Yavanna pondered what had become of humanity.
She had not been to Earth in centuries. She was ashamed to turn away from her first great work, but also afraid of what she would find if she returned. When she left for the last time, she had seen the path of desolation humanity was setting themselves on; an aberrant course she was powerless to correct. They had not turned aside from it since. The reports she heard were horrifying. The Earth left desolate, the animals dead or dying, the land barren, the air choked with toxic fumes. It was as if Morgoth had never been defeated, had gone on to conquer the Earth unopposed.
Had a new dark lord arisen; some fanatical servant of Morgoth in hiding since the War of Wrath? What else could drive Men to march so heedlessly to their own ruin? But she knew it couldn't be. Eru Illuvatar had finally bound the dark spirits' power, they could no longer rule over Men.
In her heart, she knew the bitter truth - there was no dark lord on Earth. No Morgoth or Sauron or Saruman. Not even an Ar-Pharazon or a Witch-King. There was no singular figure behind humanity's collective madness, their heedless drive to desolation. No spirit that could be banished, no tyrant who could be defeated - only the lingering influence of those dark figures' forgotten legacies, and the latent corruption of Morgoth permeating the very elements of Earth.
Mankind had come into their own under this malign influence and inherited the dominion of the Earth - but without wisdom. Without the discipline to walk the narrow path, to resist the temptations of decadence and power. Worshipping false gods of their own making that had become almost as pervasive and resilient as Morgoth himself.
Mankind had reinvented some of the darkest sorceries ever practiced in ancient times - and even surpassed them in certain ways. Though some things would remain forever beyond the grasp of Men, many of the horrors unleashed in the Seventh and Eighth Ages were truly without precedent. Saruman's dabbling with explosives had never approached the fell power of a nuclear weapon. The sickness sent upon Arnor and Gondor by the Witch-King could not compare to the horrible poisons and pestilences concocted by Men in the late Seventh Age. The Numenorians at the height of their empire could never have built the great ships that carried orcish men to Yavanna's garden.
Magic. Modern humans would scoff at the label, calling their arts 'science.' And indeed, they practiced it differently. But in essence and purpose, it was the same thing. A means to gain and exercise power, to bend the world to one's will. It could be used for good, but the fallen spirits and those under their influence inevitably used it to oppress and destroy. Now, at the dawn of the Eighth Age, mankind had elevated their dark arts to a level that threatened to destroy all worlds.
The great Valar, mother of all life in Arda, shuddered at the thought.
AN: Seeing the trailer for Oppenheimer before The Way of Water did a lot to inspire this chapter.