Before the stars were shaped, before any sea had known a shore, there stood in the Timeless Halls a city of white stone and ever-burning lamps. Within that city was a place where the Mighty gathered after long labours. Mead and beer flowed freely, and hearth-fires crackled. This was the Cottage of Lost Play, and many deeds of renown were begun there, often with a cup of ale in hand.

Aghulez came, the smoke from his forge still around him. Athariz and Ulluboz came behind. Tulukhastaz greeted them all, laughing so loudly that the lamps trembled, but Namoz said nothing, sitting in quiet as was his way. Embelekkhoruz had not yet arrived. He often came late and left early and was not sorry to do either.

But at the far end of a bar that gleamed from over-polishing, one sat who would not be roused. Erunuz's cup was full, as it had been full for many days. Manawenuz sat beside him, speaking of the winds blowing in high places, but he was not answered. Athariz wheedled and coaxed, urging Erunuz to walk through the wild grass of her gardens, and Ulluboz sang to him of deep places and places deeper still, but he would not be stirred from his thoughts. Even bold Tulukhastaz fell silent at the end.

So things went for a long while, if a while means anything in the Cottage of Lost Play.

Then early on a Friday evening, when the lamps burned bright and golden and the great mirror shone silver behind the bar, Erunuz rose. The gossip and chatter in the Cottage faltered and ceased.

"Friends," he said, and there was a light in his face that none had seen before. "I am weary of silence, and you are weary of waiting for me to end it. A new idea has come to me. Let us all stage a great play!"

For a long while, no one spoke. Far down the bar, the barkeep, a small and unregarded spirit named Lindo, let a cup slip from his hands, but he did not hear it break.

The silence held as Erunuz stepped out from behind the bar. His voice rose not in speech, but in a clear, resonant melody that vibrated through the very floorboards of the Cottage. He sang of beginnings, weaving into the music themes and counter-themes. All gathered there saw as if in a dream dew dripping from green leaves, dark smoke and red flame leaping from mountaintops, and foam-capped waves breaking on a wide silvery shore. Stars glimmered in the heavens. The others joined their voices to the song, and as the melody swelled, their vision sharpened and they could faintly see the shape of a new world.

No dew-laden trees or burning mountains or vast seas yet encroached upon the smooth stone and sand. The land stretched as a plain, flat and dark and still. The sky hung empty and cold.

"You must go down," Erunuz sang, his eyes flashing with the fire of creation, "and fashion a world. You may clothe yourselves in the rain and the stone and the flame, or you may roam free as thought as naked spirit. You must make a place for the Firstborn to awaken to and dwell in. But the door shall shut behind you. To play the part, the player must believe, so you must forget the white city; you must forget Mar Vanwa Tyaliéva, as the Firstborn will one day name our cottage; you must forget the faces of your brothers and sisters and meet them anew below."

A collective murmur rippled through the crowd. Manawenuz paused, his fingers tightening around his mug. To forget the endless paths of the Timeless Halls and be trapped on a single, resolute road? Beside him, Athariz shivered, looking down at her hands as though she could already feel the heavy, numb sensation of mortal flesh. Namoz alone did not flinch; he merely closed his eyes, accepting what would come.

"Manawenuz, Lord of Air, the Firstborn will name you Manwë. Go below."

"Baradaz, Star Kindler, you will be known as Varda. Go below."

"Aghulez, Bastion of Stone and Metal, you will be named Aulë. Go below."

Embelekkhoruz banged his flagon on the bar like a smith beating iron. Ale and foam flew, and his whole frame shook with rage.

"Erunuz the thief!" he shouted.