Now, THIS is one of the works I am, admittedly, most invested in. I do hope I can get it right. Tolkien's Legendarium is such a universe filled with potential that, in the end, I just HAVE to write about this.
The world had grown old. Long had the echoes of the Elder Days faded into silence, and the tides of time had washed away the memories of Middle-earth as it once was. It had been two millennia since the downfall of the Dark Lord Sauron, a millennia since the last of the Elves had sailed westward into the Undying Lands, their light departing from the world of Men, and centuries since the Dwarves and Ents, having long since been put to slumber by the One Above All. And in their absence, Arda had changed beyond recognition, reshaped by the unrelenting hands of those who remained.
Once, the lands of Middle-earth had been adorned with ancient forests, rolling plains, and rivers that sang the songs of forgotten days. The whispering trees of Lothlórien, the stone halls of Khazad-dûm, the natural wonders of Fangorn Forest, and the green hills of the Shire—these were no more than dust upon the wind, lost to the ceaseless march of time. And with their end, came a new beginning.
The dominion of Men had came long ago, their hands molding the world in their own image, and where once stood the kingdoms of old, now stretched vast cities of steel, glass, and ceaseless light, with might and methods greater than the height of Númenór that once crushed even the armies of Sauron himself. Magic, that ancient and ineffable force, once woven into the very fabric of the world, had faded into obscurity, but by no means were Men left helpless. Instead, they had reached such heights that, in a confrontation between races, not the crafts or the magic of either Elf, Dwarf, or Ent would allow them to prevail against the current generation of humanity.
The crafts of the Eldar, the spells of the Istari, the power of the Rings—all were now nothing more than whispered myths at best, dismissed as the superstitions of a primitive past, or entirely forgotten even in any whispers of it's existence. The once-blazing fire of enchantment had been quenched, replaced by the cold and clinical glow of technology. Where once the stars had been mirrored in the waters of enchanted lakes, now their reflection flickered upon the polished windows of towering skyscrapers.
Knowledge, no longer bound to scrolls and tomes, was confined within glowing screens, and the wisdom of the old Ages were buried beneath layers of skepticism and disbelief. The Gift of Ilúvatar demonstrated it's worth, for without magic, humanity had been forced to discover many new methods of living and advancing civilization, and they succeeded, although to a degree that could be close to being as harmful to Arda as it was to being it's glory.
Through the freewill gifted by Eru upon Men, they succeeded in their own merit as they forged their own paths to the future, using the natural inclination towards creativity that had been the crux of their ability to prove themselves worthy of inheriting Arda once all the other Children of Ilúvatar, to somehow manage to accomplish victory where even the great Elves or the hardy Dwarves could not, and for centuries, so it was that they had becamethe undisputed lords of the world, bending it to their will with a mastery far beyond what their forebears could have dreamed.
The machines of Men burrowed deep into the bones of the earth, unearthing its treasures, carving highways through ancient mountains, and raising towers that defied the heavens. They sailed upon the skies in great vessels of metal, speaking to one another across continents in an instant, wielding the power of lightning and the atom as the Elves once wielded the light of the Two Trees, not requiring magic as their newfound technologies had proven a remarkably effective replacement. In knowledge of the material world, they had surpassed even the greatest minds of Númenor in its prime, yet in wisdom, they had long since strayed from the path.
The realms of Gondor and Rohan, once the heart of Men's strength and virtue, had crumbled into dust, their banners and lineages lost to the annals of forgotten history, with those who survived having long since abandoned the memories of the old. The White City, once gleaming upon the slopes of Mindolluin, was but a ruin buried beneath the expansion of newer empires. The Rohirrim, whose songs once echoed across the plains, were now but nameless figures in half-remembered tales.
The deeds of Aragorn, Éowyn, and Frodo Baggins, whose courage had once shaped the fate of the world, were now dismissed as mere fictions—fairy tales told to children, unrecognized as the echoes of true history and distorted. Almost none of the tales of the First and Second Ages remained, aside from a few exceeding oversimplifications and fairytales.
In place of the great kingdoms of old, new empires had risen, their dominion stretching across the continents. Some were ruled by the voices of many, governed by the principles of law and order, yet in almost all of them, there was the seeds of tyranny, their rulers grasping for ever-greater power. The ancient bonds of kinship and honor had been replaced by contracts and politics, and the purity of old oaths had long since been forgotten. Peace had reigned, still, but the professionality of such relations lacked much of the sincere nature of the bonds of kinship amongst the old kingdoms.
Men had built their nations upon ambition, upon an undying desire to improve themselves, upon conquest, upon the endless pursuit of dominion, and in their arrogance, they had come to see themselves as the masters of all creation. Yet, despite all their triumphs, they had lost the most fundamental truth of their existence. Arda had only one religion now, with the worship of Dark Powers all but forgotten, but the way with which the One and the Ainur was worshipped was filled with many flaws. The religion was unchallenged it was for anyone with faith addressed it, and it was known only as "The Faith".
The understanding of Eru Ilúvatar, the One who had sung the world into being, had been obscured by the passage of time. No longer did Men remember Him as the source of all things, the giver of the Gift of Mortality, the father of both Elves and Men alike. With the existence of the Elves, Dwarves, and Ents forgotten, Men believed themselves to be the only talking creation of the one who they now worshipped simply as "God," His nature was understood only through the imperfect lens of mortal belief.
By default, His dominion was still seen as the vast tapestry of Arda and beyond, but the Music that shaped it was all but forgotten, replaced with presumptions that it was through just the equivalent of a finger snap or the whispers of a few words with which "God" created the Universe. Not only that, but Men believed that he resided within a realm far removed from the world—a Heaven beyond the sky, where only the faithful would dwell, while those who are unfaithful would be cast down to a fiery pit below the deepest depths of the World, called "Hell".
While the Dominion of Men had always been destined to happen, it came at the price of Men casting themselves as His chosen, the pinnacle of creation, and in doing so, they had forsaken the memory of the other Children of Ilúvatar. While their views of "God" favoring them above all others were partially true, they did not know that even now, the creator they worship was ever-patient, ever-loving, waiting for the day that would come, no matter what, in which they would finally remember the truths and be reunited with their fellows.
Meanwhile, the Valar, the mighty lords of the world, the keepers of its order and balance, were no longer known by their true names. They had been transformed by the myths of Men into "Archangels," celestial servants of the divine, stripped of their history and purpose. Only some of the knowledge of the domains and powers of each of the Valar survived, in that their capabilities were somewhat correctly acknowledged, but no longer were they understood as the shapers of the earth, the stewards of the seas and the stars. Instead, they were seen as distant figures, beings of light who dwelled in the heavens, detached from the world of mortals.
In fact, the Maiar, once messengers and warriors of the Valar, had faded into obscurity, remembered only as nameless angels in the prayers of the faithful. They were rarely prayed to, in fact, Men focusing more on the majesty of the "Archangels" and the omnipotence of "God". The only ones amongst the "Angels" who survived in the memories of Men were the Four Seraphim, each of them having accomplished such a significant deed they could not be fully forgotten, but the way with which they were portrayed as figures of nigh-equal status to the "Archangels" were nothing like the real truths.
And Melkor—Morgoth, the great enemy, the first Dark Lord—had become but a shadow in their new theology. He was no longer seen as the fallen Ainu, the one who had sought to mar the Music of Ilúvatar, but had instead been reduced to the figure of "the Devil," the ruler of a realm of fire and torment, a place of eternal damnation. Sauron, once his greatest lieutenant, had been folded into this belief, his true nature lost beneath centuries of distorted legend.
Yet, of all the things Men had forgotten, none was more tragic than the truth of their own fate.
The Gift of Ilúvatar, the great and solemn blessing that set them apart from all other beings, had become a thing of fear and dread. Death, once the path through which Men would depart from the Circles of the World and pass beyond even the knowledge of the Valar, with only Mandos and Manwë knowing their fates, had been twisted into something dark and terrible. Men no longer accepted it as their birthright, as the freedom granted to them beyond the fate of Arda. Instead, they feared it, sought to delay it, built faiths around the promise of eternal reward or the threat of endless suffering.
The end of life had become a thing of sorrow, not of hope, and the wisdom of old had been lost to despair. Though they had conquered the world, though they had unraveled the mysteries of the stars and the atom, though they had risen to heights beyond imagining, there remained a hollow space within their souls—a yearning for something they could no longer name. In the pursuit of knowledge, they had forsaken wisdom; in the mastery of the physical, they had abandoned the spiritual. And no matter how far they delved deeper into the secrets of the World, they would never truly succeed at finding what was missing.
Yet, even as Men cast their eyes skyward, toward the great expanse of the heavens, even as Men prayed to "God" or the "Archangels" they did not know that they were still watched. And though Men no longer feared the return of darkness, though they no longer spoke of Morgoth or his designs, the Ainur knew the truth: the world's doom had not been averted, only delayed. The End would come, as foretold. The Dagor Dagorath—the Last Battle—was inevitable, and when the final war was waged, when the fate of Arda was decided, Men would finally have to face, whether they were ready or not.