Ilúvatar was a generous god. He answered the outsiders' doubts, explaining two paths by which a world could be created, and also why he chose to create at all.
Skyl, Moonshadow, and a host of Valar listened as he described the ways of creation. By the time Dumbledore arrived, the description of how to make a world had already ended. Ilúvatar dismissed the Valar, and spoke only to the three outsiders about the true reason behind his creation—his intent, and his heart.
The first half of the explanation benefited the Powers greatly.
Ilúvatar recalled the ancient past, when the universe had not yet been born, when he dwelled in silent stillness within a void that held no concepts at all—deep in the abyss of the world's night.
Even then, he already possessed the idea of "I," and so he named himself Eru, the One. And when he decided to create a world, he knew he had two choices.
The first was to remain awake—to exist as the world's supreme ruler, with the beginning and end of all things reflected within his mind, sustaining the world's continuance with his own power. This was the path he chose at the start.
Before the making of the world, Ilúvatar first created the Ainur with his will alone. Lady Moonshadow was of a kind with the Ainur as well—both were incarnations of concepts, primordial spirits—and among the Ainur, the Valar were the greatest.
Then Ilúvatar taught the Ainur how to perform music. At first, the Ainur sang alone, each in their own voice. Slowly they adapted to one another, and began to sing together. When the moment ripened, Ilúvatar guided them to perform the Great Music.
As the Great Music flowed out into the void, it unfolded into the universe.
If one must choose a metaphor for the universe, then besides a dream, calling it a symphony is also—at least—somewhat fitting.
The Great Music was the universe and the fate of all things within it; it was history made visible. When every living and unliving thing would be born, what trials and setbacks it would endure, how it would wither and vanish—all of it was foreshadowed within the Music.
This was the first path of creation: maintenance.
And the second path of creation was sacrifice.
Sacrifice meant offering up one's own existence—losing the idea of "I," which was to say, falling asleep. Within that sleep, primordial spirits would still be born, as incarnations of the creator's thoughts. But whether a world would come into being at all would depend on those spirits' intent, and the fate of living beings would no longer be held in the creator's hands.
When Ilúvatar heard that Skyl had lost the ability to dream, they all understood the reason: The Tower of Tomes was Skyl's dream.
Only—Skyl was still awake. He had not lost himself.
Even so, Skyl had fabricated the image of a sleeping High Tower King as his substitute—an uncanny coincidence in its own right.
These two paths differed in one thing: whether the creator retained self-awareness. In a world where the true god was awake, fate was destined. In a world where the true god slept, destiny was only coincidence.
Both Skyl and Moonshadow agreed with Ilúvatar's theory of creation. The Valar and Ainur who had listened in felt an urgent question rise in their hearts: why did Eru want to create a world at all, and why did he choose the path of maintenance? Ilúvatar did not answer them. He sent them away and forbade them from drawing near the fire again.
It was at that moment that Dumbledore arrived, listening by the campfire to the echo of the Great Music. When he learned the Music represented fate, he asked:
"Is everyone's fate already decided?"
Ilúvatar understood the mind of this man from another world. Every mortal has felt that fear—that their life is a fixed script, or that the world they've lived through is nothing but a play on a stage, foreordained to the last line.
"The gift I granted the Atani (humans) is death. They are not born into the Great Music, and whatever their fate becomes is theirs to hold."
Dumbledore continued, "If your divine power is so great, and your divinity so complete, why must you create a world at all?"
Ilúvatar lightly plucked his harp. His fingertips brushed the strings without disturbing the Great Music—only adding further brilliance to it.
"Creation exists for creation's own sake. Not for any purpose. I wish for things to exist, to happen. If I had never created, then you and I would not be having this conversation. If you insist on a purpose, then let it be this: that the world exists for the sake of this talk."
"And what lies at the end of the Great Music? When all sound fades—will the universe be destroyed?"
"I will gather all the Ainur and my children, and we will compose the Music again. Then the chorus will be more beautiful, more vast, and it will give rise to a more splendid universe. So it cycles, again and again. You see—this is the meaning of creating worlds: the endless repetition of old things, so that new things can appear.
"The key is to let life waver between light and dark, to let melodies clash against one another, so they may ascend. If Melkor had never sounded his discord, there would have been no Second and Third Themes—no Children of mine—and far fewer epics in the world. I gave humanity freedom so they could add unexpected notes to the Music."
Dumbledore had no further questions.
He rose and left the fire, returning alone through the portal to Middle-earth. Then he mounted his flying broom and flew west to Rivendell. There, the Elven lord Elrond told him the expedition had already been on the road for more than a week. Dumbledore had parted from them at dawn, defeated Sauron at midday, and only sat briefly on Aman—yet in the mortal world, nine days had already passed.
"Bilbo… Thorin… don't worry. I'm coming." Dumbledore didn't even touch down—he immediately turned and flew east, chasing the expedition's trail.
Thorin's company escaped from the Orc-infested caverns. Not long after they left, the nine Ringwraiths who had fled Dol Guldur arrived at that very cave—almost as if the expedition had just stepped out the front door, and the dead things stepped in through the back.
Their purpose was nothing else but the One Ring hidden here.
Though the Dark Lord had been captured within Azura's Star, as long as the Ring was not destroyed, the seed of calamity he planted would never truly be severed.
On Aman, by the shore of the Outer Sea, Moonshadow asked whether her defeat of Sauron would affect the Great Music. Ilúvatar only shook his head, smiling.
"All that is required is a Dark Lord. Who it is does not matter."
The expedition pushed on into Mirkwood.
Ever since Thorin Oakenshield put on the filter, he had become unusually high-spirited. He kept giving speeches in front of everyone. Then again, he'd always been a talker—if no one stopped him, Thorin could ramble until his throat went dry and smoky.
"Why have we fallen to this state?" Thorin thundered, righteous fury blazing. "Because of those Orcs! They occupy the mines of Moria and swagger about in the dwarves' cities. One day, sooner or later, I will wipe them out—every last one!"
Everyone applauded and cheered.
Only Bilbo muttered under his breath: Thorin, aren't you being a bit extreme? Orcs aren't all bad.
Not long after, they ran into an Orc army in the woods—also fugitives from Dol Guldur. Their master Sauron had already met a sorry end, but Azog, with his thick hide and absurd luck, had survived Dumbledore and escaped. He regrouped his forces and intended to follow the original plan: continue hunting the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain.
Faced with a sea of Orcs, the expedition's small band was hopelessly outmatched, and they fell into desperate straits again.
Azog and Thorin were old enemies. Azog sneered. "Thorin—this time you can't escape death."
"Who are you?" Thorin frowned at the blackened brute with bandages wrapped around his head, genuinely puzzled. "Do I know you?"
Azog had been beaten by an old wizard; his appearance had changed drastically. Thorin's single sentence hit him right in the sore spot. Azog instantly flew into a rage, barking orders in the Orc-tongue to surround and slaughter these dwarves who clearly didn't know their place.
Bilbo panicked, looking around frantically. This part of the forest was open ground—windy—meaning the Cackling Laughter Potion wouldn't work.
"Someone save us!" he cried out. "Dumbledore, where are you?"
And then—almost as if answering his plea—Elven arrows shot from the trees. Another band of Elves arrived at the critical moment to rescue the expedition.
The Orc army fled in disgrace yet again.
Before Azog left, he smashed an Elven warrior down with a single blow, then threw a threat at Thorin. "Just wait. I'll be back. I'll keep hunting you—until I take your head."
Thorin was still completely bewildered. He stared at his companions, and they stared back.
"Who the hell is that charred Orc?"
…still unconscious
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