Year of the Trees 1480 – The Sixth Hour before Midday under Laurelin
The raw, volcanic spine I had forced from the eastern sea was beginning to cool. The most violent eruptions subsided, replaced by constant, lower-level geothermal activity: hot springs, steam vents, rivers of slow-moving lava in the deepest valleys. The ash that had blanketed the peaks began to settle, and the relentless rain that surrounded the island carved channels into the soft, new rock.
Now came the second phase of my great work, the shaping and the nurturing. The vision that had taken root in my mind was not just of a powerful fortress of rock, but of a living place, vibrant and unique. Inspired by the myriad forms of life I had glimpsed across Middle-earth, the resilience of mountain flora, the hidden life in damp caverns, the vibrant green of Yavanna's forests, I began to sculpt the land with a new purpose.
My control over the earth refined further. I could cool certain areas rapidly, forming sheer cliffs and deep ravines. I could concentrate heat in others, creating warm, humid basins. I directed the flow of water, carving out networks of streams, feeding lakes in sheltered valleys, and sending waterfalls thundering down colossal rock faces. I guided the weathering of rock, breaking it down into finer soil in preparation.
The goal was diversity. To create myriad microclimates and geological formations within this single, colossal entity rising from the sea. I focused first on a vast, central region, shaping it into a labyrinth of steep cliffs, hidden valleys, and dense, multi-layered terrain, crisscrossed by waterways heated by the island's core. This would be the heart of the new land, its most complex ecosystem.
Year of the Trees 1485 – The Third Hour after the Setting of Telperion
With the basic structure of the central region taking shape, I turned my energy to coaxing life from the sterile rock. I could not create life itself; that was Eru's alone. But I could create the perfect conditions for it to take hold and flourish with unprecedented vigor. I pulsed my vital energy, the deep fire of Arda, into the cooled stone, enriching it with minerals drawn from the planet's core. I ensured fresh water flowed everywhere and controlled the temperature to create zones of warmth and humidity.
The first life was simple, tenacious. Algae bloomed in the warm waters, followed by hardy mosses and lichens clinging to the damp rock faces. Fungi, drawing energy from the rich, volcanic soil and deep, dark places, sprouted in myriad forms. Then came the plants, not just the simple, wind-blown spores from distant lands, but seeds carried by sea currents, or perhaps even drawn by the sheer, vibrant energy emanating from the island. They rooted in the ash-rich earth and grew with astonishing speed under the constant warmth and moisture. Strange, oversized ferns, bioluminescent fungi that cast an ethereal glow in the shaded grottoes, vines that scaled the sheer cliffs reaching for the light filtering through the ash clouds.
And with the plants came the first small creatures. Insects carried on the wind or born from the sea took hold, beetles with iridescent carapaces, buzzing swarms of airborne life, strange, crawling things that burrowed in the warm earth. Life, raw and untamed, was beginning to colonize my creation, drawn by the potent, unique environment I had forged.
Year of the Trees 1490 – The Fourth Hour of Laurelin's Rise
As the flora established itself, creating cover and sustenance, larger life forms began to appear. They were not the creatures of the North, twisted by Melkor, nor the majestic beasts of Middle-earth shaped under Yavanna's eye. They were something new, drawn by the island's isolation and unique bounty.
Placid, large herbivores, vaguely resembling the cattle of other lands but with thicker hides and more ponderous movements, found their way across the narrow, turbulent straits from the distant mainland or evolved from marine ancestors adapting to land. They grazed on the abundant, fast-growing vegetation in the valleys, their forms slow and deliberate. Smaller, quicker grazers darted through the undergrowth, their senses sharp. Creatures that resembled the woolly, hardy beasts of colder climes adapted to the higher, cooler slopes, their thick coats suited to the misty peaks.
I watched over them, not as a shepherd, but as the ground beneath their feet, the water they drank, the warmth that sustained them. I subtly guided the land to ensure their needs were met, creating sheltered nesting areas, ensuring access to water, and fostering the growth of their preferred foods.
And then, I found it. A seed, unlike any I had felt before, carried perhaps on a unique current of wind or water, or dropped by some passing, unknown bird. It pulsed with a deep, quiet vitality, a promise of immense growth. I carried it carefully, using the earth itself, to a vast, central basin, a place of immense warmth and energy, surrounded by sheer cliffs. Here, I poured my nurturing energy into the soil around it.
Slowly, agonizingly over the years, it began to grow. Not like a normal tree, but with a deliberate, powerful surge that spoke of forces far beyond simple sunlight and rain. Its roots plunged deep into the volcanic rock, drawing strength directly from the island's core. Its trunk thickened, its branches reached out like colossal arms, its leaves, when they finally unfurled, were the size of shields. It was the start of the Great Tree, the heart of the Ancient Forest, a living monument to the raw, nurturing power of the island, growing slowly towards the sky, a silent promise of the unique life that would flourish beneath its boughs in the centuries to come. My volcanic island was becoming a world unto itself.
Year of the Trees 1492 – The Eighth Hour after the Setting of Laurelin
My consciousness was now centered within the colossal, volcanic heart of the island. I felt the immense weight of the water above, the deep currents that swirled around my base, and the vibrant pulse of the life that was beginning to stir upon my surface. I was a part of the Great Sea, yet separate from it, a new land forged from the ancient fire below.
Where was this place? To speak in terms of the surface world is difficult for one whose being is woven into the planet's core, whose journeys were measured in the slow turning of the Trees and the shifting of continents. But my memories, etched in the stone and heat of ages, provide the bearings.
I remember the long, slow journey from the deeps to the region of Cuiviénen, the Waters of Awakening. That was far, far to the east of the central lands, in a time when Arda was younger and its surface less scarred. I spent years observing the Firstborn there, feeling the unique blend of ancient earth and vibrant, nascent life that characterized their first home.
When the call came from the West, and the majority of the Elves began their long march, I journeyed eastward again. I moved beneath the plains that stretched towards the dawn, beneath the roots of mountains that Aulë had shaped. I found myself near the ranges where the Hammer of the Valar had woken his children, the sturdy Dwarves who loved the stone as I did. Those mountains were to the east of the Great Plains, a rugged boundary before the land fell towards the vastness of the eastern sea.
This island, my creation, lies far beyond those eastern mountains. It is not part of the mainland of Middle-earth, but rises from the deep, silent waters of the Great Encircling Sea way above where the future kingdom of Numenor is, Imagine standing upon the highest peak of the mountains where the Dwarves delve, and looking eastwards, beyond the last shores, past the edge of the known world. It is there, lost in the immensity of the ocean, isolated by leagues of turbulent water and the sheer distance from the lands where the Children of Ilúvatar now dwell and where the Shadow gathers its strength.
I chose this location precisely for its isolation. It is a place where the primordial energy of Arda is strong, where the ocean floor plummets into the deeps, allowing me direct access to the planet's core. It is far from the structured lands of the West, where the Valar hold dominion. It is equally far, though not beyond sensing distance, from the festering darkness of the North, from Utumno and the rising foulness of Angband. Melkor's power stretches, but it thins across such vast, uncorrupted leagues of sea.
Here, I could undertake my work largely undisturbed, a colossal forge in the forgotten corner of the world. The tremors my creation caused were felt across the globe, a distant mystery. The strange weather and turbulent seas were attributed to natural forces or unknown beasts. My forging of a new land, the nurturing of its unique life, happened in secret, a world apart from the growing conflicts on the mainland.
I was building not just an island, but a sanctuary of raw, vibrant life, rooted deeply in the uncontaminated power of Arda's heart. A place that might, in the ages to come, stand as a testament to the world's inherent vitality, far from the struggles that would soon engulf the lands to the west. My island was rising in the silent, eastern sea, a beacon of fire and burgeoning life in the long twilight of the Years of the Trees.
Year of the Trees 1495 – The First Hour before Midday under Telperion
The Great Tree, though still young in terms of the world's age, was now undeniable. Its trunk was wider than a hundred normal trees, its lowest branches like the arms of giants, creating a shadowed, complex world beneath its canopy. The Ancient Forest region of my island was thriving, a riot of unique flora and fauna, its ecosystem flourishing in isolation. The sounds of bubbling hot springs, rushing waterfalls, and the calls of strange, placid beasts filled the air. My work of shaping this sanctuary continued, expanding outwards from the central forest, planning for cooler mountain peaks and warmer, coastal regions.
But as the life I nurtured pulsed within me, I felt a different, colder pulse spreading across the world. The Shadow from the North, long a creeping unease, now surged with open malice. Forces were stirring in the pits of Utumno and Angband, armies of twisted creatures gathering. The long peace of the Years of the Trees, outside the guarded West, was drawing to a violent close. The Valar had come for the Elves, and now they prepared to confront the Darkness that threatened their firstborn children.
I felt the distant rumble of their march from the West, a purposeful, world-shaking tread as the Host of the Valar prepared for war. Their power was immense, ordered, a stark contrast to the chaotic, destructive energy of Melkor. The air grew taut with anticipation, the very earth seemed to hold its breath.
This was not the War of Wrath, the final, cataclysmic conflict at the end of ages that would reshape the world and break the very Mountains of the West. That time, and the mighty dragons like Ancalagon that Melkor would unleash then, were still in the future from this moment. This was the first great war, the War for the Sake of the Elves, undertaken by the Valar to capture Melkor and make Middle-earth safer for the Children of Ilúvatar. It would culminate not in the utter breaking of the world, but in the capture of the Dark Lord and the temporary dismantling of his northern strongholds. Melkor would be chained for long ages in the halls of Mandos. Angband, his lesser fortress, would be destroyed to its foundations.
My island lay far from the primary theaters of this war, which would rage primarily in the North-West of Middle-earth. Yet, the conflict's energy resonated even here in the eastern sea. I felt the earth shudder not just from my own deep work, but from the distant clash of powers. I sensed waves of corrupted creatures being sent forth, some perhaps probing eastward, though few could cross the leagues of turbulent sea I commanded or navigate the treacherous, newly formed coasts of my creation.
My work continued, a defiant act of creation in the face of gathering destruction. The life on my island, sheltered by its isolation and the unique energy that sustained it, was largely unaware of the storm breaking over the mainland. The great tremors from the war felt to them like particularly violent natural events, lost in the already dynamic environment of the volcanic landmass.
I focused my power not on joining the distant battle, which was the domain of the Valar and their forces, but on reinforcing my creation. I strengthened the volcanic barriers, ensuring the island remained a formidable, isolated entity. I channeled extra warmth and vitality to the life within, a silent promise of continuity and resilience against the encroaching Shadow that sought to blight all growth.
Melkor's power, though focused on the West, I felt reaching out, probing, sensing this new, vibrant presence in the East. He sensed the immense energy output, the shaping power that was not his own and was actively fostering life rather than corrupting it. This colossal living mountain rising from the sea, but I felt his malevolent curiosity touch upon my shores like a cold, slithering thing. He 'might' not send his nascent dragons or balrogs against me in this war, those horrors were not yet fully formed or were held in reserve in the North, but he knew something significant was happening far to the east.
The War for the Sake of the Elves raged across Middle-earth. Mountains were thrown down, valleys were scorched, and the land was scarred by the power of the Ainur in conflict. From my distant forge in the eastern sea, I felt the echoes of this first great battle, a silent witness to the struggle for the fate of the world, my own creation growing stronger, a hidden sanctuary in the turbulent dawn of conflict. The destruction of the Trees, the Oath of Fëanor, the long, grim First Age, the rise of dragons like Ancalagon, and the final War of Wrath, these were trials yet to come, events that would further shape Arda and perhaps, in ways I could not yet foresee, involve my rising island. But for now, the first war was here, and I continued my work, building life in the shadow of destruction.
It has been Ages since the first war passed against Melkor and his subsequent imprisonment. There was a brief, deceptive peace when he was released, then he shattered the light of the Two Trees with Ungoliant, stole the Silmarils, and fled back to Middle-earth, raising Angband as his new, mightier fortress. The Noldor Elves, driven by the Oath of Fëanor, pursued him across the Sundering Seas, and the long, grim wars of the First Age began.
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My island in the eastern sea, now a colossal landmass of immense volcanic peaks, hidden valleys, and thriving, unique ecosystems centered around the now-ancient, gargantuan Great Tree, remained largely apart from these conflicts. It was a vibrant, primordial world unto itself, its life flourishing, its deep power a quiet hum against the distant thunder of war in the West. I continued to shape it, its defender against the few corrupted things that found their way across the vast ocean, a sanctuary of untamed Arda. Its inner fire flowed like a unique, powerful lifeblood, akin to the legends that might speak of the blood of Zorah.
But the First Age drew to its close. The forces of Melkor and the free peoples of Middle-earth, aided at times by the Valar and their Maiar, clashed in the final, cataclysmic struggle known as the War of Wrath. The sky was a constant storm of fire and shadow, the earth reeled, and the seas were driven into a frenzy. From the pits of Angband, Melkor unleashed his most terrible creations: the winged Dragons, creatures of fire, shadow, and despair, led by the mightiest of their kind.
Ancalagon the Black.
His form was a mountain of scaled darkness, his wings blotted out the sun, and the fire from his maw could melt stone and wither life. He was terror given form, Melkor's final, desperate weapon hurled against the Host of the Valar descending from the West.
But in this altered telling, Melkor's despairing gaze swept across the world, seeking any weakness, any threat to crush. He felt the immense, stable power emanating from the distant east, a force he could not corrupt, a land teeming with life that was not born of his malice. My island. Recognizing it as a potent, unbowed piece of the world he sought to dominate, and perhaps sensing its potential to disrupt the very fabric of his power, he turned Ancalagon from his path toward the West.
"Go forth, Ancalagon!" Said Melkor with a command of absolute malice. "Fly to the eastern sea. Destroy that insolent land that defies my blight. Turn its living fire to dead ash. Let its power be consumed by my mightiest servant."
Ancalagon turned, a shadow against the burning sky, and flew east, a harbinger of destruction aimed squarely at my heart.
~~The Climax of the War of Wrath~~
I felt him coming. A colossal presence of fire and shadow, a spear of absolute malice hurled across the world-sea. Ancalagon the Black. He was corruption made manifest, a perversion of the fire that was my essence, a being of hate against the life I had nurtured.
He arrived as a storm within a storm. His shadow fell upon my highest peaks, plunging my Ancient Forest into unnatural gloom. His roar was the tearing of mountains, his fire a searing white-hot agony that scorched the very stone. He circled, seeking a weakness, unleashing torrents of dragon-fire upon my slopes. Valleys became lakes of fire, the edges of the Ancient Tree's domain withered under his onslaught.
And he struck true. One of my central peaks, a towering ridge that had taken centuries to raise, collapsed under a direct blow from his talons. The wound throbbed with molten agony as magma spilled out in violent plumes, a burning blood spilling from my heart. The Great Tree's lower roots, though deep and resilient, suffered scorches as a blast of Ancalagon's flame tore through the protective rock I had forged around it. Part of the forest canopy caught fire, the ash rising thick into the sky.
I screamed, not with voice, but with motion. My volcanic heart surged in response. I was not merely stone and fire; I was a living entity of Arda's primordial power, my deep magma flowing like the very blood of Zorah. My mountains were not just rock; they were the hardened expression of immense internal pressure. My fire was not the destructive flame of Morgoth's corruption; it was the pure, creative heat of the world's heart.
I fought back. Not with claws or teeth, but with the fundamental forces that were my being. As Ancalagon raked my peaks, I shifted my internal fires, sending surges of volcanic heat surging upwards. The rock beneath his talons became molten, treacherous. As he unleashed his fire, I drew upon the immense pressure of the deeps, venting superheated steam through new fissures, creating blasts that buffeted his titanic form.
He dove again toward the Great Tree, sensing it as the island's soul. I reacted with fury. Colossal spires of obsidian erupted from the ground, cooled rapidly by channeled sea-water, impaling the air like gigantic spears. One struck his flank, leaving a jagged gouge along his ribbed scales.
Ancalagon roared in fury and pain, and the sound shattered stone. In retaliation, he beat his wings so hard they created hurricane gales, toppling the younger trees at the forest's edge and scarring entire cliff faces. His fire came again, hotter, angrier, breaking through a portion of my hardened ridgeline and spilling flame deep into my inner magma channels.
I responded in kind. I unleashed the deepest, most powerful currents within me, a surge of raw, primordial energy, the very force that had birthed the island. It met Ancalagon's corrupted fire not with resistance, but with an overwhelming, fundamental power that was both fire and stone, heat and pressure, creation and immense, irresistible force, the full power of the island's Zorah blood erupting forth.
The clash was cataclysmic that lasted hours. The sky above the island turned white, then black. The sea boiled for leagues around. In that moment, as Ancalagon's essence, a twisted perversion of life and fire, met the raw, untamed, vital energy of Arda's core channeled through my form, something new was forged. A spark of Eru's original intent for creation, present in the world's making and latent in its deep places, perhaps glancingly acknowledged by the Creator at this singular clash of immense forces, met the monstrous, powerful life-force of the dying dragon and the unique, elemental vitality of the island.
From the heart of that cataclysmic clash, amidst the collapsing form of Ancalagon and the reshaping stone of the island, powerful, elemental life emerged. Beings of immense power tied to the fundamental forces of the island itself, fire, stone, steam, the very air and water shaped by its core. Not the corrupted mockeries of Melkor, nor the more ordered life of the mainland. These were creatures born of Arda's raw energy and the unique crucible of the island's forging, inheriting the fierce vitality of its Zorah blood. In the lore that might have been, had this path been taken, they would have been known as the Elder Dragons, the first and most powerful of the island's unique inhabitants, born from the death of the greatest dragon of the First Age and the vital essence of the living land.
Ancalagon, overwhelmed by a power more fundamental than his own, a power that was the very substance of the world he sought to dominate, was broken. Not by a star-sailing ship, but by the raw, elemental force of the living island itself. His colossal form crashed down upon the volcanic peaks, shattering them, his final, corrupting fire extinguished by the pure, inexhaustible heat of the world's heart and the rising forms of the life his death had helped to spark into being.
The War of Wrath raged on in the West, unknowing of this singular, cataclysmic event in the far eastern sea. Melkor had sent his mightiest weapon to destroy the island, but in doing so, he had inadvertently sent it to its doom at the hands of a force born of Arda itself, a force whose raw power, perhaps with a distant, silent assent from Ilúvatar, had even sparked a new, fearsome form of life into being from the ashes of the old. The island remained, scarred but victorious, its future now tied to the powerful, elemental beings born from the heart of fire and stone.
(A/N: Instead of Earendil slaying Ancalagon the Black and I had our MC Slay him so it's a slight deviation from the lore so it's a little bit of an AU situation.)