Caranthir awoke beneath silver leaves.
For a time, he lay without moving, though he did not know what time was, nor why the light above him stirred such wonder in his heart. Branches spread across the sky, their pale bark as smooth as carved stone, and every leaf shone as though moonlight had been caught within it. When the wind moved through the forest, the leaves turned together and filled the air with a soft chiming.
Beyond the trees lay a lake of clear water.
It stretched from the roots of the silver forest toward distant green hills, and the light of Oa’s many-colored heavens moved across its surface. Orange and violet mingled there with blue, gold, and emerald, while high above them, the Beacon burned like a white flame.
Caranthir looked upon all these things and knew them.
He knew the world was called Oa.
He knew the star above was the Beacon.
He knew his own name.
Caranthir.
No voice had spoken it to him, yet it rested within his mind as surely as the knowledge of his hands and breath. He knew the language that formed upon his tongue. He knew that he was Oan and that he had been created by a being whose name was carried within the deepest foundations of his soul.
Ion, from whom the light of their souls had come.
Caranthir sat upright.
He was not alone.
All around the lake, beneath the silver trees and across the green meadows, others were awakening. Thousands rose from the grass with wonder and confusion upon their faces. There were men and women in equal numbers, all red of skin and bright of eye. Some had dark hair, while others had hair of violet, blue, or deep red.
Ten thousand souls opened their eyes beneath the first dawn of their people.
Some cried out in fear.
Others laughed.
Many turned their faces toward the heavens and spoke the name of their creator.
Caranthir did none of these things.
He remained beside the lake, listening to the wind and the voices of his people. These were the first moments of his life. He remembered and had experienced nothing before them, yet some part of him felt far older. Thoughts moved behind his own, like images glimpsed through deep water.
The first day was one of chaos as they tried to organize themselves. Caranthir helped where he could, and soon a leader emerged among them. He was the tallest of their people and the most charismatic.
His name was Fëanor.
“Oans,” he called.
All looked toward him.
“We awakened together. We were given life together. Whatever lies beyond these forests, we shall face it together.”
It was as though command had already settled upon his shoulders, waiting there for him since the moment of his creation.
Others rose to positions of leadership alongside Fëanor. There was Turgon, who became their foremost craftsman. Aredhel, swift in thought and speech, explored the forest before the first day had ended. Eärwen possessed a calm voice that quieted disputes before anger could take root. Nerdanel shaped clay from the lakeshore into the first images made by Oan hands. Finduilas listened more than she spoke and remembered every word she heard.
Caranthir realized that he possessed none of their talents. He was quiet and sometimes shy. He followed their instructions and helped wherever he could.
The land was bountiful, so they never went hungry during those early days. They still needed shelter and proper places to live, however, and so they began to build.
They raised their first settlement beside the lake.
They named it Ionith, after their creator.
Houses rose among the silver trees, shaped so that no trunk needed to be cut down. Bridges crossed flowing streams. Gardens spread across the hills, filled with plants they had gathered during their explorations, something Caranthir had grown to love.
They learned quickly. Knowledge had been placed within them at their creation, but knowledge was not the same as experience. They knew that fire could burn before any of them touched it, yet they did not understand pain until the first hand was scorched. They knew that seeds became trees, yet they still watched in wonder when the first green shoots emerged from the soil.
They knew of death. They understood that their people would live for only two hundred years, perhaps longer in some cases. They were strong, however, and their bodies healed quickly from wounds.
Caranthir watched Ionith grow from a small settlement into a great city of white stone.
He watched children being born who had not awakened beside the lake. These children entered the world without the deep knowledge their parents carried. They had to be taught everything.
Caranthir’s life was peaceful and happy, yet through all those years, something remained absent.
He could not name it.
He was loved by his people. He had friends and a home. He had meaningful work, first as a builder and later as the keeper of the records Finduilas had begun.
Still, he would sometimes stand beside the lake and feel as though he had awakened facing the wrong direction.
Then the dreams began.
In the first, Caranthir stood within a chamber made of green light.
A figure stood at the center of the chamber.
It was Ion.
Caranthir knew him at once.
Every Oan carried an image of their creator within the deepest part of their mind. Turgon had shaped that image into statues throughout Ionith, and an immense likeness was already being carved into the mountain overlooking the city.
Ion was examining a large screen covered in numbers and words Caranthir could not understand.
“Why are you so fixated on the skin, Jade?” he asked.
Caranthir looked around.
Who was Jade?
The ring upon Ion’s finger pulsed.
A woman’s voice answered from within it.
“Why not green?”
“Because I don’t want everything to be green.”
“It would be thematically consistent.”
“Yes, and everything would be green.”
Caranthir awoke with his heart pounding.
For a long time, he remained in bed and stared at the ceiling.
He had seen Ion. He had watched him move and heard him speak as though Caranthir had been standing beside him.
The creator had spoken of the Oans.
Had the dream been a sign?
Caranthir told no one at first.
Life in Ionith was already changing.
Fëanor had begun calling upon the people to leave the city and undertake a great journey across Oa. He believed that Ion waited for them in his emerald tower and that the destiny of the Oans was to find him.
Many listened.
It was difficult not to. Fëanor had become the greatest among them by nearly every measure they valued. He was their finest warrior and most daring explorer. When predators descended from the northern forests, he had driven them back. When the great white beast of the mountains began hunting near Ionith, Fëanor entered its territory alone and returned days later carrying one of its broken horns.
He had earned their trust.
Now he used it to call them toward their creator.
“We were not made without purpose,” Fëanor declared before the people gathered in the central square. “Ion gave us everything: strength, wisdom, this world, and even our souls. We must seek him and offer that strength in return.”
The crowd answered with cheers.
Caranthir stood among them, troubled by his own silence.
He loved Ion.
Every Oan did, though the feeling took different forms within each of them. Some spoke his name in prayer. Others dedicated their crafts to him. Caranthir felt the connection as a quiet warmth beneath his thoughts, something that had been with him since his first breath beside the lake.
He should have welcomed the journey.
Instead, he looked at the silver trees surrounding Ionith and felt grief at the thought of leaving them.
He liked his home.
He liked the records chamber where he worked beside Finduilas. He liked the gardens spreading along the lakeshore and the way the city’s white towers reflected the colors of the evening sky. He did not want to abandon those things.
The guilt followed him into sleep.
Another dream came.
Ion stood in the green chamber again, this time beside the suspended images of an Oan man and woman.
“They must have free will,” Ion said. “They don’t exist to serve me. They don’t owe me anything because I created them.”
The ring pulsed.
“We do need their help,” Jade replied. “The Corps will require administrators, engineers, physicians, archivists, and many other forms of support.”
“That has to be their choice.”
Ion moved closer to the images.
“I don’t want them born believing they carry a debt they can never repay. They can help the Corps. They can become Lanterns if any rings choose them. They can leave Oa and never speak my name again. Whatever they do, it has to belong to them.”
Caranthir awoke with tears upon his face.
He sat upright and pressed one hand against his chest.
The shame that had weighed upon him was gone.
More dreams followed.
Sometimes Caranthir saw Ion speaking with Jade, the emerald spirit who lived within his ring. They discussed plans for a peacekeeping force that would travel across the universe, protecting those who could not protect themselves.
At other times, a towering metal being joined them.
All Oans knew that their souls had come from Ion. They understood that when death claimed them, the light within them would return to their creator. That knowledge had existed within Caranthir since his awakening.
Seeing the conversations that had led to his creation made it feel different.
They had not been fashioned as tools.
They had been made as children.
Ion’s greatest wish was not that they obey him.
It was that they choose their own paths.
Caranthir confided in Finduilas first. When he finished, she remained silent for several moments.
“Could they be visions?” she asked.
“I don’t know Finduilas.”
“Could they be your own fears taking shape?”
“I... I don’t know,” Caranthir said, his voice breaking slightly.
Finduilas did not ask him to keep the dreams secret. Caranthir revealed them to those he trusted, and word soon spread despite his efforts to contain it.
People began coming to him quietly. Some believed his dreams were messages from Ion. Others doubted them but agreed with what they represented. A small company formed around him, then grew as the debate over Fëanor’s journey spread through Ionith.
Not all who joined wished to remain in the city.
Some wanted to explore Oa without seeking Ion.
Some hoped to build other settlements beyond the silver forest they knew.
A few feared that leaving Ionith would violate the true intentions of their creator.
Caranthir did not want to become the leader of an opposing group. He did not wish to challenge Fëanor or divide their people.
And yet division came regardless.
The Great Council of Ionith gathered to decide whether the city should support the journey.
Every adult Oan was permitted to attend, though only the elected councillors would cast the final vote.
Fëanor stood at the center of the council floor.
Turgon sat near him, along with Aredhel, Eärwen, Nerdanel, Finduilas, and the other leaders who had risen during the first years of their people.
Caranthir had to overcome great fear to step forward and speak before them all, but through sheer force of will, he managed it.
“I believe those who wish to seek Ion should do so,” he said.
Fëanor nodded.
“Then you support the journey.”
“I support their choice.”
A silence followed.
Caranthir looked around the chamber before continuing.
“And what of those who do not wish to go?”
Turgon frowned. “Why would any of us refuse?”
“Because some have built lives here. Others wish to explore Oa for themselves. Some do not believe that seeking Ion is what he asks of us.”
Murmurs spread through the chamber.
Fëanor raised one hand, and the voices quieted.
“We seek our creator,” he said. “He gave us life and placed his light within our souls. It is our destiny to stand at his side and serve the purpose for which we were made.”
“How do you know that?” Caranthir asked.
Fëanor’s expression tightened.
Caranthir forced himself to continue.
“I do not ask this to insult you. Ion has never given us such a command. He did not tell us that our lives belong to him.”
Fëanor studied him carefully.
“You speak as though you know Ion’s wishes.”
Caranthir felt every eye in the chamber turn toward him.
“Do you, Fëanor, know what Ion wishes? ” Caranthir asked.
The vote was delayed.
Before long, two factions formed: those who supported Fëanor and those who supported Caranthir.
Whether he wanted it or not, a division had begun among the Oans.
Caranthir tried to stop the division.
He spoke with those who had gathered around him and urged them not to treat Fëanor’s followers as enemies.
It did not work.
Friends turned against one another. Families debated whether they would remain together when the journey began. Those who supported Fëanor accused Caranthir’s followers of cowardice and ingratitude. Some among Caranthir’s own company began speaking of Fëanor as though he were a tyrant.
Caranthir could not bear it.
For a time, he considered publicly supporting Fëanor and joining the journey. If his surrender could restore peace among their people, perhaps that was the choice he should make.
Yet every time he imagined leaving Ionith, something inside him resisted.
He simply did not wish to go.
Unable to decide, Caranthir left the city alone.
He wandered without purpose beneath the silver trees until Ionith’s lights disappeared behind him. The night deepened, and Oa’s colored heavens shifted slowly overhead. By the time he reached a small pond among the hills, weariness had settled into his bones.
Someone was already there.
A woman sat beside the water with her bare feet submerged beneath its surface.
Her skin was pale rather than red, and black hair fell loosely across her shoulders. She wore a simple dark dress poorly suited to the cold night.
She stared at her feet with visible displeasure.
“You will become ill,” Caranthir said.
The woman looked up.
“Is this a pleasant feeling?”
“Cold,” she added.
He stared at her.
“You have never felt cold before?”
“Not like this.”
There was something strange in the way she spoke. Not confusion exactly, but unfamiliarity.
Caranthir removed his cloak and offered it to her.
The woman looked first at him, then at the cloth. She accepted it and wrapped it around her shoulders.
After a moment, her expression changed.
“This is better.”
Caranthir sat upon a stone nearby, though not without hesitation. He did not know who she was. She was clearly not Oan, yet he felt no fear in her presence.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The woman considered the question longer than seemed necessary.
“My name is Amaia.”
“I am Caranthir.”
“Oh, yes. I know who you are.”
His attention sharpened. “Have we met?”
“If we had, I am sure it would have been memorable. You have become rather famous among your people.”
Caranthir sighed.
Amaia lowered her feet into the water again, then immediately withdrew them.
“Living is unpleasant.”
He almost laughed, but her expression remained entirely serious.
“You do not like being alive?” he asked, some concern entering his voice.
“The body requires constant attention. It grows cold and hot. It becomes hungry. It hurts. Do I need to go on?”
“A small price to pay for existing and experiencing the wonder of life.”
Amaia thought about that.
“Yes.”
Caranthir studied her more carefully.
“What are you, exactly? You are not Oan.”
“No.”
“Then where did you come from?”
“I came here to live among your people for one day.”
“And have you enjoyed it?”
“No.”
Caranthir frowned. Oans were gracious hosts. Any stranger would have been offered food, shelter, and companionship.
He was about to question her further when Amaia spoke again.
“So, you do not wish to leave with the others.”
Caranthir became still.
“I do not know what I want.”
“You wish to stay.”
He remained silent.
Amaia looked across the pond.
“Why do you not wish to leave?”
Caranthir stared at the rippling water.
“Because I don’t.”
The answer sounded childish when spoken aloud, yet it was the most honest one he possessed.
“I love Ion,” he continued. “I would serve him if he asked it of me. But he has not. Fëanor speaks as though his own desire is the destiny of our entire people. He uses Ion’s name to give his choice authority over everyone else.”
Amaia laughed softly.
“Great Ion.”
Caranthir looked at her. “Are you mocking him?”
She did not reply.
“So another person has mistaken his desire for your destiny,” she said, returning the conversation to Fëanor.
Caranthir remained silent.
“I do not wish to seem ungrateful,” he said.
“For being alive?”
“Yes.”
Amaia drew the cloak more tightly around herself.
“Life given freely is a gift. A gift that demands repayment is a bargain.”
“Ion does not demand it.”
“Then you dishonor nothing by choosing for yourself.”
A silver leaf detached from the branches above and fell upon the pond.
Amaia watched the ripples spread across the surface.
“What if I choose wrongly?” Caranthir asked.
“You will.”
He turned toward her.
She continued watching the water.
“I have learned something recently, and I shall share that wisdom with you. Every living thing chooses wrongly. Then it continues until it can choose again. That appears to be the central activity of life.”
Caranthir considered her words.
They did not comfort him as much as he had expected, but they removed some of the terror from the decision. A choice did not need to be perfect. It needed only to be his.
Dawn approached.
Golden light appeared beyond the silver trees, spreading slowly across the hills. Amaia rose and removed Caranthir’s cloak from her shoulders.
She handed it back to him.
“You are leaving?” he asked.
“My day is nearly over.”
Caranthir stood.
“Will I see you again?”
Amaia considered him.
“Yes.”
Then her expression changed, becoming almost sympathetic.
“But you should hope it is not soon.”
Before Caranthir could ask what she meant, Amaia turned and walked between the trees.
He followed a moment later.
There was no sign of her.
Only a single black flower grew where she had passed, its petals wet with morning dew.
Caranthir met Fëanor on the shores of Lake Lómë, where their people had first awakened beneath the silver trees.
They were alone.
For a time, neither spoke.
Caranthir looked across the water and remembered opening his eyes there. Fëanor had awakened only a short distance away.
Caranthir told him everything. He explained why he had made his choice and why he felt as he did. He even spoke of his dreams, including parts he had never shared with anyone, not even Finduilas.
“I do not believe your journey is wrong,” Caranthir said. “I believe it becomes wrong only when it is treated as the sole path permitted to our people.”
He looked toward Fëanor.
“You wish to find Ion. You believe standing beside him will give meaning to your life. I do not condemn that. I ask only that you do not call your desire the destiny of every Oan.”
Fëanor remained silent for a long time.
“I will not force anyone to join the journey,” he said. “Those who come will do so by choice, and no one among the Faithful will name those who remain traitors.”
“The Faithful?”
“That is what some have begun calling us.”
Caranthir smiled faintly. “It makes it sound as though those who remain possess no faith.”
“I said the same,” Fëanor replied with a smile.
For the first time in many months, they laughed together.
A year later, the journey began.
Caranthir stood beside the road leading from Ionith with those who had chosen to remain.
Fëanor stood at the head of the procession.
Turgon went with him, as did Aredhel Eärwen Finduilas and many warriors, explorers, builders, and scholars who believed their future waited beside their creator. They still called themselves the Faithful, though Fëanor kept his promise and silenced anyone who used the title to diminish those who stayed behind.
There were tears when they departed.
Friends embraced. Families promised to meet again. Some who had argued bitterly found that they could not speak at all when the moment of separation arrived.
Caranthir remained in the city for a time.
Then he departed as well.
He traveled with a smaller group that sought a place to establish another settlement. They chose a direction and began walking.
For his entire life, Caranthir had felt that something was missing. As he took his first step away from Ionith, he finally understood what it had been.
His destiny began upon the road he chose for himself.
.
.
.
Max watched on the screen as the Oans departed Ionith.
He smiled.
“Finally.”
He and Veridion had placed ten groups of Oans across the world, each numbering ten thousand. Nearly every group had reacted in much the same way. After some time, they began seeking him out, just as Veridion and Jade had predicted.
Here, however, he watched the first population in which a substantial number had chosen another path.
“I remember Caranthir,” Jade said through the ring.
“You do?”
“He was the one who awoke early in the laboratory.”
“Oh. It’s him.”
“I wonder if that is what made him different.”
“It is possible,” Jade replied. “I predict that the other groups will also develop breakaway factions as their long journeys continue.”
Max nodded as a notification appeared across the screen.
“Veridion has sent a message,” Jade said. “The volcano is ready.”
Max straightened.
“Finally.”
“I do not understand why the rings must be constructed inside a volcano.”
“Jade, my dear, if I’m going to be the Lord of the Rings, then I have to do it properly.”
He launched himself from the room and flew toward the mountains surrounding his home.
‘Should I name it Mount Doom or something else?’ Max thought as he flew.
Perhaps that was a little too evil sounding.
He would think of something better.
.
.
Yes Max gave them all Elvish names.