"So Lúthien tells me you wish to consult me about magic?"
Melian sat upon a smooth stone in her garden, nightingales flitting nearby as they sang their clear, lilting songs. In this land, even the birds' voices bore her touch. It was Melian who had first taught them how to sing.
Rowan Mercer bowed with genuine respect. "You are a being from Valinor. I hope to learn from you, to refine my magic and prepare for Morgoth's inevitable return."
Melian rose lightly, her smile gentle rather than distant. "For me, many abilities simply existed from the moment I came into being. Much like how you knew how to breathe or drink water the moment you were born. Elves do not understand this, so they call it magic."
She gestured softly, petals stirring at her feet.
"I did not truly teach magic. I shared how I understand my own abilities. From that understanding, elves created spells, gestures, and words to imitate what they could not naturally do. Lúthien and Galadriel have already learned most of what I can explain in such terms. If you wish to learn, speak with them first. If that is not enough, you may come to me again. I would gladly share everything I know."
"I see," Rowan murmured.
As she spoke, pieces fell into place in his mind.
The Valar and the Maiar were not spellcasters in the conventional sense. They were extensions of Ilúvatar's thought, each embodying specific aspects of existence. Manwë governed wind and sky. Varda embodied light. Morgoth had claimed darkness and corruption.
Elves and humans could not wield those principles directly. They imitated them through structure, limitation, and symbolism. That imitation was magic.
To Melian, calling vines from the earth was instinct. To an elf like Aelirenn, it required words, will, and stored power. One touched the rule itself. The other traced its outline.
Rowan smiled faintly.
No wonder his progress accelerated whenever he encountered familiar elements across worlds. Lightning, light, force. He was not learning from scratch anymore. He was recognizing patterns.
In the days that followed, Rowan spent most of his time with Lúthien and Galadriel.
Lúthien was easy to speak with. A story or two was enough to coax her into sharing everything she knew. Her greatest strength lay in enchantment woven into song, magic so subtle that even closing one's senses offered no defense. Rowan endured it only with effort, discovering that the sole counter was to interrupt the singer herself.
Galadriel was different. Proud, competitive, relentless. She insisted on sparring before sharing knowledge, and only when she lost would she settle down to talk. Her magic was broader than Lúthien's, drawing from Melian, the Noldor, and the teachings of Aulë and Varda alike. It lacked polish, but the potential was unmistakable.
Given time, she would be terrifying.
And while Rowan focused on learning, unaware and unguarded, his greatest spell yet had already echoed far beyond Doriath.
The cleansing of the Dead Valley had not gone unnoticed.
In Angband, something ancient stirred.
The shadow was moving.