From a fragment found among later copies of a unknown Book, of uncertain hand
Long before the turning of that year, when the Shadow yet lengthened in the East and the hearts of Men grew restless, there passed beyond the circles of the world a wandering spirit, houseless and unclaimed.
Whence it came none could afterward say, for it bore no mark known to the Wise, nor did it move according to the paths appointed for the Children. It drifted instead as a note unheard, lingering where time thins and memory has no shape.
And it is said, though few gave heed to such quiet matters that in the deep foundations of the Music there stirred then a harmony of a new sound sung not known before. Not one of defiance, nor of the will of any unknown being but of endurance; patient as stone beneath the mountain, and steadfast as hands that labor long after hope has dimmed.
Thus was permitted a thing unlooked for.
For that spirit, long tried in fields of death and in the labor of fire, was not cast away. It was gathered, and clothed once more, not as kings are clothed, nor as the mighty of old, but as Men were first fashioned when the world was young and morning lay upon all lands.
Yet this making came not at the rising of the Sun.
It came later when darkness has touched upon the birth place of men.
In the waning years of the Third Age, when many roads were broken and the memory of beginnings had grown thin, there was found beneath the open sky a man newly come into being. No mother bore him, and no people awaited him. He lay upon the grass as one set gently down, breathing, though he knew not why.
When he rose, the wind moved about him, and he felt its touch with a strange familiarity, as if he had stood beneath harsher winds before. His hands trembled when he clenched them, and though he had never held shield nor hammer in that life, both seemed known to him.
Of his former paths he remembered nothing clearly.
Yet when iron rang upon stone in distant lands, his heart answered.
When horns were blown in fear, sorrow stirred within him.
And when fire leapt high, he watched it not with dread, but with longing.
Thus did a man of the First Making walk in the last days of Men.
And though no crown was ever set upon his head, nor his name recorded among the great, still his passing would leave marks upon the world small at first, and easily overlooked until in later years some would wonder why certain things endured when all else had failed.
But of that, the fragment says no more.
For the rest was of his journey written not in books, but in his deeds.