the world it had left behind, still connected through the veiled pathways of existence, hidden from mortal sight yet ever watchful.

The Changing of the World had made it so that Arda went from being flat to round, new lands and seas emerging from the sheer will of Ilúvatar, and no mortal sailor could ever reach Aman even had they taken the road of Eärendil, simply circumnavigating the world. The Straight Road, the invisible bridge that curved from the earth and led westward from the Belegaer to the realm of the Valar, was the only way to enter Aman, and only the Elves, as well as the Istar who had came to Middle-Earth at the orders of the Valar, could sail there, with exceptions being made only for the Ring-Bearers.

The last people to ever sail from Middle-Earth to Aman was Legolas and Gimli, the last survivors of the forgotten Fellowship of the Ring, and soon the Grey Havens that had allowed so many Elves to depart from the rest of Arda before their bodies were consumed by the Fading as their spirits gradually burned away at their fleshes until they became but spectres were abandoned. The Straight Road remained still in the islands that had long since been named as the Azores, but no mortal technology or science could ever uncover their existence.

The Valar and the Maiar, the mighty Ainur who had chosen to take up the stewardship of Arda, bound to the World until it's end, still dwelt there in quiet vigilance, and remained fully capable of watching over Men as they changed it and advanced themselves to heights that proved the Gift of Men Eru had instilled inside them true, although not in a manner they had hoped. The Elves, the Firstborn of Ilúvatar, continued to thrive, be it in enjoying life, studying, creating, trading, singing and dancing, or preparing for the inevitable, in the bliss of their undying home, although, as the centuries passed, even they eventually grew weary of the same old world they can never truly leave.

Through the long centuries, the Lords of the West observed the dominion of Men, watching as they shaped the world in their own image, forging nations of power and cities that rivaled and surpassed even the splendor of Númenor at its height. They saw the rise of industry, the mastery of the elements, the unlocking of knowledge that had once been beyond the grasp of any but the most learned of the Eldar. Such was it that any conflict between Men and any of the other Children of Ilúvatar would surely end in Men's victory, and they knew that Men had truly lived up the potential Ilúvatar gave them through his Gift.

They saw their triumphs, their glories, and the heights of their ingenuity—but they also saw the cost of their unchecked ambition. The land itself wept beneath their dominion; forests fell, rivers ran dry, and the creatures of old were driven into the shadows of legend. Among the Valar and even the Maiar, there were many thoughts on this Age of Men, but all were agreed in that there was much to regret, much to feel sorrow for, and yet even more so to hope and to prepare for. For not all was lost, and the failures of the past could be amended.

As the Powers of the World and the spirits who had aided them in shaping and maintaining Arda grew old, while their spirits and power could not be touched by time, their minds and hearts were both wizened and wearied at the same time, and their perspective of Men in current ages were born out of centuries of reflection and thought. With there being little to do with both Morgoth and Sauron subdued, with Eru himself having told them to do nothing but watch and plan until the time was right where they could begin their preparations, both the Valar and the Maiar had all the time needed to contemplate.

For all their wisdom, for all their divine foresight, the Valar now saw with clarity the failings of their own past. Their choice to remain distant, to withdraw into the safety of Aman and leave Middle-earth to its fate, had allowed the Enemy to take root in the hearts of Men. And that, above all else, had been their greatest mistake. It had taken long years, but at last, the Valar understood what they had failed to see during the First and Second Ages. When Men had first awoken in the distant lands of Hildórien, they had been left alone, unguided, untaught.

No Valar had come to them as Oromë had come to the Elves in the starlit years before the rising of the Sun and Moon. No messengers had been sent to reveal to them the truth of the world, of Eru, of the order of Arda. They had been left to wander, to question, to seek meaning where none had been given. And in that silence, Morgoth had spoken. He had walked among them when the Valar would not. And even when that happened, no Valar came to the defense of Men, and it was the beginning of many mistakes in their relationship with Men.

Morgoth had whispered into their ears, twisting their understanding, shaping their fears. He taught them to dread the fate that had been meant as their greatest gift—the Gift of Ilúvatar, the passing beyond the Circles of the World. He made them believe that death was a curse, a doom to be escaped, an ending to be feared. He taught them to despise the Valar, to see them as distant, uncaring overlords who favored only the Elves and left Men to suffer.

And when the war came—when the great host of the Valar at last marched against Morgoth in the War of Wrath—the very Men whom he had deceived fought at his side, raising their swords against those who might have been their saviors. Yet still, the Valar did not truly learn from their mistakes, and from there, the seeds of the long shadow had been allowed to fully mature.

Even after Morgoth was cast into the Void, even after Sauron rose and fell in his place, the scars of that first deception never truly faded. The Valar had rewarded the Edain, the noble houses of Men who had remained faithful, by granting them Númenor, the greatest kingdom ever known to their kind. But the others, those who had been misled, those who had followed the Dark Lord—those Men were left to their own devices, left to wander and to struggle without guidance. The Valar had believed they had done what was just, but in their hearts, they now saw the truth: in rewarding the faithful, they had forsaken the lost.

As time went on, it became increasingly clearer how wrong their justifications were: Back then, they wished for the old peace in Valinor after the First Kinslaying,  not for the rumour of Melkor nor for the murmurs of the Ñoldor to come ever again among them and disturb their happiness, and while they created the Sun and Moon in order to hearten the Atani, in the end, it wasn't nearly enough. And even after they were made to see how Men were falling into Morgoth's clutches, they did not interfere, and when they did, they had only forsook the rest of Men and focused on the Edain!

For centuries uncounted, the Valar pondered this, mourning the error they had made. They had lavished their attention upon the Elves, instructing them, shaping them, guiding them in the ways of wisdom and art. But to Men, they had given little, and above all else, they had NOT been there for them when they should have been. Was it any wonder that Men had turned to those who had shown them power, who had given them something tangible to believe in? Morgoth had walked among them. Sauron had ruled over them. They had seen the might of the Dark Lords with their own eyes, while the Valar remained distant figures of legend.

And, as they eventually realized from observing Men as they came up with the term of favoritism, they had, indeed, "favored" the Elves more, and now they were reaping the consequences of such treatment. The realization was truly bitter, to where even the likes of Tulkas, known for his boisterous spirit, and Nessa, known for her joyful dancing, themselves were affected by the solemnity of the errors of the Valar. Nienna would sometimes weep tenderly to herself within her personal halls whenever she thought of the mistakes of the Valar in handling Men.

Not even Ulmo, who loved the Children of Ilúvatar the most, was exempted, for he realized that he too had only presented himself once in front of a man, doing so purely because he wanted Tuor to warn Turgon that Gondolin's downfall was approaching. To say that the Lord of the Seas was ashamed of himself for not caring enough about Men was almost an understatement, for through the rivers he knew more of the goings on with the Children of Ilúvatar than even Manwë, yet he focused his aid almost entirely on the Elves during the Wars of Beleriand and his one time interaction with Men was also for the sake of the Elves!

None more so than Manwë regretted the decision, however, for he was the one who allowed for the Hiding of Valinor to occur. He was the one who, with the other Valar fully supporting him, swore off aiding in the wars against Morgoth, and as the one who Eru entrusted to rule over Arda, the Elder King's shame would constantly manifest whenever he thought of Men and the vast Middle-Earth, his gaze and the Great Eagles that still roamed

Varda also felt a special part of the blame and regret, for while she empowered the Sun and the Moon to shine the way they would remain now, it was she who lifted her hands, palms eastward in a gesture of rejection, and summoned the vast mists and shadows that concealed Valinor. She had been the most beloved by Elves, yet rarely had she intervened in the affairs of Men. She could hear their prayers, but rarely did she answer them.

How could Men have done anything else but forget them? How could they have done anything but resent them? And how could Men progress in a manner that was entirely positive, when the ones who could have guided them to such a path did not do so? In the end, the Valar could only recognize that they were just as much in fault as Melkor and Sauron in Men's shortcomings, and for the price of their failures, they now could only watch as Men pushed themselves to grow over the centuries, as they forgot the ancient truths, only able to come out during Dagor Dagorath.

Such was the Dominion of Men that while Eru permitted them to answer the prayers of Men, he forbade them from using their powers in too great of ways. Manwë had consulted Ilúvatar about this, and the One had only gently reminded the Elder King that the Valar had their chance to stay on Middle-Earth, to fight Melkor and see to it that he was defeated before his malice and influence could have lingered to such an extent, but they had chosen to found Valinor instead and for that, all they could do now was to reflect on their failings, no matter how long, and be better for when Dagor Dagorath came, so too would the Second Music of the Ainur.

To add to the Valar's deeper understanding (along with their shame), even as the knowledge of the Elder Days faded, even as the names of the Valar were lost to time, Men still clung to some fragment of the truth. The Valar were remembered not as Ainur, not as the stewards of Arda, but as "Archangels," servants of the divine. Their true nature was misunderstood, simplified, reshaped by the minds of Men into something they could grasp. The Maiar, once mighty spirits in their own right, were reduced to nameless angels, their deeds forgotten but their presence still vaguely felt.

Even despite all the neglect of the Valar, Men had chosen, subconsciously, to forgive them for their mistakes and to revere them. The Faith saw them as being second only to "God". The essence of Eru's truth had endured, even if he was now known only as a singular and unknowable creator. Though Men no longer remembered the Music of the Ainur, though they no longer spoke of the Secret Fire, they still worshipped Him, still called upon Him in prayer, and they even had it in them to worship the Ainur as well.

In that, the Valar were both heartened and deepened in sorrow, for while they were moved by the fact that Men still cared to respect and pray to them, and they would answer those prayers whenever they found it worthy as part of their first efforts to change themselves in their treatment of Men, there were many wounds in Men’s beliefs that the Valar grieved to behold. Knowledge of their domains remained sure, and there were just as fourteen of "Archangels" as there was of the Valar, but what of the Maiar?

Each of them had their own unique roles in aiding the Valar through shaping the world, and though lesser they were indeed compared to the Valar, their role to the fabric of Arda was still essential. The few notable ones who were remembered, the "Five Seraphim", did not particularly make the Valar feel better. Those five were none other but Eönwë, Ilmarë, Arien, Uinen, and Olórin, their deeds and roles important enough to be remembered but the truth twisted in such ways that it further heightened how skewed Men's perception of the World had grown.

Eönwë was renowned as the Seraphim of Might, humans viewing him as THE paragon of martial prowess and leadership due to their mistaken beliefs of him leading simply a host of "Angels" (Maiar) and besting "The Devil" (Morgoth) in the time where he "ruled over Men with wickedness", to where some, albeit the minority, even believed the "Seraphim of Might" to have single-handedly smote the "Forces of Hell" (Morgoth's armies). The truth of the War of Wrath was all but lost, with Men simply believing that the "Angels" slaughtered the "Forces of Hell". 

Meanwhile, Ilmarë was renowned as the Seraphim of the Stars, due to Men having only incomplete knowledge of her status as the Handmaiden of Varda, instead seeing her role in the stars and the cosmos as more than it probably is and that she is the "Assistant of the Archangel of Light", while Uinen was prayed to as the Seraphim of the Deep, due to Men still remembering her granting sailors of the past save travels through the sea and making their journeys while navigating the sea both comfortable and enjoyable but exaggerating her role by believing her as the "Assistant of the Archangel of the Sea".

As for Arien, she was mistaken as the Seraphim of the Sun and the Moon, due to Men still remembering her stewardship of the Sun but having long since forgotten Tilion, the Guardian of the Moon, thus believing that she alone was in command of both the Sun and the Moon. And as for Olórin? His deeds as Gandalf had earned him the title of the Seraphim of Wisdom, the second "Angel" after the "Seraphim of Might banished the darkness back to Hell (War of Wrath)" to be sent in defense of Men against the "Forces of Hell" and "The Devil".

Not even knowing that the Devil and Forces of Hell they believe to be the same as the first (Mistaking Morgoth as Sauron and the remnants of Morgoth's forces as the same old forces Morgoth threw during the War of Wrath) were in fact different yet similar, Men believed the "Seraphim of Wisdom single-handedly cleansed Men of the taint left behind by the Devil in their minds and then lead them to once more banish the Forces of Hell to where they belong", not even remembering or mentioning the Fellowship of the Ring and other noteworthy figures during the War of the Ring and simply honoring Gandalf as the one who "liberated humanity from the lies of the Devil".

The exaggerations and simplifications were all things that the Valar mourned, and in comparison to that, the belief that the Five Seraphim were equal to the "Lesser Archangels", those who were believed to be beneath the "Top Five Archangels", which included 3 members of the Aratar who were counted among the ranks of the Lesser Archangels despite her superiority in power, were considered to be not even an insult. Above all else, however, the very concept of Heaven and Hell was proof of all that had been lost.

Mandos, the Doomsman of the Valar, felt this grief perhaps most keenly. His Halls, once a place where the souls of Elves lingered before their rebirth or rest, were now also filled with the confused spirits of Men. When they arrived, these souls often mistook his Halls for "Hell," terrified by their journey into the unknown, even though it was but the place were the spirits of the dead were gathered before their journey beyond the world and where the souls of the immortal Elves could be re-embodied.

Yet Mandos, ever just and stern, could not cast them aside. Instead, he was tasked with revealing to them the truth of their Gift: that they were not bound to the same fate as Elves, but were destined for something beyond the reckoning of even the Valar. Many amongst them accepted this truth and were allowed to go beyond the Circles of the World, but there were those among the dead—sinful Men who had caused great evil in life—who could not accept this truth.

These souls, defiant and unrepentant, were held in the Halls of Mandos until they were moved to remorse. They threatened rebellion, speaking of causing havoc in in the paradise that laid beyond, and so Mandos kept them in a kind of stasis, a limbo of reflection, until they were ready to accept their fate, the stasis meant to purify their souls and leave behind a clean state so they could move on. Death, the greatest of all gifts for Men, had thus became a thing of terror, fear, or a source of defiance. While not as severe as the arrogance of the King's Men, it was still tragic in the eyes of the Valar.

For all his sternness, even Mandos was melancholic about this fate. Túrin Turambar, the tragic hero destined to slay Morgoth in the Dagor Dagorath, was the only mortal soul to be given a place of special honor, yet now other spirits, lost in their own darkness, remained imprisoned for their refusal to repent. The Valar mourned at every soul who they were forced to confine within the Halls of Mandos, but it was necessary. The rebellious souls were not yet ready to pass beyond the Circles of the World. Manwë, the Elder King, the only other one aside from Mandos who alone knew the final fate of Men, shared in this sorrow.

Another particularly bitter point for the Valar was the simplification of Morgoth and Sauron into a singular "Devil". Though both had been the sources of great evil, Morgoth and Sauron were fundamentally different beings with different purposes. Morgoth was the original Dark Lord, who had sought to corrupt all of Arda, while Sauron had been but his lieutenant, a servant of his malice. Yet, in the minds of Men, they had become one and the same, a monolithic force of evil that resided in "Hell." This misunderstanding stripped away the complexity of the cosmic struggle, and the Valar feared that such simplification could weaken Men’s understanding of the true nature of evil when the time came for the Final Battle.

As for the technologies and the developments of men's civilization, the feats accomplished and heights reached by Men, who relied purely on the strength of their will and the drive for creativity inherent within their minds, were such that even the Valar could not help but regard their progress with admiration. While the Valar still knew much more than they did, the might and understanding wielded by Men were all done without magic and were thus very impressive even for their standards.

Every advancement was, to the Valar, a reflection of the gifts Ilúvatar had given them—an unyielding will, an unquenchable hunger for knowledge, and a restless spirit that drove them ever forward.  As the stewards of Arda, even though they never got the chance to properly educate the Secondborn, to see them thrive so well was a cause for joy and hope, but those advancements also brought upon the hearts of the Valar regret and sorrow at the reminder of their own failures, especially considering how there were many flaws to be found, still, and dangers lurked within the civilizations Men had built.

Men’s short lives and free will had allowed them to shape their destinies in ways that even the Valar could not fully foresee, but at certain occasions, the Valar would think about what would have happened had they been there to help Men reach those heights. Would those flaws have been present?

Those like Aulë, Tulkas, and Nessa saw Men's developments in a mostly positive light, being pleased to see that they have mastered the physical world and the arts necessary to live happily and defend themselves to such an extent that only the powers of the Valar would be able to surpass them. However, the rest of the Valar all came to develop their own nuanced views, and even those three were by no means blind to the dangers caused by the way with which Men lived, improved their existences, and managed Middle-Earth.

There was much grief in seeing the rivers, once flowing with clarity, now choked with filth. The Valar mourned, above all else, the lands that were once fertile, shaped and cultivated carefully during the days before the Ages truly began, now laid barren by the careless hand of progress. Even the great beasts of the wild, hunted to extinction or driven from their homes, were also lamented for they served their own purposes and had their own rights. For all that Men had achieved, they had also forgotten something vital—the understanding that the world was not merely a thing to be used, but a thing to be cared for.

And yet, despite all this—despite the lost truths, the harmful aspects of humanity's growth, and the flawed beliefs—the Valar's hope for the race of Men, if anything, had only grown stronger. They saw in them a resilience, a capacity for faith and goodness that transcended their mistakes. The very fact that Men had created a religion to honor Eru and the Valar, even in their limited understanding, was proof of their inherent nobility. Men, for all their flaws, had not abandoned the goodness within them entirely. They still sought meaning, still prayed, still believed in something greater than themselves.

The Valar knew that, for the most part, leaving aside the souls who were truly corrupt, few enough in between, most of Men weren't inherently malicious. They did not pillage forests out of hatred, they did not poison the waters with the intent to bring ruin, and every single act of them that damaged the lands they lived in, that the Valar shaped, were driven mostly by necessity, and they did not understand the weight of their actions, the delicate balance that had been carefully woven into the fabric of Arda since the beginning. How could they blame them when it was the Valar themselves who had left them untaught?

And so the Valar, while continuing to watch over Men from afar, had made plans in order to prepare not just themselves, but also the Middle-Earth that they had left behind yet never stopped loving. No matter how long the years stretched, no matter how much Men forgot, the Valar knew one thing above all: Morgoth would return. The Last Battle, the Dagor Dagorath, would come. The world would burn. And only when the Second Music of the Ainur was sung, when all was remade, would the wounds of Arda be healed at last. 

It was also the moment where the Valar would finally redeem themselves of their failings in handling Men, using their past mistakes as an incentive to do better, as lessons with which they would guide Men into reconciling with the lost truths and fighting against the forces of darkness during Dagor Dagorath. They would also strive to prepare Men for their roles in the making of Arda Healed, for they knew that Men, above the other Children, would sing alongside the Valar and Eru in the context where all the Themes of Ilúvatar must be played correctly.

And when that time came, the Valar had sworn collectively as one, under Eru's own name—they would not make the same mistake again.

From afar, within the Timeless Halls, sat the One. Taking on the physical form of a 40-years old man with such height and physical appearance as to be superior to any normal humanoid forms the Valar could take, wearing magnificent flowing robes that symbolized the harmony of light, darkness, and the physical elements of the world of Eä, and with a magnificent crown, the protrusions of which were colored and detailed to resemble the elements of fire, light, and darkness, Eru Ilúvatar watched over all.

He saw how Men thrived, how they enacted the Dominion that they were always meant to have over Middle-Earth and would, even after Dagor Dagorath, remain greater compared to the Firstborn and the Children of Aulë yet coexist in peace and harmony with them. He saw how the Valar mourned and resolved themselves to be better after centuries with little to do except plan and contemplate within the confines of Aman. Centuries had passed, and now Men believed themselves to be at the year of 2070, even though it was several millennia more. 

And though Dagor Dagorath was still many years away, Eru felt that the time had finally came. And so, with a smile full of boundless love for his creations, he held out his hands.

The time for reflection is past. Let the preparations for the Last Battle begin thus.

Chapter Text

Within the vast caverns of fire and stone that was his manor, from which he constantly laboured, making "many beautiful and shapely works both openly and in secret", creating both the tools and the arts that he loved dearly, Aulë, the great Smith of the Valar, the forger of the Earth, watched the world of Men with an ever-growing sense of wonder, pride, and sorrow. He, more than any of his kin, understood the deep and insatiable desire to create, to build, to shape the formless into something of beauty and purpose. He had long ago fashioned the mountains, carved the rivers, and placed the hidden veins of metal within the bones of the earth.

It was even by his hand that the Dwarves were first formed, and though he had humbled himself before Ilúvatar and submitted them to the true flame of life, his love for all makers had never waned. And now, as he turned his gaze upon the dominion of Men, he saw that the flame of invention still burned brightly. Even without magic, even without the guidance of the Eldar or the wisdom of the Ainur, they had achieved marvels. Out of all the Valar, Aulë was perhaps the one whose feelings and view were most positive as he marveled at the mastery of Men over stone and metal, at the wonders they had built with their own hands.

Even the mightiest works of the Dwarves and Elves that he taught seemed humble compared to the vast cities of steel and glass that Men had wrought. In them, he saw the echoes of his own craft, the endless pursuit of creation that had once driven him to shape the first of the Khazâd in secret. Although their works paled compared to his own mastery, he saw that some particular developments were things in that Men had even surprised him in, which he did not resent but instead respected them for.

To Aulë, who delighted in the nature of substances and works of skill, it eventually became clear, more to him than any other Valar, even Manwë, that Men's natural inclination towards creativity, born out of their restless spirits and stubbornness, surpassed all of the other Children of Ilúvatar, and in that, they had proven able to overcome their shortcomings compared to the great minds of the Elves and Dwarves, forging their own path in the arts almost as much as they were free to decide their own fates.

In Men, he saw the echoes of the gift that Ilúvatar had given to all creators—the ability to imagine, to shape, and to transform the world in ways that reflected their own inner fire. Their ceaseless drive to push the boundaries of what was possible was a testament to the free will that Ilúvatar had woven into their very being. Perhaps they were not nearly as gifted as the Smith himself was, who came from the thoughts of Eru when it came to creation and eventually surpassed Melkor/Morgoth by his humility to temper the thoughts and powers of creation, but they had woven many extraordinary things in their own right.

And in that, Aulë was overjoyed, for it had always been so that the delight and pride of Aulë was in the deed of making, and in the thing made, and neither in possession nor in his own mastery. He, more than any of his kin, understood the deep and insatiable desire to create, to build, to shape the formless into something of beauty and purpose. He had long ago fashioned the mountains, carved the rivers, and placed the hidden veins of metal within the bones of the earth.

Even though Men surpassed the skills of the Dwarves, he did not rage over it. For Aulë saw something of himself inside Men, and how could he resent something that so starkly captured the essence of his thoughts and skill? Where the Elves had long pursued perfection in form and beauty, shaping things with an innate harmony that reflected the Music of the Ainur, and the Dwarves pursued refinements for their skill on metal and stone that Aulë passed on to them for the sake of both richness and to remain connected to the earth, Men instead pursued innovation, progress, and the endless challenge of surpassing their own limitations.

They were unbound by the timeless patience of the Eldar; they could not linger centuries upon a single craft, refining it to a state of eternal beauty. Instead, they built, they experimented, they destroyed, and they rebuilt anew—each generation surpassing the last. Through that endless spirit for growth, Men had mastered the forces of the world, bending them to their will through neither song or enchantment, the strength of their minds and the disciplines of their hands sufficing to accomplish such heights, and so it was that a deep love as well as constant contemplation on the potential of Men awakened within the Smith as he observed them from afar.

From capturing the power of wind and water, harnessing the strength of the sun itself to illuminate their vast cities, all those feats were truly impressive. The ingenuity of men had succeeded in enabling them to dominate over Arda in the absence of the Eldar, the Khazâd, and the Ents, and such was it that Aulë knew only the Valar themselves could wrestle control over Middle-Earth from Men, although such was not his intention nor that of any other Valar.

They had delved into the secrets of the earth, extracting metal from stone, crafting machines that soared through the sky and descended into the depths of the seas. They had even split the atom, unraveled the mysteries of life itself, and sent their voices and images across great distances in the blink of an eye! While the Valar knew overall much more than them, there were some things that Men had conceived which the Valar, not even Aulë, had expected.

Truly, Aulë yearned, above most of the other Valar, for the day where the Ainur could once more walk amongst Men just like they were now walking amongst Elves, where he could refine their crafts and introduce them to even greater heights once Men were ready to be reconnected with their siblings. Not only that, but he also hoped to learn from the ingenuity of Men, to combine the crafts of all the Children. If they had been able to go as far as they did while lacking the spiritual depth of true enchantment, how much more majestic would the world be once they were made to learn the ancient truths?

However, neither was the Smith blind to the shadows, to the negativity of Men's developments, nor was his heart without grief and weight. For all their genius, for all their relentless pursuit of knowledge, Men had often failed to temper their creations with wisdom. In their desire to master the world, they had scarred it. Aulë, who had shaped the mountains with his own hands, who had sung the stones into their forms, could feel the wounds Men had inflicted upon the earth. He was not like his wife, Yavanna, in this regard, but he knew fully well the damage sometimes caused by Men's strong desire for revolutions.

He had watched as entire forests were felled, as rivers were poisoned, as the air itself grew thick with the fumes of their industry. They had hollowed out the bones of the world, tearing deep into its heart for resources, with little thought for what might be left behind. Although Aulë admired their genius progress and understood that sacrifices must be made for the sake of creation, his inclination towards what Men had came to consider as "Industry, Technology, and Science" did not mean he truly approved of all Men had did.

He grieved to see the rivers, once flowing with clarity, now choked with filth. He mourned the lands once fertile, now laid barren by the careless hand of progress. For all that Men had achieved, they had also forgotten something vital—the understanding that the world was not merely a thing to be used, but a thing to be cared for. While he would defend Men whenever Yavanna particularly mourned over the loss of her trees and the desolation of the natural aspects of Arda, he truly did empathize with his spouse's opinions at certain times.

Aulë was solemnly aware of how, in order to achieve results in advancing the arts of creation and mastery, in acquiring the substances of the world necessary for life, and in adding to the beauty as well as glory of the world Eru had created and empowered him and the other Ainur into shaping, sacrifices must be made. The wood of Yavanna's trees and other natural resources being exploitated by Men, in his opinion, were acceptable outcomes, for did the Dwarves, his own children, not dig deep into the Earth, knowingly sacrificing what could have grown beneath it?

Was it not Aulë's teachings that made the Dwarves the way they were? Even the Elves had learned from him the ways of how to make use of the resources of Arda in order to achieve true creation, and those who were on Middle-Earth had to sacrifice the natural resources for the sake of survival and advancement. However, to be fair, the Smith knew fully well that the situation with Men were much different. Unlike the Dwarves and the Elves, Men only saw Arda as the world they lived in and thus they believed they had the right to use it as they wished.

Eru had ordained it to be such, that the things Yavanna had sown would be under the dominion of ALL the Children, but during the old ages, there were the Ents to keep the destruction from getting too much. Yavanna's works, back then, had their own protectors and he still remembered how she wasn't the only one pleased that the Shepherds of the Trees were brought into existence. However, now the Ents were put to sleep, just like the Dwarves, and so it was that the natural world truly began to be scarred and suffer.

Eru had made it so that they would eventually awaken, but only once they were brought to Valinor, to be prepared for Dagor Dagorath. The decree of Eru was absolute, in that no Ainur, or even any of the Firstborn, were allowed to travel to the wider Middle-Earth, until the time was right for them to put their plans in preparing for Dagor Dagorath into motion, in which some Valar would be sent into Middle-Earth, given the chance to experience for themselves beyond mere observation the world beyond the Undying Lands they dwelled in.

There was, thus, not much Yavanna could do to preserve her works. She could provide healing, could discreetly bring more life to the Earth, but she was prohibited from unleashing her powers against Men, from directly placing protection on her works. At certain occasions, she WAS granted permission, but only when it was truly dire. It had always been one of the things the Valar were not allowed to do, for they were meant to be guides, not to rule over any of the Children of Ilúvatar. Needless to say, while Yavanna could not hate Men, the Smith knew well her frustrations and her sorrows.

It was not that they were malicious, Aulë knew this well. Men did not seek destruction for its own sake, but they did what they believed they had to do in order to survive. It was the lack of the Valar's presence in their lives that made them the way they were now, and so Aulë would not blame Men for what wasn't inherently their fault. Men were not to be condemned—but they needed guidance. Guidance that the Valar had not been there to teach them the same way they did with Elves, and though he wasn't exactly one to mope over such things, even he was not immune to the regret and shame.

Aulë was, to his shame, somewhat indifferent to Men back then. He had created the vessels of the Sun and the Moon, yes, but he had never really had such a high view of Men's creativity, of the strength of their will. He had focused on the Elves, especially the Ñoldor, and the majority of Men siding with Morgoth did little to improve his view on them. He had seen their potential, how they managed to develop their own crafts through purely their own merit, and yet he had ignored them. The reminders of his old foolishness never ceased to make him pause briefly while in the process of shaping molten metal.

And so, Aulë longed to make amends, reach out to them, to whisper to the craftsmen and the builders, to show them the way of true creation—not one that merely took, but one that gave back, that honored the world even as it shaped it. He longed to see Men forge wonders that did not come at the cost of the earth’s suffering. He longed to teach them that true mastery was not in dominion, but in harmony. His desire to directly interfere was no less that of Yavanna's, but in the end, it was not to be.

The time of interference had passed. Men no longer were to be influenced by the Valar, nor did they remember the teachings of old, and Ilúvatar had divinely mandated through the Elder King himself that they were to leave Men alone, only allowed to answer prayers but never to directly show themselves. In fact, they were not even allowed to leave Aman. And so, all the Valar could do was watch.

Men had built their own faith, their own understanding of the divine, and in it, he and his kin were but distant echoes—archangels in the service of a singular god, their names forgotten. He did not resent this, for he understood that Men had always simplified what they could not fully comprehend. But it saddened him nonetheless, and the guilt would sometimes weigh down on him.

Still, Aulë did not despair. For even in their flawed path, even in their missteps, Men still carried the spark of creation within them. There were those among them who sought to heal the world, to protect what was left, to restore what had been lost. There were those who, even without knowing it, still walked a path close to the one he would have taught them, and that, above all else, gave him hope.

Although Aulë was never one to care too much about his status, as he had always been humble and only ever truly wanted to continue making the World more beautiful, to improve the arts and crafts, and to devise new things, to be honest, the Smith wouldn't exactly have much to feel left out over even had he been one who revelled in worship. He was the Archangel of Crafts, Earth, and Fire, and ranked as the third greatest of the "Archangels". Combine that with how prominent industrial developments had became, and he was perhaps the one who Men prayed to the most.

His hands, which had once shaped the very bones of Arda, would sometimes rest idly upon the workbenches of his great forge, and he would contemplate upon their prayers—prayers spoken in ignorance, yet sincere nonetheless. As with all the other Valar, the right and the power to grant wishes as well as answer prayers remained within him, and with the amount of time he was invoked, Aulë eventually developed a tradition where he would sit down, halt his works, and meditate as to grant their prayers.

Though Men had forgotten his true name, they had not forgotten the essence of his work. They had given him another title, reshaped him within the boundaries of their own understanding, and the knowledge stirred a strange mix of emotions within him—pride, humility, and a quiet sadness that settled deep in his heart like the embers of a dying forge.

It was a wonder to Aulë that, even after the long march of centuries, after the severance of Aman from Middle-earth and the fading of the Elder Days, Men still grasped at remnants of the truth. Though they no longer called upon the Valar by name, though they no longer remembered their songs or their deeds, something of their nature had endured in the myths that Men wove for themselves. And among these myths, Aulë found himself still present, his domain of craft and fire still recognized, even if imperfectly understood.

That Men saw him as the patron of creation and industry filled him with quiet satisfaction. He had always been a maker above all things, a shaper of the physical world, and it pleased him to know that even in a time where magic had faded from Middle-earth, Men still honored the act of creation itself. He took particular joy in their association of him with fire—not as a force of destruction, but as a tool of transformation. Fire had always been at the heart of his work, the medium through which raw ore became metal, through which formless stone took shape, through which all things were reforged into something greater.

The greatest gift of Ilúvatar to Men had always been their freedom—their ability to shape their own destiny, to dream beyond what was given, to create not only with their hands but with their minds and their hearts. And in this, Aulë saw a reflection of his own work, for had he not always believed that the joy of making was itself a part of the divine?

Yet, despite this, Aulë could not deny the weight of sorrow that accompanied the knowledge of how Men now perceived him. They had forgotten his name. The Elves had once sung of him in reverence, the Dwarves had honored him as their great Maker, and even the Númenóreans, in their early days, had remembered the Valar and called upon them in prayer. But now, he was only a distant figure, an "Archangel" in the service of a singular God. The richness of his history had been lost, his role diminished into something simpler, something easier for Men to grasp.

More than the loss of his name, however, it was the way Men now perceived his nature that troubled Aulë most. They had honored his dominion, but they had misunderstood his heart. Men saw him as a harsh master, a perfectionist, an unyielding force that demanded excellence with little patience for failure. They imagined him as one who tested the worth of all makers, one who stood in judgment over craftsmen, ensuring that only those who reached a certain mastery could claim his favor.

They envisioned him as stern and unwavering, an ideal that loomed over their shoulders as they struggled to master their trades, a force that demanded flawlessness rather than encouraging growth. How far from the truth this was, and in that, the Smith would sometimes chuckle in a somber manner, his voice heard through the halls of his manor, lasting only for a few moments yet feeling his Maiar and the Elves who learned from him with melancholy from the sheer force of his emotions.

Aulë had never sought perfection for its own sake. He had never been a master who scorned his students, nor had he ever desired to impose impossible standards upon those who wished to create. If anything, he had always been the most patient of teachers. It was he who had offered his knowledge freely to the Eldar, who had shared the secrets of craft with the Dwarves, as he had created them, and even with the Maiar who followed him. He had always believed that creation was an act of joy, not a burden of judgment.

Yet Men, in their struggle with mastery, in their own burdens of perfectionism, had projected their anxieties onto him. They believed that because they wrestled with the frustration of creation, because they feared failure, that Aulë himself must embody those fears. He wished he could tell them otherwise. He wished they knew that he was not there to judge them, but to inspire them—that the act of creation was meant to be an expression of joy, not a relentless pursuit of flawlessness.

And as for the prayers? Well, Aulë had to admit he was, somewhat, impressed by how the creativity and boldness of Men could even extend to their prayers. The prayers of Men, distant yet persistent, reached him across the veil of time and space, whispered in workshops and laboratories, spoken in the depths of creative struggle, and sometimes, uttered in desperate ambition. Though they no longer knew his name, though they no longer remembered the truth of his being, they still called upon him, the Archangel of Crafts, Fire, and Earth.

Many of the prayers that reached him were pure in intent, and these were the ones that stirred something deep within him—a quiet pride, a quiet joy. However, there were also those whose prayers were not made in love. Some carried with them a different fire—the fire of envy, the fire of greed, the fire of destruction, and even the fire of desperation, and in those prayers, the Smith grieved.

The wishes who were the purest reflections of his own spirit, born not out of greed or vanity and instead out of the love of making, learning, and passing knowledge from one generation to the next, were granted, although not exactly in the ways Men might have hoped. For how could he refuse such wishes that were the essence of craft, the desire of the shaping of minds and the forging of wisdom that would endure beyond lifetimes?

However, the prayers of those who called upon him not as a teacher, but as a weapon, asking him to strike down their rivals, to blind their competitors with foolishness, to bring disaster upon those whose success they could not bear to witness, were always met with stern silence or subtle manipulation of events as far as it was within the limitations Eru imposed upon him and the other Valar.

(He had to admit that the first time he received prayers to burn the workshops of their enemies, to turn their projects to ash, to punish those who had bested them in skill or invention-he was stunned into dropping his hammer. Such boldness, and such creativity, even if in malice, was something Aulë had to bizarrely give credit to, although Yavanna was not amused in the slightest when he recounted such tales to her)

There were artisans who bent over their workbenches late into the night, hands aching, eyes straining, seeking perfection in the curve of a blade, the stroke of a brush, the careful setting of a gemstone. They prayed not for wealth, not for power, but for the strength to finish what they had begun, for the clarity to solve the problems that troubled them, for the patience to see their work through to the end. There were scientists and engineers who labored to unravel the mysteries of the universe, who stood at the precipice of new discoveries, praying for insight, for the moment of revelation that would bring light to the darkness of uncertainty.

Some prayed in humble gratitude for the knowledge they had already gained, for the sheer joy of understanding the hidden workings of the world. And to those prayers, Aulë responded, though never in a way that could be traced back to him. Never would he grant mastery outright, nor would he place success directly into the hands of those who asked for it. To do so was not only making things too easy, but also an insult to the hardwork, the determination to make efforts.

Instead, he would grant inspiration in the form of a sudden idea that flickered in the mind like a spark in the forge, an intuitive realization that connected scattered thoughts into something coherent and new. He would grant patience, the quiet strengthening of will that allowed a struggling artisan to persist just a little longer, to try one more time and potentially find success. In the end, the effectiveness of those influences were just as much up to him as it was up to those who prayed to him.

There were those who sought his blessing not for themselves, but for their students, their apprentices, their children—prayers from mentors who wished that those under their care might find inspiration, that they might one day surpass their teachers and bring new wonders into the world. For the teacher who prayed for their student, he granted the student a moment of clarity, a breakthrough that would ignite their passion for learning, and sometimes he even granted the teacher inspirations on how to better teach if the problem laid within the instructors themselves.

(Some had asked him for something as childish as allowing them to pass scientific and technological academy tests, and Aulë had to admit he was both amused and exasperated at such children making efforts for shortcuts. He did not often answer those prayers, although to some who were desperate and in need, he took pity and allowed a miracle)

But most of the time, those who prayed for destruction, for sabotage, would find none of it from his hands. They would be left to struggle, to face the consequences of their own desires, until they learned that craft was not about domination, but about creation. To create was to build, to shape, to transform—not to destroy for the sake of pride.

Aulë had always believed that those who sought to make something beautiful, something enduring, were bound together in a silent brotherhood, a shared purpose that transcended competition. A true craftsman did not resent the mastery of another; he admired it, learned from it, sought to grow alongside it, just like how the Smith never felt jealous over the makings of others and always sought to give counsel instead.

Having never sought worship, overall, Aulë did not take much pride or joy in the offerings, songs of praise, and the church in which he, the Valar, the "Four Seraphim" and "God" were enshrined in. His joy had always been in the making, in the shaping of the world, in the quiet fulfillment that came from the act of creation itself. That Men still called upon him, even in names not his own, was a thing he accepted as a solemn duty.

Of course, although he did not think of them as much as he did about the state of the Earth, that did not mean Aulë did not feel about the other nuances of the Dominion of Men. He mourned, of course, deeply for the fact that Men had forgotten about the Dwarves and the Elves, forgotten about not just their crafts, but also their deeds of arms and how they were crucial in the victories of the Free Peoples as a whole, and above all, he grieved the most, even out of all the Valar, Men’s loss of the memory of the Music of the Ainur.

Above all else, the loss of the knowledge of the Great Music signified the broadest forgetting of the collaborative nature of creation, where Eru’s will was expressed through the harmonious efforts of many voices, including his own. Aulë knew almost as much as Manwë himself that the world was not the result of Eru’s singular act but a tapestry woven from the contributions of all the Ainur, each adding their own unique element to the fabric of reality. And yet, he still respected the fact that Eru's supreme authority was recognized and his role as the source of all was deeply revered.

As for the hierarchical classification of the Valar into "Top Five Archangels" and "Lesser Archangels.", the fact that he remained at the exact same "ranking of power" as he really stood amongst the Valar did not soothe the fact that Yavanna, Nienna, and Oromë—his spouse and his kin among the Aratar—were reduced to "Lesser Archangels" in Men’s eyes. Yavanna was as powerful as him, and while the same could not be said for the other two, at best they were only slightly lesser in power, and he knew that their contributions were just as significant, so he mourned for the reduction of their roles and true standing.

And the reduction of the Maiar to nameless "Angels" were also something he felt sorrow over. He knew many of the Maiar personally, having worked closely with them in the shaping of the world, and a fair share of them had aided him in the crafting of many wonders. While Mairon and Curumo had fallen to the dark path, which he still mourned even now, for their failings were, in a way, his own as a master, there were still many Maiar of his order who remained loyal. Overall, the reduction of these spirits, each with their own gifts and purposes, to mere nameless entities was a tragic loss of understanding.

Aulë, in his deep value for precision, detail, and the understanding of the world’s true nature, felt also the sting of sorrow and disappointment at the fact that Sauron and Morgoth were considered to be one "Devil" and their forces considered to be just "Forces of Hell". He knew better than most, even a share of the other Valar, the stark contrast between the two Dark Lords, and on a personal level, the blurring of the two dark figures into one would ignore the tragedy of Sauron’s personal corruption, which Aulë had witnessed firsthand, ignoring the deeper narrative of pride and ambition that led Mairon, a Maia of great talent and vision, to fall under Morgoth’s influence.

(For Aulë, this was not just a loss of historical truth but also a missed opportunity for Men to understand the corrupting power of pride and the gradual steps that lead to great evil.)

And finally, Men’s concept of “Heaven” and “Hell” was also troubling and a point of sorrow for him. Although he lacked the knowledge of Manwë and Mandos as to the exact nature of the fate of Men upon death, he knew the concept of binary afterlives was a gross and tragic simplification of the Gift of Ilúvatar to Men. He knew that death was meant to be a transition, a passage to a fate beyond the circles of the world, one that is hidden even from the Valar. The idea that Men’s souls were simply sorted into reward or punishment would seem to Aulë a source of potential lack of sincerity in worship, though he at least acknowledged that there was some good in that Men strove to be good out of a desire to live well and then die well.

In the end, though, Aulë did not despair. He knew that a far greater challenge lay ahead. For all the brilliance of Men, for all their accomplishments, they had not yet faced the true reckoning that was to come. Morgoth would return. The world would be broken and remade. And in that time, it would be the unity of all, from Ainur to the Children, including Men, who would decide the fate of all. And Aulë had faith that all the mistakes of the old could still be fixed, that he and his brethren could atone for their failures to be the guides Men so desperately needed, which left them susceptible to the shadow of Melkor.

For though Men were reckless, though they stumbled often, they had within them something that neither Elves nor Dwarves nor Ainur possessed in quite the same way—a boundless, unrelenting will to grow. And if they could be guided, even from afar, then when the final war came, they would be more than just the heirs of Arda. They would be part of the force that would save it, and in the end, also among those who would remake Arda.

And so Aulë would continue to watch. He would continue to guide, in small ways, in whispers of inspiration, in the patience given to struggling hands. He would continue to love all those who sought to shape the world, and he would continue to turn away from those who sought to use craft as a weapon of pride and destruction while aiding in either their defeat or self-realization as much as possible. He would reflect on the world of Men constantly, while continuing to build. He waited time and again, for he knew that he would be one of the Valar sent out to Middle-Earth in preparation for Dagor Dagorath.

Until then, Aulë would wait, silent and steady as the earth itself, as burning yet controlled as the way fire could be both a force of destruction and a force of creation. For the forge of creation never truly grew cold, and the fire of invention never ceased to burn.

Chapter Text

For long ages beyond mortal reckoning, the Valar had been bound by the will of Eru Ilúvatar, the One's divine mandate restraining them from directly intervening in the affairs of Middle-earth. It was not a punishment, nor was it the result of any rebellion among them, but rather a decree of wisdom from the One Himself. He had seen the hearts of His creations, both the Valar and the Children of Arda, and had known that there were those among the Ainur, such as Yavanna and Ulmo, who would find the imperfections of Men unbearable and would seek to make themselves known before their time.

Ilúvatar, in his boundless wisdom and farsight, had understood that if the Powers of the World revealed themselves too soon, before the appointed hour, they would break the fragile peace that Men had built for themselves, a peace paid for by the slow erosion of memory and the simplification of old truths into myths and distant echoes. The One had made it so that the Dominion of Men would be unchallenged until Dagor Dagorath, and so it was be that no supernatural element was allowed to disturb them, over which He found it to be acceptable regardless of the flaws.

Thus, the Valar had been forced to watch, to observe, and to grant only those prayers that could be answered without betraying their existence. It had been a humbling experience for them, a trial of patience and endurance, for though they were mighty, they were not omniscient, nor were they unshaken by sorrow. They had seen Middle-earth change beyond all recognition, had seen the wonders of mortal ingenuity flourish, and yet they had also seen the slow decay of the old ways, the distance that grew between the Children of Ilúvatar and the truth of their own origins.

And so, for countless centuries, the Valar had remained bound to Aman, gazing upon the world of Men as it changed beyond recognition. Though they had long since accepted that their hands were stayed by the will of Eru, their hearts had never ceased to grieve over the course of history. Their silent vigil had been filled with regret and reflection, as they pondered the failures of the past, the choices that had led Men to forget the truth of Arda, and the burden that now lay upon their shoulders.

But now, at long last, the time of silence had ended. The year was 2070, and the Valar, who had endured centuries of watchful waiting, now knew that the first steps toward the fulfillment of the prophecy had begun. The Doom of Arda was drawing near, and with it, the great reckoning of Dagor Dagorath—the Last Battle. And so, Eru had lifted the restriction.

The Valar were free to act once more. Eru Ilúvatar, in his unknowable wisdom, had finally lifted the mandates that bound the Valar to their realm. No longer were they merely observers, able only to grant prayers in the unseen ways of providence. Now, they could act. The time had come.

The moment of this revelation was one of great solemnity in Valinor. From the heights of Taniquetil, Manwë Súlimo, the Elder King, stood upon the white terrace of his halls, his keen gaze piercing the veil between the Blessed Realm and the world beyond. He had long foreseen that the hour would arrive, though even he, greatest of the Valar, did not know every design of Ilúvatar. The winds that obeyed his word stirred upon the peak, whispering of change, of a world that no longer resembled the Middle-earth they had once shaped.

And so the Valar gathered in the Ring of Doom, where long ago judgments had been passed, where oaths had been sworn, and where the doom of the Elves had once been proclaimed. Sitting on their thrones, the air shimmered with the power that radiated from their very being, for it had been long indeed since they had convened for such weighty matters. Now, a different matter was set before them, unlike judgments or decisions to go to war. They knew they must tread carefully. Men had forgotten them, had reduced them to distant and nameless figures of their faith, mere "Archangels" whose names and purposes had faded into obscurity.

To reveal themselves now, too suddenly, would shake the very foundations of mortal understanding, and while Eru had allowed them to finally leave Valinor, the mandates that kept them from providing Men with revelations remained firm.

They could not afford to undo the peace that Men had earned for themselves, nor could they risk shattering the fragile order of the world. Their return had to be subtle, their actions deliberate. And in that, the Valar debated.

At the head of the gathering, upon the highest seat, sat Manwë Súlimo, the Elder King, his eyes distant as though he peered beyond time itself. The winds carried whispers of the world of Men, filling his heart with both sorrow and resolve. At his side stood Varda Elentári, the Lady of the Stars, her presence radiant and unyielding, as brilliant as the unclouded heavens above.

"We are unbound," said Manwë, his voice filled with quiet gravity. "The One has willed it. We may now set forth. There are many preparations that must be made, my brethren, for the world of Arda itself has lost much connection to Magic as Men came to rule, and when the Last Battle comes, even the very lands itself must be prepared for Morgoth's last stand, for there to be still enough for Arda to be healed by the Second Music. Therefore, I ask all of you to present your opinion..."

A weight settled upon the gathered Valar, for though they had long awaited this moment, the path ahead remained uncertain.

Aulë the Smith leaned forward, his great hands folded before him, his deep voice filled with measured thought. "And yet we are unbidden to reveal ourselves fully," he said. "Men have shaped their world without us, and their hearts are distant from what once was. They name us 'Archangels,' and they give worship to Ilúvatar, but they do not know us as we are."

In Varda's eyes was the cold, unwavering light of the stars, and when she spoke, her voice rang with a power undimmed by the passing of ages. "Men do not look up," she said at last, breaking the silence that had settled over the council. "They have lost the wisdom of the heavens. They chart the skies with instruments of their own craft, seeking to comprehend what they no longer understand. They have mapped the stars, but they have forgotten their names. The light that once guided their steps is now mere calculation and knowledge without wonder, and we can only let them wander in the darkness of their thoughts."

Yavanna Kementári, green-robed and crowned in leaves that shifted like the wind, placed her hands upon the armrests before the throne, her fingers tightening. "They listen to the wrong voices," she said. "They have turned away from the land, from the growing things, from the beasts that once walked beside them. They see only what they can take, what they can build, what they can consume. The world suffers under their hands. The forests dwindle, the rivers choke, the earth cries out for aid—and we are forbidden to answer. We must teach them, guide them, restore the balance they have broken, even if we do so in secret."

"Would you then defy Ilúvatar’s will? Would you once more contest the Dominion of Men?" asked Mandos, his voice as cold and implacable as stone. His dark eyes glimmered with knowledge of what was to come. "We are permitted to act, but not to reveal the truths that Men have long forgotten. If we intervene too openly, we may bring ruin rather than salvation."

Yavanna's eyes darkened. "It is not their dominion I contest," she said. "It is their destruction of the world that Ilúvatar gave them-"

"Yet it is their world now," Mandos reminded her, his voice unwavering. "And you, more than any of us, should remember His words. Did not Eru himself stay your hand when first you lamented the loss of the trees? Did He not say that the Children of Men should have their own dominion, unshaped by our will?"

Yavanna clenched her jaw, but she did not speak.

Mandos continued, his gaze turning distant, as though seeing beyond the present hour. "I have seen what becomes of them when they pass beyond the circles of the world. They go forth with fear, with grief, with wrath against what they do not understand. I am called 'the Archangel of Death' by their lips, and they name my halls 'Hell.' They do not remember the Gift of Ilúvatar, nor do they know where they are bound. And in their ignorance, some would defy even the fate set for them, clinging to life not out of love, but out of terror."

For a moment, there was silence. Even Yavanna did not answer. True, she had plead to Manwë to ask for Ilúvatar’s permission in interfering, and wept when Eru made it clear she would not be allowed to do anything but grant the prayers of Men.

While she was still allowed to heal the scars of the land from afar, even the might of the third most powerful of the Ainur had limits when wielded from long distances. So many forests had been burned, natural life wavered, and all she could do was just interfere in ways that healed and granted the wishes delivered by prayers. As Eru himself had stated, she was now "reaping the rewards of favoring those who seemed greater, for it was your lack of interference in healing the scars of Arda, while you did before the Firstborn had awakened, that lead to your current doom".

Nienna, seated beside her brother, bowed her head, her tears falling silently upon the marble floor. "And yet, Men seek guidance," she whispered. "They suffer and cry out for wisdom, for justice, for hope. Must we only watch? Are we not to show them mercy? We certainly did not show them that when we honored only the Edain and refused to acknowledge our mistakes that lead to most of Men back then aligning with Morgoth." An uncomfortable silence fell upon the Valar, with even Tulkas himself going from being boisterously annoyed to silent at the reminder of the mistake that began it all.

"Mercy must be tempered with wisdom," said Ulmo, his voice deep as the rolling tide. "Even now, the seas bear witness to their folly. They cross my waters, yet they do not hear my voice. They build great machines to descend into the abyss, but they do not understand the depths they disturb. Men have forgotten the Song of the waters, and though I grieve, I do not see how we may restore it without shaking the foundations of their world. And do not forget that I too have my own faults in this. I only once appeared before a man, and in defense of an Elvish establishment. Despite knowing more about the goings of the world compared to any of us, I did not interfere when Men suffered."

As Ulmo looked down upon himself, the Smith interjected. "We cannot answer," said Aulë, his voice deep and sorrowful. "That was the doom we accepted. We withdrew from their world. And now, though they build and craft as I once wished them to, they do so without wisdom, without care for the hands that shape creation. I see the beauty in their craft, but I see its ruin as well. And yet, I suppose they are still flourishing, and that... Is enough for now."

At that, Oromë stirred, his golden eyes sharp beneath his dark brows. "Then we must move in secret. If the Last Battle comes, the world must be made ready. And the first step lies in the light of the past." The gathered Valar fell silent, for they knew of what he spoke.

The Silmarils.

Though the name was not spoken aloud, all understood. Those hallowed jewels, in which Fëanor had captured the pure light of the Two Trees before their destruction, had been lost at the end of the First Age—one cast into the sea, one buried in fire, and one carried into the sky by Eärendil. Their light was necessary, for from them would the new sources of light be rekindled after the breaking of the world. Without them, the renewal of Arda would be incomplete.

Yet, not all were convinced.

"Then let us guide them!" Yavanna pressed. "If we cannot walk among them, let us whisper to them. Let us teach them to care for the earth, to heal what they have harmed. We do not need to reveal ourselves to do this!"

"It is a fine line you would walk, sister," said Irmo Lórien, his voice like the shifting of dreams. "Even in sleep, Men do not always hear what is given to them. If we push too hard, will we not break them? Your hunt is noble, Oromë," said Irmo Lórien, his voice dreamlike, as though he spoke from some distant vision. "And I believe we can compromise. Must they remain blind until the very hour of the world's breaking? Must their approach to life itself be flawed, their learning beginning ONLY once the Last Battle was upon them. If the world is to be remade, should we not prepare their spirits as well as their lands? Therefore, the Huntsman should begin their first re-education.

Oromë looked at Irmo in curiosity as the Master of Dreams, Visions, and Desires explained that Oromë would help them be prepared in some capacity, as he had much experience in training his folk of huntsman in Valinor and therefore would know the boundaries of what is acceptable. "It would be both my pleasure and my honor, but before that, I would like to ask, o Elder King, if Eru would allow this?" The Huntsman of the Valar turned towards Manwë, who looked deeply contemplative.

Vairë, her hands never ceasing their weaving of fate, murmured, "They do not even know the truth of their past. They do not know that the Enemy has walked among them. They believe Morgoth and Sauron to be the same, that the wars of old were but legend, that the Firstborn never existed. And yet, in their ignorance, they have prospered. As much as it pains me to say this..." The Weaver's fingers clutched as though they were stopping upon weaving unseen threads. "We should not disturb their ignorance, but I believe that Oromë could pass on knowledge of nature and the hunt safely."

Vána, the Ever-Young, nodded in agreement. "Men have hearts of fire, but they are wayward. There is beauty in them still, but also great darkness. We cannot stand by and let them falter when they have already strayed so far."

Estë, resting in her seat of pale stone, opened her eyes slowly. "Yet we must not move too hastily," she murmured. "The wounds of Arda are many, but Men are fragile. If we press too hard, we may break them instead of healing them."

Tulkas, ever the warrior, let out a rumbling laugh. "They are not so weak, my lady," he said. "In them, I see the same strength that drove the Edain to stand against Morgoth, the same fire that made Beren defy all odds. When the time comes for battle, they shall fight!"

Beside him, Nessa, light-footed and swift, chuckled softly. "They may fight, Tulkas, but for what cause? And will they fight united? Or will they fall to division, as they ever have? Will we succeed at ensuring they fight alongside us, that they would be prepared into being thrust suddenly into OUR world?"

Again, the Valar fell into debate, their voices rising and falling like the tide.

Yavanna pressed her cause, arguing for secret guidance, for the renewal of nature and the teaching of Men in ways they could accept without revealing the truth of their teachers. Ulmo remained grim, speaking of the dangers that lay in changing the course of Men’s hearts too directly. Oromë was resolute in his duty, determined to find the Silmarils, knowing that without their light, all hope of renewal would be lost, yet his eagerness and willingness to teach Men as much as he could was clear.

Mandos, ever the keeper of fate, merely listened, speaking only to remind them of the weight of their choices. Manwë, too, remained still, allowing each of his brethren to voice their thoughts before at last he raised his hand.

The gathering fell silent.

"It is clear," he said, "that there is much to be done. But we cannot act as we once did. We cannot shape the world as we shaped the Firstborn. The One has unbound us—but not entirely. We may tread the world, but we must not reveal ourselves. Our actions must be measured, our steps carefully placed. Oromë shall be allowed to do so, indeed. He shall seek the Silmarils, for without them, the renewal of Arda cannot come. And in his hunt, he shall be permitted to teach the hunters of Men, for the hunt is his domain, and in it, they may yet learn skill, wisdom, and restraint.

"But the rest of us shall remain as we are. We shall answer prayers, but we shall not walk among them. We shall whisper in dreams, but we shall not speak aloud. The world is not yet ready for us, and we must not force it to be so."

The council was ended. Oromë alone would walk among Men. The others would remain, watching, waiting, unseen.

Oromë departed Valinor in secret, slipping unseen across the great seas that divided Aman from the world of Men. Though once he had galloped openly across Middle-earth upon Nahar, his mighty steed, he now moved like a shadow. Among all the Ainur, none knew the ways of pursuit and discovery as he did, none could match his skill in tracking, nor his patience in waiting for the right moment to strike. In the Elder Days, he had been the first of the Valar to set eyes upon the Elves as they awakened by Cuiviénen, and it had been he who led them on the great journey westward.

His love for Middle-earth had never faded, nor had his sorrow for its wounds. Though he had remained in Aman, he had longed to ride once more beneath the skies of Arda, to feel the winds upon his face, and to hear the cries of the wild. But when at last he set foot upon Middle-earth once more, hidden from the eyes of Men, he found a world that was both familiar and alien to him. The world he entered was not the one he remembered. The great forests of old had withered, their ancient groves reduced to dwindling remnants amid the sprawl of great cities. Mountains had been torn asunder, rivers dammed, and the land carved by machines more powerful than any war-host of old.

The great forests he had once known had dwindled, many reduced to mere fragments of what they had been. The vast plains, where he had once hunted with his hounds, had been tamed by roads and cities of steel and glass. The mountains still stood, but their silence was now broken by the works of Men, who carved into them in search of treasures hidden beneath the earth. The rivers still flowed, but many of them were choked with waste, no longer reflecting the purity of the stars above.

Oromë rode unseen through this changed world, his heart heavy with grief and wonder alike. He saw what Men had wrought, their ingenuity and their relentless pursuit of mastery over the world. He saw the marvels of their technology, the way they had bent nature to their will, and in this, he glimpsed a shadow of Aulë’s own spirit—the same drive to create, to reshape, to build. And yet, he also saw what they had lost.

The reverence that Elves had held for the land, the respect that even the Edain had once borne for nature, was gone. Hunting had become either a sport for the rich or a desperate struggle for survival among the destitute. The art of the hunt, which had once been sacred, a dance of predator and prey in balance with the wild, had become something else. To many, it was no longer an act of reverence, but merely a means of gathering resources, a tool for survival or sport. There were still those who honored the ways of the hunt, but their numbers were few, and the wild places where such traditions had once thrived were dwindling.

Still, Oromë did not despair. For even in this, he saw hope.

Men had not abandoned the hunt entirely. They had evolved it, transformed it, and though their ways were different, the essence remained. Their skill with weapons, their ability to track, their knowledge of beasts—all of these were reflections of the instincts that had been woven into them from the beginning. If they had not forgotten entirely, then they could learn again.

Oromë was troubled by what he beheld. The reverence that Elves had held for the land, the respect that even the Edain had once borne for nature, was gone. Hunting, once a noble art and a means of harmony with the world, had become either a sport for the rich or a desperate struggle for survival among the destitute.

Yet, for all his sorrow, he did not despise Men. He had watched them, after all. He had seen their ingenuity, their fire, and their ability to shape wonders beyond anything that even the Dwarves had once wrought. In their machines, in their tireless pursuit of knowledge, he saw something of the gift that Ilúvatar had given them—free will, the power to create, to build, and to master their own fates. It was a power that had lifted them to heights greater than Númenor at its zenith. But it was also a power that had blinded them.

As Oromë hunted for the lost Silmarils, he found himself drawn to those among Men who still struggled, those who had not been blessed with power or wealth, but who fought against the world’s hardships to provide for their kin. He watched as impoverished hunters, armed with little but their knowledge and determination, ventured into the wilds in search of food for their families. He saw their desperation when they failed, their sorrow when they returned empty-handed, their quiet resolve when they set out again.

And even without Irmo's suggestion and the approval of the Elder King, Oromë already took pity on them, and he was allowed to teach, which he did with solemn pleasure.

It was a small thing, a subtle act, nothing compared to the glories that could have been done, but he could not ignore the suffering of these forgotten souls. In secret, he lent them aid—not through divine miracles, nor through gifts of magic, but by teaching. He appeared to them in the form of a young adult, with the build perfectly tailored for hunting, and guided their hands toward the right paths.

His form was mighty, but not unnatural; his eyes shone with a wisdom that seemed ancient, yet he spoke with the simplicity of one who knew the land through experience rather than legend. His movements were impossibly graceful, yet never so much as to arouse suspicion. He became a legend among Men, yet only as a mortal—a great teacher of hunting, but no more than that. Oromë, before teaching ANY skill, first instilled in them the philosophy of hunting: He ensured their respect for the natural world was strong and revealed to them the ancient truth that all things must exist in balance.

Once they had showed the proper drive and understanding, it was only then that the Huntsman of the Valar first taught men. He had much experience in training others in the ways of the hunt, and though mortals lacked the same depth as the Elves and the Maiar, their creativity was truly amazing as he showed them that the greatest hunters did not seek to conquer the wilds, but to become part of them, and they proved able to learn with patience.

Oromë taught his students the language of the land: the way the wind carried scent, the hidden tracks left by the beasts, the silent conversations that took place between the creatures of the woods. He made them see the world, not just as a hunter, but as something greater—a participant in the great cycle of life. He taught that to take the life of an animal was not an act of power, but of responsibility. They were to waste nothing, to show reverence for the creatures they hunted, and to understand that even the mightiest predator must, in time, bow to the earth.

And above all else, for the modern world had ensured that men preferred swiftness in action and result, Oromë taught them patience—the greatest weapon of the hunter. He showed them how to wait, how to listen, how to know the perfect moment to strike. The greatest hunters were not those who moved the fastest, but those who moved when the time was right.

Though the Huntsman of the Valar was of an age before steel or fire, he was no stranger to the ways of Men. In his silent watch over Middle-earth, he had come to understand their tools, their crafts, and the ingenuity with which they shaped the world, and though he mourned the ways with which technology caused much damage to Arda, he knew not ALL such measures were inherently harmful. He did not scorn their machines, nor did he teach them to reject them. Instead, he showed them how to wield technology with wisdom.

Firstly, the men he taught relied on guns rather than bows, although he ensured they were also well-versed in archery, but Oromë ensured that their marksmanship was as disciplined as the archers of old. He trained them to fire with precision, to kill swiftly and cleanly, to never let an animal suffer. To be honest, the Huntsman of the Valar was neutral about the developments of such primitive methods of ranged combat, since he saw how they were much quicker than bow and arrows but he also knew how relying on the functions of firearms was something that risked dulling the edge of one's mastery over hunting.

Though he was the greatest tracker to walk Arda, Oromë recognized the strengths of modern tools. He quickly grasped how infrared scopes, motion detectors, and satellite maps could be used not to dominate nature, but to understand it. He showed his students how to wield these instruments with reverence rather than arrogance, blending old wisdom with new technology.

However, above all else, where others of the modern Men saw forests as mere resources to be consumed, Oromë saw the pulse of the earth itself. He taught his students to recognize which creatures could be hunted and when, ensuring that no species was driven to extinction, that no land was left barren by greed, and in that, he had succeeded in ensuring they always treated nature with respect. He even taught them to hunt down those that went too far in their pursuit of science and technology, and saw to it that they were dedicated in this aspect of the hunt, ensuring that their hearts were noble and their hunting instincts properly cultivated.

Those whom he taught flourished. Their skills grew beyond those of their peers, and they became leaders among their people. From their success, an order was formed—an organization that preserved the ways of the hunt, one that would come to be relied upon by the very governments of Men. And though the roots of corruption often took hold in mortal institutions, this one remained pure, for its foundation had been built upon Oromë’s silent teachings, upon the sacred principles that had guided the hunt since the dawn of time.

They did not know his name. They did not know from whence their knowledge had come. History would remember him only as the "Great Teacher of Hunting."

And yet, that was enough.

From afar, Manwë saw what Oromë had done and was pleased. Yavanna felt her hearth softened as she watched that Men began to develop some more appreciation for nature, even if it was in the wilderness and did not fully encompass the world and it's life as the way she would have handled it. This was the start of the Ainur’s return—not through grand revelation, not through the shattering of mortal understanding, but through quiet guidance, through subtle acts that would shape the world without breaking it.

For fifty long years, Oromë scoured the world in search of the lost Silmarils, spending a decade in teaching the men that would found the Kinsmen of Hunting before moving on. 

Modern men, for all their machines, had lost the true art of tracking. They could scan vast territories from the skies, detect heat signatures through walls, and track their own kind with devices no larger than a coin. But they had forgotten the language of the earth beneath their feet. They did not hear the whispers of the wind, nor did they see the story written in a broken blade of grass. Oromë, on the other hand, did.

He moved through the wilderness with a grace beyond anything known to Men, his presence little more than a ghostly breath upon the land. The ground did not betray him—he walked where the soil was firm, where no footprint would remain. He moved with the wind, his steps falling in rhythm with the rustling of leaves and the shifting of the trees. Where there was open ground, he avoided it. Where there was soft earth, he stepped only where others had already walked, his tracks merging with theirs, indistinguishable.

Even in places where the eye of Man was ever-watchful, Oromë’s mastery of the hunt allowed him to pass unnoticed. He studied the rhythms of their machines, the patterns of their movements. A security drone, sweeping in intervals of ten seconds? He was gone before it returned. A patrol car scanning a lonely road? He moved only when its lights were turned away. To the men who watched their cameras, there was nothing.

No shadow. No figure. No sound. For Oromë, stealth was not merely an act—it was an art. And the Huntsman of the Valar did not know whether or not he should be relieved, or mournful, that he scarcely needed magic to elude the technologies and sciences of Men. It wasn't that he didn't need to use magic at all, but the fact that Men had advanced so far only to be so oblivious was something that evoked bittersweet feelings inside him. 

Even the greatest hunter left footprints when the land is open, when the ground is too soft, or when the eyes of Men are too many. In such places, Oromë wove enchantments so carefully that no sorcerer of Men, no machine of their making, could unravel them. With the fact that magic only survived as fairy tales and used in entertainment purposes, just the barest of magics was enough.

For most occasions, he needed only one spell, older than the stars themselves, called the "Shadow-Walk", which allowed Oromë to pass through the world as though he were a shade. He did not become invisible, for such crude sorcery was beneath him—rather, the minds of those who saw him simply dismissed his presence. If a camera recorded him, the data would blur and distort, the machine unable to retain the image of something it could not comprehend. If a man looked at him, his gaze would slide away, his thoughts drifting elsewhere, as though he had seen nothing at all.

However, although Men had forgotten magic, their technology had become its own kind of sorcery—machines that could see through walls, devices that could hear the heartbeat of a hidden creature, cameras that never blinked. Oromë did not underestimate these things. He did not fear them, nor did he destroy them—for this was not a war against Men, but a hunt for something greater. Instead, he bent the world around him, ensuring that no device could betray him. He only employed these forms of magic when he had to travel into particularly technology-heavy places, but it was more than enough.

He could create false echoes of the shifting of wind and leaves, the fading warmth of the sun, not bothering to mask his presence, as thermal scanners and drones would find nothing but the replacements of the Huntsman's presence, not even able to chase non-existent ghosts. More primarily, he used "The Song of the Unheard Step", a chant older than the first forests, a melody whispered beneath Oromë’s breath. It resonated with the natural harmonies of the world, ensuring that every step he took, every breath he exhaled, blended perfectly into the background noise.

His more primary use of magic was on tracing the locations of the Silmarils were no ordinary jewels. They were fragments of the purest light, sanctified by Varda, stolen by Morgoth, and tainted by the long years they spent in the hands of the doomed. They were bound to fate itself, and Oromë knew that such things could never be truly hidden. The traces of magic were faint, but enough for him to see.

He projected the very memories of the world, for the mountains had witnessed the fall of Maedhros, the rivers had heard the laments of Maglor. The very rocks remembered where the Silmarils had last been touched. Oromë did not ask where the jewels were now—he asked where they had been, and followed the echoes forward through time. Also, the Light of the Two Trees was the equivalent of a scent that the Huntsman had memorized completely, and even now, he could sense that light, for where the Silmarils had rested, the air still carried the ghost of their presence.

Though much of Middle-earth had changed, the deep, ancient earth remained the same. Beneath the skyscrapers and highways, below the technological veneer of modern civilization, the bones of Arda still held the memory of the Valar’s work. Oromë, with his attunement to the Song of the Ainur, could sense these deeper currents.

In places where lay lines—the natural magical currents of the earth—converged, Oromë could listen to the pulse of the world. These magical veins, though weakened by the fading of magic, still carried whispers of the past. As Oromë traveled, he would often stop at these places of convergence. Here, his senses became heightened, and the world opened up to him in ways that even Men’s satellites could not perceive. It was in these places that he could trace the lingering essence of the Silmarils, like faint footprints left in the fabric of reality. E

Each step of the hunt brought him closer to his quarry, though the path was long and the traces faint. And in the end, he succeeded, although such was the traces of the Silmarils and the power of the Two Trees within that even the greatest huntsman of all needed 4 decades. 

The first Silmaril, the one that Maglor had cast into the sea, was hidden deep within the depths of an abyssal trench, buried within the ever-changing tides of the vast Pacific Ocean, concealed within a cavern untouched by time. It took him twenty years of searching—years in which he moved unseen through the world of Men, passing through their cities, forests, and oceans as an unseen specter. In the end, he found the jewel in a place forgotten by all, its light dimmed yet unquenched.

The process to extract it wasn't exactly easy, but it wasn't too difficult either. Oromë was no creature of the deeps, but as one of the Aratar, his competence and power was among the greatest in the Valar. The darkness within its trenches had swallowed ships, storms had reshaped continents, and even the strongest of Men’s machines failed beneath its crushing pressure, but the Huntsman of the Valar had no difficulty moving through the waters as his physical form was more than enough to bear the strain of the pressure, his senses could see clearly despite the darkness, and he followed the lingering traces of power—imperceptible to all but a being of his might—that pulsed faintly through the water, the echoes of a light that should not have been in the abyss.

He aligned himself with the currents, letting them carry him in silence, his passage causing no disturbance. His presence was a shadow upon the water, unseen by the technology used by Men. Deep-sea sensors, satellites scanning the waves, and submarines lurking in the depths all guarded the ocean. Oromë navigated between their blind spots with a hunter’s instinct, evading detection not by magic alone, but by reading the movements of Men as keenly as he read the signs of nature.

As he neared the seemingly endless depths, swimming through the Pacific Ocean with grace unmatched by any mortal and even most Maiar of Ulmo, the challenges of the Silmaril began to show, the sea itself seeming to desire to keep the jewel. Barriers of illusions, currents, and darkness emerged to oppose him, but though it was a challenge that would have given even a Maiar a run for their money, Oromë, while needing to be patient and cautious, was able to bypass all of them. 

He saw the unseen paths of the ocean, tracing the slow pulse of magic in the water that guided him ever downward. He moved like a phantom, unseen by the great beasts of the deep and unheard by the shifting pressure of the abyss. He could easily kill the life within the sea, but he did not, for there was no point. When faced with the first barriers of the waters, he wove enchantments that allowed him to pass through the deep as a hunter through a thick forest, the supernatural might of the waters failing as, with silent words of power, he blended with the abyss, his movements effortless despite the crushing pressures that would have obliterated all others, several times the already intense pressure of the Pacific Ocean.

Soon, barriers of pure darkness emerged while thicker concentrations of water awakened to stop him. But Oromë, master of the hunt, did not falter. With the great bow that had served him well for so many centuries in his hands, he loosed arrows not of wood, but of pure force—arrows that split the raging waters and broke the darkness's protections, piercing through the sorcery woven into the waves, unraveling the illusions that shielded the cavern entrance. With the patience of a hunter waiting for the perfect shot, he struck where the barriers were weakest, forcing them to break without causing the ocean to tremble.

And there it was. The final threshold was no simple cave, but a fortress of stone carved by time itself. It was an unnatural place, as though the ocean had conspired with fate to keep the jewel sealed away. There were runes of unknown origin carved into the walls, ancient remnants of the world’s own will to hide what should not be found. But Oromë had hunted greater things than mere shadows and secrecy. Layers upon layers spells of concealment that distorted perception, making the space seem infinite, the Silmaril unreachable no matter how near one came, potent enough to distort even the senses of the Maiar.

Oromë, however, was a master of unraveling deception—for was the hunt not about discerning the truth of things? He traced the illusions with his magical acumen, reading them as one reads the tracks of an unseen beast, and with whispers of power, he undid the snare that had been set for eternity, until at the very heart of the cavern, resting upon a natural throne of stone, the Silmaril pulsed like a fallen star trapped in the abyss. Even after all these ages, its light was pure and untamed, a fragment of the Two Trees sealed in adamant, untouched by the passage of time.

The ocean had tried to swallow it, the shadows had sought to bury it, but nothing could diminish its radiance. Oromë approached without hesitation. He reached out—not with greed, nor with hesitation, but with purpose. The moment his fingers closed around the Silmaril, the cavern trembled, as if the ocean itself had realized that its prisoner was escaping. The currents outside stirred, the great beasts of the deep became restless, and the veil that had hidden the cavern began to fray.

Even in victory, the great hunter moved with absolute precision. He did not simply teleport away, nor did he fight against the shifting ocean. Instead, he moved as he always had—in harmony with the hunt. The waters had stirred, but rather than battle the rising chaos, Oromë used it. He let the shifting currents carry him outward, guiding him through unseen paths that led him away from detection. He followed the rhythm of the deep, becoming indistinguishable from the sea itself, but the experience afterwards was... Intriguing.

The deeps harbored creatures of such enormity that the Huntsman had never encountered them before, and he could not help but wonder if Eru had truly willed them into being, or if some ancient, forgotten power had shaped them in the darkness before the world was fully formed, or maybe the Silmarils had warped the creatures within until they were unrecognizable. Many were unknown to Men, their kind lurking in trenches so deep that no light had touched them since the world was young. Those creatures were similar to sharks, whales, or any other marine creature, but several times stronger and more powerful.

Some creatures, vast and blind, moved purely by the vibrations of the water. Their senses stretched far beyond what Men could perceive, their hunger insatiable. Oromë moved like the shadow of a drifting leaf, aligning himself with the quietest currents, passing unseen even when he glided just beneath the bellies of ancient leviathans, as he wielded his great spear and slashed them in half without even being noticed until death came to those creatures. He did not kill fishes or any non-hostile creature, for that was beneath him, but such beasts should be put down for there was no telling what they could do.

Great serpents of the deep, long as ships and silent as the void, stirred from their slumber when the presence of a being so far beyond them disrupted the fabric of their world, while things deeper still—things that had never known the world above, belonging to neither Morgoth or Eru, existed in the blackest trenches, moving without sight, feeling only the smallest shifts in pressure, and the Huntsman did not hesitate.

He slayed them all with arrows of pinpoint precision that targeted all their vital points and impeccable form with his spear, even as he swam and avoided their attacks, for those creatures were oddly able to sense his presence and attack him. As he ascended, he wove enchantments to mend what had been broken—to calm the restless waters and to erase all trace of the disturbance. When he broke the surface of the ocean, emerging beneath the cover of a moonless night, there was not a single ripple to mark where he had been.

The second was far more perilous. It lay beneath fire, buried within the heart of the volcano where Maedhros had cast himself in despair. The fires of the mountain had long since cooled, but deep within, the Silmaril remained untouched, cradled in the grasp of stone. The searing heights and molten heart of Mauna Loa, where the second lay buried, cast into fire by Maedhros in the final tragedy of the House of Fëanor, filled with restless stone and living flame, proved to be THE most complex hunt he had ever undertaken.

Unlike the ocean, which had hidden the first Silmaril in shifting tides, Mauna Loa jealously guarded the second within its fiery depths. The jewel, fused into the very bones of the mountain, had become one with the wrath of Arda itself. The Silmaril’s power still pulsed, a distant, rhythmic heartbeat deep within the volcano. Though hidden by enchantments and the chaos of Mauna Loa’s ever-changing form, Oromë could feel its presence, faint as a distant drum upon the wind. He read the mountain as a hunter reads tracks in the earth—following the way the magma churned unnaturally, the way the heat twisted in places where it should not have.

The terrain was treacherous—unstable ridges, razor-sharp volcanic rock, and sheer cliffs of obsidian. To mortal Men, traversing such ground without equipment would have been impossible. Oromë, however, was a master of movement. Every step was precise, every shift of his weight calculated. He leapt from rock to rock with effortless grace, his footing as sure as it had been in the ancient forests of Yavanna.

Blue fire, unnatural and wrathful, leapt from the depths, forming barriers of searing heat. They burned with an intensity that even Oromë’s immortal flesh would not withstand without effort. But the Huntsman did not quail—he focused deeply as he weaved enchantment after enchantment, combining spells seamlessly, that slowly but surely bent the flames, shaping them as a rider does a wild steed. With every whispered command in the tongue of Quenya, the flames parted, allowing him passage without disturbing their restless dance.

Though not servants of Morgoth, certain great beings of the deep, born of the earth’s molten heart, had been drawn to the Silmaril’s power. Serpents of lava, spirits of stone and ash, creatures that had never seen the light of the sky. These were no mere beasts—they were Arda’s own will, shaping itself in the presence of something divine. Again, the Huntsman could not help but wonder if they were caused by the Silmarils, or if they were among the Nameless Things that gnawed at the very depths of Arda.

Knowing that he had to be cautious, he weaved enchantments of peace and calm as he met the gaze of the creatures without fear, willing them into stillness. Some bowed their great heads and slithered back into the depths, while the few that challenged him found themselves ensnared in enchantments of sleep and silence, laid low without a sound. Although the Huntsman should have killed them, now was not the time. 

When Oromë took it up, the volcano stirred in anger, spewing forth blue flame—a final wrathful cry from the past. But Oromë, with all his power, quelled the eruption before it could claim the lives of Men, restoring the mountain even as he took the jewel.

At last, deep within a cavern carved by flame, he beheld it. The Silmaril, still as radiant as the day Fëanor first held it, lay embedded in a bed of obsidian, untouched by the searing heat. Its light pulsed with sorrow and glory, a beacon of all that had been lost. The very walls around it bore the charred marks of Maedhros’s final fall—the last prince of Fëanor’s house, now long gone beyond the Circles of the World.

Oromë stepped forward and, with hands steady and sure, reached for the jewel, but that almost proved to be a mistake, for the moment his fingers closed around it, Mauna Loa trembled. The mountain knew what had been taken from it, and in its rage, it roared. A mighty eruption, blue and unnatural, surged forth, threatening to consume the land.

Although shocked for among the very few times in his immortal existence, Oromë did not falter. He had to admit the sight of such an explosion of power was genuinely unsettling, and so he actually used teleportation, warping to the entrance of the Mauna Loa as he swiftly made a circle of runes to amplify his power and held out the Valaróma, breathing deeply as he shouted out incantations for the first time in his long hunt.

“Ibrîniðilpathânezel Aþâraphelûn Amanaišal! Nâbaktharan-Ôz Narkûth Anâkhimel! Tatharna Khilwêth Ragûn Kâthuîn! Brôth-Izindubêth Amanu-phurân!" (O Flame of the Earth’s Core, be bound to the will of the Powers! Your wild heart is tamed! Be still before my hunt! Let the deep roots drink of peace! Flow not into ruin! The wrath of old shall not awaken! The Elder Light shall be reclaimed!) When Oromë finished reciting the incantation 3 times, the flames recoiled. The earth stilled. The eruption, moments from unleashing destruction, was halted mid-roar.

He shaped the flow of the magma, weaving it back into the veins of the mountain, ensuring that no harm would come to the land, but though he had moved with caution, Men had eyes upon the mountain. Scientists, researchers, and distant watchers had seen signs of the disturbance—a flicker of unnatural blue flame, a tremor that defied all predictions. Oromë, with a final act of careful magic, wove a great veil of forgetfulness, ensuring that what they had witnessed was remembered only as a strange anomaly, soon to be dismissed by logic.

Thus, after fifty years of silent toil, the Huntsman of the Valar returned. The Silmarils, long lost, were now found.

When Oromë returned to Valinor bearing the two Silmarils, there was joy among the Valar, but they knew their work was far from over. The world was still unready for the battle to come, for though a great step had been taken, there were still many other variables to complete. The Valar did not know every detail of how the Dagor Dagorath would unfold. Even Manwë, to whom Ilúvatar had revealed much, knew only the end—that Morgoth would return, that the world would be broken, and that the Second Music of the Ainur would remake all things. But before that, there would be war, suffering, and the final test of the Children of Ilúvatar.

And so, as the year 2120 approached, the Valar turned their minds to the next step. Their hands were no longer stayed. Their long watch had ended, even if they could still no longer reveal themselves before Men.

The Last Battle was coming.

Chapter Text

Of the many sorrows that had taken root in the Undying Lands since the world was made round, none festered with such quiet, relentless agony as that which grew in the heart of Manwë Súlimo, Elder King of Arda. His was not a grief expressed in the torrential lamentations of Nienna, nor the brooding silence of Mandos. It was a profound, private anguish that seeped into the very essence of his being, a slow poison of realization that transformed his divine stewardship from a mantle of honor into a shroud of shame. He witnessed the Dominion of Men unfold not as the distant, dispassionate observer that he once was many years ago, but as a soul laid bare upon an anvil of his own making, each hammer blow of consequence forging a new, more painful understanding of his failures, culminating in a divine rebuke that shattered his ancient certainty and forced an evolution of spirit, tempered not in power, but in helplessness and hard-won humility.

His vigil began not with dread, but with a flicker of paternal, albeit distant, pride. Watching the Children of Ilúvatar harness the forces of their world, he saw in their sprawling cities of steel and light, their vessels that conquered the skies and seas, a wild, untamed reflection of the creative fire that Eru had gifted solely to them. It was a raw, undirected power, but it was theirs. Even at that point, where the Elder King did not yet fully understand just why Men were always destined to be superior to Elves, he still cared enough for them to feel that way. He wasn't malicious towards men, just tragically oblivious. He justified himself that as he and the Valar did not have the same kind of similarities towards Men as they were towards the immortal Elves, and Eru clearly wished for them to be free, it was fine to maintain a distance between himself and his people and the race that would eventually be the one to rule Arda outside of Valinor.

Yet, as the centuries bled into millennia, this bemused admiration curdled into a deepening dismay. The memory of the Firstborn, the Elves with whom he had conversed beneath the stars of Cuiviénen, became spectral, reduced to insubstantial figures of whimsy and fantasy. The Dwarves, Aulë’s stubborn children, were crudely caricatured; the Ents, Yavanna’s shepherds, became absurd legends. This was not mere forgetting; it was a great unremembering, an erosion of the very bedrock of Arda’s history. The world grew silent, its ancient songs replaced by the sterile hum of machinery. The loss of what Men called ‘magic’ was not a change in the world’s substance, but a deafness in its inhabitants—a vital chord of the Great Music, one he was charged with protecting, fading into an echo and then into nothingness. 

Such complete erasure struck the King of the Valar not as simple forgetfulness, but as a cultural and spiritual cataclysm that he gradually realized he was directly responsible. And with a clarity that struck with the force of a lightning bolt from his own domain, he understood: this amnesia was not Men’s inherent flaw. It was a consequence. He was the Elder King, the chief steward of Arda. This loss of history, this severing from the past, was a direct result of the Valar’s absence. Only then did he see Men’s environmental disregard not as inherent wickedness, like how some of the Valar saw Men in their lack of understanding of them, but as the natural consequence of never being taught the sacredness of Arda by its stewards.

A chilling question, once unthinkable, now echoed in the hollow chambers of his conscience: If we had been present, as we were for the Elves at their awakening; if we had taught them the names of the stars and the meaning of the wind, as we taught the Quendi; would this forgetting have occurred? 

The answer, rising like a cold tide, was a resounding, devastating no. A gnawing sense of responsibility, previously obscured by the luminous needs of Aman and the enduring drama of the Elves, began to take root—a responsibility he, as King, had catastrophically neglected. Yavanna’s silent tears as forests fell were mirrored by his own internal weeping. The thought screamed in his mind: We were not there to teach them. This blindness to the soul of the world is our creation.

This piercing insight unlocked a deeper, more agonizing truth, a pattern of Valarin action and inaction laid bare across the long canvas of the Ages. The most agonizing realization of it all. He saw it with horrifying clarity: the lavish, patient attention given to the Elves—guidance, the gift of Aman, repeated forgiveness for the grievous sins of the Noldor—stood in stark, shameful contrast to the near-total abandonment of Men at their awakening in Hildórien. The rewards were showered only upon the faithful Edain, while those who, in their vulnerability and ignorance, had fallen under the shadow of Morgoth—a shadow given its power by the Valar’s own absence—were largely forsaken, their descendants viewed with suspicion.

This was not merely different treatment for different Children; it was blatant, institutionalized favoritism. The scales fell from Manwë’s eyes, and the weight of this foundational injustice settled upon his spirit like a mountain of lead. He, the embodiment of Eru’s air and wisdom, the one who should have understood the need for clear skies and unbiased judgment, had presided over a profound inequality. He had, through his silence and inaction, poisoned the wellspring of Men’s potential relationship with the divine from its very source. The seeds of their modern flaws—the terror of death, the simmering resentment, the cold disconnect from the living world—now felt less like inherent failings of the Secondborn and more like the bitter, inevitable harvest sown by Valarin neglect.

All of the Valar's ways of handling Men stood in painful contradiction to the way with which they handled Elves, the shame and remorse bearing down on him time and again until there was no avoiding the truth. There was no justice in it. The clarity was unbearable: Morgoth’s poison found fertile ground in the vacuum the Valar themselves had created. The fear of death, the resentment toward the divine—these were not innate flaws in Men, but the bitter harvest of seeds sown by Valarin neglect. The weight of this truth was a physical pressure on his spirit, a leaden cloak of failure he felt he could never remove.

Then came the Voice. When Eru Ilúvatar addressed the Valar directly regarding the matter of Men, its tone was unlike anything Manwë had ever experienced. It was not the gentle guidance that shaped the themes of the Ainulindalë, nor the sorrowful correction following the Marring of Arda. It was the first time every single Valar was present and heard Eru's voice directly, where before it was through either Manwë or Mandos that the will of the One was delivered to the rest of the Valar.

A voice of stern, cold, and utterly unequivocal judgment, a resonance that shuddered not through the air, but through the very fëa of the Ainur and beyond as it reached their spirits and forced them to admit their wrongs, and it fell upon Manwë, as their King, with the greatest weight. It was a judgment upon his leadership, a dismantling of his every assumption. The event fundamentally shattered Manwë's understanding of his own reign. It was the very first moment where not a single Valar could defend their viewpoint, for what they were debating was not the world or at each other, but the will of Eru itself. Eru's voice was like a scalpel as it dissected every single failing with such precision that none of them could have said anything. Even the bold Tulkas was left silent and dismayed, the protective Yavanna was reduced to agonized tears, the cynical Ulmo looked close to crying, and not even Mandos was spared as he was left profoundly affected by Eru's words.

The specific condemnation regarding Tar-Palantir struck with the force of a physical blow, lashing his spirit, a true masterstroke of divine condemnation. Manwë had perceived the Númenórean king’s repentance, had felt the fragile, sincere ember of his effort to restore faith and tradition against the crushing darkness of his people. Yet, the Valar had remained silent, distant, and unmoved, their judgment clouded by the past sins of his predecessors and the continued hostility of the majority.

Eru’s words laid bare the breathtaking hypocrisy: “Even after Fëanor’s rebellion and the Kinslayings, you aided the Noldor, you forgave them, you welcomed them home. Yet for a repentant Man, seeking only to restore the ancient bonds you yourselves had allowed to fray, you offered NOTHING.” This comparison was not mere criticism; it was an indictment of their fundamental character. There was no hiding from the total exposure of the deep-seated, institutionalized bias that the King of the Valar, for all of his wisdom and knowledge, had never perceived in his lofty position.

Manwë was forced to hold the Noldor’s sins—pride, rebellion, theft, kin-slaying—in one hand, and Tar-Palantir’s quiet, desperate piety in the other, and behold the Valar’s grotesquely disproportionate response to each. The shame was all-consuming, a suffocating pressure in his chest. The coldly logical justification—“the people were still hostile”—crumbled to worthless dust before the simple, devastating heat of Eru’s truth: compassion had been withheld where it was most desperately needed and most rightly deserved.

And to make it worse, Eru had then coldly declared "Easy, sayest thou? Manwë? Thou and the Valar bid me cast down that realm, forsaking the folk who stood with Maiar and Elves, while ye lingered in Valinor. Nay, it shall not be! Ye, the Ainur... shall deem the Secondborn as motes and fallen leaves, no more". Eru's words stripped away all justification, all centuries of rationalization. There was no debate, no appeal. The truth was laid bare: they had been poor stewards. They had "sucked," in the most brutal terms, at their duty toward an entire species. For Manwë, who embodied clarity and perception, this was the ultimate blindness being corrected, and the revelation was agony.

He still recalled how he had clutched his head and bowed down in grief as the rest of the Valar were silent, not looking at him but at the sky as Eru continued to speak, unleashing the subsequent decree of the absolute, inviolable Dominion of Men, the shielding of the Straight Road, the severe, humiliating limitations placed upon their power. It was not merely a punishment; it was a profound and utter humiliation.

For the being who had once commanded the winds across all the vast expanses of Arda, who had stood closest to Eru’s thought and will, to be reduced to a near-powerless spectator, able only to hear the faintest whispers of misdirected prayer and perform the most subtle, invisible acts of mitigation… this was an existential wound. The rules expressly forbidding intervention against the wanton environmental destruction, even as he witnessed the brutalization of Yavanna’s creations and the poisoning of Ulmo’s waters, felt like a personal, exquisite torture. He, Manwë Súlimo, who should have been the shepherd of all Arda, was now forbidden from even crying out a warning as the flock wandered blindly towards the precipice. For the being who commanded the winds and skies across all Arda, who stood closest to Eru’s thought, the enforced passivity was a profound humiliation. The shielding of the Straight Road was the slamming of a door he himself had first closed with the Hiding of Valinor.

The irony was a bitter poison. He could now only watch, listen, and perform the most subtle, invisible acts. The rules were a special torment: to hear the cries of the land as trees were felled and not be allowed to even whisper a warning on the wind; to witness injustice and be permitted only the faintest nudge to avert a single life, never to address the systemic cause. This was the core of his grief: to possess the power to mend, yet have his hands bound by the consequences of his own past inaction, the direct, bitter fruit of his past failures in active stewardship.

The prayers directed to him as the "Archangel of Storm and Justice," the "Right-Hand of God," became a source of exquisite pain. Each petition for justice, for strength, for righteous fury, and for merciful control over the elements of the skies was a reminder of his own failure to provide these things when it mattered most. The faith of Men, so resilient and undeserved, felt like an accusation. They worshipped an ideal of a protector and judge he now knew he had not been. The weight of their belief was a constant, grinding reminder of his unworthiness.

Thus, for centuries, Manwë was consumed, not by a rage or a fleeting sadness, but a deep, abiding sorrow of the soul. He dwelt in a state of perpetual lamentation, his songs not those of majestic power but of profound grief. He wept not for the world, but for his role in its marring. The memory of his decision to hide Valinor, his ignorance of Tar-Palantir's pleas, and the relentless, adoring prayers of those he failed became the three pillars of his personal prison. The ache was a constant companion, a heavy stone seated in the heart of the Elder King, a perpetual testament to the tragic cost of wisdom learned too late. All the Valar experienced that for many centuries, and while his "depression" did not last as long as Varda's and Yavanna's, it was still by no means something he bounced from easily.

Yet, within this prison of constraint, a transformation began, slowly and surely. Bound by Eru’s decree, Manwë had no choice but to listen. This enforced, intimate attention became his crucible, for Eru said those words not for the sake of condemnation, but for the sake of forcing clarity and giving them a chance to better themselves. 

From the deep well of his shame and grief, a profound and transformative understanding began to dawn within Manwë Súlimo. The enforced passivity of his penance, which initially felt like a prison, became a unique vantage point. Through the narrow window of listening to prayers and observing without interference, the Elder King began to witness not just the flaws of Men, but the breathtaking magnitude of their spirit. This ignited a fragile, then steadfast, flame of hope and a resolve tempered in the fires of his own failure. Everything was as Eru had designed

As the centuries of prayers washed over him—a vast, murmurous ocean of human experience—he began to perceive something magnificent beneath the flawed vocabulary and skewed cosmology. He heard not just pleas for material gain, but the raw, desperate cries for strength in the face of overwhelming adversity, the yearning for justice in an unjust world, the whispered hopes for the safety of loved ones, the simple, profound gratitude for a cool breeze on a sweltering day or a moment of peace in a troubled mind. He saw, through these countless petitions, the undeniable evidence of their spirit: a resilience that defied their brief lives, a persistent spark of hope that refused to be extinguished, and a breathtaking capacity for love, compassion, and courage that thrived even in a world stripped of ancient truths. He witnessed, from his silent perch, acts of stunning selflessness, ingenuity applied for the good of others, and a deep, abiding yearning for meaning that persisted despite their profound spiritual confusion. The very mortality he had, through his neglect, allowed to become a source of terror and resentment, he now saw for what it truly was: the engine of their incredible, dynamic passion.

He watched as Men, devoid of Elven immortality or Valarin tutelage, harnessed the very fabric of Arda through science and reason. Their cities of glass and steel were not poor imitations of Tirion upon Túna; they were something entirely new, born of a different creative fire. Aulë’s crafts were expressions of a pre-existing divine plan perfected; human engineering was a relentless, iterative process of questioning, failing, and overcoming. Manwë saw that a single modern nation could wield power that rivaled or surpassed ancient Númenor—not through a gift from the gods, but through their own collective ingenuity and relentless resolve. This was not a fall from grace; it was a staggering ascent achieved entirely on their own terms. The emotion this stirred was not paternal pride, but humble reverence, for he realized that neither he or the Valar have the right to consider themselves as stewards of Men yet.

This observation led to the core epiphany. The Elves were bound to the world, their greatness intertwined with its history and the guidance of the Valar. Theirs was a beauty of preservation and memory, their long perspectives often leading to a sorrow that stretched into millennia, a weariness of the world, or a beautiful but static stagnation. But Men? Men were like fireflies—burning with an intense, brilliant, and heartbreakingly brief light, yet it is precisely because of that Men possessed a different kind of greatness that the Elves could never hope to match. Their mortality—the very thing that had made them seem fragile and susceptible to fear—was in fact the engine of their unparalleled strength. It gifted them with an urgent, burning creativity, a courage forged in the face of inevitable loss, and a resilience that allowed them to constantly rebuild, rethink, and renew. Their free will was not a flaw to be managed, but the very source of their glory. Now, Manwë realized how much Men surpassed the Elves in terms of potential. Their dominion, for all its rampant flaws and cruelties, was vibrant, dynamic, and constantly evolving in a way the glorious, but ultimately fixed, realms of the Elves never were.

Their capacity to choose, to err, and to persist nonetheless was the purest expression of Eru’s gift. This realization was humbling and liberating; it meant the Valar’s early guidance, however well-intentioned for the Elves, would have been a cage for the boundless spirit of Men. It did not soothe away his guilt, of course, for he knew that had he and the Valar worked better, did their best to serve all of Eru's creations with the exact same love, then they would have figured something out. Instead, Men were not able to exercise the Gift of Men within them to the best of their ability. Still, it made him see his failure, and the other Valar's, in a different way. The very cultural forgetfulness he had lamented now seemed a necessary, if painful, shedding of a skin, allowing Men to forge their own path entirely, unburdened by the immense, crushing weight of ancient lore, ancient sorrows, and ancient expectations. His heart ached not only for the past favoritism but for his own fundamental, ancient blindness to the unique, brilliant, and fragile potential inherent in the Secondborn’s fleeting existence.

Eru had sternly reminded them, "Ye, all ye Ainur, though mighty and wise in your own reckoning, have not in sooth won the worship, nor yet the esteem, of Men, have ye? No right have ye to bid them labour by your precepts, no right to hope for their fairest deeds, when ye yourselves have ne'er striven to guide them! From mightiest Vala unto least Maia, stands there none amongst ye that doth lack worth. And thou, Manwë, the 'Right Hand of Ilúvatar'... Of all, art thou not the most unworth?".

He understood that his failure was, indeed, too deep. Every prayer directed to the Archangels was already undeserving as they had not done anything to merit worship from Men, but, as Eru had said, he was among the most unworthy. Men, in their simplified theology, were worshipping an ideal of protection and justice that he had failed to provide. However, instead of feeling like hypocrisy, this faith began to feel like a seed of hope planted in barren soil. It was evidence of an innate, indestructible yearning for the divine within the human spirit, a light that had not been extinguished by millennia of divine neglect. This was not their failure of understanding; it was their triumph of spirit.

Their continued worship, despite everything, affirmed to him Men's capacity for looking past the failings of the perceived divine and focusing on the ideal itself. This moved Manwë deeply. Their faith was not based on the Valar’s actions, but on their own inherent need for meaning and connection to something greater. This made their devotion purer, in a way, than that of the Elves, whose love for the Valar was based on direct experience and benefit.

Manwë knew that, up until the end of Dagor Dagorath and the birth of Arda Healed, complete redemption was beyond him and the rest of the Ainur. They had failed and foresook Men so much that no amount of prayers could ever enable them to truly atone for the core of their failures, and any justification meant was but folly. However, the realization of the hypocrisy had broken him and the other Valar just as much as it had reshaped them. They would not only never discriminate again, but they would also never so easily decide that those who followed Melkor were utterly deserving of death and whatever fates awaited them.

The past could not be changed, but the future could be approached with a new heart. He and the other Valar vowed that when the chance came—be it during Dagor Dagorath or in the world remade—he would never again repeat the sin of favoritism. Elves and Men would be equals before him, each cherished for their unique gifts. The very thought of playing favorites now filled him with a healthy sickness of heart, a permanent inoculation against his old biases, and he was sure that all of his brethren felt the same utter rejection of their old favoritism.

Embracing his role as the intermediary, the “middle-ground”, Manwë threw himself into the only act of service left to him: the careful, meticulous answering of these prayers. He understood that it wasn't because the other Valar and the Maiar did not see the error of their ways, but because sometimes the weight of their shame and remorse was too great, and because sometimes they believed Men shouldn't receive a response to some of their prayers. However, none was more skilled at judging that than the Elder King who had learned the most painful lesson of all.

He became a master of subtlety, granting favorable winds to a vessel on a rescue mission, weaving clarity into the thoughts of a diplomat striving for peace, lending an unseen fortitude to the oppressed who cried out for strength. And when prayers drifted, vague and hopeful, towards the domains of other Valar who might be too burdened by their own sorrow or too hesitant of the limitations, Manwë would step in, a gentle intermediary. A mother’s prayer for her sick child, directed to a faceless heaven, might find him subtly nudging the mind of a skilled healer living nearby, or easing the knot of fear in the parent’s own heart, allowing for clear thought and comfort. Even technologists desperately seeking an epiphany sometimes found grace not from Aulë, but from him. This active, albeit utterly hidden, compassion became his penance and his redemption. In doing so, he was not just granting wishes; he was slowly, painstakingly, earning the right to be the steward he should have been all along.

The moment he truly embraced this equality in his heart—not as a duty imposed by Eru’s stern decree, but as a hard-won, humbling conviction—he felt it. Not in words, not in a vision, but as an unmistakable resonance deep within the eternal Music of the Ainur, a subtle, warm, and infinitely compassionate tremor of approval emanating from the Timeless Halls. Eru did not speak again, but this silent affirmation was more potent than any praise. It was the confirmation that he, Manwë Súlimo, Elder King of Arda, was finally, after millennia of error, learning the deepest lesson of stewardship: that true greatness lay not in preserving the perfect and the eternal, but in nurturing the fragile, the mortal, and the free, and in finally recognizing the unique and glorious fire that Ilúvatar had placed within them. It was the first, fragile flicker of hope that he might yet be ready for the second chance the Dagor Dagorath would bring.

Chapter Text

Of the grievances and sorrows of the Undying Lands, Varda Elentári, Star-Kindler, Lady of the Stars, was very much as tormented by the quiet, relentless agony as that which the heart of her husband, Manwë Súlimo, even if she showed it differently. She whose being radiated the very essence of celestial light, witnessed the unfolding Dominion of Men not with distant luminescence, but with a spirit progressively ravaged by a profound, undignified sorrow and an utterly shattering realization of her own culpability, all of it seeping completely into her entire being. Her journey was one of divine radiance dimmed by remorse, then painfully rekindled through enforced humility and a hard-won appreciation for the Children she had overlooked.

At first, the Lady of the Heavens, she who kindled the first stars from the luminous dew of Telperion, observed the fading of Middle-earth's magic with a complex tapestry of emotions woven from light and shadow. From her vantage point upon Taniquetil's peak, where the air itself shimmered with the resonance of her creations, she watched as the last Elven ships vanished beyond the curve of the world, carrying away the final visible threads of enchantment that had lingered since the Elder Days. Her initial reaction was not grief, but a profound and unsettling sense of detachment—a clinical, almost scholarly observation of cosmic transition. Hers was a perspective measured in light-years and epochs, and the departure of the last Elven ships into the West registered not as a tragedy, but as the closing of a significant, yet finite, chapter in the chronicle of Arda.

The stars she had set in their precise, loving constellations with Ilúvatar’s thought continued their ancient, silent dance, their argent light falling upon a world growing ever more indifferent to their sublime poetry. This indifference, this turning away of mortal eyes from her life's work to gaze instead upon the garish, self-made lights of their cities, pricked a pride so deep and intrinsic to her being that she had scarcely acknowledged its existence until she felt its sting. It was a cosmic rejection, a dismissal of her most sacred work.

As the Dominion of Men unfolded across the continents below, Men's civilizations flourishing and expanding like geometric fungi sprawling across the face of Arda, Varda experienced a peculiar and unsettling duality of perception and emotion. A part of her, the mind of the celestial architect, felt a pure, scholarly fascination, evne if it was detached. With instruments of polished glass and refined mathematics, Men had begun to map the heavens with a precision that, in its own way, surpassed the intuitive lore of the Eldar, the rigor and precision able to rival even the deepest lore of the Elves despite their specific love for the stars. They calculated the precise elliptical dances of planets, deduced the nuclear furnaces blazing at the hearts of distant suns, and peered into the deep abysses between galaxies, revealing cosmic wonders that had been invisible to all but the Ainur, which included nebulae birthing new stars, the intricate dance of moons around distant planets, and more. Their audacious attempts to harness minute fractions of stellar energy—to cage a sliver of not the Sun or the Moon's power, which they astonishingly accomplished, but rather the raw power of her stars within their reactors—demonstrated a boldness that, while terrifying in its naivety, bordered on a form of reverence she could intellectually appreciate.

Varda knew that unlike the Sun and the Moon, which she had only empowered from the last flower of Telperion and the last fruit of Laurellin, despite their shine greater than that of her stars, the stars she had made and placed on the skies were much more raw in it's energy. While the Sun and the Moon were placed on the vessels of Anar and Isil, which made such technologies possible, her stars had no such "filters" made by Aulë. Still, she would give them credit. They sought to touch the light she commanded, however clumsily.

Yet beneath this cold, intellectual appreciation lay a subterranean current of profound and growing unease, a disquiet that coalesced like dark matter in her spirit. Her cosmic awareness, which were primarily in the form of her ears that could hear to the farthest of the East, but also lay in her sight, extending to every particle of light falling upon Arda, beheld as industrial expansion scarred the lands she had illuminated for millennia – forests felled where her light had once dappled through ancient leaves, mountains leveled where her stars had cast long shadows at dawn. Like a sickness spreading across the face of the world, she perceived the thickening pall of pollution, a mortal-made shroud that dimmed the stars she had crafted with such care, obscuring their light from the eyes below. She observed Men pursuing technological mastery with reckless abandon, their cities blazing with artificial light that outshone her own constellations, creating a perpetual twilight that drowned the heavens. The sprawling, phosphorescent networks of their cities were not merely lights; they were a smothering veil, a form of visual noise that drowned out the gentle luminescence of the natural world and dimmed the perceptibility of her own stars.

But it wasn't just the cosmos. Her cosmic awareness, vast and all-encompassing, registered every violation: every river poisoned by chemical runoff, every creature driven to extinction by habitat loss, every ancient stone desecrated by quarrying. The great, festering wounds of open-pit mines, the silent vanishing of species, each a unique melody in the Music now extinguished. These observations triggered not righteous anger, but a profound, soul-deep disappointment—a sense that Men, the Second Children, were squandering the light she had given them, the light that was meant to guide and inspire, not merely to illuminate their paths of destruction. They had the light, but they had lost its meaning. It was the anguish of an artist watching a priceless masterpiece being used for kindling, a sense that the Children to whom she had gifted the beauty of the night were squandering that light with a recklessness that bordered on blasphemy.

The turning point in Varda's understanding did not arrive as a single, cataclysmic event, but rather through centuries of slow, accumulating realizations, like the gradual brightening of a distant star or the Sun itself needing to take a slow, agonizing dawn, which was quite unlikely considering how dilligent Arien was. She began to perceive patterns in human behavior that mirrored, with painful and inescapable fidelity, the Valar's own catastrophic failures. She saw how Men's profound, pathological fear of death – a fear nurtured in the vacuum left by the Valar's absence – drove them toward destructive excesses: the desperate pursuit of wealth and power, the reckless consumption of resources, the creation of weapons capable of annihilation, all in a futile attempt to defy their mortality or leave a lasting mark. She saw how their ignorance of divine truth, of the Music, of the Gift, of the very nature of the Powers who shaped Arda, left them terrifyingly vulnerable to corruption by any force that offered answers, however false – whether it be Morgoth's lies, Sauron's promises, or the hollow allure of their own technological hubris. She saw how their deep-seated resentment toward the unseen, distant Powers who seemed to favor Elves and abandon Men manifested in a profound disregard for the world itself – the physical manifestation of the Valar's work. If the creators did not care, why should they?

And slowly, agonizingly, Varda recognized the ultimate source of these patterns, the root from which this bitter tree had grown: the Valar's abandonment. The silence. The Hiding. The neglect. The weight of this realization settled upon her spirit like a physical burden, a gravity well of shame pulling her down from the heights of Taniquetil. She remembered with growing horror her own pivotal role in hiding Valinor – how at Manwë's decree, she had lifted her hands, palms facing eastward, summoning the mists and shadows of the Enchanted Isles, weaving wards of confusion and dread that made the West inaccessible to mortal ships. She had performed this act without hesitation, without a single thought for the Men who might need guidance, who might be lost in darkness without the light of the West. The stars she had created to awaken the Elves in Cuiviénen – brilliant beacons of hope, wonder, and connection to the divine – she had never adapted, never crafted special signs to speak specifically to Men's hearts, to guide their unique journey. She had placed constellations meant to guide all peoples, yes, but they were designed with Elven eyes in mind, speaking to Elven sensibilities. She had never considered creating celestial patterns that might ease mortal fears, remind them of the Gift beyond death, or offer guidance tailored to their shorter, more urgent lives. Her light had been universal, but her attention had been selective. Those moments she recalled with excruciating vividness, how she unwittingly created the severances between Elves and Men.

Varda's shame deepened, becoming a crushing weight, like a chasm as she recalled the reign of Tar-Palantir in Númenor. She had heard his prayers, lifted from the pinnacle of the Mindon Eldaliéva where the White Tree Nimloth grew. She had witnessed his genuine repentance, his desperate efforts to restore the ancient ways, his faithful observance of rituals honoring Eru and the Valar. She had seen him take the Elven name, Tar-Palantir, in a final, poignant attempt to bridge the gap. And she, Varda, Queen of the Stars, had remained utterly silent. Worse, she had actively upheld the ban, sternly barring any Elven ships from visiting Númenor, enforcing the Valar's collective judgment against an entire people because of the sins of their ancestors and the hardened hearts of the majority. The hypocrisy was staggering, a blight upon her spirit: the Noldor, her own Firstborn kin, had committed the unspeakable crime of Kinslaying at Alqualondë and rebelled against the Valar, yet they had received mercy, indirect aid, and eventual restoration to Aman. Men, specifically the repentant Númenóreans led by Tar-Palantir, who sought righteousness and reconciliation, received only silence, isolation, and eventual doom. She had judged them unworthy of her light, her presence, her compassion. The hypocrisy was staggering, a bitter poison in her throat.

When Eru's voice rang through the Ring of Doom, resonating not in air but in the very fabric of spirit and light, Varda felt a sensation unlike anything in her long, luminous existence. It was not sound; it was a direct, piercing perception of divine disappointment, a cold finality that made her very essence recoil, as if a star within her had gone supernova and collapsed inward. The One's words were directed specifically at her, carrying the weight of all the light she had ever kindled and all the light she had withheld:

"Varda Elentári, Queen of the Stars, who perceives the deepest thoughts of Ilúvatar, who discerned the dissonance of Melkor before it was fully sung in the Music – is my light, the very same light that radiates off your entire being, the light you used to craft the stars and fill the heavens with wonder, unworthy of being 'wasted' on Men in your eyes? Did you deem them too coarse, too fleeting, too unappreciative to receive its guidance? Is it because the Elves revere you as Elbereth, calling upon your name in their darkest hour, that you did not care to teach Men your true nature, to offer them the comfort of your light in their ignorance? You saw how Melkor would corrupt them, twisting their fear of death into terror and resentment, yet you never warned your brethren. You crafted the Sun and Moon from the last fruits of the Trees, great lights for all Arda, but you never created stars that might ease mortal fears, guide their paths, or remind them of the Gift beyond death. You saw Tar-Palantir's repentance, heard his prayers, witnessed his faithfulness – and you barred the ships that might have brought him hope. You chose the pride of isolation over the duty of compassion."

Each question, each accusation, struck like a physical blow with the force of a hammer ceaselessly striking the anvil of her spirit, a dark spot marring her radiance. Varda, who had always taken immense pride in her intimate knowledge of Eru's light, who had perceived Morgoth's discord before it was fully woven into the Music, who saw the fates of all things in her stars, had never considered using this understanding to protect Men and was now being rightfully accused of hoarding it. She had anticipated, with cold detachment, how Morgoth would exploit their fear of death, their ignorance, their resentment – yet she had never raised her voice in warning to the other Valar, never proposed a counter-strategy, never crafted a celestial defense. She had performed her cosmic duty, placing the stars, but had neglected her stewardship duty towards the Children. She had crafted the Sun and Moon from the last fruits of the dying Trees of Valinor, giving light to all, but she had never created stars that might speak specifically to Men's condition – constellations of hope for the despairing, stars of guidance for the lost, celestial reminders of the Gift that awaited beyond death. Her light had been universal, but her care had been parochial.

Eru's reminder of Tar-Palantir was particularly devastating, a focused beam of judgment illuminating her deepest failure. Varda had heard that king's worship, witnessed his efforts to restore the ancient ways, perceived the purity of his heart. Yet she had remained unmoved, her heart as cold and distant as the void between stars. She had even sternly barred Elves who wished to visit Númenor, enforcing the policy of isolation rather than extending even a glimmer of compassion. The contrast with the Valar's treatment of the Noldor was undeniable and utterly damning. The rebels received mercy, guidance, and restoration; the penitent received silence and judgment.

The decree that followed felt like chains being forged around her very essence, cold and unyielding. Despite her power equal to Manwë's, her authority over the firmament, she was bound by the same limitations as all the Valar: no direct intervention in Men's affairs, no revelation of hidden truth, no protection of the natural world from human exploitation. She could only answer prayers within the strict constraints Eru had set – subtly, invisibly, working within the natural order. Her cosmic awareness, once a source of immense pride and power, became a source of profound torment, a constant reminder of all she could perceive but could not touch, all she knew but could not teach.

In the long ages that followed Eru's judgment, Varda's cosmic awareness became both a unique blessing and an exquisite curse. She could perceive prayers from across Middle-earth with unparalleled clarity, hearing the whispered hopes, the desperate fears, the pleading cries of countless souls directed towards the heavens. She perceived the flicker of a farmer's prayer for rain under a drought-stricken sky, the scientist's silent plea for understanding as they gazed through a telescope, the lost traveler's desperate wish for guidance by the stars, the mother's tearful invocation for her sick child. Yet she was powerless to answer the vast majority of these prayers directly. She heard prayers meant for Yavanna as ancient forests fell to chainsaws, for Ulmo as rivers ran thick with poison, for Nienna as suffering multiplied in war and plague. Even those prayers were already painful to her, ceaselessly reminding her of the faults of the Valar.

The most painful prayers were those directed at her own domain – prayers from astronomers seeking cosmic understanding, from navigators looking for guidance by the stars, from those who found solace in the beauty of the night sky, from artists and poets inspired by celestial light. She could offer subtle guidance – a sudden insight into a complex orbital calculation, an inexplicable urge to look up at just the right moment to spot a guiding star, a surge of creative inspiration. She could inspire moments of clarity, whisper answers on the wind of thought, but she could never reveal herself, never speak her name, never confirm the divine source of the guidance. Her stars remained silent, beautiful but inscrutable witnesses to human struggles, their light untouched by divine voice or explanation. They shone, but they did not speak.

Varda's sorrow was compounded and made infinitely more acute by witnessing Men's repeated, often disastrous, attempts to harness stellar energy. She watched as brilliant minds, driven by ambition and ignorance, sought to capture the power of the stars – fusion reactors that mimicked stellar cores but lacked containment, attempts to mine hypothetical stellar materials, experiments with cosmic radiation that ended in mutation and death. Each failed experiment, each casualty resulting from their profound ignorance of the true, delicate nature of cosmic laws, was a searing reminder of her failure to teach them. She alone understood the true nature of stellar power – the immense forces involved, the precise balance required to wield it safely, the fundamental interconnectedness of light and matter that made such endeavors perilous without divine wisdom. Yet she was forbidden to share this knowledge, bound by Eru's decree and her own past neglect. The blood of those who died in these flawed experiments, the suffering caused by their misguided reach for the heavens, she felt was on her hands as much as on theirs. She had the light, but she had withheld the understanding needed to wield it safely.

Each one was a fresh accusation, echoing Eru's words: "You did this. You could have prevented this." The worship directed to her as "Archangel of Light and Darkness" felt like a bitter mockery, a constant reminder of the reverence she had failed to earn through genuine care. The bitter irony was suffocating: They worshipped the "Archangel of Light" while dying in ignorance, trying to grasp a power she could have taught them to respect and safely channel, had she ever considered them worthy of such instruction.

Initially, all that was there was unfathomable sorrow, anguish, and deep regret for their suffering and spiritual blindness – suffering she had helped cause. But as she witnessed their Dominion unfold, this pity transformed into staggering awe. She recalled how they weren't just tragedies: Men had built civilizations that dwarfed the glory of Númenor not through inherited grace or divine gifts, but through sheer, relentless will and ingenuity. Their science, technology, and craftsmanship surpassed Elven artistry and Dwarven mastery, not because they were inherently superior beings, but because their mortality bred urgency, curiosity, and an indomitable drive to overcome limitations. This wasn't imitation; it was original brilliance born of the Fire of Ilúvatar burning uniquely bright within them.

The most profound and transformative shift in Varda's understanding came through long, patient observation of Men's relationship with light and darkness in the modern age. She saw how some individuals naturally gravitated toward light – both literal and metaphorical. She saw how they found comfort and awe in her stars, how they associated light with safety, knowledge, hope, and divine presence. She observed how they instinctively associated darkness with fear, the unknown, and evil – yet also with rest, renewal, mystery, and the necessary quietude for growth. Despite never being taught the true, sacred nature of her domains – the balance of light and shadow as part of Eru's design, the purpose of night as well as day, the restorative power inherent in darkness – Men intuitively understood their complex interplay. They created festivals of light in winter's darkest depths, they sought the beauty of sunrise and sunset, they understood the need for rest in darkness as much as activity in light.

What struck Varda most deeply was the manifestation of innate virtue flourishing without Valarin nurture. Courage, compassion, a thirst for knowledge, resilience in the face of failure – these shone not because the Valar taught them, but despite the Valar's abandonment. Men built, explored, created, and cared for each other driven by their own moral compass and communal spirit. Their capacity for love and sacrifice, undertaken without expectation of eternal reward in a misunderstood "Heaven," revealed a purity of spirit Varda had tragically overlooked. Their flaws – the environmental damage, the societal ills – were now seen by her not as inherent corruption, but as tragic missteps on a path walked utterly alone, making their achievements all the more remarkable.

Men's capacity to embrace the light, to truly value and seek it, was inherently greater than the Elves' precisely because they had to choose it. The Elves, bathed in the perpetual light of Valinor from their very awakening in Cuiviénen, had never known true, existential darkness. Their existence was one of inherent grace and illumination. Light was their natural state, not a choice. Men, who had walked in profound shadow – the shadow of ignorance, the shadow of fear, the shadow of the Valar's neglect, the shadow of Morgoth's lies – from their very beginning, who had been abandoned by the very Powers who commanded the light, yet still reached for the stars, still sought the light, still hoped – this demonstrated a spiritual strength, a resilience, a depth of understanding the immortal Firstborn had never needed to develop. Their appreciation for light was earned, not inherited. Their choice to seek it, despite the darkness, made that choice infinitely more meaningful.

She realized that Men's potential to benefit from the pure, restorative aspects of darkness was equally profound. While Melkor had twisted darkness into something fearsome and corrupt, associating it solely with evil and oblivion, Varda had always understood its true nature – the peace of night, the mystery of the unseen, the restorative power of sleep, the quiet growth that happens in darkness, the beauty of the starlit sky. And Men, without instruction, were beginning to rediscover this balance. They understood the need for rest, the value of introspection, the beauty found in the quiet mystery of night. They were learning, through experience, that darkness was not merely the absence of light, but a necessary part of the cycle, a gift in itself.

The existence and endurance of the Christian religion, however flawed its understanding, was a source of profound, complex emotion. Eru's cold reminder – "At least they remember you, even though... you have not proven yourselves worthy of such prayer" – was a lacerating truth. The worship directed at her as the "Archangel of Light and Darkness," the highest of these misunderstood celestial beings, was a constant, bitter reminder of her failure. Yet, within this bitter pill was an unexpected solace and a spark of hope. Despite centuries of divine silence, neglect, and historical abandonment, Men still looked to the heavens with reverence. They still acknowledged a higher power, they still directed prayers towards "light" and "darkness," concepts intrinsically tied to her being. This persistent, undeserved faith became a powerful motivator. It proved Men possessed an innate, unwavering orientation towards the divine, a light within them that not even millennia of Valarin failure could extinguish. Eru's specific words to her – acknowledging her worthiness in terms of raw power and majesty over the cosmos, but condemning her unworthiness of reverence due to her actions – crystallized this duality: She was majestic, yet undeserving; worshipped, yet unworthy. This paradox became the engine of her resolve.

Varda's shame didn't lessen; it deepened and transformed. It was no longer just grief for past mistakes, but a burning hunger to earn the faith Men placed in her. The knowledge that she, among all the Valar, was held in the highest regard within Men's flawed pantheon ("on par with Manwë," yet functionally seen as supreme in their celestial hierarchy) added immense weight to this desire. It wasn't pride; it was a solemn responsibility. She felt an overwhelming obligation to become the benevolent, guiding presence Men believed her to be.

Just like Manwë, and more so than any other Valar, Varda knew that, up until the end of Dagor Dagorath and the birth of Arda Healed, complete redemption was beyond her. She had foresook and condemned thousands of Men to their deaths, she had hid Valinor when it was sorely needed by the rest of Arda, and for that she could answer a billion of prayers and still never find complete redemption. Any attempts for justification was lost in her. She knew there was no point. Even as she prepared herself to be the second of the Valar sent, for she would revive the sparks of magic even decades earlier than Dagor Dagorath and complete the Valar's awareness of their theurgical practices, she knew those deeds alone only amounted to barely more than half of true atonement for her. However, where her heart was broken, so too it could be reshaped. She swore to never discriminate, and she also vowed that even should there be Men who followed Melkor in Dagor Dagorath, she would accept their condemnation and strive only to save them even if it means torment and humiliation.

The past could not be changed, but the future could be approached with a new heart. No more would she favor Elves over Men. While her love for the Firstborn remained, it was now matched, and even surpassed, by the feelings she felt towards Men. Never again would she favor one race over another. Gradually, over centuries of silent observation and constrained action, Varda began to transform her torment into purpose. The crushing weight of guilt and helplessness slowly metamorphosed into a fierce, quiet determination to atone, however imperfectly, within the bounds Eru had set. She began answering prayers with unprecedented dedication and focus, becoming second only to Ulmo in her responsiveness to human needs.

She developed a particular sensitivity to prayers that fell between the domains of the Valar – prayers for guidance that weren't purely Manwë's domain, for hope that wasn't purely Nienna's, for protection that wasn't purely Oromë's. She acted as a bridge in the few times where others remained silent without hesitation, understanding they didn't neglect the prayers out of favoritism but out of pain and shame. Acting as a celestial intermediary for the lost and confused, scientists struggling with a complex astrophysical problem would experience a sudden breakthrough insight; a traveler lost at night would inexplicably notice a familiar constellation; a person in despair would look up and find unexpected comfort in the vastness of the starry sky. Many Men who tried to harm each other were subdued by coincidencial occasions caused by her power for those who would have been victims to subdue them. Each answered prayer, however small, however subtle, became an act of atonement, a small step towards redemption, a silent apology whispered through the language of light and inspiration. However, that was not enough, not even close. Simultaneously, Varda began a secret, sacred work within her own domain – a labor of love and hope for the future. It was her greatest work in a way that surpassed even the stars she crafted to awaken the Elves.

She began preparing new stars and constellations designed specifically for Men, tirelessly experimenting with both science and spell. These were not the ancient patterns meant for Elven eyes, and no matter how hard Elves might try, they would never be able to decipher them, let alone use them; they were crafted with mortal needs, struggles, and aspirations at their core. She designed constellations that would speak of hope in the deepest darkness, stars that would offer guidance to travelers both physical and spiritual, celestial patterns that would serve as reminders of the Gift beyond death, assuring Men that their journey did not end with the setting of their personal sun. She wove into their very light stories of resilience, of perseverance, of the beauty found in fleeting moments – stories that would resonate with mortal hearts. She designed them to be invisible to Elven eyes, their light tuned to a frequency only mortal spirits could fully perceive, ensuring they would serve only Men when placed in the heavens after Dagor Dagarath.

This creative work, this crafting of light with specific intent for the neglected Children, became her secret act of repentance, her solemn promise to Eru and to herself that she would never again favor Elves over Men in her stewardship of the heavens. The remade sky would shine for all, but these new stars would shine especially for the Second. They had earned the right to be priveleged above Elves in such a way after her previous neglect, and she had made sure to be thorough in ensuring that there would be no way for the Elves to use them. They had spent centuries being favored, and now was the time for them to be equalized with Men. Even if she could only reveal those stars and constellations after the end of Dagor Dagorath, she persisted in making them.

As she engaged in this hidden work and answered the prayers of those who reached for the light, Varda's understanding of Men deepened and evolved. She began to see their true potential, not in their technological achievements or their sprawling cities, but in their profound spiritual resilience. Despite the Valar's catastrophic neglect, despite the pervasive corruption of Morgoth and Sauron that had warped their history and beliefs, despite the crushing weight of ignorance and fear, Men continued to reach toward the light. They worshipped her as the "Archangel of Light and Darkness," revered her alongside Manwë as the highest of the "Archangels," associated her with the beauty and mystery of the night sky – despite never having received any direct revelation, never having seen her face, never having heard her voice. Their faith, however flawed, however often mixed with superstition or misinterpretation, moved her profoundly. They reached for the light she had given, even without understanding its source or its true nature. They created art and music inspired by her stars, they sought knowledge of the heavens, they found solace in the night. This persistent, untaught reaching was a testament to a strength the Elves, bathed in perpetual light, had never needed to cultivate.

When she sensed Eru's occasional signs of approval – a subtle chuckle resonating through the cosmos after a particularly inspired intervention that guided a lost child home, a deep hum of pleasure when a new constellation designed for Men took perfect form in her mind – Varda felt a warmth spread through her spirit that went beyond simple relief or vindication. It was the first tangible sign that she was finally understanding her true role in the design of Arda, not as the exclusive, majestic light of the Elves, but as the illuminator for all the Children of Ilúvatar, but especially for the Second who had been so grievously neglected. The Star-Kindler who had once crafted constellations only for the Firstborn now prepared new stars, new patterns of light, new stories in the heavens, specifically for the Children of Men. Her heart, once clouded by pride and favoritism, was finally free, radiant with the pure light of humility and purpose. The Queen of the Stars, who had once taken pride in her unapproachable radiance and her special bond with the Firstborn, now found greater joy and fulfillment in the quiet light of answered prayers and the promise of constellations yet to come. Her shame had transformed into deep humility, her cosmic pride into selfless service, her vast awareness from a burden of suffering into a luminous bridge between heaven and earth.

Chapter Text

Of the grievances and sorrows of the Undying Lands, while the hearts of Manwë Súlimo and Varda Elentári were the most profoundly affected by the Dominion of Men, the heart of Yavanna Kementári was scarred in such a way that it almost matched the sovereignly shame of the King and Queen of the Valar. She, who initially raged against the way with which Men handled Arda, had her pride and protectiveness over the lands crushed and permanently changed, and the change reverberated through every single inch of her being and attitude, her soul forcefully bared before an axe of her own making, each smashing blow cutting into her again and again as she was forced to reforge all of her previous beliefs and mindset. Her humility was hard-won, yet profound and sincere, her sorrows great yet forcefully quelled as she grew to blame only, and righteously so, herself.

The Giver of Fruits, Queen of the Earth, she who sang the Kelvar and Olvar into being at the beginning of days, the second mightiest of the Valier after Elbereth herself, and third in overall power as well as majesty amongst the Ainur, no less powerful compared to her husband, Aulë, perceived the transformation of Middle-earth not as distant spectacle, but as a physical agony resonating through the very fabric of her being. Where other Valar might have started out by observing the rise of Men's dominion from serene and majestic heights or deep contemplation, Yavanna's essence was interwoven with the living tapestry of Arda – she was the unfurling leaf, the deepening root, the ripening seed, the slow decay that nourishes new life. This profound, ontological connection rendered the relentless expansion of Men's industry not merely concerning, but an unending torment, a slow dismemberment of her own spirit.

Initially, Yavanna's response manifested as a profound, world-encompassing grief. She felt each ancient forest felled as a mortal wound to her fëa, each river diverted or poisoned as a severing of her lifeblood, each species driven to extinction as the death of a beloved child in her vast family. The great forests of Fangorn and Lothlórien, once vibrant with her power and the songs of the Elves, were now mere memories, replaced by sprawling cities of stone and light that consumed the earth beneath them. She felt the agony of meadows paved over with unyielding concrete, wetlands drained and filled, mountains scarred and hollowed by the insatiable hunger of Men's mines for minerals and fuels. The pain was visceral, constant, a low thrum of despair beneath the surface of her awareness. The Ents, her most beloved Shepherds of the Trees, her direct agents and champions, had long been placed in enchanted slumber by Eru, hidden in the deepest roots and most remote corners of the world. Their absence left her feeling terrifyingly vulnerable, like a gardener whose hands have been bound while vandals rampage through her cherished groves. This helplessness was a novel and bitter experience for one who had once healed the forests of Beleriand and tended to the outer lands even before the Valar initiated the Battle of the Powers, who had felt the deep roots of Fangorn tremble with righteous anger at the industrialization of Saruman.

Beneath this overwhelming grief, however, lay a dangerous, creeping seed of resentment and judgment. How could Men, who had received the unique and precious Gift of Ilúvatar – mortality, freedom from the Circles of the World – treat Arda, the cradle of their existence, with such profound disregard? Where was the reverence for the living world that sustained them? The gratitude for the air they breathed, the water they drank, the food that grew from the soil she tended? She saw their towering cities, their machines that belched smoke and noise, their relentless extraction of resources, and felt a surge of righteous anger. They behaved like spoiled children given a priceless inheritance, trampling it without thought for tomorrow. At first, she could not understand it. She advocated for the forceful stopping of Men, and for a while, she even began to consider that Men were never worthy of existence, for their attitude reminded of Morgoth's own.

She wept as the other Valar refused her suggestions, still unsure and looking more and more despondent rather than either furious, one-sidedly saddened, or were struggling with feelings they could not understand. Even as Eru sent her a stern message telling her to be silent, Yavanna could not. Her love for the world would not allow her to watch idle. She cried as she was the first, out of all the Valar, to find that she could not exert her power over to Middle-Earth's Men. She could do nothing, and any attempt to do so resulted in a visage of Eru shaking his head with a coldness unlike what any of the Ainur had ever seen of him.

Yet, even as these thoughts coalesced within her, Yavanna felt a persistent, disquieting unease – a nagging sense that her judgment was incomplete, that she was missing some crucial understanding of Men's nature, their history, and the circumstances that had shaped their relationship with the world. The shadow of the Valar's own past actions fell long across her perception, and she could not entirely escape the feeling that Men's current disregard was, in part, a bitter fruit harvested from seeds the Valar themselves had planted through neglect. At first, she brushed it off, not truly understanding how she had no right to blame and feel wrathful, but in time it grew, over and over again, until the truth could not be denied. The turning point in Yavanna's understanding did not arrive as a sudden revelation, but rather as a slow, insidious dawning, like disease spreading silently through the heartwood of an ancient tree.

Over centuries of observation, constrained by Eru's Doom to passive witness and subtle influence, she began to perceive patterns in human behavior towards the natural world that mirrored, with painful fidelity, the Valar's own historical failures. She saw how Men's relationship with the living world deteriorated in direct proportion to the fading of their understanding of its sacred nature. They treated forests not as communities of living beings, ancient and wise, but as mere resources – standing timber. They saw soil not as living tissue, teeming with invisible life and the memory of ages, but as inert substrate for agriculture or foundation for construction. Water became a commodity to be bought and sold, diverted and dammed, rather than the sacred blood of Arda that connected all things. And slowly, agonizingly, Yavanna recognized the ultimate source of this profound disconnection: the Valar's abandonment.

The realization struck with the force of a thousand deaths, a blight that could affect even her spirit. Yavanna remembered with vivid clarity her fierce advocacy for the Ents, her passionate defense of all growing things against the corrosive touch of Melkor. She recalled her pleas to Eru, her creation of the Shepherds specifically to protect the Olvar from wanton destruction.  Yet, when it came to Men – the Second Children, awakening in Hildórien, a world already scarred by the Darkness and the Wars of the Powers, without guidance, without revelation, without the fundamental understanding of their place in the Music – she had done nothing. Absolutely nothing. She had not appeared to them in their dawn as she had to the Elves in Cuiviénen. She had not taught them the ancient songs of growth and decay, the sacred balance of life and death, the interdependence of all living things. She had not revealed to them the inherent holiness of the world they inhabited, the fact that every leaf, every stone, every drop of water was a part of Eru's great design. They were left in profound ignorance, a vacuum Melkor and later Sauron had eagerly filled with lies and fear.

And with that realization, came one terrifying conclusion. All this... Is my fault. All the desecration Arda currently endures... Is not the sin of Men. It is- Our sins, my sin.

Her shame deepened, becoming a weight heavier than a thousand trees, as she recalled the reign of Tar-Palantir in Númenor. She had felt his prayers as he faithfully tended the the White Tree, Nimloth, a symbol of their connection to the Elves and the Valar. She had witnessed his genuine repentance for his people's arrogance, his earnest desire to return to the ancient ways, his faithful observance of the rituals honoring Eru and the Valar. He had reached out, not with demands, but with humility and a desperate plea for reconciliation. And she, Yavanna, along with the other Valar, had remained silent. Worse, in response to the majority's continued hostility and the King's insolence, she had tacitly allowed some of her blessings to withdraw from the soil and plants of Númenor itself, a subtle punishment that affected the faithful and the faithless alike. The contrast with her care for the Elves was undeniable and utterly damning.

When the Noldor, led by Fëanor in his madness, had rebelled against the Valar, committed the unspeakable crime of Kinslaying at Alqualondë, and embarked on their foolish, doomed war against Morgoth, she had grieved deeply for their folly and the suffering it would bring. Yet, she had not abandoned them entirely. The Valar still mourned their fate, subtly aided them where possible (like sending warnings to Turgon in Gondolin), and ultimately, after the War of Wrath and the final defeat of Morgoth, they forgave them. They were permitted to return to Aman, to heal and find peace. But when Men, specifically the repentant Númenóreans led by Tar-Palantir, sought righteousness and reconciliation, they were met with silence and withdrawal. The message was clear: Elves, even rebellious, kinslaying Elves, were worthy of forgiveness and continued care; Men, even repentant Men, were not.

When Eru's voice resonated through the Ring of Doom, resonating not only through the air, but also booming across every inch of the ground and ringing across the very fabric of the spirit, Yavanna felt it in every root, leaf, and blossom of her domain. To call it a sound was disrespect: It was a penetrating blow of divine disappointment, such a stern finality that any intention to rebel was finally and completely squashed out, for her own good, as even after realizing the horrible truth, parts of her still felt a subtle desire to punish Men for their desecration of the world. The One's disappointment was not merely heard; it was experienced, a palpable pressure carrying the weight of uprooted forests, withered fields, and the silent suffering of countless creatures, affecting each and every inch of her being and silencing any inner sounds within her that screamed for protection of the land. His words, directed at her but echoing for all the Valar to hear, were precise and devastating in their condemnation:

"Yavanna, Kementári, Giver of Fruits, who loved all growing things with a passion that moved mountains and shaped valleys, who created the mighty Ents to be the Shepherds and guardians of the Olvar—yet you abandoned Men to wander in ignorance and reap the bitter fruits of that neglect. You wept tears of sap for trees felled by Orcs, but where were your tears for the souls of Men who awoke in darkness, untaught, unguided, left vulnerable to the lies of the Deceiver? You enriched the lands of the Edain after the War of Wrath, yes, but this was reward for service rendered, not education in stewardship. You lavished your attention on the lands of the Faithful, yet you never appeared to the Easterlings, the Haradrim, the countless peoples who knew you not. You taught the Elves the songs of growth, the balance of life, the sacredness of all living things, but you withheld this knowledge from Men. Your love for creation was selective; your protection extended only to those who already understood its value; your grief for nature eclipsed your compassion for the ignorant and the lost."

And then, the One reminded her of one more thing. "You so easily decided to support the forgiveness of the Noldor, when Fëanor refused you the Silmarils. In comparison, you rejected the care of Tar-Palantir over Nimloth. Where Men respected you while Elves did not, you gave Elves what they needed and left Men with NOTHING!!!"

Each phrase was like a blight upon her spirit, a canker eating at the core of her identity. Eru dismantled her self-righteousness with merciless, surgical precision. Her pride in her role as the nurturer of Arda was revealed as a form of possessiveness, a love for the idea of growing things rather than for the purpose they served in the whole design, which included the flourishing of all the Children. Her fierce protection of the forests was shown to be incomplete, a defense of the beautiful and ancient, but not a nurturing of the potential for harmony in the new Age. Her grief for the natural world was exposed as having overshadowed her duty of care towards the ignorant Children who needed guidance most.

And above all else, the fact that she could forgive the refusal to restore the Two Trees of Valinor, her greatest work, but reject the repentance of a king who tended to a descendant of one of those Trees shamed and broke her, making her kneel on the grounds of the Ring of Doom. She desperately admitted her guilt, confessed she herself could not understand why, but now she knew she was wrong, and so she begged Eru to awaken the Ents, to enable them to protect Arda, and to enable them to GUIDE Men as she tearfully promised she would even allow herself to be restrained in power and majesty like the way the Istari did and help Men rediscover lost knowledge. Such an offer was enough to make some of the Valar, despondent by the hail of accusations thrown at them by the One who pointed out all their flaws, show concern, but not Eru.

"Enlighten Men? Do you truly believe that it is in the power of any being in this universe, except for myself and all of you, to make Men change their ways completely? If your Ents appeared, they would be bombed to destruction, the nuclear bombs Men have developed being far, far more potent than the fires and mechanisms of Isengard that once injured many of the Ents and even killed one of them. And even if Men deigned to listen, it would only cause conflict as there would be those who would not believe, those who cares only for the advancement of humanity. I will not have such a thing. Your Shepherds will sleep until the time is right for them to be brought into Valinor. And while your incarnation as a type of the same Wizards who once were sent to Middle-Earth might still be powerful enough to surpass almost any Maiar, you will be but one being, and it might take them years, but you WILL be brought down. You will be seen as nothing but a naturalist who refused progression. Cast aside such foolishness and accept that you are REAPING the bitter harvest that you sowed."

And with that Eru's rejection was complete, cruel twists of the knife for righteous purposes. The Ents were her direct connection to Arda's defense, her most beloved creation, born of her love and her fear for the trees. To be denied their help when the natural world was suffering so deeply, when their wisdom and strength were needed more than ever, felt like a fundamental rejection of her purpose. Even when she had humbled herself and begged to be allowed to go to Middle-Earth shackled by the same bonds of limitation that once kept the Istari from accessing their true power, the One's judgment remained firm and only forced her to realize just how powerful and stubborn Men had became. The Dominion of Men was sacrosanct, inviolable – a direct, inescapable consequence of the Valar's catastrophic failure to guide and educate them from the beginning. The garden was barred, and the gardener was locked out.

Yet, in His stern justice, Eru did grant Yavanna a slightly greater measure of freedom within the Doom than was accorded to the other Valar. While bound by the same fundamental limitations – no direct intervention, no revelation of hidden truth, no coercion of Men's will – she was permitted to exert her influence more actively to heal the lands when they were damaged beyond natural recovery, to ensure that Arda itself would not be irreparably harmed before the appointed time. She could encourage the regrowth of a clear-cut forest over generations, subtly purify a poisoned river, restore fertility to blighted soil – but always subtly, always working within the natural processes Men observed, never visibly or miraculously. Furthermore, she could, like the others, protect individual Men from harm inflicted by their fellows, as long as this protection remained plausibly invisible – causing a poacher's gun to jam, guiding a lost child to safety, inspiring a logger to spare an ancient grove. This concession was both a profound comfort and a constant torment – a reminder of the good she could do, and thus a sharper indictment of the good she had not done when it might have mattered most.

In the long ages that followed Eru's judgment, Yavanna's existence became a profound and painful study in constrained power. Her vast awareness and perception, derived from her connection to the Earth itself, once a source of deep connection and joy, now became exquisite, unending torment. She could feel every tree falling to axe and chainsaw in the depths of forgotten forests, every field poisoned by chemical runoff, every wetland drained and paved, every species blinking out of existence forever. She perceived the slow death of coral reefs beneath warming seas, the collapse of bee populations vital for pollination, the relentless spread of monocultures that stripped the land of its vitality. Yet, she could only make the most subtle adjustments, the gentlest nudges, to prevent the absolute worst – to ensure a river wasn't completely sterilized, that a patch of forest retained some seed-bearing trees, that a species wasn't driven totally extinct before its time. Her power was vast, but her permitted expression of it was infinitesimal, like trying to hold back a landslide with cupped hands.

The most painful aspect of her constrained existence was witnessing Men's fractured and often destructive relationship with the natural world. She saw the full spectrum: some who treated the land with reverence, recognizing its inherent value and their dependence on it – indigenous peoples maintaining ancient traditions, conservationists fighting to protect wild places, farmers working in harmony with the seasons. She felt their prayers, often directed to the "Archangel of Nature" or "Spirit of the Earth," and answered them as best she could within her limits, sending gentle rains to parched fields, blessing crops with quiet abundance, protecting sacred groves from development. These moments were balm to her wounded spirit. But far more numerous were those who exploited the world ruthlessly – clear-cutting ancient forests for quick profit, fracking the earth for gas, dumping toxic waste into oceans, driving species to extinction through habitat destruction and poaching. Each act of desecration was a fresh wound upon her fëa, made infinitely more painful by the crushing knowledge that she could have taught them balance. Had she appeared to them in their awakening, taught them the songs of growing things, revealed the sacredness of all life, shown them how to live in harmony with Arda's rhythms – how vastly different might their dominion have been? This question haunted her like a persistent, spiritual blight, poisoning her spirit with regret and the bitter taste of what might have been.

Gradually, over centuries of silent observation and constrained action, Yavanna began to transform her torment into purpose. The crushing weight of guilt and helplessness slowly metamorphosed into a fierce, quiet determination to atone, however imperfectly, within the bounds Eru had set. She became particularly attentive to prayers and actions related to the natural world. She listened intently to the prayers of farmers seeking good harvests and healthy soil, of conservationists fighting to protect endangered species and wild places, of scientists working to understand ecosystems and restore damaged lands, of children marveling at the beauty of a flower or the majesty of an ancient tree. She answered these prayers with unprecedented dedication and focus, working within Eru's strictures to support those who sought harmony with the natural world. A farmer praying for rain might find his fields blessed by a perfectly timed, gentle shower that saved his crops; a conservationist protecting a forest might find a crucial donor appears unexpectedly; a scientist studying soil regeneration might experience a breakthrough insight.

In fact, Yavanna, although not often, sometimes even aided in prayers outside of her own domain. She didn't hesitate. Why would she? If the other Valar were, for some reasons, unavailable, then she found that she did not care to confine herself to be "just" the Archangel of the Earth. After everything she had did, the least she could do was step up and be another "Archangel" and provide aid whenever she could. Of course, she respected the domains and reasonings of the other Valar, but if she had to, she took the opportunity without hesitation. Each answered prayer, however small, became an act of atonement, an infinitesimally small, yet STILL a tiny one, step towards redemption, a silent apology whispered through the language of growth and life.

Much to her greater joy, Eru's approval was more outwardly expressed. "Well done", "You are proving yourself worthy at long last, o 'Archangel of the Earth'", and certain words of praise was given to her. All those happened when she responded particularly positively - particularly bountiful harvest in response to a farmer's faithful prayer, the unexpected recovery of an endangered species thought lost, the flourishing of a wetland restored by human effort, the quiet spread of a sustainable farming practice. And when Yavanna was working on designs that were meant only for Men? Sometimes a music that reminded her of the beauty of the Third Theme of the Great Music would be hummed across the Pastures of Yavanna, and she felt a warmth spread through her spirit that went beyond simple relief or vindication. It was the first tangible sign that she was finally understanding her true role in the design of Arda, not as the exclusive, majestic guardian of growing things for the benefit of the Elves, but as the humble, patient nurturer of Arda's living fabric for the flourishing of all the Children of Ilúvatar, but especially for the Second, who had been so grievously neglected.