Within the vast caverns of fire and stone that was his manor, from which he constantly laboured, making "many beautiful and shapely works both openly and in secret", creating both the tools and the arts that he loved dearly, Aulë, the great Smith of the Valar, the forger of the Earth, watched the world of Men with an ever-growing sense of wonder, pride, and sorrow. He, more than any of his kin, understood the deep and insatiable desire to create, to build, to shape the formless into something of beauty and purpose. He had long ago fashioned the mountains, carved the rivers, and placed the hidden veins of metal within the bones of the earth.
It was even by his hand that the Dwarves were first formed, and though he had humbled himself before Ilúvatar and submitted them to the true flame of life, his love for all makers had never waned. And now, as he turned his gaze upon the dominion of Men, he saw that the flame of invention still burned brightly. Even without magic, even without the guidance of the Eldar or the wisdom of the Ainur, they had achieved marvels. Out of all the Valar, Aulë was perhaps the one whose feelings and view were most positive as he marveled at the mastery of Men over stone and metal, at the wonders they had built with their own hands.
Even the mightiest works of the Dwarves and Elves that he taught seemed humble compared to the vast cities of steel and glass that Men had wrought. In them, he saw the echoes of his own craft, the endless pursuit of creation that had once driven him to shape the first of the Khazâd in secret. Although their works paled compared to his own mastery, he saw that some particular developments were things in that Men had even surprised him in, which he did not resent but instead respected them for.
To Aulë, who delighted in the nature of substances and works of skill, it eventually became clear, more to him than any other Valar, even Manwë, that Men's natural inclination towards creativity, born out of their restless spirits and stubbornness, surpassed all of the other Children of Ilúvatar, and in that, they had proven able to overcome their shortcomings compared to the great minds of the Elves and Dwarves, forging their own path in the arts almost as much as they were free to decide their own fates.
In Men, he saw the echoes of the gift that Ilúvatar had given to all creators—the ability to imagine, to shape, and to transform the world in ways that reflected their own inner fire. Their ceaseless drive to push the boundaries of what was possible was a testament to the free will that Ilúvatar had woven into their very being. Perhaps they were not nearly as gifted as the Smith himself was, who came from the thoughts of Eru when it came to creation and eventually surpassed Melkor/Morgoth by his humility to temper the thoughts and powers of creation, but they had woven many extraordinary things in their own right.
And in that, Aulë was overjoyed, for it had always been so that the delight and pride of Aulë was in the deed of making, and in the thing made, and neither in possession nor in his own mastery. He, more than any of his kin, understood the deep and insatiable desire to create, to build, to shape the formless into something of beauty and purpose. He had long ago fashioned the mountains, carved the rivers, and placed the hidden veins of metal within the bones of the earth.
Even though Men surpassed the skills of the Dwarves, he did not rage over it. For Aulë saw something of himself inside Men, and how could he resent something that so starkly captured the essence of his thoughts and skill? Where the Elves had long pursued perfection in form and beauty, shaping things with an innate harmony that reflected the Music of the Ainur, and the Dwarves pursued refinements for their skill on metal and stone that Aulë passed on to them for the sake of both richness and to remain connected to the earth, Men instead pursued innovation, progress, and the endless challenge of surpassing their own limitations.
They were unbound by the timeless patience of the Eldar; they could not linger centuries upon a single craft, refining it to a state of eternal beauty. Instead, they built, they experimented, they destroyed, and they rebuilt anew—each generation surpassing the last. Through that endless spirit for growth, Men had mastered the forces of the world, bending them to their will through neither song or enchantment, the strength of their minds and the disciplines of their hands sufficing to accomplish such heights, and so it was that a deep love as well as constant contemplation on the potential of Men awakened within the Smith as he observed them from afar.
From capturing the power of wind and water, harnessing the strength of the sun itself to illuminate their vast cities, all those feats were truly impressive. The ingenuity of men had succeeded in enabling them to dominate over Arda in the absence of the Eldar, the Khazâd, and the Ents, and such was it that Aulë knew only the Valar themselves could wrestle control over Middle-Earth from Men, although such was not his intention nor that of any other Valar.
They had delved into the secrets of the earth, extracting metal from stone, crafting machines that soared through the sky and descended into the depths of the seas. They had even split the atom, unraveled the mysteries of life itself, and sent their voices and images across great distances in the blink of an eye! While the Valar knew overall much more than them, there were some things that Men had conceived which the Valar, not even Aulë, had expected.
Truly, Aulë yearned, above most of the other Valar, for the day where the Ainur could once more walk amongst Men just like they were now walking amongst Elves, where he could refine their crafts and introduce them to even greater heights once Men were ready to be reconnected with their siblings. Not only that, but he also hoped to learn from the ingenuity of Men, to combine the crafts of all the Children. If they had been able to go as far as they did while lacking the spiritual depth of true enchantment, how much more majestic would the world be once they were made to learn the ancient truths?
However, neither was the Smith blind to the shadows, to the negativity of Men's developments, nor was his heart without grief and weight. For all their genius, for all their relentless pursuit of knowledge, Men had often failed to temper their creations with wisdom. In their desire to master the world, they had scarred it. Aulë, who had shaped the mountains with his own hands, who had sung the stones into their forms, could feel the wounds Men had inflicted upon the earth. He was not like his wife, Yavanna, in this regard, but he knew fully well the damage sometimes caused by Men's strong desire for revolutions.
He had watched as entire forests were felled, as rivers were poisoned, as the air itself grew thick with the fumes of their industry. They had hollowed out the bones of the world, tearing deep into its heart for resources, with little thought for what might be left behind. Although Aulë admired their genius progress and understood that sacrifices must be made for the sake of creation, his inclination towards what Men had came to consider as "Industry, Technology, and Science" did not mean he truly approved of all Men had did.
He grieved to see the rivers, once flowing with clarity, now choked with filth. He mourned the lands once fertile, now laid barren by the careless hand of progress. For all that Men had achieved, they had also forgotten something vital—the understanding that the world was not merely a thing to be used, but a thing to be cared for. While he would defend Men whenever Yavanna particularly mourned over the loss of her trees and the desolation of the natural aspects of Arda, he truly did empathize with his spouse's opinions at certain times.
Aulë was solemnly aware of how, in order to achieve results in advancing the arts of creation and mastery, in acquiring the substances of the world necessary for life, and in adding to the beauty as well as glory of the world Eru had created and empowered him and the other Ainur into shaping, sacrifices must be made. The wood of Yavanna's trees and other natural resources being exploitated by Men, in his opinion, were acceptable outcomes, for did the Dwarves, his own children, not dig deep into the Earth, knowingly sacrificing what could have grown beneath it?
Was it not Aulë's teachings that made the Dwarves the way they were? Even the Elves had learned from him the ways of how to make use of the resources of Arda in order to achieve true creation, and those who were on Middle-Earth had to sacrifice the natural resources for the sake of survival and advancement. However, to be fair, the Smith knew fully well that the situation with Men were much different. Unlike the Dwarves and the Elves, Men only saw Arda as the world they lived in and thus they believed they had the right to use it as they wished.
Eru had ordained it to be such, that the things Yavanna had sown would be under the dominion of ALL the Children, but during the old ages, there were the Ents to keep the destruction from getting too much. Yavanna's works, back then, had their own protectors and he still remembered how she wasn't the only one pleased that the Shepherds of the Trees were brought into existence. However, now the Ents were put to sleep, just like the Dwarves, and so it was that the natural world truly began to be scarred and suffer.
Eru had made it so that they would eventually awaken, but only once they were brought to Valinor, to be prepared for Dagor Dagorath. The decree of Eru was absolute, in that no Ainur, or even any of the Firstborn, were allowed to travel to the wider Middle-Earth, until the time was right for them to put their plans in preparing for Dagor Dagorath into motion, in which some Valar would be sent into Middle-Earth, given the chance to experience for themselves beyond mere observation the world beyond the Undying Lands they dwelled in.
There was, thus, not much Yavanna could do to preserve her works. She could provide healing, could discreetly bring more life to the Earth, but she was prohibited from unleashing her powers against Men, from directly placing protection on her works. At certain occasions, she WAS granted permission, but only when it was truly dire. It had always been one of the things the Valar were not allowed to do, for they were meant to be guides, not to rule over any of the Children of Ilúvatar. Needless to say, while Yavanna could not hate Men, the Smith knew well her frustrations and her sorrows.
It was not that they were malicious, Aulë knew this well. Men did not seek destruction for its own sake, but they did what they believed they had to do in order to survive. It was the lack of the Valar's presence in their lives that made them the way they were now, and so Aulë would not blame Men for what wasn't inherently their fault. Men were not to be condemned—but they needed guidance. Guidance that the Valar had not been there to teach them the same way they did with Elves, and though he wasn't exactly one to mope over such things, even he was not immune to the regret and shame.
Aulë was, to his shame, somewhat indifferent to Men back then. He had created the vessels of the Sun and the Moon, yes, but he had never really had such a high view of Men's creativity, of the strength of their will. He had focused on the Elves, especially the Ñoldor, and the majority of Men siding with Morgoth did little to improve his view on them. He had seen their potential, how they managed to develop their own crafts through purely their own merit, and yet he had ignored them. The reminders of his old foolishness never ceased to make him pause briefly while in the process of shaping molten metal.
And so, Aulë longed to make amends, reach out to them, to whisper to the craftsmen and the builders, to show them the way of true creation—not one that merely took, but one that gave back, that honored the world even as it shaped it. He longed to see Men forge wonders that did not come at the cost of the earth's suffering. He longed to teach them that true mastery was not in dominion, but in harmony. His desire to directly interfere was no less that of Yavanna's, but in the end, it was not to be.
The time of interference had passed. Men no longer were to be influenced by the Valar, nor did they remember the teachings of old, and Ilúvatar had divinely mandated through the Elder King himself that they were to leave Men alone, only allowed to answer prayers but never to directly show themselves. In fact, they were not even allowed to leave Aman. And so, all the Valar could do was watch.
Men had built their own faith, their own understanding of the divine, and in it, he and his kin were but distant echoes—archangels in the service of a singular god, their names forgotten. He did not resent this, for he understood that Men had always simplified what they could not fully comprehend. But it saddened him nonetheless, and the guilt would sometimes weigh down on him.
Still, Aulë did not despair. For even in their flawed path, even in their missteps, Men still carried the spark of creation within them. There were those among them who sought to heal the world, to protect what was left, to restore what had been lost. There were those who, even without knowing it, still walked a path close to the one he would have taught them, and that, above all else, gave him hope.
Although Aulë was never one to care too much about his status, as he had always been humble and only ever truly wanted to continue making the World more beautiful, to improve the arts and crafts, and to devise new things, to be honest, the Smith wouldn't exactly have much to feel left out over even had he been one who revelled in worship. He was the Archangel of Crafts, Earth, and Fire, and ranked as the third greatest of the "Archangels". Combine that with how prominent industrial developments had became, and he was perhaps the one who Men prayed to the most.
His hands, which had once shaped the very bones of Arda, would sometimes rest idly upon the workbenches of his great forge, and he would contemplate upon their prayers—prayers spoken in ignorance, yet sincere nonetheless. As with all the other Valar, the right and the power to grant wishes as well as answer prayers remained within him, and with the amount of time he was invoked, Aulë eventually developed a tradition where he would sit down, halt his works, and meditate as to grant their prayers.
Though Men had forgotten his true name, they had not forgotten the essence of his work. They had given him another title, reshaped him within the boundaries of their own understanding, and the knowledge stirred a strange mix of emotions within him—pride, humility, and a quiet sadness that settled deep in his heart like the embers of a dying forge.
It was a wonder to Aulë that, even after the long march of centuries, after the severance of Aman from Middle-earth and the fading of the Elder Days, Men still grasped at remnants of the truth. Though they no longer called upon the Valar by name, though they no longer remembered their songs or their deeds, something of their nature had endured in the myths that Men wove for themselves. And among these myths, Aulë found himself still present, his domain of craft and fire still recognized, even if imperfectly understood.
That Men saw him as the patron of creation and industry filled him with quiet satisfaction. He had always been a maker above all things, a shaper of the physical world, and it pleased him to know that even in a time where magic had faded from Middle-earth, Men still honored the act of creation itself. He took particular joy in their association of him with fire—not as a force of destruction, but as a tool of transformation. Fire had always been at the heart of his work, the medium through which raw ore became metal, through which formless stone took shape, through which all things were reforged into something greater.
The greatest gift of Ilúvatar to Men had always been their freedom—their ability to shape their own destiny, to dream beyond what was given, to create not only with their hands but with their minds and their hearts. And in this, Aulë saw a reflection of his own work, for had he not always believed that the joy of making was itself a part of the divine?
Yet, despite this, Aulë could not deny the weight of sorrow that accompanied the knowledge of how Men now perceived him. They had forgotten his name. The Elves had once sung of him in reverence, the Dwarves had honored him as their great Maker, and even the Númenóreans, in their early days, had remembered the Valar and called upon them in prayer. But now, he was only a distant figure, an "Archangel" in the service of a singular God. The richness of his history had been lost, his role diminished into something simpler, something easier for Men to grasp.
More than the loss of his name, however, it was the way Men now perceived his nature that troubled Aulë most. They had honored his dominion, but they had misunderstood his heart. Men saw him as a harsh master, a perfectionist, an unyielding force that demanded excellence with little patience for failure. They imagined him as one who tested the worth of all makers, one who stood in judgment over craftsmen, ensuring that only those who reached a certain mastery could claim his favor.
They envisioned him as stern and unwavering, an ideal that loomed over their shoulders as they struggled to master their trades, a force that demanded flawlessness rather than encouraging growth. How far from the truth this was, and in that, the Smith would sometimes chuckle in a somber manner, his voice heard through the halls of his manor, lasting only for a few moments yet feeling his Maiar and the Elves who learned from him with melancholy from the sheer force of his emotions.
Aulë had never sought perfection for its own sake. He had never been a master who scorned his students, nor had he ever desired to impose impossible standards upon those who wished to create. If anything, he had always been the most patient of teachers. It was he who had offered his knowledge freely to the Eldar, who had shared the secrets of craft with the Dwarves, as he had created them, and even with the Maiar who followed him. He had always believed that creation was an act of joy, not a burden of judgment.
Yet Men, in their struggle with mastery, in their own burdens of perfectionism, had projected their anxieties onto him. They believed that because they wrestled with the frustration of creation, because they feared failure, that Aulë himself must embody those fears. He wished he could tell them otherwise. He wished they knew that he was not there to judge them, but to inspire them—that the act of creation was meant to be an expression of joy, not a relentless pursuit of flawlessness.
And as for the prayers? Well, Aulë had to admit he was, somewhat, impressed by how the creativity and boldness of Men could even extend to their prayers. The prayers of Men, distant yet persistent, reached him across the veil of time and space, whispered in workshops and laboratories, spoken in the depths of creative struggle, and sometimes, uttered in desperate ambition. Though they no longer knew his name, though they no longer remembered the truth of his being, they still called upon him, the Archangel of Crafts, Fire, and Earth.
Many of the prayers that reached him were pure in intent, and these were the ones that stirred something deep within him—a quiet pride, a quiet joy. However, there were also those whose prayers were not made in love. Some carried with them a different fire—the fire of envy, the fire of greed, the fire of destruction, and even the fire of desperation, and in those prayers, the Smith grieved.
The wishes who were the purest reflections of his own spirit, born not out of greed or vanity and instead out of the love of making, learning, and passing knowledge from one generation to the next, were granted, although not exactly in the ways Men might have hoped. For how could he refuse such wishes that were the essence of craft, the desire of the shaping of minds and the forging of wisdom that would endure beyond lifetimes?
However, the prayers of those who called upon him not as a teacher, but as a weapon, asking him to strike down their rivals, to blind their competitors with foolishness, to bring disaster upon those whose success they could not bear to witness, were always met with stern silence or subtle manipulation of events as far as it was within the limitations Eru imposed upon him and the other Valar.
(He had to admit that the first time he received prayers to burn the workshops of their enemies, to turn their projects to ash, to punish those who had bested them in skill or invention-he was stunned into dropping his hammer. Such boldness, and such creativity, even if in malice, was something Aulë had to bizarrely give credit to, although Yavanna was not amused in the slightest when he recounted such tales to her)
There were artisans who bent over their workbenches late into the night, hands aching, eyes straining, seeking perfection in the curve of a blade, the stroke of a brush, the careful setting of a gemstone. They prayed not for wealth, not for power, but for the strength to finish what they had begun, for the clarity to solve the problems that troubled them, for the patience to see their work through to the end. There were scientists and engineers who labored to unravel the mysteries of the universe, who stood at the precipice of new discoveries, praying for insight, for the moment of revelation that would bring light to the darkness of uncertainty.
Some prayed in humble gratitude for the knowledge they had already gained, for the sheer joy of understanding the hidden workings of the world. And to those prayers, Aulë responded, though never in a way that could be traced back to him. Never would he grant mastery outright, nor would he place success directly into the hands of those who asked for it. To do so was not only making things too easy, but also an insult to the hardwork, the determination to make efforts.
Instead, he would grant inspiration in the form of a sudden idea that flickered in the mind like a spark in the forge, an intuitive realization that connected scattered thoughts into something coherent and new. He would grant patience, the quiet strengthening of will that allowed a struggling artisan to persist just a little longer, to try one more time and potentially find success. In the end, the effectiveness of those influences were just as much up to him as it was up to those who prayed to him.
There were those who sought his blessing not for themselves, but for their students, their apprentices, their children—prayers from mentors who wished that those under their care might find inspiration, that they might one day surpass their teachers and bring new wonders into the world. For the teacher who prayed for their student, he granted the student a moment of clarity, a breakthrough that would ignite their passion for learning, and sometimes he even granted the teacher inspirations on how to better teach if the problem laid within the instructors themselves.
(Some had asked him for something as childish as allowing them to pass scientific and technological academy tests, and Aulë had to admit he was both amused and exasperated at such children making efforts for shortcuts. He did not often answer those prayers, although to some who were desperate and in need, he took pity and allowed a miracle)
But most of the time, those who prayed for destruction, for sabotage, would find none of it from his hands. They would be left to struggle, to face the consequences of their own desires, until they learned that craft was not about domination, but about creation. To create was to build, to shape, to transform—not to destroy for the sake of pride.
Aulë had always believed that those who sought to make something beautiful, something enduring, were bound together in a silent brotherhood, a shared purpose that transcended competition. A true craftsman did not resent the mastery of another; he admired it, learned from it, sought to grow alongside it, just like how the Smith never felt jealous over the makings of others and always sought to give counsel instead.
Having never sought worship, overall, Aulë did not take much pride or joy in the offerings, songs of praise, and the church in which he, the Valar, the "Four Seraphim" and "God" were enshrined in. His joy had always been in the making, in the shaping of the world, in the quiet fulfillment that came from the act of creation itself. That Men still called upon him, even in names not his own, was a thing he accepted as a solemn duty.
Of course, although he did not think of them as much as he did about the state of the Earth, that did not mean Aulë did not feel about the other nuances of the Dominion of Men. He mourned, of course, deeply for the fact that Men had forgotten about the Dwarves and the Elves, forgotten about not just their crafts, but also their deeds of arms and how they were crucial in the victories of the Free Peoples as a whole, and above all, he grieved the most, even out of all the Valar, Men's loss of the memory of the Music of the Ainur.
Above all else, the loss of the knowledge of the Great Music signified the broadest forgetting of the collaborative nature of creation, where Eru's will was expressed through the harmonious efforts of many voices, including his own. Aulë knew almost as much as Manwë himself that the world was not the result of Eru's singular act but a tapestry woven from the contributions of all the Ainur, each adding their own unique element to the fabric of reality. And yet, he still respected the fact that Eru's supreme authority was recognized and his role as the source of all was deeply revered.
As for the hierarchical classification of the Valar into "Top Five Archangels" and "Lesser Archangels.", the fact that he remained at the exact same "ranking of power" as he really stood amongst the Valar did not soothe the fact that Yavanna, Nienna, and Oromë—his spouse and his kin among the Aratar—were reduced to "Lesser Archangels" in Men's eyes. Yavanna was as powerful as him, and while the same could not be said for the other two, at best they were only slightly lesser in power, and he knew that their contributions were just as significant, so he mourned for the reduction of their roles and true standing.
And the reduction of the Maiar to nameless "Angels" were also something he felt sorrow over. He knew many of the Maiar personally, having worked closely with them in the shaping of the world, and a fair share of them had aided him in the crafting of many wonders. While Mairon and Curumo had fallen to the dark path, which he still mourned even now, for their failings were, in a way, his own as a master, there were still many Maiar of his order who remained loyal. Overall, the reduction of these spirits, each with their own gifts and purposes, to mere nameless entities was a tragic loss of understanding.
Aulë, in his deep value for precision, detail, and the understanding of the world's true nature, felt also the sting of sorrow and disappointment at the fact that Sauron and Morgoth were considered to be one "Devil" and their forces considered to be just "Forces of Hell". He knew better than most, even a share of the other Valar, the stark contrast between the two Dark Lords, and on a personal level, the blurring of the two dark figures into one would ignore the tragedy of Sauron's personal corruption, which Aulë had witnessed firsthand, ignoring the deeper narrative of pride and ambition that led Mairon, a Maia of great talent and vision, to fall under Morgoth's influence.
(For Aulë, this was not just a loss of historical truth but also a missed opportunity for Men to understand the corrupting power of pride and the gradual steps that lead to great evil.)
And finally, Men's concept of "Heaven" and "Hell" was also troubling and a point of sorrow for him. Although he lacked the knowledge of Manwë and Mandos as to the exact nature of the fate of Men upon death, he knew the concept of binary afterlives was a gross and tragic simplification of the Gift of Ilúvatar to Men. He knew that death was meant to be a transition, a passage to a fate beyond the circles of the world, one that is hidden even from the Valar. The idea that Men's souls were simply sorted into reward or punishment would seem to Aulë a source of potential lack of sincerity in worship, though he at least acknowledged that there was some good in that Men strove to be good out of a desire to live well and then die well.
In the end, though, Aulë did not despair. He knew that a far greater challenge lay ahead. For all the brilliance of Men, for all their accomplishments, they had not yet faced the true reckoning that was to come. Morgoth would return. The world would be broken and remade. And in that time, it would be the unity of all, from Ainur to the Children, including Men, who would decide the fate of all. And Aulë had faith that all the mistakes of the old could still be fixed, that he and his brethren could atone for their failures to be the guides Men so desperately needed, which left them susceptible to the shadow of Melkor.
For though Men were reckless, though they stumbled often, they had within them something that neither Elves nor Dwarves nor Ainur possessed in quite the same way—a boundless, unrelenting will to grow. And if they could be guided, even from afar, then when the final war came, they would be more than just the heirs of Arda. They would be part of the force that would save it, and in the end, also among those who would remake Arda.
And so Aulë would continue to watch. He would continue to guide, in small ways, in whispers of inspiration, in the patience given to struggling hands. He would continue to love all those who sought to shape the world, and he would continue to turn away from those who sought to use craft as a weapon of pride and destruction while aiding in either their defeat or self-realization as much as possible. He would reflect on the world of Men constantly, while continuing to build. He waited time and again, for he knew that he would be one of the Valar sent out to Middle-Earth in preparation for Dagor Dagorath.
Until then, Aulë would wait, silent and steady as the earth itself, as burning yet controlled as the way fire could be both a force of destruction and a force of creation. For the forge of creation never truly grew cold, and the fire of invention never ceased to burn.
So! How do you think about the first chapter that showed how the Ainur reflected over the ages? Please express your comments, and feel free to suggest which Valar whose reflections you want to see next! For now, though, I'm going to start working on the "Hunt for the Silmarils"!