Silmalorë decided to postpone his journey to the continent of Valinor. He realized that the elves who had just awakened from Lake Cuiviénen lacked even the basic skills to survive, let alone understand the language of the world. He intended to teach them to speak Tolkien's language fluently, while introducing them to hunting and other survival skills.
Until now, Silmalorë hadn't learned the names of their clans. He didn't know which ones were Minyar, Tatyar, or Nelyar. He wanted to ask the elf leader, but his body felt weak. He was hungry. Let's fill our stomachs first, he thought.
However, when he saw the various fruits gathered by the elves, Silmalorë—who was genuinely hungry—found himself unable to swallow. They had only just awakened from Lake Cuiviénen, not even a full day had passed. Their bodies were still frail, and the fruits they had collected were few.
The primitive elves shared food in a simple way. They devoured the fruit eagerly, biting into it with delight, one piece after another. Most of the fruit was offered to Silmalorë as a sign of respect. Even the male elves gave their fruit to the female elves, and only ate the leftovers from the women's hands.
Silmalorë felt uncomfortable accepting the offering. He took the fruit that had been given to him and returned it to the elves so they could eat more. He called the primitive elf leader along with a few men who looked stronger and more agile.
He began gathering long pieces of wood, ones that could be lifted by a single person. He broke stones, pulled fibers from various trees, and started tying the stones to the wooden sticks. He rubbed the wood to harden it and make it durable.
But there was no fire.
Silmalorë muttered, "This is not a problem."
The primitive elves watched his actions with intense curiosity. Their eyes stared at him without blinking, as if witnessing a sacred ritual.
A spark of inspiration lit up in Silmalorë's mind. "Drilling wood to make fire! How could I forget drilling wood to make fire! If I teach them how to make fire by drilling wood, fire will be one of the milestones in developing civilization."
He began gathering nearby twigs. A clever young primitive elf came and brought him a bunch of branches. Silmalorë smiled inwardly. At least they were beginning to grasp the concept of cooperation.
Under the gaze of the primitive folk, he started sharpening branches with sharp stone tools. He used those tools to bore into tree trunks, then clasped his hands together and began vigorously rubbing the wooden stick.
His hands started to go numb from the constant friction. He didn't produce any sparks, but he resisted the urge to use magic. The first day had to be lived without magic. They had to learn how to survive with their own hands.
He kept rubbing back and forth. In the process, his palms grew heavier. The wooden stick he held felt heavier than before. He felt a strange sensation, as if pressure from within him wanted to burst out.
After a while, he could barely hold back. The urge to use fire magic was overwhelming. He could ignite a flame with a flick of his finger. But he saw the elves watching him with hopeful eyes. They believed in him.
Silmalorë restrained himself. He bowed his head, regulated his breathing, and kept rubbing the wooden stick in his hands. He knew that if they could ignite fire with their own hands, it would mark the beginning of civilization. And he would witness the birth of a new world.
"What the hell is this, come on, light already," Silmalorë muttered, sitting cross-legged beside the primitive elves who were drilling wood with enthusiasm. His eyes were sharp, his humanoid body upright, and his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't interfere, just observed.
The primitive elves worked hard. They didn't know why the tree god was doing this, but they felt that being able to imitate the words and actions of the tree god was the highest honor. They regarded every movement of Silmalorë as revelation, every murmur as law.
Their hand speed was astonishing. The friction between the stick and the wooden base was so fast and intense that, scientifically speaking, it should have been enough to produce sparks. But there was no fire. Only the sound of worn wood fibers and heavy, gasping breaths.
Then something strange happened. Their hand speed suddenly dropped. One of the elves screamed, threw the wooden stick he was holding, and backed away with a terrified expression. The others followed, tossing aside their tools and kneeling before Silmalorë.
The elf dreamer, his body still naked and trembling, knelt the deepest. He bowed until his forehead touched the ground, and with a voice unclear yet full of meaning, he repeated:
"Do not imitate the words and deeds of the tree gods... Do not imitate... Do not imitate..."
Silmalorë sensed something was off. He heard the elf leader's words and felt disturbed. He himself had just tried drilling wood to make fire—and failed. But these primitive elves, who didn't even know language, were the first to succeed?
For 400,000 years wandering Middle-earth and Valinor, Silmalorë had always used magic to create fire, shape objects, and build structures. He had never truly used bare hands to create something like fire. He felt ashamed. At the dawn of civilization, every race seemed to possess a mysterious magnetic force between their palms, making friction more difficult. The wooden stick felt unbearably heavy, and the stronger the desire to rub, the greater the force that separated the palms.
Suddenly, one of the primitive elves managed to ignite fire again.
"What!" Silmalorë exclaimed, eyes wide.
He looked around. One clever young elf was rubbing his body against the ground, extinguishing the fire previously discarded by another elf. He pushed his body back and forth beneath a large tree. His movements resembled an ancient dance, full of rhythm and strength.
No way... impossible, Silmalorë thought. The original young elf race had managed to extinguish a spark of fire!
Silmalorë couldn't believe it. The spark he thought couldn't be extinguished by bare hands had been put out by that primitive youth. He felt dethroned from his seat of power. No... Gollum...
The surrounding primitive elves saw Silmalorë's sorrow. When the fire burst forth with a crackling sound, they didn't cheer. They panicked. They had offended the tree god earlier, and now the youth had extinguished a fire that only the tree god could control. They felt they had blasphemed the gods.
Boom!
A muffled sound like thunder on a clear day rang out. Silmalorë lifted his head and looked up. The sky was filled with a multitude of phenomena. Light swirled, clouds split, and a blinding radiance emerged—indescribable.
Click!
Instantly, two bolts of lightning struck. One hit the youth's head, and the other struck Silmalorë. Silmalorë's body, made of leaves and wood, absorbed the thunderous light. In a fraction of a second, he understood why this radiant effect had occurred.
The lightning didn't affect him much, but it was still felt. His body trembled, his roots tightened, and his leaves shimmered. After absorbing this radiant light, he could only be seen as a being blessed by the gods in the eyes of the elves.
He wouldn't go out to collect money, wouldn't lead wars, but his presence and blessing would make the elves' lives smooth and easy. They would be free from calamity and disaster. They would live in the light he radiated.
Yet from the current perspective, the world they were in was Azeroth. And of course, there would be no such thing as magic appearing out of nowhere—especially since the elves had just awakened from Lake Cuiviénen. They didn't yet know Tolkien's language, didn't understand the world's structure, and had no ability to wield any power. They were newborn beings, though their bodies were mature and their senses sharp.
The primitive elves around them looked terrified. Their bodies trembled, and one by one they collapsed to the ground, witnessing the fire born from wood friction. To them, it was something foreign and frightening. They had never seen flames before, didn't understand the concept of heat, and didn't recognize the symbol of power that blazed from lifeless matter.
Silmalorë looked toward the young elf and spoke without hesitation, his voice echoing among the roots and the softly rustling wind:
"Drilling wood to make fire. You are now called Eldar. From this day forward, you are Eldar, ancestors of the elves!"
"Eldar?" the young elf murmured, eyes wide. Golden light reflected in his irises, and compared to before, his gaze now held wisdom. He no longer looked like a primitive creature. He looked like a leader newly born into the world.
"Minyar, Tatyar, Nelyar give thanks to the tree gods!" cried the young elves. They bowed to Silmalorë, and not bowing to him was considered blasphemy against the divine. They realized that the majestic being before them was not merely a tree, but an entity that had given them light, fire, and a name.
Knowledge of the Minyar, Tatyar, Nelyar clans surfaced in Silmalorë's mind. He recognized those names from the Tolkien world he had once studied. The family names of the Minyar, Tatyar, Nelyar clans of the Eldar—yes, exactly. The primitive elf race before him was undoubtedly the three clans from Tolkien's world.
And he was Imin, Tata, Enel from Tolkien's world. Silmalorë had truly guided the Minyar, Tatyar, Nelyar clans to drill wood and create fire in the darkness. In the world of Azeroth. Tell the people of future generations—perhaps no one would believe it.
"Minyar, Tatyar, Nelyar clans! Give thanks for the blessing of the tree god, the blessing of the tree god..." The primitive elves cheered at that moment. Their clans welcomed the blessing of the tree god. The name Eldar was now revered by the gods.
Faced with the bowing and kneeling of the primitive elves, Silmalorë met the gaze of young Imin, and nodded toward young Enel as well.
Young Imin bowed to him, then turned to speak to the members of his clan. "We are bathed in the grace of the tree god and have received the sacred fire from the sky. From now on, I shall be king of the Eldar of the Noldor!"
"Thank you, tree god!"
"Kneel before the tree god!"
The people of the three clans offered their reverence and worship.
"Wow, Imin has been blessed by the tree god, and it seems his vocabulary has expanded! Perhaps the lightning earlier unlocked the great wisdom of the elves from Tolkien's world. Only now can he speak words bathed in the grace of the tree god. Though his tone still carries the primitive elven cadence, his vocabulary has indeed grown!" Silmalorë thought to himself.
Imin received the worship of the three elf clans and gave thanks to the tree gods for their kindness, which had enlightened him in the darkness.
Holding fruit in their hands, Imin, Tata, and Enel offered it to Silmalorë. "Tree god, eat the fruit!" they said in unison.
Silmalorë looked up at young Imin, took the fruit from him, and handed it back. He didn't ask Imin what knowledge he had gained from the lightning strike. At least for now, Imin admired him—and could speak Tolkien's language.
Imin was overjoyed when the tree god returned the fruit to him and began devouring it. The rest of the elves caught the scent of the fruit, eager to open their mouths and eat.