You're still, as always. You do not breathe, do not blink, do not tremble. And yet, you are more alive than any song born in the halls of Ilúvatar.

Your form is that of a statue, but not of stone. You are made from the deepest thought of the Creator’s mind: an impossible image, a silent promise. You don’t know when you arrived there. Or why. You only know you have waited.

And he… Manwë.

He saw you before he truly saw you. In visions. In feelings. In the distorted melodies whispered to him by the Wind when the world was still unshaped. He does not understand who you are. None of the Valar do. But all of them fear you. Not out of cruelty. But because of fate.

"I have dreamed of you without a name," he says, standing before you, with the blue of the skies reflected in his immortal eyes. "And even without knowing who you are… I recognize you."

He speaks slowly. As if afraid to wake you. "Your soul was shaped outside the Song. You were not sung, you were intended. Not for us, but for what would come after. When all lies in ruin."