Why was shaping his own inner universe so difficult?
If Rowan simply wanted raw cosmic power, the path was straightforward. Absorb enough energy. Accumulate enough mass and force. Eventually, brute growth would push him into an entirely higher order of existence.
But what Rowan sought now was something else.
Not expansion.
Completion.
To build a universe that could truly stand on its own, he had to understand how realities were woven together. Time. Space. Consciousness. Creation. Life. Death. Memory. Causality. The invisible scaffolding beneath existence itself.
There were no shortcuts here.
Every principle had to be studied. Tested. Interpreted. Then carefully translated into the architecture of his own world.
At first, Rowan had planned to use Morgoth's severed head as a bargaining chip. A grotesque offering to gain an audience with the Valar and learn from them.
But the Valar were only caretakers.
Ilúvatar was the composer.
If Ilúvatar was willing to share even a fragment of his understanding, Rowan was confident he could make real progress. Perhaps even solve a mystery that had haunted him since the moment he first arrived in the Marvel universe.
A question about the nature of his fragmented selves.
A question about whether every incarnation of him, across worlds and identities, could someday be reunited into a single, complete existence.
That possibility alone was worth any risk.
Rowan exhaled slowly.
"At least this wasn't a total loss."
He opened his right hand.
Three radiant gems floated above his palm, burning like captured stars.
The Silmarils.
The legendary jewels Morgoth had stolen from the Noldor long ago. The very treasures that had driven an entire people into exile and war.
Forged by Fëanor at the height of elven craftsmanship, each gem contained the light of the Two Trees of Valinor.
Even the gods had once marveled at them.
"If I absorb their power," Rowan murmured, "that should push me close enough."
He hadn't devoured Morgoth's soul. Ilúvatar had intervened before that could happen.
But three Silmarils were more than adequate compensation.
Rowan closed his hand, sealing the light away.
"Clean up first. Then I'll go."
Before departing, Ilúvatar had left a spatial imprint within Rowan. A precise coordinate that could transport him directly to the Eternal Hall.
Rowan stepped out of his inner world and returned to physical reality.
He reappeared before the allied host of elves, men, and dwarves.
Finwë's successor, the High King of the Noldor, hurried toward him, eyes burning with anxious hope.
"Rowan! What happened?"
The armies had been spectators in the final confrontation. By the time Morgoth emerged, battered and exposed, they had barely begun to mobilize before Rowan vanished with him.
"It's over," Rowan said calmly.
"Morgoth's physical form has been destroyed. His soul has been taken to the Eternal Hall and sealed away. Orc-kind will never rise again."
He left out one detail.
No one needed to know about the Silmarils.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield was silent.
Then the world exploded into celebration.
Shouts. Tears. Laughter. Soldiers collapsing to their knees in relief. Warriors embracing enemies who had become brothers-in-arms.
Morgoth had been a shadow looming over history itself.
A nightmare passed down through generations.
Now that shadow was gone.
And more astonishing still.
Not a single casualty among the allied forces.
Many had marched to war expecting never to return.
Instead, they stood alive beneath an open sky.
Rowan watched quietly.
He felt no urge to join the cheering.
"Let's see how long this peace lasts," he thought.
Unity born from desperation rarely survived victory.
With Morgoth gone, old grudges would eventually resurface. Borders would be argued over. Pride would flare.
Elves. Humans. Dwarves.
None were immune to desire.
Not even gods were.
It wasn't Rowan's concern.
He had never been a savior.
He had built academies, united races, hunted dark lords, and slain monsters for one reason only.
To grow stronger.
Everything else had simply been collateral benefit.
That night, there was feasting across the camps.
Rowan participated.
Not because he needed rest.
But because after so long among these people, a quiet thread of attachment had formed.
Waiting one more day changed nothing.
At dawn, Rowan found Lúthien and spoke briefly with her.
Then, following the coordinates Ilúvatar had embedded within him, Rowan vanished.
Middle-earth was not a spherical planet like Earth.
It resembled a vast, tapering plane, suspended within a cosmic expanse.
Beyond its borders drifted countless star-like bodies, glowing faintly in the void.
Those distant lights filled the night sky.
Among them stood the Eternal Hall.
Ilúvatar's solitary dwelling.
A palace of impossible scale, existing somewhere between place and concept.
From within its halls, Ilúvatar observed the unfolding of Middle-earth, occasionally adjusting the grand composition when calamity threatened to spiral beyond recovery.
He did not micromanage.
Most tragedies were allowed to play out.
But years ago, Ilúvatar had noticed something strange.
A foreign note inside his great symphony.
A sound that did not belong.
A single human whose existence disrupted established destiny.
Not maliciously.
Not violently.
Simply by being.
That anomaly was Rowan Mercer.
And now, that anomaly stepped into the Eternal Hall.
The moment Rowan saw Ilúvatar's manifested form, the thought escaped him before he could stop it.
"That's… unfair."
Ilúvatar's appearance defied classification.
Beautiful.
Majestic.
Terrifying.
Serene.
Rowan had once believed Lúthien was the most beautiful being he had ever encountered.
Ilúvatar surpassed even that.
Not in a physical sense alone.
But in presence.
Rowan couldn't even tell whether Ilúvatar appeared male, female, or something beyond both.
Probably all of the above.
"Figures," Rowan muttered internally. "Anyone who designs elves like that is clearly obsessed with aesthetics."
He quickly regained composure and bowed.
"Honored—"
Ilúvatar raised a hand.
"No need."
"Your body may be born of this world," Ilúvatar said, voice resonating like layered harmonies, "but your soul is not. You may simply call me Ilúvatar."
Rowan straightened.
"So you noticed."
"I noticed long ago."
Rowan felt no fear.
Ilúvatar had already demonstrated restraint. More than that, he had offered guidance.
If Ilúvatar intended harm, Rowan would never have reached this hall.
"Then," Rowan said quietly, "I suppose we can speak honestly."
Ilúvatar regarded him with gentle curiosity.
And for the first time since Rowan began walking between universes, he stood before a being who truly understood what he was.
Not a hero.
Not a villain.
Not a savior.
A traveler.
A variable.
A question yet to be answered.