The Second Music: Eucatastrophic Apocalypse
The Fall
The Second Music is the moment, at the end of the Dagor Dagorath, when the weight of Morgoth’s marring finally falls away from the world. Tolkien describes that marring as something soaked into the very matter of Arda — a heaviness every creature carries without even knowing it (Morgoth’s Ring, “Myths Transformed,” notes that Melkor “entered into the very matter of the Earth”). When Arda is remade, that weight is gone. The world becomes what it was always meant to be, and every being in it becomes more itself: freer, clearer, more whole.
Arda and the Ainur
Arda Healed is not a new beginning nor a replacement, but as it was revealed in song — the way it should have been from the beginning. It is restored to its unmarred pattern — the true form that lay beneath Melkor’s corruption (Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth; Morgoth’s Ring, “Myths Transformed”). Its lands and seas are transfigured, its creatures revealed in the fullness of their intended being. What was bent is straightened, what was dimmed made bright, and what was wounded made whole — not by erasure, but by the restoration of Ilúvatar’s design (Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth; Morgoth’s Ring, “Myths Transformed”). Arda Healed is thus both familiar and utterly renewed: the world’s hidden beauty brought to light at last.
In the healing of Arda, the Ainur would rejoice not with the untouched wonder of their first shaping, but with the deep, aching gladness of those who have carried a long vigil and finally see their labors made whole. They would remember the griefs — the darkening of Valinor, the long wars, the slow wounding of the Children — and those memories would still stir sorrow, like the echo of a lament whose final chord has at last resolved. Yet their joy would be greater for that remembrance, for in Arda Healed they behold the world as they once glimpsed it in the mind of Ilúvatar: every valley and star restored to its unmarred design, every green thing growing without fear, every work of their hands no longer shadowed by Melkor’s malice. The burden of guardianship falls away, and what remains is the pure delight of sub‑creators whose themes now ring true — the Music they loved from the beginning returning to them, whole and shining, after ages of distortion.
Of Elves
Elves, bound to Arda from the beginning, awaken into this healed world as if stepping out of a long illness (Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth anticipates this hope, where Finrod speculates on Arda Healed and the remaking of both world and spirit). The weariness and fading that marked their long history vanish. What Mandos does in sorrow and necessity becomes the natural state of their being: restoration, clarity, and harmony. They remain themselves — wise, enduring, deeply attuned — but now the ages of grief and loss are tempered and made whole within their renewed hearts. Sorrow is no longer a weight to bear, but a depth of understanding that gives shape to their joy.
The Second Born
The wisdom of mortality—its urgency and reverence for the fleeting—endures among Men, a legacy from the marred age that enriches even those born into Arda Healed's unshadowed freedom. They stand taller, see farther, and move with the clarity that was always intended for them but never possible in the marred world. Death remains the Gift in its fullness—freely chosen, wholly understood, and received without fear.
Death remains, but it is no longer a boundary or a burden. It is the Gift in its fullness — freely chosen, wholly understood, and received without fear (Letter 212 calls mortality “the Gift of Ilúvatar” and insists it is no punishment but a metaphysical freedom). For the hearts of Men have always gone beyond the world, though none but Ilúvatar perceived their road. In this healed realm, that unseen journey is recognized for what it has always been: not an ending, but a passage into the greater Music. Mortality still marks them, not as frailty, but as transcendence — a continual reminder that their life has never been confined to Arda’s circles, but part of something vaster in Ilúvatar’s thought.
The Adopted
When the Second Music begins and the deep marring of the earth is lifted, none feel it more sharply than the Dwarves. Made of the substance of Arda itself (The Silmarillion, “Of Aulë and Yavanna”), they have borne its corruption in their very being since their awakening. Now that weight falls away, not as repentance but release. Their nature — stubborn, proud, fiery, fierce in loyalty — remains unchanged, only unburdened. In them the healing of the world is bodily: the bones of the earth made sound again.
Then Aulë calls them, and the long‑waiting Halls are opened. From these halls the Fathers of the Seven Houses rise, and the living answer their Makers’ call. The scattered Houses gather — Durin’s Folk from the West, the Firebeards and Broadbeams from the Blue Mountains, and at last the far Eastern kindreds long sundered from their kin (Appendix A, Lord of the Rings). For the first time since their making, the Seven Fathers stand together, and the Dwarves are one.
Thus their ancient hope is fulfilled: they aid Aulë in the remaking of Arda (The Peoples of Middle‑earth, “Of Dwarves and Men”). Beneath the cleansed mountains their hammers sound anew, setting the deep foundations right. Their work remains unseen at the first, yet it endures in the world’s renewed strength — for in its hidden stone the Dwarves have written their joy.
Willful Discord
In this healed creation, Elves and Men stand together as companions — each bringing what the other lacks (Athrabeth again, where Finrod imagines that in the ultimate restoration “Friendship shall be restored” between the Kindreds). Elves offer their long memory and deep understanding; Men bring the fire and clarity forged in short lives. And the Ainur, no longer burdened by the marring, work alongside them with joy. In the Second Music, the Ainur and the Children work together in a harmony of free wills, each contributing what Ilúvatar placed uniquely within them; and when Men shape or imagine something new, the Ainur answer not as servants but as fellow sub‑creators, rejoicing that the Children bring themes no one else could have conceived (Letter 131 gestures toward this unity‑in‑diversity as the consummation of sub‑creation).
Yet this harmony does not abolish freedom or difference. Beings may still err, disagree, even wound—but without the marring's weight, evil bends no longer toward metaphysical domination. Without Melkor's lies about the nature of reality, no one mistakes power for meaning or destruction for creation. Discord remains possible, but it does not become metaphysical; it does not organize the world around itself. (Morgoth’s Ring emphasizes that the corruption of Arda was metaphysical; its healing therefore restores moral freedom without omnibenevolence forcing uniformity.)
The Unshackled
When the Marring is lifted, the last chains of Morgoth fall away, and the Orcs stand bewildered beneath a sky that no longer commands their fear. No master drives them now; no voice compels. Some cry out for orders that do not come, others flinch from blows that never fall. In that strange stillness begins the first free thought — rough, uncertain, but their own.
Not all endure it. Many fade swiftly, unable to bear a world no longer shaped by terror. Others linger, wounded and wary, and for a time the wilds remain troubled — not with the great dread of old, but with the violence of the broken, who strike from habit rather than command, and of those many were slain. Yet even this shadow thins. A few drift toward the edges of the Free Peoples and live out their days quietly at the margins, tolerated but watchful, until the years take them.
No new ones arise, and when they die they do not remain as a race apart; the Firstborn among them return to Mandos, the Secondborn pass beyond the Circles of the World, and thus the long thralldom ends in release rather than ruin. Even the last servants of the Shadow come to rest, and the Music that once was twisted receives again the voices that were lost to it, the dark note resolving at last into harmony as the wounds of will are made whole.
Chordal Harmonics
In the Second Music, the Children of Ilúvatar and the Ainur each embody distinct modes of being, and it is in the interplay of these modes that the world’s fullness is realized. There are those who can —the Ainur—whose nature is power and agency, shaping and sustaining Arda according to vision and will. There are those who know —the Elves—whose long memory and deep understanding perceive patterns, consequences, and the harmonies woven into the substance of the world. There are those who feel —Men—whose finitude grants them immediacy, passion, and the luminous sensitivity to life’s fleeting beauty. And there are those who endure —the Dwarves—whose steadfastness, once hardened by fear and exile, now stands unburdened, a strength without bitterness, a constancy without suspicion, the deep foundation upon which renewal takes root. In Arda Healed, these modes no longer compete under the weight of the marring but resonate together: the Ainur bring their capability without domination, the Elves their enduring insight without cold abstraction, Men their fiery presence without the fear of their mortality, and the Dwarves their unyielding strength without animosity. Each contributes what the others cannot, and in their unity through difference, the Second Music unfolds—a harmony that is neither enforced nor uniform, yet complete, echoing the theme that Ilúvatar first laid into being.
This is the Second Music:
the world healed, the Children of Ilúvatar whole, and all voices — Ainur, Elves, Dwarves, and Men — joined in the harmony that was always meant to be. (Ainulindalë closes with Ilúvatar foretelling that “to Eru’s greater glory they shall then make the Second Music of the Ainur before Him.” This version imagines that fulfillment—without denying freedom but completing meaning.)
The Little Folk
Being a quiet branch of the Secondborn they scarcely mark the change at all. Great matters seldom trouble them, and the remaking of Arda is no exception. They do not speak of the Second Music, nor of the lifting of the Marring; such thoughts belong to Elves and lore‑masters. Yet even they feel something different, though they would not name it. The days seem a touch more cheerful, the harvests a little surer, and neighbors a shade less sharp‑tongued when gossip turns sour. The world sits more comfortably around them, as if it has finally settled into its proper shape.
But their lives go on much as before: pipes are lit, long‑bottom leaf is savored, and good ale is shared at day’s end. They remain content with gardens, hearths, and the small pleasures that have always been their strength. If any Hobbit were told that the world had been healed, they might nod politely, but they would think mostly of whether the taters were boiling over. For they have always lived close to the quiet heart of things, and in Arda Healed they simply continue as they ever have — steady, cheerful, and untroubled by the great works of the Big Folk.
The Quiet Memory of Old Tom
Not all will speak of the Second Music in the tongue of the Valar. There are some, older and simpler, who need no word for renewal. Down by the water‑meadows, Tom would not give a grand answer about the lifting of the Marring or the remaking of the world. Such talk belongs to the Elves and the Wise (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book I, chs. 6–8, for Tom’s nature beyond fear or burden).
If Goldberry asked him what had changed, Tom would only laugh and shake his head.
“Just a change, my pretty lady.
Things are always a‑changing.
But this one… this one I remember.”
For him, the world made whole would not be a revelation, but a return — the long rhythm of Arda’s breathing come round again. While others marvel at the Music restored, Tom would hum along, untroubled, as though it had been there all along.
Ever Present Horizon
Yet even this harmony is not the end. For Ilúvatar’s thought is inexhaustible, and no music He begins can ever be the last. The Second Music will stand for ages unnumbered, bright and whole, until perhaps, beyond all reckonings, another theme is heard—soft at first, older and yet new. And those who remember the first will listen in wonder, knowing that every ending is but a pause in a greater song, and that the heart of Eru is not silence, but everlasting beginning.