I awakened to darkness and heat. For a moment, I believed I was still dreaming, cocooned in the warmth of a heavy blanket. But this heat was far beyond any blanket this was the searing burn of molten rock. I felt it coursing through me, as if my blood had turned to magma. Panic seized me as I tried to move, only to feel an immense weight and a grinding of stone. Where were my arms, my legs? In the blackness I could not see them, but I sensed rough, colossal limbs anchored to a titanic body. I was enormous, far bigger than any human could ever be. In fact, I felt as if I was a piece of the landscape a hill or a mountain given consciousness.
Memories of who I was flooded back in disjointed flashes: a human life, small and fragile, in a far-off world of electric light and concrete. I remembered being a man my name, the concept of my family and friends, even the hobby of playing video games on weekends. One image in particular rose in my mind with uncanny clarity: a towering, turtle-like dragon from a favorite game, wreathed in flame and molten rock. Zorah Magdaros. The realization struck me like a hammer blow. Inconceivable as it was, I had become that creature. I was Zorah Magdaros, the colossal Elder Dragon a living volcano given flesh. My human soul now inhabited a body the size of a mountain, in a place I did not yet recognize.
The air around me was thick with sulfur and ash. As I struggled upright on four pillar-like legs, I heard the earth itself groan beneath me. Stone cracked and crumbled under the massive plates of my feet. I moved slowly, each motion ponderous and difficult my new body was built for power, not grace. My back scraped against something solid and earthen as I rose; it felt as if an entire hillside was sloughing off from the jagged shell that encased me. With a heave, I pulled myself free of what had been my resting place half buried in the crust of the earth itself. A pool of glowing lava sloshed off my shoulder and spilled onto the ground, sending up a violent hiss of steam. I must have been lying in a molten pit, and now that I stood, magma dripped from my rocky hide like water from a drenched hound shaking itself.
I took a tentative step forward, and the impact was like a minor earthquake. The ground trembled, forming spiderweb cracks that radiated out from my foot. I froze, fear mingling with awe. I had to be careful; a single misstep could reshape the land or crush whatever lay beneath. In the darkness I could make out a faint red glow emanating from the fissures in my own stone skin. Smoke curled from vents along my shell, and with each exhalation through my beaked maw, a plume of black smoke and sparks billowed into the air. The scent of brimstone hung all around. A walking volcano indeed, I thought with a mixture of amazement and trepidation.
Gradually my eyes or rather, whatever senses Zorah possessed adjusted to the gloom. Far above, the sky was a tapestry of blackness with only the faintest pinpricks of starlight. It hit me then: there was no sun, no moon, no familiar dawn to break this night. Only a deep darkness, as if creation itself had not yet kindled full light. A memory stirred from my own reading of myth: could this be Arda before the Sun and Moon, an age lit only by primal lamps or the earliest stars? My heart or whatever the equivalent was in this massive body pounded. Middle-earth. The word formed in my mind, and with it a cascade of fantastical yet very real possibilities. If I was truly Zorah Magdaros in Arda, when in its history could I possibly be?
No sooner had I asked that question than the world answered. From the distant north, a blossoming of blue light began to tint the horizon. Simultaneously, in the far south, a golden radiance arose. They grew in intensity, twin dawns rising opposite each other until the whole sky glimmered in hues of pale sky-blue and warm gold. I remembered those colors from Tolkien's lore: Illuin, the great Lamp of the Heavens, shining blue from the north; and Ormal, the high golden Lamp of the south. These were the Two Lamps of the Valar, set upon immense pillars at the world's ends to bring light to the dark young Earth. A tremor of awe coursed through me. I must be in the Years of the Lamps the Spring of Arda itself. And if the Lamps were just now kindled, it meant the Valar's labors had reached the moment of illumination. By the reckoning later devised in the Annals of Aman, this would be around Year 1900 of the Valar, when light first bathed the newborn world.
Under this new gentle light, the landscape around me revealed itself. I stood upon a vast plain of freshly shaped earth, still raw and unblemished. Gentle rolling hills extended into the distance, and here and there I saw the shimmer of water from young lakes. The world looked young pristine and symmetrical in its geography, untouched by any scar or storm. To the north, under Illuin's cool blue glow, I could just make out a towering shape on the horizon: the pillar of Helcar that held the northern Lamp aloft, like a distant mountain crowned with sky-blue fire. To the south, similarly, the pillar of Ringil upheld Ormal, a far gleam of high golden light at the edge of sight. And at the center of the world, where those lights overlapped, everything was suffused in a pleasant, eternal twilight neither too harsh nor too dim. It was perpetual dawn, the very morning of the world.
For a long moment, I simply stood there an impossible beast in an impossible time trying to reconcile my human mind with the grandeur of what I beheld. As a man I would have fallen to my knees at such beauty and wonder; as a mountain-sized dragon, I instead slowly lowered my massive bulk to sit upon the earth, causing it to tremble under my weight. A laugh bubbled up inside me, half joy and half disbelief, emerging as a sound like distant thunder rolling across the plain. The absurdity was not lost on me: here I was, a modern soul from Earth, inexplicably thrust into Tolkien's creation, in the body of a video game monster, witnessing the dawn of an age that no living Man or Elf ever saw. If some higher power intended this as a joke, it was a grand one. A subtle humor, perhaps, but cosmic in scale and entirely at my expense.
Yet I could not remain paralyzed by shock and awe forever. Cautioning myself, I eased back down onto all fours and began to move, determined to learn more about this new life and land. My initial clumsiness began to ebb as I took one slow, titanic step after another. Each footfall still boomed and shook the ground, but I found a steady rhythm. I felt no exhaustion; my endurance was inexhaustible by mortal standards. Powered by the magma coursing through me, I suspected I could walk for years without truly tiring. Speed, however, was another matter. No matter how much effort I put into a step, my gargantuan mass meant momentum and inertia ruled me. I could never be swift. At best, I was a crawling mountain, a moving hill whose progress would be measured in miles per day, not miles per hour. It took the better part of an hour just to climb out of the shallow crater my emergence had created. Patience, I realized, would be more valuable than haste in this form.
As I traveled across the virgin land, I paid keen attention to the effect I had on the world beneath. Where I had awakened, there was now a broad depression in the earth shaped roughly like my silhouette a newborn caldera already beginning to cool and solidify around the edges. My footprints pressed deep into the soft ground, each one a pond-sized gouge that would doubtless become a small lake once they filled with rainwater. I cringed inwardly at the inadvertent damage. In a world so new and unmarred, I was a walking catastrophe if I wasn't careful. I tried to step on bare stone where I could find it, and avoid the patches where delicate green shoots were poking through the soil some of the very first plants, by the look of them, stretching tiny leaves up toward the twin lights.
Despite my caution, I soon noticed a swath of charred ground in my wake. The natural heat that bled constantly from my body was enough to scorch grass and cause young saplings to wither. A thin trail of smoke followed me brush and wildflowers smoldering where stray droplets of my molten blood had dripped. It was disheartening. I had loved nature as a human; now I was inadvertently burning it.
After a few miles of trudging, I paused at the edge of a newborn forest tall fern-like trees and primordial mosses blanketing the area in green. I dared not go further in, lest I set the whole woodland ablaze. With a low sigh that came out as a billowing gust of steam, I resolved to skirt the forest instead, keeping to rocky clearings as much as possible. It was at that moment I felt a presence a gentle but immense consciousness touch my own like a breeze rustling through leaves.
From within the treeline, slender trees bent aside, making way for a radiant figure who approached without fear. She was taller than any mortal, clad in flowing raiments of green and brown, and her eyes were deep wells of wisdom and concern. Yavanna. I knew at once it was she: the Giver of Fruits, Queen of the Earth, one of the Valar and the guardian of all growing things. In her face was both kindness and a fierce protectiveness.
I lowered my head instinctively, as a child caught stepping on a flowerbed might. The heat of my body died down a little, as if even Zorah's draconic nature recognized her authority and sought not to harm her works. For a moment, Yavanna simply surveyed the damage I had unwittingly caused: the blackened grass, the wilted fronds at the forest's edge. Shame welled up inside me. In a quiet voice like the rustle of wind through willows she spoke, and though her words were in a tongue older than the world, their meaning blossomed in my mind.
She was not angry she understood that the destruction had been unintentional. But she gently reminded me that this world was in its infancy, that great care was needed not to mar its beauty. "Great beast, born of fire, can you not learn to temper your flame?" was the essence of her plea.
Finding my voice was not easy. My throat was not made for human speech, and what might have been words turned into a deep groan that rumbled up from my chest. It was a sound that sent leaves trembling and birds scattering from the canopy. I winced inwardly. Still, I tried to convey remorse in every way I could: bowing my massive head, hunching low to appear contrite, even tucking in my smoking claws. I hoped she could sense my intentions if not my exact thoughts. Yavanna's stern expression softened by degrees. She stepped forward and placed a hand a small thing, relative to me, but overflowing with power upon my smoldering foreleg.
Where her palm met my cracked, rocky scales, I felt a cool sensation spread. The fires within me banked; the lava coursing beneath my armor cooled slightly. The smoke around me thinned, as if a fresh breeze had swept through and dispelled the fumes. Yavanna's touch somehow helped me dampen the raging heat that radiated from my form.
It would not last forever, but it gave me a measure of control I had lacked moments before. Our eyes met hers bright and compassionate, mine glowing like the embers of a forge and I hoped she could see the gratitude in them. In return I caught the ghost of a smile on her face. The Vala of Growth then turned and vanished back into her forest, the greenery parting and then folding behind her graceful form as if she had never walked there at all. The scent of living blossoms briefly overpowered the brimstone in the air.
I remained still for a long while after she departed, contemplating this profound encounter. A Vala, an actual being out of myth, had not only noticed me but also aided me. I marveled at Yavanna's mercy and the subtlety of her power. In those moments, I also noticed something else: a strange tugging at my awareness, an undercurrent of thought that was not wholly my own. It was as if the raw beast within me recognized Yavanna in its own instinctual way and had submitted almost automatically to her gentling influence.
This startled me, It was the first clear sign that Zorah's memories or instincts were awakening inside my mind. The great dragon's primal responses deference to a power of nature, sensitivity to the life force of the world had wordlessly guided me as much as my human reasoning had. Bit by bit, I was absorbing these impressions. My human consciousness remained at the helm, but I could feel the creature's ancient instincts rising like magma beneath the surface of my thoughts.
With Yavanna's blessing tempering my fiery aura for the time being, I pressed on in my journey. I angled westward, reasoning that if this world was indeed Arda made young, then at its heart should lie the dwelling of the Valar themselves. Perhaps I could find the great Lake of Almaren where they lived and see them from afar. Part of me equal parts curiosity and hopeyearned to approach the Valar, maybe even communicate with them. If anyone could understand my bizarre situation, it would be those divine Powers. Perhaps they might guide me, or at least not smite me on sight.
Another part of me, however, was deeply afraid: afraid of being judged a monster of Melkor by mistake. After all, a gigantic, fire-spewing dragon wandering the land might easily be mistaken for a spawn of the Enemy in these times. I certainly did not want a confrontation with the likes of Tulkas or Oromë due to a misunderstanding!
Thus I moved cautiously and mostly at the margins lurking in the twilight edges of forests and hills, revealing myself only when necessary. Not that there was true night under the Lamps (darkness only pooled in the distant East and West, beyond their reach), but I kept to whatever shadows I could find. Slowly, over what must have been years, I drew nearer to the central regions of the continent. I took my time, both to avoid causing harm and because I was in no particular rush; I had begun to sense the passage of time differently.
A month passed like a day to me now. My colossal mind, influenced by the ancient patience of an Elder Dragon, found that waiting and observing felt natural. I could stand immersed in a hot spring for weeks, letting my aching magma-filled limbs be soothed, and hardly notice the time slip by. While my human side initially fretted about hours and days, that anxiety gradually melted away like frost under the gentle Lamps. In this vast new lifespan, I learned to embrace a slower perspective.
By the time I reached the vicinity of Almaren's Great Lake, the world had flourished into something like paradise. It was, as later songs would call it, the Spring of Arda: everywhere plants were in bloom, colossal primeval forests sprawled over hills, and beasts both great and small roamed free under the mingled light of Illuin and Ormal. I saw herds of enormous herbivores browsing in distant meadowsoxen-like creatures with fern-like horns and flights of bright-winged birds wheeling through the sky, their calls echoing over the waters. Most animals paid me little heed if I remained still; to them I was more landscape than predator, a moving hill that occasionally belched smoke.
Sometimes I would remain motionless for months at a time to avoid disturbing a particularly beautiful glade, content to simply observe like a living mountain watching over a valley. Other times, Zorah's instincts pulled at me to move on an urge to seek out geothermal vents or lava flows to bask in. I suspect that in whatever world Zorah originally came from, such instincts drove it to migrate or to absorb energy from the earth. Here in Arda, I indulged those urges just enough to keep the beast part of me satisfied, making pilgrimages to active volcanoes or deep caverns where I could wallow in molten rock for a year or two before continuing my exploration.
One hazy golden-blue morning, as I crested a range of low hills, I finally beheld Almaren itself. The Great Lake sprawled before me like a sheet of silvered glass, perfectly reflecting the light of the Lamps. At its center lay an island garlanded in lush woods and gentle pastures the Isle of Almaren, home of the Valar in this epoch. Even from miles away, my keen eyes spotted magnificent halls amid the greenery, and I heard faint echoes of music and laughter carrying over the water.
The serenity of it took my breath away (what little breath a creature of fire has). I felt tears of awe well up scalding molten tears that trickled down my face and cooled into black obsidian droplets on the ground. Never had I seen such a vision of peace and plenty. In that moment, a profound loneliness washed over me. Here was the bliss of togetherness and purpose shared by the Valar, and I was an outsider, alone in form and fate, watching from the edges.
I dared not approach the sacred island any closer. Instead, I skirted the Great Lake, keeping to the forests and hills that ringed its shores. I was mindful of Yavanna's lesson, striving to leave as little mark as possible as I passed. Still, I suspect some of the Valar became aware of me in those days. Once, while wading across a shallow marsh on the lake's eastern side, I ventured a bit too far into the water. My enormous weight made me sink alarmingly fast into the muddy lakebed. Cool water rushed around my legs and up along my heated body, and soon I was in up to my chin. With my great mass displacing so much water, the marsh became a roiling mire. The sudden quenching of my hot shell caused a billowing cloud of steam to explode upward, surely visible for miles. I thrashed in panic, sending ripples across the lake like mini tidal waves. Before I could free myself, the waters around me surged with a will of their own. A powerful current gathered beneath my belly and lifted me, almost as if a giant invisible hand were scooping me up. Gently but irresistibly, the current carried me toward the shore and deposited me on firmer ground with a great squelch of mud.
As the steam cleared, I beheld a shadow beneath the surface of the lake vast and coiling, like the reflection of a storm cloud in the water. Rising just enough to break the surface was the crown of a great helm formed of living seaweed and studded with pearls. Two eyes like bottomless wells peered at me from the water's depth. Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, had come to my aid. He did not rise fully from the lake (to do so would have been to reveal himself to others perhaps not yet aware of my presence), but I felt his voice reverberate through the waters and into the ground under my feet. It was less words and more music a deep, resonant chord like the sound of whales echoing in the deeps. In that resonance I gleaned his meaning: a caution to tread carefully in his domain, and a gentle acknowledgment that he bore me no ill-will. I chuffed softly in reply, a rumbling attempt at "Thank you." The waters around me swirled once, almost playfully, and I dared to think the Sea-king gave a quiet laugh before his shadow sank back into the lake's depth. The marsh settled, and I was alone again drenched, humbled, but unharmed.
As time flowed on, seasons (if one could call them such, in a world of constant light) turned into years, and years into decades. Under the Lamps there was little change in weather or day-night cycle, but time still brought growth and subtle shifts to Arda. I wandered further across the vast continent, witnessing wonders of the Spring of Arda that later generations would only sing of. The Valar continued to lovingly shape the world in those years of peace. I watched from afar as Yavanna caused new forests to bloom across distant plains, and as Aulë the Smith delved deep pits and raised gentle mountain ranges in the east, molding the earth almost like clay. Rivers were carved and guided by Ulmo's flowing will; the very clouds were tended by Manwë's breath to give rain where needed. All was harmony briefly unmarred by strife. And in my wandering, I did my best to remain a quiet, unobtrusive part of the landscape.
On one occasion, I even had the fortune to cross paths directly with Aulë the Smith. It happened in the far east of Middle-earth, where I came upon a range of newly hewn hills. They were peculiar too symmetrical and ordered to be entirely natural and I soon realized I was looking at fresh works of craftsmanship upon the land. Cresting a ridge (carefully, so as not to crumble it), I spotted Aulë himself not far off, standing amidst the dust of chiseled rocks and surveying his handiwork. He was giant as the Valar sometimes chose to appear, nearly of a height with my own head, and mighty in build. His hair and beard shone coppery in Ormal's golden light. In his hand he held a great hammer, gleaming silver. Everything about him emanated strength and skill.
I felt a thrill of both excitement and anxiety. Here was the very craftsman of the Valar, the maker of mountains, and the forger of the Lamps. A part of me wanted to shrink away before I was noticed, but another part (perhaps my old human fanboyism, or just simple courage) urged me forward. Gritting my fangs, I carefully plodded out from behind the ridge into the open. I kept my head low and my posture as non-threatening as possible for a creature of my size. Boulders cracked under my weight, announcing my presence with unignorable noise. Aulë turned and fixed his keen gaze upon me.
He did not raise his hammer, nor did he call out in alarm. Instead, he regarded me with a curious, thoughtful expression, tilting his head as one might when puzzled by an unexpected find. In a booming yet measured voice, he addressed me in the Valar's own tongue. I could not understand those words in detail, but the tone was inquisitive, not hostile. Since I still lacked the ability to form coherent speech, I answered as best I could: I slowly bowed my forequarters, dipping my massive head in a gesture of respect. Then, using one claw like a gigantic stylus, I gently carved a symbol into the soft stone at my feet a simple spiral pattern that to me meant curiosity and peace. It was a desperate attempt at communication, drawn from some half-remembered Celtic design I once knew.
Aulë watched my scratching and then, to my relief, he laughed. It was a rich, hearty laugh that rolled across the hills like warm thunder. Clearly he found my crude drawing amusing, but not ridiculous. Setting his hammer down, the Smithlord took a few strides closer. He reached out a hand and actually patted the end of my lowered snout, which must have looked like a cliff-face of obsidian and brimstone to him. "Stranger from afar, well met," I felt him say whether those words were heard by my ears or resonated directly in my mind, I wasn't sure. In that instant, I understood: Aulë had perceived that I was no mere beast. Perhaps Yavanna had whispered of me, or perhaps Aulë's deep lore allowed him to sense the spark of fëa (soul) and thought within my monstrous form. However it was, he accepted my peaceful overture.
Aulë's touch was peculiar. Where his hand met my stony hide, the rock smoothed and cooled, as if his will coaxed the very structure of the minerals into a more stable, pleasant form. I rumbled appreciatively a sound that made the nearby newly built hills tremble just a bit. I tried to convey in my mind the respect I held for him, the admiration even, and though I doubt he caught the specifics ("I've been a fan of your work since the Silmarillion, Lord Aulë!" is not exactly easily conveyed without words), he smiled knowingly. He cautioned meagain, the meaning simply arose in my thoughts to be mindful of Yavanna's little ones (the plants and animals) as I traveled. I bobbed my head in agreement.
Our meeting was brief, for Aulë had much to do and I did not want to detain him. Before he turned back to his labors, he knelt and pressed his palm against the earth. With a faint rumble, a cluster of crystals sprouted from the ground at my feet bright quartz and amethyst, glittering in the blended light of the Lamps. A gift, it seemed, a token of welcome or friendship. "May your road be under stone and star," he said softly. It was an old blessing. I understood it as a hope that I would find firm earth to walk on and guidance above. I let out a gentle warbling hiss of thanks. Aulë inclined his head, then hefted his great hammer and went on his way, humming a deep tune as he carved a valley between two hills with each swing. I watched him depart, marveling that I had exchanged civilities with one of the Powers of the world and had been accepted, if only as a curiosity. The feeling of warmth from that encounter stayed with me for years afterward, like a small steady coal of comfort glowing within my heart.
Not all my glimpses of the Valar were so intimate. On another day, I caught sight of Oromë far across a wide plain, riding his great steed Nahar in a wild hunt. The sound of his horn Valaróma echoed clear and bright even many leagues away, ringing over the land like a challenge to any lurking shadows. He was pursuing some colossal beast perhaps one of the strange early creatures that Melkor's meddling had spawned. I saw flashes of the hunter's silver spear and the blur of Nahar's white mane. The ground shook with the distant drumming of hooves as Oromë and his entourage of Maiar rode after the fleeing creature. Eventually, the beast's bellow of rage echoed to silence; I suspect Oromë felled it with a single mighty thrust. I had felt a twinge of pity for the creature being hunted it was not evil, merely untamed but such was the harmony of that time that even this act had a purpose, likely to keep some balance in check. I made certain to keep far away from that commotion. The last thing I needed was to be mistaken for a target in one of Oromë's great hunts!
Throughout these long years, I remained acutely aware of the balance between my human self and the dragon I had become. As decades turned to centuries (for by now I measured time in centuries when I reflected on it), I found that I no longer constantly yearned for the trappings of my old human life. Those memories and desires were still there safe in a corner of my soul but they began to feel more like a story I had once read, rather than the immediate, urgent experiences of me. In their place, a deep contentment in simply being took root. I would lie half-submerged in a lava pool for a decade, dreaming molten dreams, and it felt as restorative as a good night's sleep had in my former body. I could watch a single sapling grow into a towering tree over the course of years, and to me it was as swift and wondrous as watching a flower bloom in time-lapse. I hadn't lost my humanity I still thought in words, still remembered jokes and songs and the love of my family but I had gained the perspective of an ancient, colossal being. Time for me flowed like a wide, slow river, and I drifted on it with a patience I never knew I had.
But not all remained idyllic. As what must have been the Valian Year 3400 approached (unbeknownst to me in numbers, but evident in the changing mood of the world), a shadow of unease crept into the edges of that blissful land. The Valar held a great celebration then I learned later it was a feast where Tulkas himself took Nessa to wed, a time of joy in Almaren yet beyond the reaches of their light, something sinister was stirring. I sensed it first in the earth itself: a tremor here and there that came from the far north, a distant rumbling as of stone being cloven and remade by force. The winds carried strange scents to my nostrils ash and frost, mingled in an unnatural union. My dragon instincts prickled with a feeling akin to the charge in the air before a thunderstorm. Melkor. The primeval part of me somehow recognized the taint of his presence even before my mind consciously put a name to it. The Black Foe of the World had returned to Middle-earth.
Compelled by both dread and a wary curiosity, I began a long trek northwards, toward the source of these disturbances. It took me years of steady travel, across plains and hills that were gradually less verdant and more barren as I went. The light of Illuin grew brighter as I neared the far north, but the landscape grew harsher in spite of that blessing. Eventually, looming before me on the horizon was a forbidding sight: a wall of jagged peaks, black and cruel, cutting across the land from east to west. These were the Iron Mountains, raised in secret by Melkor's power as a bulwark around his domain. They were mountains made not for beauty or for the joy of the earth, but as fortifications sharp, twisted, and cold. Their shadows spilled far to the south, and a pall of darkness hung above them that even Illuin's bright Lamp-light could not fully dispel.
I approached as near as I dared to those dread heights. The air itself felt heavier, as though every particle was tainted by malice. The ground underfoot was scarred and unnaturally churned, as if great forces had rent it. Pools of dark, icy water lay in craters where lush fields should have been. There were no songs of birds here, no rustle of gentle life only a deathly stillness and the distant howl of freezing winds from the mountain passes. I moved between craggy outcroppings, trying to stay hidden while still catching a glimpse of what lay beyond that range. I began to notice chasms and vents in the earth that leaked fumes into the sky. Some were hot, belching sulfurous steam, while others exhaled a cold reek like an open grave. The closer I got, the more a sense of wrongness gnawed at me.
Then I saw it: a distant cleft at the base of a mountain, from which a flickering firelight glowed. The entrance to Utumno, Melkor's fortress, deep underground. Even from miles away, my sharp eyes could make out the movement of creatures around it tiny black specks swarming like ants. I heard faint clangs, roars, and hisses. Utumno was awake and teeming with evil. My human mind quailed at the sight, recalling every dark tale from the Silmarillion, but the dragon in me reacted more viscerally: hackles (if I had them) raised, and a deep growl started in my throat. I realized I was basically challenging an entire kingdom of darkness with that involuntary rumble, and hastily silenced myself. But it was too late. The ground must have carried the vibration of my growl like a drum-signal straight to the fortress.
Suddenly the silence was broken by a resonant crack that echoed off the mountains. A fissure tore open in the side of a slope not far from Utumno's gates, and from it erupted a towering figure wreathed in flame. My eyes widened at first I thought it might be Melkor himself in wrathful form, but I quickly saw it was something else: a giant fire spirit, a Balrog. Its body was man-like but huge, composed of shadow and flame, and it bore a whip of fire that uncoiled behind it with a hissing snap. Soon another erupted from a cliff, then another Balrogs, plural, like hornets from a nest, alerted by my presence. Within moments I counted four of them climbing down the black slopes, closing in on my vicinity. Each stood at least a third my own height, and where I was bulky and slow, they were lithe and terrifically swift, flowing over the rocks like living wildfires.
For the first time since arriving in this world, I felt the icy stab of immediate fear. These were no mindless beasts that I might frighten off with size; they were ancient Maiar spirits corrupted to Melkor's service, filled with malice and cunning. I had no desire to test my magma against their hellfire. As the first Balrog approached, I instinctively reared up to my full height on hind legs, trying to look as imposing as possible. My head brushed a low-hanging cloud as I bellowed a warning roar. The sound erupted from me like a volcano detonating, shockwaves rippling outward. In truth, I hoped to startle them into pausing, maybe reconsidering an attack. The lead Balrog did halt for a moment, crouching low and spreading the flames of its aura wide. It swung that massive whip in a lazy circle, and where it lashed the air the very fabric of the sky seemed to smolder.
There was a tense standoff. I realized that from their perspective, I might appear to be some new kind of monster encroaching on their master's territory. They likely did not know what to make of me. Behind the Balrogs, farther up the slope, I glimpsed a darker shadow vaster than the rest rising and watching. I felt, rather than heard, a fell voice resonate in my mind: Melkor's will pressing outward, like an oppressive dark cloud, probing at my thoughts. "You do not belong here," the voice almost seemed to say, or perhaps that was simply what I imagined. It felt like the malice of a thunderstorm focused solely on me. My resolve nearly shattered; every instinct screamed at me to flee.
And flee I did. With a final trumpeting roar (part defiance, part terror), I dropped back to all fours and began to back away. I moved slowly at first never turning my back on the Balrogs just retreating step by earthshaking step. One of them lunged forward, flames streaming from its shoulders, as if to chase, but the largest of the group lifted its fiery sword and held the others in check. They stalked after me only so far as to ensure I was indeed leaving. Once I had put a considerable distance between myself and the perimeter of Utumno, the fire-demons halted. I could feel their gaze, like hot coals, on my tail until I disappeared behind a ridge. Only then did I turn and break into a lumbering, undignified run.
I did not stop until the glow of Illuin overhead was bright and the air felt clean of evil perhaps a hundred miles south of those cursed mountains. There, in a valley where a clear stream ran, I collapsed, sides heaving. If dragons could sweat, I would have been drenched in cold perspiration. My mind was racing, a storm of relief and lingering fear. I had stared into the face of true evil and lived, but only because I wisely ran. In the distance, I thought I heard a peal of cruel laughter echo against the sky; it might have been thunder, or it might have been Melkor savoring how easily he had cowed the great intruder. I vowed then to steer well clear of the north going forward.
I wished, too, that I could warn the Valar of what I had seen. They were enjoying bliss and celebration in Almaren, likely oblivious that Melkor had entrenched himself so thoroughly already. For a brief moment, I considered trying to go back south at top speed to somehow signal them perhaps I could cause an earthquake in a pattern or set a hill ablaze as a warning? But that thought was quickly quashed. Even if I could communicate the danger, it was not my place to alter the course of this world's history. In Tolkien's canon, the Valar did not strike against Melkor until after he had done his damage. I found myself trapped by the peculiar position of a self-aware observer: I knew a great tragedy was imminent, but I felt I should not (and perhaps could not) ultimately prevent it. My presence here was an anomaly; I had to be careful not to butterfly-effect the timeline in some drastic way.
So, heavy with that knowledge, I retreated into the deep wilderness far from Utumno, hunkering down to wait for what I feared would come. I chose a region in the distant east of Middle-earth, near a chain of volcanoes that had been quietly active for some time (likely stoked by the disruptions Melkor caused in the world's foundations). There I could hide, and also, frankly, comfort myself by merging into an environment that matched my own fiery nature. In those volcanic highlands I spent the last years of the Spring of Arda, uneasy and vigilant. I slipped into huge lava caves when I needed to recuperate, covering my luminous eyes with mud to hide their glow. I sustained myself by absorbing the geothermal energies and feasting on brimstone deposits (a decidedly acquired taste that Zorah's instincts thankfully guided me through). I practiced using my abilities in controlled ways: spewing just small jets of flame or dripping little rivulets of lava, to make sure I had some handle on these powers should I need them. Part of me felt like a soldier preparing for a war I knew was coming. And as much as I dreaded the looming conflict, a sliver of draconic excitement also sparked within me the Elder Dragon thirsting to unleash its power if provoked. I kept that side of myself in check with stern human discipline. I would not play Melkor's game unless forced.
The end, when it came, was swift and catastrophic. I remember the day clearly. It began calm and eerily quiet. The light of Illuin and Ormal was as steady as ever, but something in their hue seemed off to my eyes perhaps a subtle dimming that mortal creatures couldn't perceive. I was resting atop a basalt outcropping, peering warily toward the far west where Almaren lay beyond the curving horizon. Without warning, Illuin's azure light on the northern horizon flickered. I rose to my feet, every sense alert. A distant rumble reached my ears, like thunder from a clear sky. Suddenly a blinding flash of sky-blue erupted far to the north, so intense that it turned the clouds above my head the color of noon. I had to avert my gaze as Illuin, the great Lamp of the North, flared brilliantly… and then went dark.
An unimaginable sound followed: a grinding, splintering roar as the pillar of Helcar that bore Illuin aloft cracked and toppled. Although I was countless miles away, I saw the top of that pillar, with Illuin still shining upon it, plummet toward the ground in slow, awful majesty. The Lamp hit the earth with a blast of radiance and force that defies description. A wave of blue-white fire expanded on the northern horizon, and the ground beneath me jolted violently a moment later, nearly throwing me off my feet. I knew then that Melkor had struck he had cast down Illuin. In quick succession, before I had time to even process the first blow, the southern sky flared orange and gold. Ormal, the second Lamp, was also felled in wrath. The pillars of light that had defined the world's gentle day were gone in an instant, broken by the dark Vala's assault.
I bellowed in anguish as the world around me convulsed. The very shape of the land was breaking. From the north, a searing wind blew, carrying ash and an eerie half-light of flames. From the south, through the tremoring air, I heard the groaning shriek of lands being sundered. The ground at my feet cracked; great rends opened in the crust, belching fire and smoke as the earth's inner heat was unleashed. Melkor had marred Arda, and the damage was beyond anything I could have imagined.
Thinking only of survival, I stumbled forward, trying to keep balance as an endless series of quakes rippled through the terrain. A mountainside nearby collapsed, sending an avalanche of red-hot boulders cascading down one more hazard amid the chaos. I charged through a forest that was withering and igniting from sudden intense heat. The canopy above, once illuminated by serene light, was now lit by rolling clouds of fire. I saw the northern sky completely engulfed in a curtain of seething flame the spilled radiance of Illuin burning everything it touched. To the south, the horizon glowed red, and I knew Ormal's fall must have ignited entire regions as well. The perfect symmetry of Arda's lands was being shattered.
Desperately, I tried to recall safe havens or any guidance from lore on surviving such an apocalypse, but nothing in my human knowledge was useful for this. The ground split open directly in front of me, and I nearly tumbled into a newly formed chasm. I halted just in time on the crumbling edge. Far below, I glimpsed fire lava gushing up from wounds in the earth's crust. With a mighty push of my legs, I leapt over the fissure, an awkward, heaving jump that nonetheless cleared it. I landed with a crash on the other side, my weight driving me a dozen yards downhill through uprooted trees and dirt. There was a thunderous splash and hiss one of my huge feet had punched into a subterranean aquifer, and boiling water geysered up around my leg. I yanked it free with a roar of pain as the scalding water doused part of my molten flesh. Steam exploded around me, obscuring vision.
Through that sudden steam cloud, I discerned a towering wall of foaming water bearing down from the north. The Sea of Helcar was being born Illuin's fall had gouged an immense basin that water was now rushing to fill, sending tsunamis radiating outward. The flood was coming faster than I could possibly run. With no high ground in reach, I dug my claws into the rocky earth instinctively. The tidal wave slammed into me an instant later. For a heartbeat I was completely submerged, a tiny pebble in an oceanic surge. The force tore at my grip, wrenching my limbs, and I felt one of the spikes on my carapace snap off with the strain. The water was merciless and choking, swirling around my head and over my shell. But after the first impact, the wave's ferocity lessened; by standing my ground I had actually broken the flow like a giant boulder dividing a river. The torrent parted around me and then continued past, flooding into the lowlands behind. I remained upright, coughing out water and spitting flame instinctively to reheat my chilled insides. The steam that billowed from my mouth turned the air around me into a scalding fog.
I slogged onward, every step a battle. At some point, debris began to rain from the heavens: fragments of the great Lamps and their pillars, flung high into the sky by the force of their destruction. I glimpsed a burning shard hurtling down like a meteor and flattening an entire hill in the distance. Smaller pieces jagged rocks and smoldering crystal pelted the landscape (and me). A chunk the size of a house ricocheted off my shoulder plate, cracking the outer layer of stone and knocking me sideways. If not for Zorah's incredibly thick shell, that might have broken bones. I grunted and pressed on, though now a limp in my gait told me one foreleg had been injured. The pain was intense, but it also sharpened my focus: survive first, worry about anything else later.
The sky, once blue and gold, turned black with ash. Only the infernal glow of widespread fire illuminated the land now. It was as dark as any night, punctuated by the hellish reds and oranges of conflagration. Through the cacophony, I thought I heard notes of something almost like singing wailing voices on the wind. Perhaps the Valar were crying out in grief or working some last enchantment to soften the ruin. Or perhaps it was simply the sound of the earth keening. In truth, all sounds blurred into a single roar: wind, water, fire, rock, my own blood pounding in my ears.
At some point, I found myself near what had been a broad river. The river had turned into a boiling flood, and entire trees were being swept along in it, ablaze and sputtering. I made for a rise of land beyond the river that looked more stable. Just as I reached the river's edge, the ground gave way the riverbank crumbled and I was plunged into the torrent. I was instantly pulled under by the current. The shock of cold water enveloping me would have taken my breath away, had I not instinctively sealed my lungs. The river, supercharged by flood and quake, dragged my massive body like I was a leaf. I tumbled end over end in the raging waters, utterly disoriented. For a terrifying moment, everything was silent and cold; I was back in that eerie quiet of underwater, but this time in utter darkness as well. My glowing internal fire dimmed under the onslaught of cold, and I felt a lethargy maybe even the edges of despair creeping in. Would I, who had survived so much, drown ignobly in a flood?
But fate or providence was not done with me. In the darkness of the deluge, I sensed a familiar great presence. The current around me shifted, no longer chaotic but suddenly purposeful. It gathered beneath me like a rising swell and thrust me upward. With a tremendous surge, I broke the surface, vomited out onto land by a powerful wave. I found myself lying on a battered slope amidst mud and stones, coughing up water and lava in equal measure. As I looked back at the raging river, I saw it divert and split around the hill I was on, as if some giant hand was parting it just long enough to spare me. I knew at once it was Ulmo's doing once again, the Lord of Waters had safeguarded me from the depths. I could almost hear a deep voice in the receding water: "Live on, flame, for the world will have need of all its fires." Perhaps it was only my imagination, but I took it to heart.
Eventually, the cataclysm abated. The quaking slowed to an occasional tremor. The floods settled into new seas and lakes. The fires died down to embers, smoldering across a land transformed. Coughing out a sooty breath, I hauled myself onto a rise to survey what remained. The sight stole what remained of my words. The world as I had known it was gone. In every direction, the landscape was rent and reshaped. Great gaping seas foamed where before had been solid ground. Ranges of mountains had crumbled or tilted; elsewhere, new peaks had thrust up like broken spears. To the west, I could see that a huge portion of the land had been sundered and cast off across a wide ocean this must be what would become Aman, separated from Middle-earth. The central region where Almaren had been was utterly ravaged; the lake was gone, likely drained or boiled away, and in its place a chaotic mass of shattered earth and water remained. The north was now dominated by an inland sea (the Sea of Helcar, I realized, born of Illuin's fall), its waters still steaming and filled with floating ice and debris. The far south I could not see from here, but a red glow on the horizon hinted that fires still raged there where Ormal's impact had been. Above, the sky was darkened with ash and smoke. Only a few feeble stars peered through gaps a sign that true night had fallen, for the first time since the Lamps were lit. Illuin and Ormal were no more, and their light no longer graced Middle-earth.
Thus, in the Year of the Lamps 3450 by the Valar's reckoning, the Spring of Arda came to its end. The glorious lights that had nourished this world for 1600 Valian years were extinguished, and Arda was left in darkness and ruin. I stood amidst the desolation, a titan covered in ash, illuminated only by the dull glow of my own magma veins and the distant fires on the horizon.
A plaintive sound drifted on the wind a lamentation, high and sorrowful. I fell silent, straining to hear. It was music, I realized. Somewhere far to the west, the Valar were mourning. Perhaps it was Yavanna or Nienna raising a dirge for the death of the Lamps, or Varda crying out in grief as she gathered the last sparks of light. The song was filled with pain and regret, and it moved me to my core. I found myself answering with a low bellow, a mourning call of my own that resonated through the broken hills. It was the only way I knew to express the profound sense of loss that washed over me. I mourned for the innocent land that had been, for the countless trees and creatures destroyed, and yes, even for my own personal paradise lost those tranquil centuries of wandering under gentle light, now suddenly ended in fire and shadow.
In the days that followed, I wandered the devastated terrain, searching for any sign of the Valar's presence in Middle-earth. I found none. Almaren was utterly destroyed; nothing remained of their dwelling but scorched ground and chaotic waters. I felt their absence keenly. The Valar had withdrawn from these lands. Of course, I recalled from lore what they would do next: they would retreat across the sea to Aman and raise a new home in Valinor, far from Melkor's reach. There, they would kindle the Two Trees and begin the Years of the Trees, leaving Middle-earth to its darkness for a long age. Knowing this did little to quell the loneliness that settled on me. Yavanna, Aulë, Oromë, even Manwë in his wisdom they were gone from Middle-earth now, save perhaps Ulmo who always wandered the waters. And Melkor… Melkor remained, victorious for the time being, lord of a ruined kingdom.
I kept myself far from the Enemy's domains. With Middle-earth in twilight and no children of Ilúvatar yet awakened, there were vast regions empty of any will or watcher, and there I made my refuge. I journeyed into the furthest east and south, where even Melkor's eyes seldom strayed. In those desolate expanses I could hide my bulk amidst jagged mountains and half-formed lands. Often, I would lie dormant for years, disguising myself as just another volcanic ridge or an island in a steaming lake. If any of Melkor's minions passed by, they took me for a natural volcano or if they sensed something more, they dared not provoke a creature of my size alone. In truth, a few lesser beasts did approach on occasion (twisted things resembling trolls or giant reptiles), but a single glare from my burning eyes or a warning gout of flame sent them scurrying. In that manner, I survived in isolation.
The world grew quiet in the aftermath of the cataclysm. Yavanna had, mercifully, placed many living things into a deep sleep as the darkness fell an act of preservation until light should return. So forests stood silent, their spirits slumbering. Animals curled in hidden dens, dreaming away the centuries of dark. The once unceasing chorus of life was now muted. Only the howling of cold winds and the distant rumble of earth occasionally broke the silence. Middle-earth seemed to be holding its breath, enduring the long night, as if awaiting a distant dawn that only Mandos could foresee.
I eventually settled in a range of volcanic mountains that had formed along one of the great rifts a byproduct of Ormal's ruin, perhaps. There, the earth was warm and active, with lava flows that I could bathe in and plenty of obsidian caverns to shelter me. In one particularly large caldera, I carved out a massive cavern for myself using my claws and fiery breath, melting and fusing the rock to form a dome-like chamber. It was primitive, but it was a home of sorts. There I coiled my bulk and finally let myself rest. My body, tireless as it was, still benefited from periods of dormancy like a volcano needing intervals of quiescence between eruptions. As I lay in the dark, the only light came from the glow of my own heartfire pulsing through the cracks in my scales. I felt a profound fatigue settle over my mind (if not my flesh). The shock and trauma of witnessing the Fall of the Lamps, of experiencing the end of an age, weighed on me heavily.
In that quiet and solitude, I had ample time to think. I thought of my old world my human world so impossibly far removed from this reality. Would I ever see it again? Did I even truly wish to, after all I had seen here? I thought of the Valar, my brief encounters with them now like cherished dreams. I hoped they would remember the strange dragon who roamed their realms, but I feared I would be forgotten in the greater concerns that lay ahead for them (the coming of the Elves, their war against Melkor, and so on). I also pondered Melkor's glance and those Balrogs. They had given me a wide berth after the disaster, seemingly content as long as I stayed away. Perhaps they assumed I perished in the ruin after all, many things had. I intended to keep it that way; anonymity was safety.
Above all, I reflected on the dual nature within me. My human self was proud that I had stayed true to my values I had not let power or fear corrupt me into causing harm. The Zorah within me was likewise satisfied, in its own way: it had tested its strength against the world and survived unparalleled destruction. We were, oddly, at peace with one another. Where initially I had felt at odds with the beast, now I felt unity. I was the beast, and the beast was me. That acceptance brought a calm resolve. I realized that I now held a unique place in this world's story. I was utterly apart from the Children of Ilúvatar (who had yet to even awaken) and neither of the Valar nor Melkor's brood. I was something other, a neutral titan that fate had dropped into the middle of this grand saga. And perhaps that was a blessing. I had the freedom to roam, to observe, and maybe, at times, to quietly help or hinder as my conscience dictated, without the burden of anyone's command or the pull of the great destinies that wove through Arda.
Before I drifted into a long and much-needed slumber, I felt a spark of dry humor surface amidst my melancholy. What a story, I thought to myself, this would make back home. I pictured trying to explain it to a friend over coffee: "So, I turned into a giant lava-spewing dragon and accidentally lived through the creation and destruction of the Two Lamps in Middle-earth." The sheer absurdity of it would have made me laugh aloud if I'd had the energy. Instead, a tired chuckle rumbled out as a soft tremor that shook a bit of soot from the ceiling of my new lair. It was good, I decided, that even after all this, I hadn't lost that small, irreverent part of myself. If an immortal mountain-sized dragon can't occasionally crack a mental joke, what hope was there?
And so, on that dark horizon of a new age, I closed my eyes. Outside my hidden refuge, the world lay under a blanket of night and ash. But overhead, the first stars of Varda began to glimmer anew as she labored in the heavens, preparing the sky for the long vigil that would precede the coming dawn. I felt the great weight of years and solitude settle upon me like cooling basalt, yet I did not despair. I would endure this darkness as I had endured the fire. The mountain that I was would keep its silent vigil.
Thus ended the first stage of my journey an awakening in fire, a baptism by light and loss. I sank into a deep sleep, one hand (or rather, claw) on the memories I cherished and the other on the instincts that sustained me. In my dreams, I stood again under the gentle glow of Illuin and Ormal, a giant among a land of green, watching as two Lights mingled and birds sang the dawn. It was a comforting dream of a time that would never come again. Yet I also dreamed of possible futures: starlight on new waters, the laughter of unseen people yet to be born, the echo of horns and the clash of powers to come.
When next I would awaken, it might be a different world once more. Perhaps I would witness the first Elves stirring by a starlit lake, or feel the rumble of war as the Valar eventually returned to confront Melkor. Whatever awaited, I would face it as myself Zorah Magdaros in Arda, a creature massive and ancient, yet carrying within it the heart and mind of the human who inexplicably fell into this realm. For now, I allowed myself to rest, curled around the hope that someday light and harmony would grace these lands again. And in that hope, guarded by stone and flame, I found peace as the Years of the Trees began far across the sea and the long twilight of Middle-earth set in.