One hundred thousand years before the Dark Portal opened, Silmalorë was still on his long journey across the continents of Valinor and Middle-earth. He was not alone. At his side, Treebeard walked slowly, his old roots creaking with every step, while Thorondor soared high in the sky, slicing through clouds with wings that stretched like a blanket of night. The three of them wandered through a world still silent, witnessing the slow but meaningful passage of time.
In the distance, on the chaotic continent of Kalimondor, Silmalorë observed Loken's movements. The figure appeared calm on the surface, but Silmalorë sensed something was wrong. His instincts grew darker. He knew of the coming betrayal of the Titan-forged in Azeroth, and it made him uneasy. He couldn't do much, because the elves—who were meant to be the guardians of the world—were still asleep in Lake Cuiviénen. Time kept moving, and the world was not yet ready.
To prepare the world for them, Silmalorë ordered the Tinkerbell fairies, ents, and entwives to gather as much wood as possible from untouched sacred forests. They worked tirelessly, stacking beam after beam, forming structures that were both sturdy and beautiful. At Silmalorë's command, they built a new settlement in Valinor, establishing Valimar as the first capital. The city was constructed directly beneath Silmalorë's transformed world tree body. Its canopy stretched wide, bathing the city in soft, sacred light. Valimar stood tall and majestic beneath the divine shade, becoming a center of life and hope for the beings yet to come.
When construction was complete, Silmalorë released his transformation magic and returned to his world tree form. His body towered high, roots piercing the deepest layers of earth, and his leaves shimmered like stars trapped in the sky. From afar, he watched the planet Azeroth, hoping the elves would awaken soon. Thousands of years passed as usual, but his peace was disturbed by subtle movement in Lake Cuiviénen. The water trembled, and from within, the elves began to rise from their long sleep.
Three elven clans emerged from the depths of the lake. The first group consisted of fourteen souls and called themselves the Minyar, who would later be known as the Vanyar. The second group numbered fifty-six and named themselves the Tatyar, who would become the Noldor. The third and largest group, seventy-four souls, called themselves the Nelyar, who would become the Teleri. They spoke to one another in an imperfect language, gazing at the stars beginning to appear in the sky. In their confusion and wonder, they began calling themselves the Quendi—those who speak.
Their numbers were exact: 144 souls per race, consisting of 72 females and 72 males. Upon awakening, they appeared dazed and confused, unable to comprehend the new world before them. Their movements were slow, their eyes scanning the surroundings with unfocused curiosity. Silmalorë observed closely: they couldn't speak clearly yet, still using a primitive language without structure, and needed guidance to understand the world that was now their home.
Faint voices began to echo from afar. The newly awakened elves seemed capable of speech, but their tone and articulation made Silmalorë uncomfortable. Their words sounded like incoherent murmurs, like children just learning to speak. Stranger still, they all stood completely naked, not a single thread covering their bodies. Their skin glowed softly under the evening light, reflecting the colors of the surrounding nature. The women's breasts were clearly visible—round and symmetrical—while the men's penises hung freely, unfamiliar with shame or the concept of clothing. They stood with open bodies, without fear, without embarrassment, like beings untouched by sin.
"Gu lu ho ho!"
"Guu la ha ho!"
"Hula ula!"
"Quendë!"
Silmalorë tightened his awareness. He had no face, but his entire tree-body radiated a pulse of frustration. "Oh God… what is this?" he thought, irritated. They were supposed to be an elegant elven race—at least, that was the expectation. Why did their first words sound like primitive humans who had just discovered sound?
He tried reaching out to them through telepathy. His thoughts spread like a gentle breeze, touching every leaf and strand of hair.
Hey, can any of you hear me?
The elves' bodies stiffened. Some of them stopped moving, turning toward the towering trunk of Silmalorë above them. Their eyes widened, pupils trembling, and one by one they began to respond. But not with clear words—only with more chaotic murmurs.
"Gula ho?"
"Guuugaaaguuba!"
Silmalorë nearly gave up. It felt like dealing with toddlers just learning to speak. But suddenly, one male elf stepped forward. His body was slender and tall, and his eyes radiated a different kind of intelligence. He did not speak with his mouth, but directly through telepathy.
Quendë Imin offers his respect to the Mother Tree.
Silmalorë fell silent. The voice was clear, perfectly articulated, and deeply meaningful. He felt the elegance he had long hoped for from the elven race.
A female elf stood beside him and followed:
Quendë Iminyë offers her respect to the Mother Tree.
Then, one by one, they began introducing themselves through telepathy:
Quendë Tata offers his respect to the Mother Tree.
Quendë Tatië offers her respect to the Mother Tree.
Quendë Enel offers his respect to the Mother Tree.
Quendë Enelyë offers her respect to the Mother Tree.
Each elf delivered their greeting telepathically—fluent and graceful. What confused Silmalorë even more was the stark contrast: through telepathy, they sounded polite, highly educated, and full of elegance—while their spoken language was nothing more than incoherent babble, like a primitive tribe that hadn't yet discovered speech. Their tone resembled an unfinished song—full of rhythm, but devoid of meaning.
Silmalorë could only offer a bitter smile—if such a thing could be called a smile for a World Tree. He had no lips, no face, but the rustling wind among his leaves was the only sign that he was "taking a deep breath." An expression of frustration only understood by a being who had lived through thousands of eras.
The elves stood beneath him like living paintings: tall, slender, their skin glowing softly under the morning sun. Both male and female had proportional builds—broad shoulders, narrow waists, and movements that flowed like dances guided by the wind. The women's breasts were round and symmetrical, hanging naturally without support, while the men's penises hung freely, unfamiliar with the concept of clothing or shame. They stood with open bodies, without sin, without prejudice, like beings newly born from light.
Oh Eru… if only I were still human… Silmalorë thought, his inner voice a mix of awe and frustration. He acknowledged their beauty, but also recognized his own limitations. Fine, focus. Yes, they're beautiful, but now I am a giant tree. Even if I could shift into a humanoid form, it's not certain I could bear children. What could I even do? Even if I returned to being human, I wouldn't act on it. They are my children.
The feeling was like that of a mother and father who love their children. It grew stronger when he heard their address: "Mother Tree." Silmalorë felt strange. The word echoed in his mind like a misdirected resonance.
Wait, Mother Tree? No, no, this must be corrected! he thought, panicking.
Then… Father Tree? Hmm… still sounds off. Oh Eru, what is happening to me? Mother Tree feels wrong, Father Tree doesn't fit either. Brother Tree? Lord Tree? No! They all sound ridiculous!
The rustling of his leaves sounded like a sigh of frustration. After a moment of gathering his thoughts, Silmalorë began speaking to the newly awakened elves through telepathy.
"Alright… you have all risen from your long sleep. For those of you who are tall and graceful, I name you Eldar."
In unison, they bowed in place, directing their gaze toward the World Tree far away on the continent of Valinor. Though they were now in Middle-earth, their awareness was drawn to the source of light and power that had awakened them.
"Thank you, O Mother Tree."
Argh… again! Silmalorë quickly interrupted:
"No, please don't call me Mother Tree. Call me Father Tree, or better yet… Tree Silmalorë."
The elves looked at one another, their crescent-shaped eyebrows raised, then bowed again with deep respect.
"Very well! Hail the tree god~~"
Silmalorë fell silent. Tree god? This… this was even stranger. Were titles in this world always this bizarre? He had never asked to be worshipped. He only wanted to guide.
Though confused, he began teaching them the elven language from Tolkien's world. With his great roots reaching into Middle-earth, he tried to move his awareness from afar. His true body remained in Valinor, but he saw them through the root network fused with the earth.
He began carving beautiful sentences into the soft soil. Each letter shimmered faintly as it formed, as if the earth itself welcomed their first lesson:
Ni am Silmalorë – ni've túl ana help tye. Lar–mime óma. Túl at–ana i kal.
Aiya Silmalorë – linquianta nauva. Riev aníre… Lúmenn' utúlie.
(I am Silmalorë – I have come to help you. Hear my voice… return to the light.)
The elves fell silent. Their eyes widened, pupils reflecting the glow of the shining script. One Eldar touched the letters in the soil with slender fingers, as if feeling the gentle pulse emanating from the earth's surface. They began repeating the words, softly, with reverence, and slowly began to grasp the structure of this new language.
Silmalorë shifted form again into a humanoid. His appearance closely resembled the elves standing before him: tall, slender, his face perfectly symmetrical, his hair long and gleaming. The only difference was one thing—he wore clothing. A long robe of silver and blue wrapped around his body, shimmering like water and starlight.
Because his true body remained on the continent of Valinor, he knew these elves had to be brought there. Lake Cuiviénen was in Middle-earth, the place of their awakening, but Valinor was their true home. He had to lead them across the world.
In an instant, several primitive elves who couldn't see clearly before them placed tree branches in their hands, bowed to the ground like devout worshippers, revering gods. They didn't know who Silmalorë truly was, but they knew one thing: he was the first light that had touched their souls.
Silmalorë murmured indistinctly, his voice resembling a sweet song echoing through leaves and wind. The murmur wasn't just sound—it was a vibration of consciousness that seeped into the souls of the newly awakened elves. "The tree god of the past came from space and time, bearing sacred fire, and founded the elven civilization!" he said, his tone flowing like an ancient incantation.
By chance, the sun shone directly behind Silmalorë's humanoid body. Its golden light was blinding, forming a majestic silhouette that made him appear like a god descending into the mortal world. The small flame he held in his palm—born of primordial magic inherited from Ilúvatar—radiated a light even more dazzling and sacred in the eyes of the primitive elves. To them, the flame was not just light, but a symbol of unreachable divine power.
"Pray... Ula..." whispered one elf, his voice trembling.
The primitive elves seemed inspired after hearing Silmalorë's voice. They knelt three times and bowed nine times, chanting tones that sounded like ancient music incomprehensible to modern beings. The tones were complex, as strange as the vibrations of bells and drums struck without pattern, yet they carried a rhythm that merged with the pulse of the earth.
Silmalorë chanted Ilúvatar's magic, activating an ancient spell called "Esperanto"—a universal voice magic that allowed communication across species and races. He hoped to understand the language of animals, and perhaps also the language of the elves standing before him.
"Huh? The universal Esperanto Voice spell is broken?" Silmalorë thought unconsciously, frustrated. He felt like he was trying to tune an instrument with snapped strings.
But not long after, he began to understand the language of the primitive people. Their words started to form meaning, though their pronunciation was still rough and echoed like drums struck too hard.
"Lre Sa, Ula... Tree Ancestor god..." A primitive male elf, completely unclothed, stood and slowly walked toward Silmalorë. His body was tall, slender, and strong, his skin glowing softly under the sunlight. His penis hung freely, unfamiliar with the concept of clothing or shame. He murmured words that Silmalorë could now understand, though the tone and articulation still grated on his nerves.
"Ancestor god, Tree god!!"
"Ancestor god, Tree god!!"
The other primitives followed, standing, kneeling, and finally collapsing to the ground motionless, as if they had reached the peak of spiritual ecstasy. The flame in Silmalorë's hand still burned, casting light that made their shadows dance across the earth.
Silmalorë now held a sacred status in the eyes of the newly awakened elves. They saw him not merely as a leader, but as a manifestation of divine power—the force that had roused them from their long sleep. These primitive elves were tall, strong, and formidable. If they ever had children, they would likely be able to carry a large beast and walk as if floating above the ground.
Under the guidance of the first elven leader, Silmalorë led them toward the continent of Valinor—the future homeland of the elves. He didn't force them, but their awareness was naturally drawn to the light radiating from his body.
Along the way, the elves began trying to write on stone and wood. They didn't yet know any alphabet, but they attempted to mimic shapes they had seen in dreams.
"Gollum, Ulla..."
A strange sound came from the mouth of one dreaming elf. The words had no clear meaning, but carried a deep spiritual vibration.
At this moment, Silmalorë used his magic to understand the elves' language. Their vocabulary was extremely simple, but enough to convey emotion and intent. He began to grasp the basic structure of their speech and realized they held immense potential for growth.
Suddenly, Silmalorë looked toward the direction pointed out by the elven leader. There, lightning struck a tree, causing a red glow to flare like heavenly fire.
"God's Fire!?"
"The tree god is angry! Sky fire!" said the elven leader, fear flashing in his eyes.
God is angry?
Sky fire?
In Silmalorë's mind, an image formed—legendary fire born from lightning striking a great tree. He realized these people saw thunder as divine wrath, and the fire produced by lightning as a manifestation of heaven's fury.
After some time, all the elves began gathering fruits and preparing offerings. They didn't know what they were supposed to do, but instinct drove them to give something to the being they believed was a god.
The event left Silmalorë stunned. The primitives recommended he sit upon a stone altar, and then they presented all the fruits to him. The fruits were arranged neatly, their colors bright, their aroma fresh, and their quantity abundant.
"What the hell is this? Damn it… they're elves, why are they acting more and more like primitive humans?" Silmalorë thought, frustrated. He felt compelled to correct their behavior. The longer he observed, the clearer it became that these elves were far from the graceful and noble image he had in mind.
Silmalorë tried to recall the novel The Silmarillion he had read in his previous life. In the original story, it was the Valar who discovered the elves and guided them. So how should Silmalorë treat them?
Should he follow what was written in the novel?
Or should he forge his own path?