Echoes of the Hidden Light in the Great Song

A Dream's Tale and the Judgment of the Valar

Alcaron lay in the quiet of his chambers, the light of Telperion and Laurelin mingling through the open windows, casting a silver and golden glow across the room. The night in Valinor was serene, and yet, Alcaron's mind was not at ease. He closed his eyes, the familiar weight of his thoughts pulling him into a half-waking state.

For over a hundred years now, his sleep had been haunted by strange and vivid dreams. Dreams that took him far from the golden land of Aman, into a world where elves did not walk, but instead, a race much like them, yet bound to mortality—humans. In these dreams, Alcaron had followed the life of one particular man, though the details always remained shrouded in mystery. He saw places of power and devices beyond his understanding. Machines that moved without the touch of magic, cities where towers scraped the skies, and people who carried strange wands, muttering incantations in a tongue he could scarcely recall upon waking.

One word, however, always lingered in his mind: Lumus. It was the first spell from his dreams that had slipped past the veil of his subconscious. It had seemed so simple—merely a word to summon light. And in the privacy of his chambers, Alcaron had dared to whisper it aloud, focusing on the word, willing it to manifest.

He had not expected the result.

"Lumus" he had muttered under his breath, and at once, his hand had begun to glow with a steady, white light, much like the stars themselves. The light had lasted for hours, burning against his will, until another word from his dream had come to him: Nox. Only then had the light faded, leaving him shaken and filled with unease.

Since that day, Alcaron had vowed never again to use these strange spells without first seeking counsel. They were powerful, yes, but unnatural, foreign, and possibly dangerous in ways he could not comprehend. For days afterward, his thoughts had been troubled, and finally, he had made his way to the one being he trusted more than any other in Aman—Aulë, the Vala of crafts and creation, who had taught him so much.

He had come to Aulë's forge, the heat of the fires radiating warmth, and the clang of hammers on metal filling the vast halls.

"Alcaron," Aulë had greeted him, setting down his tools. "You look troubled, my son. What weighs upon your heart?"

Alcaron had hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to begin. "Aulë," he had said slowly, "I have had dreams. Strange ones that do not feel as though they come from me, but from somewhere else. They show me... a different world, one with people who are not elves but seem so alike. They wield magic, but it is different, not like the songs of power we know. And I—I have tried to use it. It worked, but I fear what it means."

Aulë's brow had furrowed at this, his deep eyes considering. "Magic from a dream, you say? And it worked?"

"Yes," Alcaron had replied, holding up his hand. "I summoned light from my hand with a word. And I could not make it cease until another word from the same dream came to me."

"Curious," Aulë had murmured, folding his arms. "I would see this power for myself, if you would allow it."

Reluctantly, Alcaron had nodded. He raised his hand once again and whispered the word that had first come to him, Lumus. Immediately, his hand glowed with the same steady, white light. Aulë watched intently, his eyes reflecting the brilliance of the glow.

"It does not seem like the magic of Aman," Aulë had said after a long pause. "This power is different, foreign, as you said. I cannot say if it is of Arda or beyond it. But you were right to come to me. We must take this to Manwë, for the Valar must judge this magic."

Aulë had then placed a hand on Alcaron's shoulder, offering a rare, comforting smile. "Do not fear, my son. You have done well in seeking wisdom."

A few weeks had passed before Aulë had taken Alcaron to the Halls of Manwë, high upon the slopes of Taniquetil, the tallest mountain in Aman. The journey had been long and winding, but the sight of Manwë's halls had always filled Alcaron with awe. The air was purer here, filled with the music of the winds, and the halls themselves were vast, open to the skies, their ceilings adorned with the stars themselves.

It was here that the Valar gathered, and today, they had come to pass judgment.

Manwë sat upon his great throne, Varda by his side, her gaze as bright and piercing as the stars. Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, stood nearby, his presence heavy with the weight of the seas, while Yavanna and Oromë watched with quiet curiosity. Aulë had led Alcaron into their midst, and the moment had felt as heavy as stone upon his shoulders.

"Manwë," Aulë had begun, his voice deep and resonant, "we have come before you to seek counsel and judgment. Alcaron, son of Finwë, has discovered a power not of this world, a magic that has come to him in dreams. I have seen it with my own eyes, and it is unlike anything in Arda."

Manwë's gaze had fallen upon Alcaron then, and though his eyes were kind, they were filled with the weight of ages. "Is this true, Alcaron?" he had asked. "You have wielded a power not born of Arda?"

Alcaron had bowed his head. "It is true, my lord. I spoke a word from my dream, and light sprang from my hand. I fear it, for it feels foreign, and yet it obeys my will."

The Valar had exchanged glances, their silent communication impossible for mortals to comprehend. Finally, Manwë had spoken again.

"Show us this power, Alcaron, that we may see it for ourselves."

With a deep breath, Alcaron had raised his hand once more and whispered the now-familiar word. Lumus. The glow had appeared again, casting light upon the faces of the assembled Valar. There was no sound, no reaction, but the tension in the air was palpable.

Manwë had watched for a long time before nodding slightly. "It is not of Arda, that much is certain. But it does not feel evil, nor does it carry malice. It is a power... strange and unknown."

Aulë had stepped forward then, his voice careful. "I believe that this power should not be wielded lightly. It may not be of our world, but it is powerful. I ask that we guide Alcaron in this matter, so that he does not fall into its misuse."

Manwë had nodded in agreement. "Indeed. Alcaron, you must not use this power without our permission. Though it is not of Arda, we will not forsake you. You are still of the Noldor, still a child of Finwë and the blessed land of Aman. But this magic... it must be handled with great care."

Varda, the Lady of Stars, had spoken then, her voice soft but firm. "Alcaron, we ask that you write down all that you see in your dreams. Every spell, every word of power, every vision. One day, you may learn to master these arts, but only with our guidance."

Ulmo had added, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "When you have reached a thousand years of the Sun, you will come before us again. By then, you will have learned from each of us. We will teach you the wisdom of the Valar, so that when the time comes, you may understand the magic you have been given."

Alcaron had bowed deeply, his heart filled with gratitude and awe. "Thank you, my lords. I will do as you command."

Manwë had smiled then, a rare expression of warmth. "Go now in peace, Alcaron. And remember, the path of power is never easy. But you have the strength to walk it."

That night, back in the solitude of his chambers, Alcaron sat at his desk, a small notebook before him. The pages were empty, waiting to be filled. And so, he began to write.

Lumus. A spell of light, cast with a word.

Nox. The counterspell, to extinguish the light.

His pen moved swiftly, recording each detail of his dreams, each spell that had come to him in the night. The words felt strange on the page, foreign, yet familiar all the same.

For hours he wrote, the light of Telperion and Laurelin filling the room as the night passed. As he set down his pen, he felt a sense of calm settle over him. The Valar had given him their blessing, and though the future was uncertain, he knew that he was not alone.