Author's Notes
Welcome to a reshaped Middle-earth. This story unfolds in an alternate timeline where events diverge significantly from the known tales. For those seeking familiar paths, be warned: here be dragons of a different sort.
was cast into the void by the Valar during the Ages of the Lamps. Heeding their call, the Elves departed Middle-earth for the blessed realm of Valinor, untouched by Morgoth's rebellion—no theft of the Silmarils, no Kinslaying at Alqualondë, no Doom of Mandos.
2. Varda created the Sun and Moon to illuminate Middle-earth, where the great wars of the First Age were fought by Dwarves and Men against a returned Morgoth. He was cast into the void again by an act of Eru.
3. Numenor rose and fell without the knowledge or intervention of the Valar, swallowed by the sea for its transgressions.
4. Only three Istari—Gandalf, Saruman, and Radagast—walked Middle-earth, acting independently of the Valar's counsel.
And now, a few changes to the stories you may believe you know:
1. Bilbo embarked on his unexpected journey two years before the events of the War of the Ring.
2. Frodo, adopted by Bilbo's kin, grew up under the shadow of Bag End's legacy; they are cousins.
3. Gimli, brother to Gloin, fights not only for the fate of Middle-earth but alongside his own kin.
4. Aragorn, fulfilling his destiny, finds solace and strength in the love of Éowyn.
5. Thorin, Fili, and Kili survived and led a force of Dwarves to fight at Pelennor Fields and the Black Gate.
Now, journey with us to a Middle-earth forever altered, where even in victory, shadows linger, and the echoes of ancient choices reverberate through the ages.
A cold tendril of premonition snaked down Gandalf's spine. Around him, Minas Tirith throbbed with the pulse of victory. The scent of charred wood, a somber counterpoint to the joyous music and laughter, rose from the streets still scarred by battle. He watched children chase each other through the makeshift stalls already overflowing with spring flowers, their laughter a fragile echo of hope amidst the ruins.
Beside him, Aragorn surveyed the scene, his brow furrowed. He bore the weight of his lineage and the impending crown heavily, the joy of their triumph tempered by an unspoken weariness.
"They celebrate," Aragorn murmured, his voice rough, "as they should. Yet…" His gaze drifted towards the White Tower, still bearing the brunt of Sauron's malice. "A shadow lingers, my friend. Don't you feel it?"
Gandalf placed a comforting hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "Indeed, a shadow remains. But tonight, let us allow the light of their hope to burn bright." He would not burden them with his fears, not yet.
That night, however, sleep brought no respite. Instead of his modest bedchamber, Gandalf found himself standing on a grassy knoll that shimmered with an inner light. Above him, two impossibly tall trees, their leaves like spun gold and silver, blazed with a light he knew well, a light that tugged at something deep within his being.
Eönwë, the Herald of Manwë, stood before him, his presence as radiant and awe-inspiring as Gandalf remembered. But in the Maia's ancient eyes, Gandalf saw not judgment, but a deep, abiding perplexity.
"Olorin," Eönwë's voice resonated with the music of the spheres, a sound both familiar and achingly distant. "The Valar have taken note of your prolonged absence. It has been... many ages since you last walked these paths."
There was no accusation in his tone, only genuine curiosity. And that was what unsettled Gandalf most. The Valar, in their timeless existence, seemed to have forgotten the weight of centuries, the slow, grinding passage of time in the mortal lands.
The vista shifted. The brilliant light of the Two Trees dimmed, as if drawing inward, and a vast, unyielding presence settled over the landscape. Eönwë's gaze turned distant, contemplative.
"They have begun to speak of Arda as a whole once more," Eönwë said, his voice echoing with a power that seemed to reverberate through Gandalf's very core. "For ages, their attention has been focused solely on these lands. But now… a longing stirs within them. A desire to walk amidst their creation, to re-engage with the destinies of all races."
A chill deeper than the winter winds of the Misty Mountains seeped into Gandalf's bones. It wasn't malice that motivated the Valar, but something potentially more dangerous: a benevolent, unwavering conviction. They saw no evil to combat, no plea for aid to answer—only an opportunity to reassert their dominion over a world they no longer understood.
He woke with a gasp, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The ethereal light of the Two Trees was gone, replaced by the cold, gray light of pre-dawn creeping through the window. He had been summoned to Valinor. And he knew, with a certainty that tasted like ash in his mouth, that he walked a razor's edge between the hope of understanding and the threat of an unintended tyranny.
He found his companions gathered in Frodo's chamber, their faces etched with a mixture of relief and lingering exhaustion. Aragorn sat beside the hobbit, who was propped up against a mountain of pillows, a tired smile on his face. Gimli, his gruff features softened with concern, offered Frodo a tankard.
"Ah, Gandalf," boomed Balin, catching sight of him. "There you are! We were just saying how much the lad could use one of your stories to lift his spirits."
Bilbo, perched on a stool nearby, watched Gandalf with an uncharacteristic gravity in his eyes. "You are troubled, my friend," he said, his voice unusually quiet.
Gandalf drew a deep breath, the scent of healing herbs and the lingering tang of blood heavy in his nostrils. "I have received a summons," he said, his voice carefully neutral.
"A summons?" Gimli rumbled, his hand instinctively resting on the axe at his hip. "From whom? Are there orcs about already?"
"Peace, Gimli," Aragorn interjected, his gaze sharp and intent. "There are older powers at play than Orcs." He turned back to Gandalf, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. "Tell us, Gandalf, what manner of summons has shaken you so?"
Gandalf hesitated, gathering his thoughts. How to explain a world beyond the Sea, beings of unimaginable power and ancient wisdom, to those who had never even heard a whisper of such things? He glanced around the room at the expectant faces: Aragorn, his brow creased with worry; Éomer and Éowyn, their usual fire dimmed with exhaustion; Faramir, his gaze steady and thoughtful; the hobbits, wide-eyed with a mixture of fear and fascination; Fili, and Kili, their usual boisterous energy replaced by a wary stillness; Thorin, his eyes filed with suspicious; Dwalin and Balin, their weathered faces etched with concern; and Gimli, his hand still hovering near his axe, a silent question in his eyes.
"It is a summons from the West," Gandalf said at last, his voice low and heavy with foreboding. "There is a realm beyond the Sea, a land known as Valinor, where the Valar dwell. They are… beings of immense power, ancient and wise, who shaped the very foundations of Arda, our world."
Confusion rippled through the room. The hobbits exchanged bewildered glances. Merry, ever the curious one, tilted his head. "Valinor? Is that near the Shire, Gandalf? I don't believe I've heard of it."
Gimli snorted. "Near the Shire? Don't be daft, lad. If it's beyond the Sea, it's likely further than even my kin in the Glittering Caves have traveled." A flicker of pride crossed his face. "And that's saying something!"
Balin, ever the voice of reason, cleared his throat. "The Valar…" he echoed, his brow furrowed in thought. "The name stirs some ancient memory, but it is faint, like a whisper from a forgotten dream. What do these beings want with us, Gandalf?"
A knot of dread tightened in Gandalf's chest. "They see it as their right, their duty," he replied, each word a heavy stone upon his tongue. "For ages, they have remained distant, focused on their own realm. But now, they believe it is time to… guide the destinies of all races, to ensure the fate of Arda unfolds according to their grand design."
A stunned silence met his words. Éowyn's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief. Fili and Kili leaned forward, their youthful curiosity battling with a growing apprehension.
"Guide our destinies?" Thorin rumbled, his voice laced with suspicion. "We Dwarves have carved our own fate from the mountains themselves! We owe nothing to these distant beings, these… Valar."
"They are more than distant beings, Thorin," Gandalf said, his voice hushed but heavy with warning. "They are powers beyond your reckoning. Even Sauron, in all his might, is but a pale shadow compared to them. To understand their power, you would have to recall the legends of the First Dark Lord…"
A flicker of understanding, mingled with disbelief, crossed Aragorn's face. Faramir, ever the scholar, drew in a sharp breath. Balin, his brow furrowed even deeper, muttered a word under his breath, something ancient and guttural in Dwarvish.
Gimli shifted uncomfortably. "Legends? We're talking about legends now? Sounds like someone's been at the strong dwarven ale, if you ask me." He glanced at his companions, seeking confirmation. Fili and Kili, however, looked as lost as the hobbits.
"…Morgoth."
A blank silence met the name. The hobbits exchanged confused looks. Merry, never one to hold his tongue, scratched his head. "Beg pardon, Gandalf," he piped up, "but who is this... Morgoth? Is he some kind of Orc-chieftain I missed?"
Éomer frowned, shaking his head. "The name means nothing to me. And I've heard most every tale the bards of Rohan can muster."
"Nor to me," Thorin rumbled, his voice low and steady. "And the tales of my people stretch back to ages past, to almost the very beginnings of the world."
Gandalf's gaze swept over their faces, seeing their confusion, their dismissal of a threat so ancient it lived only in fragmented whispers. "Morgoth's tale," he said, his voice low, "goes back further than even the rise of Old Numenor, further back than the oldest songs of Men or Dwarves. He was the original darkness, the first enemy to rise against the very creation of Arda."
"It is said," Balin added, his voice a low rumble, "that even the Fathers of the Dwarves, in those long-forgotten days beneath the earth, felt his malice. Our oldest tales speak of his shadow falling upon the mountains, of battles fought in the deep places of the world. But those stories are so ancient, so shrouded in the mists of time, that most scholars dismiss them as mere allegory."
A wave of astonishment rippled through the room. For most, Numenor itself was the stuff of legend, a lost kingdom swallowed by the sea. To think of a time before, a darkness predating even those ancient memories… it was almost beyond comprehension.
Only Aragorn, Faramir, and Balin seemed to grasp the true weight of Gandalf's revelation. Aragorn felt a chill crawl down his spine, a prickling sensation that had nothing to do with the coolness of the room. He gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles turning white. Faramir, his usual composure shaken, leaned forward, his eyes wide with a mixture of fascination and dread.
"Morgoth…" Aragorn murmured, testing the name like a blade. He had heard whispers of the First Dark Lord in ancient tales, fragments of legends passed down from his ancestors, but he had always believed them to be just that – legends. Myths to frighten children. But Gandalf's words, spoken with such grave certainty, chipped away at his skepticism.
"But Gandalf," Faramir interjected, his brow furrowed in thought, "the legends say Morgoth was vanquished in ages past. Surely these Valar, if they are as mighty as you claim, would have dealt with him long ago. Why would they concern themselves with us now?"
Balin, his voice raspy with age, spoke up. "The legends say that Morgoth sought to control all of Arda, to bend it to his will. He was defeated, cast out… If he was indeed one of them… perhaps they believe his shadow still lingers. Or perhaps…" He trailed off, his gaze distant. "Perhaps they simply wish to remind themselves of their creation. To see how their grand design has fared."
Gandalf nodded grimly. "Whatever their reasons, Balin, they have taken notice. And they intend to act."
A heavy silence descended upon the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the sound of their own ragged breaths. Then, as if a dam had broken, the fear came pouring out. Gimli's hand clenched around his axe so tightly his knuckles turned white. Éomer swore under his breath, a harsh, disbelieving sound. Pippin, his usual cheerfulness gone, buried his face in his hands.
Aragorn, ever the keen observer, saw the fear dawning in the eyes of his companions, the way their recent victory over Sauron seemed to shrink in the face of this new, incomprehensible threat. He pushed himself to his feet, the weight of his lineage pressing down on him like a physical burden, yet lending him strength as well.
"Gandalf, if what you say holds true, then we cannot allow our destinies to be decided without our input," Aragorn said, his voice firm. "The Valar may have noble intentions, but the free peoples of Middle-earth have long desired to forge their own paths, to shape their own destinies. We have fought too hard, sacrificed too much, to surrender our freedom now, even to beings of such power."
He turned to those gathered, his gaze sweeping over the faces of Men, Dwarves, and Hobbits alike. "We must present our case to the Valar," Aragorn declared, his voice ringing with a conviction that ignited a spark of defiance in the room. "Not as supplicants begging for mercy, but as equals asserting our right to self-determination. Each race shall send representatives, united in purpose, to convey our collective will."
Thorin, his stern features set in resolute lines, nodded curtly. "Aye," he rumbled, his hand gripping the arm of his chair. "We will not yield our freedom lightly. Let the Valar hear our voices and understand that we Dwarves bow to no distant power, however great."
Fili and Kili, their earlier excitement subdued by the gravity of the situation, exchanged a nervous look. Even they, young and eager for adventure as they were, sensed the weight of the decision before them.
Balin, his brow furrowed in thought, spoke with the wisdom of his years. "A wise course, Aragorn. But who among us is equipped to speak with such beings? What words could bridge the chasm between our world and theirs?"
All eyes turned to Gandalf. The wizard, his heart heavy with the burden of knowledge, knew there was no escaping the path laid before him. He had walked in both worlds, tasted the joys and sorrows of both, and now it fell to him to find a way to reconcile them.
"The task will not be easy," Gandalf said, his voice grave. "But I believe I know the way."