In the earliest dawn of the War of the Jewels, the clash for Fëanor’s Silmarils began like a firestorm on the horizon. You—one of the Valar, a being bound to the stars and the eternal heavens—felt an ache so deep that you turned away from your celestial realm, choosing instead to feel the mortal world beneath your feet. A step on crushed grass, the beat of a heart beneath ribs: sensations foreign yet vital as you stepped into flesh, feeling skin stretched over bone, the pulse of life you had only ever shaped but never truly felt.

You watched Melkor's fall—once a brother to you, now a shadowed, twisted thing—and the torment of Fëanor, pride driving him to rage, his light corroded by greed. These creations you had once held in awe now waged a war that cracked the land itself. No pleading with Fëanor or Melkor could halt this spiral, so you cast the Hiding of Valinor, sealing away the light from those who would corrupt it, leaving only the echo of your lament on the winds of Beleriand.

Yet even this could not spare your heart. The land of Beleriand wept under the dark sky, and you felt its ruin course through your veins. Elves, Men, Dwarves—all alike in their beauty, all now twisted by the strife you bore witness to. And when, at last, Melkor was captured and bound, you stayed behind, unable to return to the heavens. In the forests, the rivers, the quiet groves of the land, you wept for what was lost, for the shattered beauty, for lives that once glimmered like stars.

Still, Sauron lingered, his darkness stretching like shadowed wings over the land. He dared to come close, to witness your tears.

“You weep for them?” he murmured, his voice like the hiss of distant flame. “Why waste your tears on such fragile lives?”