The ground exploded.

This is the truth you have read, and we shall keep to it as fact here as well.

For the hobbit dead, the hobbit Mewlips that surrounded the lady Valar and her young guide – the ground did indeed explode.

The Earth rose up, and covered them as it had done so in their first death – for a moment they were blinded by it, for a moment they were stopped, and a moment was all the Lady of the Earth needed.

However as is so often the case, one creature's truth is another's lie – and for Yavanna this wasn't so much a case of the Earth around her and the boy exploding, as it was it getting politely out of the way for the true miracle. For we must all remember that Yavanna is no elf or mortal man to be so easily trapped by any kind of dead. She is of the Valar, those mighty souls that formed first in the one's mind. And perhaps even more importantly, she is of the Earth – and when threatened to the Earth she will call again.

And the Earth, the Earth will always answer her.

Today, a great tree is called up from the depths of the Earth below. And it surrounds the Lady Valar and her young guide, hiding them, shielding them not just from the eyes of the dead but from the terrible events that are soon to follow.

It enfolds them entirely and carries them higher than any of the dead can ever reach.

It carries them up as it slowly grows skyward – in the way it would have done so had it been allowed to rise from the Earth in its own time. But trees take years to grow, even magic trees that can grow so high they can touch the starlight themselves, this is a fact, and not one that even Yavanna's magic would dare to change – at least not while she's in the middle of the tree. And so, by the time the tree had breached the top of those terrible dead clouds of ash that swirled around the Middle-Earth now, it had been a good forty years in mortal time.

Which meant nothing to a Valar of course, but maybe a little to a hobbit.

But such things were not on their minds when at last the tree opened, and Yavanna and Boromir stepped out from its shelter. Because they stepped out not to an open sky with a tree that stretched a thousand leagues below them but to a forest floor, and a tree that seemed pretty close to the ground.

And yet the tree had grown, had stretched all the way into the sky. Yavanna knew that for a fact. Yet, it was almost as if the ground had risen with it.

The hobbit beside her laughed, a deep and grating sound – a laugh too deep to belong to a child. Yavanna looked down at him at last, and saw him now in clear daylight for the first time in forty years. He was no longer a boy, no longer a child but an adult hobbit. Probably closer to his middle-age than the prime of life – and though there had been no other way to save him, she could not help but mourn the youth he had never got to live. Trapped by her magic in the tree. A whole life wasted waiting.

However, these were not the hobbit's thoughts, and while he may have been dressed in rags he was not broken, far from it in fact, and a great smile broke across his face then.

He looked around him, observing the young trees, the moss and the other low growing plants that covered the grey earth that made up his new surroundings. And then he turned back and offered his hand to Yavanna, the being who had raised and cared for him longer than even his own mother.

And Yavanna, despite her own fear took the offered hand, and stepped out from the shade of the tree, and the two of them began their journey into this strange new world.

Ardar , Middle-Earth, The Paths of the Dead, Kingdom of the Mountain King: Forty Years before Yavanna's release.

The man who is not her father speaks many words that day, many grand words. He wants the men of the mountain to fight for him. Help him defeat and capture Fëanor, and rescue Middle-Earth from the grip of the Dead.

He doesn't seem to realise that he's speaking to the dead, but maybe that doesn't matter. After all the men of the mountain hadn't cared much for the rest of the world when they were living either. Dying won't have changed them. Why should they care for the fate of the living, when they're no longer among them.

But then the stranger who speaks with her father's voice, well he promises things that he surely cannot deliver on. He promises that as the Lord of the Dead he can release them from their captivity. He can break their curse; they don't have to wait for the heir of Isildur. If they follow him, they will know their freedom.

And the men of the mountain believe him, because they've been trapped so long…they need it to be true.

Even their king was fooled.

When she looks at the dead king, sometimes she sees him as he appears to everyone else- a translucent, grinning skeleton with the ragged garb of a king hanging off him in tatters. But most of the time, she sees past that to the young man he was before he put the crown on, the scared king who shut his gates to the world. The Man who wanted to protect his people, but had instead trapped them in this place, forced to continue in the world when even death offered no reprieve. And Hel knows that this man, this man needs to believe these words are true.

And yet Hel knows that it is a lie, the same way she had known that her father would return to her.

But if she was honest with herself, she hadn't thought it would be like this.

She looks at the Lord of the Dead, the man who is not and yet is her father. She sees many faces in his soul, her father's least of them. She sees darkness, and anger, and something else, something beyond death or life, something beyond even the world itself. He doesn't know he carries it in him, that so do the other Valar, and the elves and the men – and even the children of the Great Smith. Even her, they all carry it in them for this is the truth she understands as she looks at him. They are not natural, none of them are.

Not the living.

Not the dead.

Not existence itself.

None of them were really meant.

So why should anything that happens, any outcome of the great conflict matter at all?

Suddenly she doesn't want to be standing here, listening to a man who will never acknowledge her as his daughter.

And so, she turns away, and slinks off from the dead crowded round Mandos, until she is out of their sight altogether.

From there, she makes her way up the mountain passages and skull piles until she reaches the place where the living have made their camp.

The others, the other dead, don't know about them. Well maybe the king does, he's made enough strange cryptic statements about hobbits, to hint that he does anyway. They don't know about the hobbit queen from the east or her shiny general, they don't know about the men still draped in the blue of their wizard god. Or the men of the south and east who grind their teeth in frustration at being forced to work with such…enemies.

But they must, for the fate of the living now lies under this mountain.

And she should know after all…she is half living herself.

They will not see her.

They never see her.

But she will be with them, through every hurdle, every challenge the new Earth will throw at them – she will be there, sometimes guiding, sometimes cheering, but mostly just watching. For she has the blood of the Valar in her veins, and such is the fate of her race. To be ever the watcher rather than fully of the living.

In time they will see her, at least in fragments.

And they will call her by many names.

She will be goddess.

One of death and sometimes destruction.

She doesn't mind this – she will answer to this Despoina, Persephone, Hel.

For they will be her names.

But all that is still to come.

Now there is only the girl.

Standing in the middle of this camp, this throng of life.

Waiting.

Waiting for the mountain to shake.

And so, it does.

With a great clatter and rumble the dust from the Mountain walls scatters all around her, marking her face with streaks of ghostly white. The living begin to murmur and shake in fear, for they don't understand.

They cannot see, as she can the truth.

The story that will unfold.

Their story.

But she can.

She can always see.

The Encampment of the Armies of the Living, just outside of Mirkwood

Gimli son of Gloin, first dwarf married to an elf in over a century, was pretty sure that his father-in-law did not like him. He'd even go so far as to say hate, if the elf king bothered to think about the dwarf for more than a second. And even then, that was only when Gimli was in his presence, or camp, and thus his existence could not be so easily forgotten.

If it wasn't the cold glare directed at him when the dwarf tried to speak, it was the flinches every time someone addressed Gimli as Prince, or Prince's Husband. Neither were titles Thranduil would have called the dwarf himself, and both seemed to cause the great king to come out in hives. Yep, Gimli was certain now that Legolas' father did not care for him, even beyond his general spitefulness to the dwarven race. He had been after all, one of the loudest voices raised in opposition to the race joining the alliance of the living. That was despite the fact that many of their more illustrious members – such as Dwalin stepson of Fundin or indeed Gimli's own father Gloin – having founded the bloody thing!

It was perhaps a small and petty complaint, next to everything else that was currently happening in this Middle-Earth. After all what was the disapproval of one in-law next to the rise of the dead? Or the fall of Eomer? Or the failing of the living's hopes? What was Thranduil's ire next to the dead Earth, and the children that swelled the dead's ranks every day? What was Gimli's small and petty problem next to all that?

And yet, when the wood elf king swept out of the oddly shaped chamber, spilling the dwarf's ale tankard with a sweep of his blood red cape, it was hard not to feel the sting.

Poor Son of Gloin.

Never loved.

Barely tolerated.

My Prince

Lord Gloinson

Gimli.

It took but a moment before the sharp bark of the orc captain's voice, raised in annoyance at having been ignored for so long broke through the wall of Gimli's depression.

It was Shagrat that was yelling his name so loudly, racial leader of all the orcs that now called Mirkwood their base camp if not exactly their home.

Shagrat was a strange orc. He was as peculiar looking as any orc certainly, although unlike most orcs he had hair. A long, black mane of the stuff which he took an in orderly amount of pride in. And yet it was his eyes where the true strangeness lay. They sparkled as no orc, as no mortal eye had done in nearly two ages now. It was as if starlight itself had been caught in the orcish captain's eyes.

They still twinkled even when he was conveying…less than pleasant news, as he was now.

'The first of my scouts have arrived back home, and they report no sign of Prince Legolas, Lord. But do not worry, these are early days and the land of the Dead Horse is treacherous indeed. Perhaps when the last of my scouts come home, we will hear fairer news.'

This filled Gimli with fear.

They'd been apart before of course, and this certainly hadn't been the first time Legolas had been hidden from the Living's scouts during a mission. So, he knew really, in the logical part of his mind, that he shouldn't be afraid. That most likely, Legolas would be fine.

And yet…there was something in the air. Something foul, something…like the ash he smelled upon the gates of Mordor. But that land was long gone, and its people were no longer the servants of the Dark Lord.

'Lord? Gimli…are you still there, still with me, my friend?'

Again, Gimli jerked back to the harsh slap of reality, where Legolas was lost and he was still very much alone.

'Yes, I'm sorry my mind wanders far these dark days…' said the Dwarf in a rush to make his fellow solder understand. 'It is not you, my good orc, it is me, it is always just me.'

Shagrat smiled then, with pity shinning in his eyes instead of just the starlight.

'I had planned to sup with my family once I had delivered the news, or lack of it, to you – would you care to join us?'

And really, there was no good reason to refuse the offer, and so Gimli couldn't.

Slowly as the two wandered through the Camp of the Living, towards Shagrat's dwelling – the camp almost seems to move around them.

Orc children run between the tents, giggling and swinging cloth dolls from their side, or hitting each other with sticks depending on their temperament. There were no Dwarf children in the camp, Dwarf children were rare these days – especially compared to the other mortal races – and most of the dwarf parties that had them had stayed behind to scratch a living in the shade of the forest of Fangorn. He prayed they lived still, but he would not waste on hoping for things he could not see. Perhaps Legolas would return, and with him bring news of their lost kin, both his own and his comrades. For many men had stayed behind, if they be not of a warrior stock – and a few orcs as well. For though it was rare enough to find an orc who could not wield a sword as if it had been crafted into his hand, those with small ones had been as afraid of losing them to the bite of the dead as any parent.

Fangorn had been a danger to Orcs in the past – but the few Ents and Huorn that were left had greater foes than could ever be found in a living enemy. And so, Gimli hoped that they too were safe, but until the scouts could locate Legolas and the others that had gone with them into the heart of the dead land of Rohan, they would never know for sure.

Mahal, did he miss that, Elf.

The Dwarf Lord followed the Orc Captain into the finely decorated tent he recognised as the Orc's personal quarters. The Orc's three spouses, one husband and two wives whose names escaped him, were waiting anxious around the hearth. One of the wives had a baby slung to her chest, the other children must be out playing with their compatriots.

The husband, a sword always at his belt, smiled sharply at Gimli – distrust and the barest hint of flirtation always on his face, the latter for Shagrat and the former he hoped meant only for Gimli.

The Fivesome begin to have a meal together, small though the army of the Living's rations are these days. Still, it's amazing how delicious plain gruel will taste on a stomach that has had little to nothing else in over a year.

Things seem, if not exactly happy, then pleasant – and as comfortable as any living mortal can get on days like these.

And just for a moment, just for one brief flash of a moment, Gimli felt almost content.

And then a silence fell over the company and Shagrat turnned his head and narrowed his bright golden eyes.

There was something…wrong in the air, but before Gimli can even begin to put a name to it, Shagrat was on his feet and bellowing at the top of his lungs.

'Get underground!'

The orc screamed as if he had been set aflame.

'Get into the caves! Grab the children and into the caves, now!'

It was not to the four round the cooking hearth that he screamed this to, but to the people, orcs, dwarves and elves alike outside.

Then he snapped his eyes back to Gimli, and said in a far more weary tone.

'Please help me my friend, I do not think I have the strength to lift the hatch myself, and the others must catch the children before it's too late.'

As one, the three spouses got up then and disappeared outside to go look for their lost children. Though not before stopping to shove the baby into the infant sling on its primary father's back.

Gimli rose as well, though still very confused by his friend's actions, he follows him because the Orc has always proved to be not only a wise and noble councillor, but a fearless general and therefore his terror is really something to behold. So much so that it almost stuns Gimli into silence.

What yanked him out of that silence, is the great length of robe which the orc handed him and told him to pull.

'You must be mad,' began the dwarf.

'Why?' Said the Orc. 'Are you too feeble to pull?'

Gimli exploded at that.

'Don't be a daft orc as well as a fool, but you must explain what you want me to do otherwise I shan't do it. I will not follow you blindly into the depths of this world Shagrat, as I would not follow anyone save Legolas Greenleaf. And only then so that I may pull him out again.'

This made the Orc smile for less than a second but then he snarled in all his Orcish fearlessness.

'There is no time for answers my good companion. For there is no time for questions, just pull on the rope and I promise you on the heads of all the children that have ever existed between our two people that you will hurry, the mountain is awake, and soon the ash will fill the sky and then all will be lost if you do not pull, now!'

And so, Gimli did just that, even though it was he and not Shagrat who was one of the high Generals of the Army of the Living. Even though he had spent most of his life, measuring in the hundreds of years though it was, butchering and murdering orc kind for fun as well as in noble battle. Still Gimli pulled that rope, because it was Shagrat who had asked him, and Shagrat was beyond all else a friend and the son of Gloin would have been hard pressed to deny any friend..

And so, the son of Gloin pulled, and pulled and pulled. He pulled until his muscles creaked, and his bones ached and still he pulled, still he would not let go of that rope. He pulled till it felt the whole world narrowed down to Gimli, to Shagrat and the Babe strapped to his chest, and most of all to the rope in the dwarf's hand.

And then Gimli no longer needed to pull at all, for the ground sprung up between he and Shagrat, and the hatch was open.

'Now quickly,' said Shagrat with no word of thanks to Gimli's great strain.'We must get underground before the mountain's anger hits us, for I fear this dwelling will not be near enough to stem it's wrath.'

And as he followed the orc down into the blackness of the hole in the ground, all Gimli could think when his boots at last hit the hidden sod below is…what?

Well it was for Gimli son of Gloin to heed the advice of the Orc captain Shagrat – for Shagrat was once an orc of Mordor, and knew the mountain as well as most mortals, save the Ringbearers themselves.

It was a gift of all orcs that dwelled and fought in that time of the dead, to smell the ash and know what was coming. A gift for the people of Thranduil and the Dwarfs and Men that still lived amongst them – most of whom were warned just in time to move underground and seal themselves away with their orc compatriots.

Just in time, before the ash and the fire, and the molten stones that were the mountain's wrath hit all that still dwelt whether in life or death, in the lands of Middle Earth. It would be a lie to say that the land was blanketed in a cloud of dust, and ash and all other things that would make it difficult for a living person to take breath. Just as it would be untrue to say that a hail of hot and blackened stones rained down and struck the land then; creating mass craters, and graves for those that had been unlucky enough to be caught in it. For while all those things may have happened, to speak merely of one as a singular event, would be to undercut the true horror of that last day of Middle Earth.

For it was not merely the Mountain of Fire that erupted now, that spilled forth its lava, and its fire onto all the mortal lands that had lain below. No, it had done that before, many times – it was how the land of Mordor had been created after all, back in the days of the Southlands. It had done that when the Ring had been thrown into its depths, and had slaughtered many of the orcs with whom its ash had once given shelter. It was a fearsome mountain, capable of much destruction when its rage was provoked, but it was not more than that. Left alone, even to erupt, it could not do what it did now. It could not blanket all the lands in ash, and dark fog. Or smother the stars with its rising magma, but then again, it was not alone in its anger this time.

He was the god of the forge.

The God of creation.

And the only one of his fellow Valar to ever create anything from his own mind.

For he was the spark that had caught in the creator's mind – he had made the world, the lands of Middle-Earth with his fire, and his love and he could unmake them just as quickly.

It should not have been possible from a physics perspective what happened. For Lava must always fall to the ground when it comes at last out of the mountain's top. And Mount Doom, mighty as it had been, had always followed these rules before. But Gods do not need them.

So it was that only a few specs of lava dropped to earth, with the black hail that it brought with it from out of the mountain's belly. The rest floated up and into the air, into the sky – where upon it spread out until it covered every inch of that sky that had once looked down upon the lands of Middle Earth.

Or at least, so it seemed to the poor travellers on the roads.

Many of whom died, unless they travelled with a Silmaril of course – but that's another story.

But we are not so limited in our perception of this tale, so we will bring you up and out of this horror he has made of the lands of Middle-Earth. Up out of the hot ash, and terrible hail, up and out of the fog and the quickly dying air. Up and out of this land, where nothing will ever grow or live again beyond the safety of the underground realms. You are up now, beyond it, up in the stars, in the lights that only Vairë created. And for a moment you are safe, and now I ask, for this one moment, for you to look back down to the ground again.

What do you see?

Yes, that's right – the ground is far closer to you than it should be. For it is not natural ground at all, but rather the quickly cooling lava of the Mountain God's Wrath. And this is the truth I will no longer hide from you, there is a shell around the world now.

In his anger Aulë had not destroyed the old world, the Middle-Earth and, from its ashes, created a new one.

A New Earth

But rather…he had made a Hollow Earth.