Year of the Trees 1053 – The First Hour after the Setting of Laurelin
It took three years of steady travel to reach the vicinity of Cuiviénen. I moved under the cloak of twilight, the mingled silver and gold of the Two Trees casting long, ethereal shadows. From a distance, I observed the Elves. They were as radiant as the lore had described, their movements fluid and their voices like the music of unseen streams. They explored their world with an unbridled wonder that echoed my own initial awe upon arriving in Arda.
But the whispers of darkness soon followed. I felt the subtle shift in the earth's rhythm, a creeping unease emanating from the North. Melkor's influence, though still distant, began to touch this pristine land. I saw shadowy figures lurking at the edges of the Elves' gatherings, their forms twisted and their eyes filled with a cold malice.
Year of the Trees 1060 – The Ninth Hour of Telperion's Rise
One evening, as the Elves sang by the lake, their voices lifted in joyous harmony, I felt the approach of a particularly vile creature, a shadow-thing sent from Utumno. It moved with a deceptive stealth, its intent to sow discord and fear. I could not directly confront it without risking the lives of the Elves, who were as fragile as wildflowers to my immense form. Instead, I shifted my weight slightly, causing a low rumble in the earth beneath the creature. The ground trembled, and a fissure, no more than a few feet wide but deep enough to halt its progress, opened between it and the Elves. The shadow-thing hissed, its plans thwarted, and melted back into the gloom.
The Elves paused their singing, their starlit eyes wide with momentary fear, but they attributed the tremor to the earth itself. I remained hidden, a silent protector, using the very land as my shield for these delicate beings.
Year of the Trees 1070 – The Second Hour before Midday under Laurelin
Years passed in this way. I remained a watchful presence, subtly guiding the flow of the land to protect the Elves from the more overt threats. Once, when a pack of monstrous wolves, their forms warped by Melkor's dark touch, descended upon a group of Elven wanderers, I unleashed a controlled burst of molten fire into a nearby ravine. The sudden heat and light startled the beasts, turning them back into the shadowed woods. The Elves, witnessing the unexplained eruption, spoke of the land's strange power, unaware of the colossal guardian watching over them.
One day, as I rested near a high waterfall, I felt a familiar presence approach. The air grew still, and the scent of growing things intensified. Yavanna. She appeared as a tall figure wreathed in leaves and blossoms, her eyes filled with a gentle wisdom.
"Fire born," her voice resonated in my mind, a whisper like the rustling of leaves, "your presence is a comfort to the young ones, though they know it not. Your heart, though forged in flame, holds a protective warmth."
I lowered my massive head in acknowledgment, the movement causing a cascade of water to thunder down the cliff face.
"The Shadow grows bolder," Yavanna continued, her gaze turning towards the distant North. "Be watchful, ancient one. Your strength may yet be needed in ways you cannot foresee."
I rumbled a response, a deep sound that echoed through the valley, a promise to safeguard the nascent life of this world.
Year of the Trees 1088 – The Setting of Telperion
The call came from across the sea, a song of power and invitation. The Valar had become aware of the Elves and the dangers they faced. I watched as the Elves gathered by Cuiviénen, their faces alight with a newfound hope, yet shadowed by the pain of leaving their first home.
I overheard their conversations, carried on the evening breeze.
"Did you hear the voices on the wind?" one Elf asked, his eyes wide with wonder.
"They speak of light and safety in the West," another replied, her voice filled with longing.
"But this land… it is our first home," a third Elf murmured, his gaze sweeping across the familiar shores of the lake.
Their hearts were torn, and I felt their sorrow as if it were my own. I longed to reassure them, to tell them of the beauty that awaited them in Valinor, but my voice remained the language of the earth.
Year of the Trees 1090 – The Long Journey West
I watched as the majority of the Elves began their long journey westward, a shimmering stream of light moving across the darkened lands. Their songs, though filled with the hope of Aman, carried a poignant note of farewell. I followed them at a distance for a time, my immense shadow a fleeting presence on the horizon, ensuring no immediate danger befell them on their path.
But my path lay elsewhere.
Year of the Trees 1100 – The Third Hour of Laurelin's Rise
It was during this time, as I journeyed back eastward, that I felt a different kind of stirring in the earth, a deliberate shaping and crafting that was distinct from Yavanna's gentle touch or Melkor's crude corruptions. It came from beneath the mountains in the East, a deep and resonant hum of creation.
Drawn by this unique energy, I made my way towards the source, moving with extreme caution. I found myself near a range of mountains that Aulë had shaped in the early days. There, hidden within deep caverns, I witnessed a sight that filled me with a quiet awe.
Aulë the Smith, in his immense form, labored with tireless dedication. He was shaping beings from stone and earth, imbuing them with a resilience and a love for the crafts of the hand. They were shorter than the Elves, stockier and more grounded, with a deep love for the mountains and the treasures hidden within.
I watched as Aulë spoke to them, his voice a deep rumble that echoed through the caverns. Though I could not understand the intricacies of his words, I sensed his care and his purpose. He was creating them in secret, a labor of love and perhaps a defiance against the solitude of his craft.
"You shall be hardy and strong," I felt the essence of his words resonate in my mind, "able to withstand the hardships of this world. And you shall love the stone and the metal, the shaping and the making."
The beings he crafted listened with rapt attention, their eyes, like the earth itself, holding a deep and ancient wisdom. They were the Dwarves, the children of Aulë's heart.
I remained a silent witness to their awakening, a secret keeper of their hidden birth. I understood Aulë's desire for companionship, for beings who shared his love for the materials of the earth. I felt a kinship with these newly awakened beings, a shared connection to the deep, fiery heart of Arda.
Year of the Trees 1102 – The Sixth Hour after the Setting of Telperion
As the years of the Trees continued their slow turning, I often returned to the eastern mountains, observing the growth and development of the Dwarves. They delved deep into the earth, uncovering its hidden riches and shaping them with skill and artistry. Their laughter was like the ringing of hammers on anvils, a sound that echoed through the mountain halls.
I never revealed myself to them directly. My form was too vast, too different. But sometimes, as they mined deep within the earth, they would encounter veins of unusually pure metal, or discover caverns warmed by a strange, internal heat. Perhaps, in their deep wisdom, they sensed the presence of the ancient fire that slumbered beneath their mountains, a fire that had witnessed the dawn of their world and now watched over their secret beginnings.
And so, in the long twilight of Middle-earth, I continued my vigil, a silent guardian of the awakening world, a witness to the unfolding of Ilúvatar's grand design, my fiery heart beating in rhythm with the slow, steady pulse of the earth.
Year of the Trees 1105 – The Third Hour after Midday under Laurelin
The rhythm of Arda continued its slow, majestic beat, but beneath the surface, the disharmony of Melkor's malice grew louder. Having witnessed the birth of the Dwarves and sensing their vulnerability, I found my awareness expanding beyond the mere physical tremors and heat. I began to feel the subtle currents of life and corruption flowing through the earth itself. It was as if the land, my very being, was developing a complex nervous system, sensitive to the presence of both burgeoning life and insidious decay.
This new sensitivity allowed me to track the movements of Melkor's twisted things not just by the disruption they caused, but by the chill and rot they spread through the ground. Shadow things, orcs in their nascent, vile forms, monstrous beasts, their passage left scars on the earth that I could feel like a burning itch.
I started to hunt them. Not with overt force that would shatter mountains, but with a more refined control over the elements that composed me. I could now draw heat from an area, creating sudden, localized pockets of intense cold to slow creatures born of shadow and fire. I could shift the very composition of the stone, creating walls of obsidian where none existed, or turning the ground to unstable ash beneath their feet.
Year of the Trees 1115 – The First Hour before the Setting of Telperion
Deep in a mountain pass, a raiding party of Orcs, newly spawned and filled with crude violence, was moving towards a valley where a small clan of Dwarves had begun mining operations. I felt their loathsome energy crawling over the stone. I could have collapsed the mountain, but that would have endangered the Dwarves. Instead, I focused my will on the air itself, drawing out its warmth and moisture in the Orcs' path.
A sudden, unnatural blizzard descended upon the pass. Snow, thick and heavy, driven by an icy wind that seemed to bite to the bone, engulfed the creatures. Their thick hides offered little protection against the unnatural cold that permeated their very beings. Their crude weapons became encrusted with ice, their movements slowed to a crawl. Confused and freezing, they huddled together, their raiding scattered before it had begun. I maintained the localized storm just long enough for them to abandon their path, retreating back towards the North, their foul energy receding like a tide. The Dwarves, safe below, merely remarked on the sudden, fierce weather, attributing it to the unpredictable nature of the mountains.
Year of the Trees 1130 – The Fourth Hour of Laurelin's Rise
My newfound sensitivity also allowed me to perceive areas where the earth itself was wounded by Melkor's presence, places where the natural vitality had been leached away, leaving behind barrenness and sickness. I discovered I could, with effort, counteract this. By focusing the deep, pure heat within me, I could pulse warmth and vital energy back into the corrupted ground.
I began to seek out these blighted places, often near abandoned lairs of shadow creatures. Slowly, painstakingly, I would work, pouring my ancient fire into the poisoned earth. The process was slow and draining, but rewarding. I watched as withered plants regained color, as small streams began to flow again, as the cold, dead stone warmed beneath the sun and moonlight.
It was during one of these acts of purification, near the eastern slopes where the Dwarves often travelled between their mountain halls, that I felt a different kind of presence. It was small, swift, and filled with a bright, keen awareness.
An Elf. One of the Avari, the Refusers, who had not answered the call to the West. He was a Silvan Elf, his clothing the colors of the forest, his bow held ready. He moved with an Elven grace, yet his eyes, as he observed the ground I was healing, held a wary curiosity rather than simple wonder.
He saw the ground changing, the unnatural blight receding before an unseen force. He did not see my immense form hidden beneath the earth, but he felt the heat, the thrum of ancient power. He knelt, touching the warming soil, his brow furrowed in thought.
"The land breathes anew," he murmured, his voice soft, like the rustling of leaves. "A great heart beats beneath the stone."
I held my breath, so to speak, my internal fires banked low. This was the closest I had come to being perceived by one of the Children of Ilúvatar in this new age. I did not reveal myself, but I allowed a faint, reassuring warmth to flow through the patch of earth beneath his hand. His eyes widened slightly, and a flicker of understanding, or perhaps awe, passed across his face. He lingered for a time, then rose and melted back into the forest, leaving me to my work, but now, perhaps, with a dawning awareness that the world held powers beyond their immediate sight.
Year of the Trees 1149 – The Setting of Telperion
As the years passed, my silent guardianship took on new forms. I learned to create localized tremors that would guide travelers away from dangerous paths, or cause rockfalls that blocked the entrances to creature lairs without burying those within. I could heat underground streams to create fogs that concealed movements, or subtly alter magnetic fields to disorient corrupted beasts that navigated by instinct.
The Dwarves, expanding their delve, sometimes encountered areas of unusual heat or stone that seemed to guide them towards rich veins of ore, or away from unstable caverns. They spoke of the Spirit of the Mountain being favourable or ill tempered, a recognition, however veiled, of the ancient presence within the stone.
The few groups of Avari Elves I watched over began to notice patterns, patches of forest that remained untouched by blight when surrounding areas withered, sudden mists that allowed them to evade pursuit, or paths that seemed to open up before them when lost. They wove these occurrences into their lore, speaking of the Deep Guardian or the Heart of the Earth watching over them.
I remained hidden, a colossal presence felt but not seen. My interactions were the language of the land itself, the shifting of stone, the flow of water, the pulse of heat and cold. But it was interaction nonetheless, a growing connection between the ancient, elemental power and the young, vibrant life that walked upon my surface. The Shadow still grew, but I was no longer just a passive observer or a user of brute force. I was learning to weave my power with subtlety, to protect and guide, and in doing so, I felt myself changing, adapting, becoming more intrinsically linked to the fate of Middle earth and the Children of Ilúvatar. My fiery heart now beat not just with the rhythm of the earth, but with a protective pulse attuned to the lives of those I watched over.
Year of the Trees 1250 – The Fifth Hour after the Setting of Laurelin
Centuries had passed since my awakening near Cuiviénen. My senses, once limited to the physical vibrations of the earth, now extended far beyond. I could feel the deep currents within the planet, the slow churn of molten rock, the immense pressure at the core. I sensed the pull of the Great Encircling Sea, the vast, deep water that held the disk of Arda upon its bosom.
My protective watch over the Dwarves and scattered Avari continued, my methods growing more refined. I could now cause specific minerals to bloom within the rock to aid the miners, or create subtle thermal currents in the air to warn Elves of approaching danger by carrying scents on the wind. I had become, in essence, the living pulse of the eastern lands, my consciousness woven into the fabric of mountain and plain, river and stone.
Yet, a new thought had begun to take shape within my ancient mind. I felt the immense, untapped power of Arda's deep places, the raw potential that had shaped the world at its beginning. The Valar had raised mountains and carved valleys with divine purpose. Aulë had crafted beings from the very stuff I was made of. Melkor twisted and corrupted.
But what of pure, untamed creation? The urge to shape, not just subtly protect or restore, but to create on a grand scale, pulsed within me, a deep, fiery yearning. I thought of the vastness of the eastern seas, largely empty save for the creatures of the deep. What if I could bring forth a new land from those depths? Not a continent like Aman or Middle-earth, but a singular, colossal island, a testament to the raw power of the world's core, a place perhaps unlooked upon by the distant Valar and too formidable for Melkor's immediate corruption.
Year of the Trees 1300 – The Second Hour before Midday under Telperion
I chose a location far to the east, in a region of the Great Sea where the ocean floor plummeted into unfathomable depths and where the veil between the surface world and the primordial fire below felt thinnest. It was an area of immense geological activity, prone to deep tremors that were attributed to the world's settling.
My experimentation began subtly. I focused my will downwards, probing the crust, feeling the immense pressure and heat of the mantle. I began to draw upon that heat, concentrating it in a specific point on the ocean floor. The water above boiled and churned, but the scale was so vast that the disturbance was lost in the immensity of the sea.
My first attempts were clumsy, more like a fever breaking through the crust than controlled shaping. Vast plumes of steam erupted from the surface, and the sea floor shuddered with unprecedented force. These tremors were felt even in the far west, though their distant origin and chaotic nature puzzled the lore masters.
Year of the Trees 1350 – The Ninth Hour after the Setting of Laurelin
Slowly, painstakingly, I learned to control the forces I was unleashing. I was not Aulë, the master craftsman, working with hammer and forge. My method was that of immense pressure and unimaginable heat, of the deep earth pushing skyward.
I focused on lifting a vast section of the ocean floor. It was an act of immense, soul draining effort. I drew magma upwards, not letting it erupt freely, but using its force to push against the overlying rock. Layer upon layer, the sea bed began to rise. Submerged mountains, unseen for ages, were slowly, inexorably, forced towards the surface.
The scale of this undertaking was immense. It required channeling a portion of Arda's own deep power, a risky endeavor that resonated through the planet. I felt the world groan under the strain, a deep, resonant sound that was beyond the hearing of surface dwellers but was a physical reality to me.
The eastern seas were now a place of constant, low grade turmoil. Vast, warm currents spread outwards, strange, phosphorescent lights glowed in the disturbed depths, and tremors were a daily occurrence. Ships, though few sailed these far eastern waters, reported rogue waves and areas where the compass spun wildly, attributing them to sea monsters or the whims of unseen spirits. They were not entirely wrong.
By the mid fourteenth century of the Trees, a dark shape had begun to break the surface of the eastern sea. It was a colossal dome of cooling rock, still steaming, still shuddering with the forces that had birthed it. Ash and steam plumed into the sky, creating localized, perpetually stormy weather. It was rough, volcanic, and utterly devoid of life, a raw wound in the ocean's surface. It was not yet the island I envisioned, not yet a place of unique power and form, but it was the start. A massive, volcanic heart rising from the abyss, a secret project of an ancient being in the forgotten corners of the world. The experiment was underway.
Year of the Trees 1450 – The Seventh Hour after Midday under Telperion
For centuries, I had labored in the eastern deeps. The raw, volcanic mass I had first raised had grown, slowly, painfully, through the sheer exertion of channeling Arda's inner fire. It was no longer just a steaming rock in the sea, but a colossal mountain range forging itself from the abyss, its peaks hidden by perpetual clouds of ash and steam, its base plunging back into the dark, churning waters.
This was not the elegant shaping of mountains by the Valar, nor the deliberate craft of Aulë. It was a brutal, powerful birth, the land tearing itself from the sea floor under immense pressure. I was pushing the boundaries of what an ancient spirit tied to the earth could achieve alone, wrestling with the fundamental forces of the world. The effort was immense, a constant, draining focus that left the rest of Middle-earth almost a distant hum in my awareness, though my protective vigilance over the Dwarves and Avari never fully ceased.
My goal was not merely land, but a place of raw, elemental power, a counterpoint to the ordered beauty of the West and the corrupted lands of the North. A place rooted so deeply in Arda's core that it might resist the Shadow simply by its nature.
Aulë's Perspective – Valinor, Year of the Trees 1450
Aulë the Smith stood before his glowing forges in Valinor, but his hands were still, and his gaze was distant. His thoughts were not on the metals or stones before him, but on the deep structure of Arda, across the sea, far to the east.
He felt the earth, his domain, groaning. It was not the localized corruption Melkor sowed in the North, that felt like a festering wound. This was different. This was a deep, rhythmic stress, as if an immense, hidden hand were pressing upwards from the mantle, forcing rock where no rock should be.
He had felt such forces only once before, in the very shaping of the world, when the mountains were first raised and the continents formed. But that work was finished, settled. This was new, ongoing, and immensely powerful.
"Manwë," he murmured, though the Lord of the Air was far away, seated upon Taniquetil. "Do you feel this? A disturbance… a strain upon the very bones of the world. Not Melkor's malice, not exactly. But power… raw and immense, being wielded in the East."
He ran a hand over a piece of unworked ore, feeling the tremor that ran through it, an echo of the distant turmoil. Who or what could command such force outside the Circle of Arda? It was a question that gnawed at him, a mystery hidden beneath the waves and the distant horizon. The Earth, his beloved creation, was in turmoil, and he did not know the hand that caused it.
Dwarven Perspective – The Iron Hills, Year of the Trees 1450
Dáin, son of Náin, was deep within the Iron Hills, inspecting a new seam of ore. The air was thick with the sound of picks and hammers, the rhythmic heartbeat of the delve. Suddenly, the beat was broken.
The ground lurched violently. Dust rained from the ceiling, and the lamps swung wildly. A deep, resonant groan echoed through the rock, a sound that felt less like a physical tremor and more like the mountain itself crying out.
"By Aulë's Beard!" shouted an older dwarf, steadying himself against the tunnel wall. "What was that?"
Dáin gripped his pick, his knuckles white. He had felt tremors before, the settling of stone, the work of heat and pressure. But this… this felt different. It felt deliberate, powerful, as if the very foundations of the world were being tested.
"Not a simple shift," Dáin rumbled, his voice low. "Too deep. Too strong. The Mountain is angry today… or perhaps… working some great labor of its own."
Another tremor, less violent but longer, passed through the rock. The Dwarves exchanged uneasy glances. They trusted the stone, lived within it. But sometimes, the deep places of the world held secrets and powers that even they, the Children of Aulë, could not fully comprehend. They would redouble their efforts, forging stronger supports, but the memory of that deep, unsettling groan would remain.
Elven Perspective – Far Eastern Forests, Year of the Trees 1450
Lúthien, an Avari Elf of the eastern woods, watched the horizon. The sun was setting behind the distant, unseen mountains, but the sky to the far east held a strange, perpetual gloom. Even at midday, a column of dark clouds seemed to rise from beyond the edge of the world, occasionally lit by flashes of red that were not lightning.
Lúthien felt the ground tremble, a slow, rolling motion that was different from the sharp jolts caused by the Shadow's creatures moving underground. The trees swayed, their leaves rustling not with wind, but with the earth's unrest.
"The Heart is restless," said Aerion, an elder Elf, his eyes filled with a deep, ancient knowledge passed down through generations who had remained in the East. "We feel its pulse more strongly now."
"It is a powerful pulse," Lúthien replied, her voice hushed. "And… troubled. What labor does the Deep Guardian undertake?"
Aerion looked towards the eastern gloom. "The world is changing, child. The Light is in the West, and the Shadow in the North. But the Deep… the Heart remembers the first days, the fire and the shaping. Perhaps it merely asserts its ancient power. Or perhaps it builds… in answer to the growing darkness."
They did not know of the colossal mountain forming in the sea, of the immense will that drove its creation. But they felt its distant effects, woven into the fabric of the land they knew, a sign that even in the forgotten corners of Middle-earth, forces of immense power were at work.
Year of the Trees 1450 – The Ninth Hour of Laurelin's Rise
The tremors I caused lessened slightly as the initial, rapid uplift slowed. The massive volcanic mass I was raising was now undeniable, a new, fiery land in the eastern seas, constantly reshaping itself under my will. It was still raw, still bleeding steam and lava, but its basic form was set, a colossal, jagged mountain range rising from the waves, a spine of rock and fire thrust upwards from Arda's core.
I felt the faint echoes of the world's reaction, the distant concern of the Valar, the fear and wonder of the Dwarves, the mystical interpretations of the Elves. They felt the pulse of the Heart, the immense power I was wielding. They did not understand, not truly, the purpose or the hand behind it.
But the act of creation had drawn attention. Not just the physical strain on Arda, but the sheer output of raw, untamed power. I felt a cold, probing awareness reach out from the North, a malevolent curiosity. Melkor had sensed this disruption, this assertion of primal force that was neither his corruption nor the Valar's ordered light. My secret project was no longer entirely secret. The time for quiet shaping was ending. The tremors I caused were felt across the world, a prelude, perhaps, to a greater shaking yet to come.