The deeper Rowan sorted through the memories of this body, the clearer the age became.
This was the First Age, and its history was written in blood.
Among the Noldor elves, there had once been a prodigy of unmatched talent and stubborn pride. His name was Fëanor. Through sheer brilliance, he forged the Silmarils, jewels capable of containing the light of the Two Trees themselves. Their beauty and power stunned even the gods.
And it ruined him.
Praise hardened into arrogance. Under Melkor's whispers, Fëanor turned his resentment toward the Valar, rallying followers and openly defying divine authority. As punishment, he was exiled to a distant fortress beyond the heart of Valinor, where his bitterness only deepened.
Melkor's scheme ripened quickly. Fearing judgment, he destroyed the Two Trees, murdered Fëanor's father, stole the three Silmarils, and fled back to Middle-earth, hiding within the Iron Mountains of Angband.
When Fëanor learned the truth, his rage consumed him. He named Melkor "Morgoth," the Black Foe of the World, and swore an oath with his seven sons that would damn them all. No matter the cost, no matter the end of the world, they would reclaim the Silmarils and take vengeance.
Driven by that oath, Fëanor rallied the Noldor. He rejected the authority of the gods and led his people eastward, away from Valinor, toward Middle-earth.
At the shores, disaster struck again.
The Teleri, sea-loving elves who built the ships, refused to defy the Valar. In blind fury, Fëanor's followers slaughtered them and seized the vessels by force. Blood was spilled beneath the stars.
The gods were heartbroken.
Mandos himself appeared to warn the Noldor of the doom they had chosen. Some listened. Others did not.
Fëanor's house and the family of the second prince pressed on regardless. The third prince repented and returned west, spared judgment for refusing to take part in the massacre. His children, however, including Galadriel, chose to continue east, seeking their own fate.
That choice would echo through ages.
In their grief and disappointment, the Valar raised mountains and barriers around Valinor, sealing it away. The world beyond would be left to its own consequences.
Yet Ilúvatar's second children, humankind, had awakened in Middle-earth.
Moved by this, the gods coaxed one flower and one fruit from the dead Trees. From them came the Sun and Moon. Light returned to the world. Morgoth's shadows weakened.
The First Age began.
The Noldor did not arrive united. Fëanor's host reached Middle-earth first and, in ruthless pride, burned the stolen ships. The others were forced to cross the deadly northern ice.
Fëanor charged straight into war.
Under the stars, his forces clashed with Morgoth's armies in the first great battle of the age. Fëanor himself confronted Morgoth and fell, though his courage shook the Dark Power deeply.
When the remaining Noldor finally arrived, they set aside their hatred and drove Morgoth back into Angband, trapping him there for centuries.
Peace followed.
Too long a peace.
Morgoth bred dragons, multiplied orcs, corrupted men, and gathered strength in secret. When he struck again, the Noldor were unprepared. Elves fell. Humans and dwarves were dragged into endless war.
By the time the Valar returned, nearly all the Noldor were gone.
Morgoth was defeated at last and cast into the Void beyond the world. Sauron and a handful of Balrogs and dragons fled into hiding. The land of Beleriand sank beneath the sea.
The Second Age began.
Rowan exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the present.
Based on the memories of this human body, the timeline was clear. Morgoth was still trapped in Angband. Beleriand had not yet fallen. The world stood in an uneasy calm before disaster.
Then Rowan flexed his hands.
"…Not bad."
This body belonged to an ordinary adult human, yet its strength was astonishing. Easily two or three times that of a normal human from his other worlds. In a land like this, it made sense. Otherwise, humans would never survive fighting alongside elves against monsters.
The benefit carried through all his incarnations.
A sudden howl cut through the air.
Six wolves emerged from the treeline, encircling him.
They were enormous. Each one nearly the size of a tiger, faster and stronger than any earthly predator. A single one could tear apart multiple Earth-born tigers without effort.
Rowan sighed. "Right. You're still here."
This body had belonged to a hunter from a nearby human tribe. In this era, humans lived in scattered clans under elven protection. During a hunt, wolves attacked. The man had been killed, and Rowan had taken his place mid-chaos.
The wolves hadn't caught the others.
So they came back.
As the pack lunged, Rowan bent down, snatched up the fallen iron spear, and electricity flared across his body.
"Fly."
The spear became a streak of lightning.
It punched clean through one wolf and pinned it to a tree with a thunderous crack.
The fantasy world had welcomed him.
And it had teeth.