Bishop Datlat is the high prelate of the Church of Eru Ilùvatar, based in the temple in Nexus Prime. His patrons are Vairë and Melian.

Bishop Datlat is a member of the court of Duke Rocha.

Member of The Swan Road Fellowship.

C(Scholar Priest) L18 LG Human

Bishop Datlat character sheet

On the Echoes Beyond Arda: A Theological Inquiry into the Possibility of a Mythic Parallel Realm Revealed by the Gift of Melian

By His Grace Datlat, Bishop of the Church of Eru Ilùvatar, Scholar of Sacred Concordances, High Prelate of the Temple of the Music Made Manifest, Nexus Prime

(Private Journal, To be submitted for Archival Review – Temple Scriptorium, Duchy Rocha)

“Beyond the circles of the world there is more than memory…” – Fragment of the Lórien Concordance, recovered from the Library of Gondor in the First Year of Return

First Recordings of a Member of the Fellowship of the Swan Road

A Mirror of the Song: Speculations on a Mythic Arda Beyond the Veil

Ae Adar nín ú-erthant… (Nay, my Father does not rest…) — A lament for ages past.

The great mystery of the Blessed Grove, and the whispers of a Mythic Arda that might lie beyond our ken, are not merely speculative wonders; they are truths revealed through the grace of the Maia Melian herself. To stand before her in that veiled sanctuary was to face the precipice of the divine—a place where the very foundations of time and space trembled under the weight of something ancient, something true. I, Bishop Datlat, once a humble scholar of Eru Ilúvatar’s sacred concordances, have found myself not only an observer of this phenomenon but also its chronicler. And yet, as I begin this account, it is difficult to separate my role as servant of the Church from the deep personal awe that clouds my understanding. What follows is a careful rendering of the events as I remember them, with a scholarly attempt to align them within the broader theology of our faith.

In this age, now well over ten thousand years after the last great deeds of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth, the Arda we inhabit is far removed from the world of the Elder Days. Through the triumphs and losses of countless generations, a shadow of the ancient glory of Valinor and the High Magic has fallen over us. The deeds of the Elves—those who once danced in the light of Telperion and Laurelin—are but memories now, retold in the fading echoes of song and lore. Indeed, when I look up to the heavens, I see the same stars that burned above the mortal world in the First Age, yet the light that once spoke of the divine is dimmed, for the trees of light have been extinguished and the Great Eagles no longer soar above the sky.

It was in this world, a world that is no longer the Arda of the Ainur’s dream, that we—those of the Swan Road Fellowship—found the Blessed Grove, the place revealed to us by the grace of Melian. This realm, as I came to learn, is not bound by the mundane laws of the physical world, nor is it a mere echo of this sphere. It is something far deeper, a place where memory and yearning intertwine to form a spiritual geography, one attuned to the very Music that shaped our world. The Grove, though hidden from mortal eyes, is not inaccessible to those whose hearts and souls are attuned to its resonance. And yet, my role in this discovery—indeed, my privileged place in the fellowship—demands greater reflection, as my own spiritual journey is intricately entwined with those who travel this path.

When the leaves were gifted to Eltán and the rest of the Fellowship—those sacred leaves which serve as keys to the Grove—I had no notion of what lay ahead. At first, I believed they were simply relics, magical tokens of a being far more ancient than I could ever hope to be. But over time, I came to understand their true purpose. They were not mere portkeys, as one might find in the worlds beyond Arda, but conduits—spiritual compasses that resonated with something far greater than the tangible world. These leaves guided us not merely through space, but through essence itself, attuned to a desire that echoed in the deepest chambers of the soul.

Indeed, Archmage Mica, our Imperial Regent, and a noted scholar of planar phenomena, remarked that the resonance of the leaves was something akin to the ancient branch-gates of Alfheim, or the dreaded portals of Ravenloft. But unlike the latter, which transported through force and will, these leaves responded to the soul’s own yearning—a yearning not for mere power, but for a deeper communion with the Music of Eä. Mica, an imposingly learned figure in his own right, noted that the Grove’s very essence is attuned not to the lands of Middle-earth or any other known domain, but to an unfathomable space—an echo of a world that was lost to time.

Here, in these sacred pages, I attempt to lay bare the foundations of what I have come to call Mythic Arda. This term is one of my own coinage. My knowledge before the Free Imperia came here was drawn from the myriad of holy texts preserved within the libraries of Duchy Eltán, Duchy Rocha, and reinforced since by the library of Gondor, but the underlying mystical heritage is rooted in something far older—a truth long whispered in the shadows. The Arda we walk is but a pale reflection of what once was, a world scarred and shaped by the ravages of Morgoth and his darkness, and rationalized and encompassed by the unfeeling brute reason of three ages of men. The true Arda, the Arda of the Ainur’s unspoiled vision, is a place that lingers just beyond the veil, waiting for those brave enough to search for it, or perhaps for those chosen by the will of Eru Himself.

This world of echoes - the Arda we know - presents us with many questions. What changes did darkness and industrialized rationality wreak? What are we meant to do with this altered world that has been set before us? It is my firm belief that the answers to these questions lie in the intersection of the old music and the new, in the return to the straight road that leads, once more, to Valinor. I fear, too, for Eltán, for though his heart is set upon this journey, he walks the line between mortal man and something far more divine - a line I fear may one day pull him away from us forever.

I shall continue this inquiry in the next portion of this journal, but for now, I conclude with these reflections: the Grove is not merely a place of memory, but a place of possibility. Perhaps here, within its verdant borders, we may yet find the answers to the ancient riddles that bind our world - and perhaps, too, we may uncover the path that leads to a new age of harmony.

Si lothlann ú-veren, ar nín telitha… (If the flower withers, yet our hope remains…)

Set by my own hand, this Blotmath 5, AR Y20 Bishop Datlat

A Mirror of the Song

Journal Entry, Post-Visitation

By the Hand of Bishop Datlat

“And I, even I, stood before her. Not in dream, nor in vision, but as the air bears the breath and the ground bears the weight of the living. I stood.”

The candlelight flickers now as I write. Not in any great hall, not amid the music of harps or the reverent silence of sanctuaries — but here, in the plainwood solitude of my desk, where the ink runs too freely and my fingers ache from transcription, and still, I cannot stop. Not now.

It is as if every word I ever prayed has turned inwards and burst open. My thoughts spin like constellations, realigning themselves around a new gravity: she answered.

Melian Dúriel, Queen of Doriath, Guardian of Lúthien’s line, teacher of Thingol and Galadriel — a being whose name I once whispered in litany, doubting half her myth — stepped forth from the mythic and into flesh.

And spoke.

And blessed.

Not magic in the crude sense, but something older. The sense of being watched by a star. Of being remembered.

I fear, even, that I am…

[After an ink blot and what might be spotting from tears, the journal resumes in a steadier hand]

From the private journals of Bishop Datlat, following the Visitation in the Grove

How does one return from such a place and yet remain whole?

Though I now sit at my familiar desk beneath the carved dome of the Sanctum Athenaeum, quill in hand and the quiet of the cloister about me, I am haunted — no, graced — by a presence that lingers like scent on silk. The Grove is far in space, yet near in soul. I find myself reaching inward, not merely to recall the encounter, but to understand it. Not to write, but to remember.

For the sake of the record — and I suspect, for the sake of my own trembling faith — I must begin with Eltán.

The leaf still glows faintly in his hands, as though the light of the moon had chosen to anchor itself in mortal memory. He was changed by the Visitation, yes, but not crowned like Lancelot's Arthur — not exalted. Rather, unbound. And that is the more terrible grace.

I have read tales of the Glorfindel-cycle and the Bright Return. I have studied the way of the Straight Road, and the ways in which its closing cracked more than the earth — it fractured the soul-path of the faithful. Yet I have never seen a man marked by the possibility of return as Eltán is now.

He kissed the soil where Melian stepped, and I believe in doing so, he consecrated not only that ground — but his own purpose. He is now a bridge. Between what we are and what we remember. Between Arda and Myth.

And yet, he did not ascend. He bowed.

This concept — unbound — now occupies my thought entirely.

Melian’s words, clear as star-chimes:

“You are not lost, my child. You are unbound.”

It would be tempting to take this as simple comfort. But no. In her tone, I felt the weight of fate reversed, of doors flung open, not by force, but by harmony.

In theological terms, we often speak of the binding of purpose — the way in which Eru's design draws souls into their ordained roles, into melody-lines in the Great Music. And yet Melian named Eltán unbound — as one freed from the constraints of mere fate, no longer a single note, but an improviser, capable of shaping future stanzas by intent, not inertia.

Could this be a new mode of sacred being in this Fourth Great Age? Not martyrdom. Not miracle. But faithful improvisation in the echo of the Ainulindalë?

Three leaves descended. Not dropped, not blown — placed. As though the Trees themselves knew whose hands would tremble to receive them.

They are not tools. They are not keys. They are questions.

Each leaf orients toward the Grove, yes — but only in the hand of one who remembers it in truth. The phrase is precise. It suggests the Grove is not fixed in space, but in resonance. To remember it truly is not to recall its foliage or shape or direction, but its meaning.

I can think of no clearer symbol of Eru’s paradox — that only by surrendering certainty may one find the Way. These leaves cannot be forced, bartered, or claimed. They must be answered.

And more — they are songs. The Grove is not a place on the map. It is a verse of the Music, hidden in the silence between staves.

Though I have no theological framework yet that can encompass Radwen, I am compelled to record her here — for I believe the Church’s future may rest in understanding beings like her.

She is a swanship, yes, but also daughter to Eltán and Harvey — the Kirin once Solipsism, now real. She is not born of flesh, nor forged of spell. She is sung into being through love, belief, and divine intervention.

Eru gave her reality. And now she dreams of the Straight Road.

If she is the new kind of psychopomp — not to death, but to restoration — then I must reconsider the entire doctrine of Final Return. Perhaps the Valar have not withdrawn. Perhaps they have simply become harder to hear.

Radwen listens.

And perhaps she is the first line of the Second Music.

And that our brave and noble-spirited Emperor, Aragus Maximus the First, took up a leaf… despite his doubts, and his endless avoidance of the divine. I would have said that his humility and arrogance, his very hubris, knew no bounds, but Melian spoke to him as well, and he too is her descendant. The trouble that the twins will make of such a miracle may be a bright joy, sprinkled and strewn across the cosmos, and Dame Lidia's path is harder to imagine; still waters run deep. But our Emperor… the final leaf bearer. The world shakes.

from the personal codex of Bishop Datlat, dated the Eve after the Visitation

Though it shames me, I admit: I wept when I returned to my study.

Not from grief. Not from awe. But from weight. The realization that I, a half-frightened scholar with a singing wrist and a brittle sense of courage, had stood at the edge of the Great Pattern—and that the Pattern had sung back.

I have tried, since boyhood, to see the divine as coherent. To systematize grace. But what happened in the Grove was not a system. It was a song. One which remembers its first verse, but waits on us to write the second.

There is a quiet heresy that the Church of Eru once condemned, called Silmarithon, which held that true sanctity was not ascent, but recursion—that the holiest souls did not rise beyond Arda, but remained within it, recapitulating the Song until Arda Healed. That they spiraled, not soared.

I think now… the Silmarithonists may have glimpsed something terrible and beautiful.

Eltán cannot rise. But he can turn the key.

He has become the witness who remembers. Not because he has power, but because he listens to the Music without demanding it play to him.

Lancelot may immanentize. Others may transcend. But Eltán will be the one who makes sure the door swings again—not into heaven, but into hope.

He is, if I may name it, a warden of recursion. A glorified mortal not by divinity, but by devotion.

A soul placed, not for victory, but for memory.

And I begin to suspect this is no accident.

The Grove is not just a sanctum. It is an Axis Mundi—a point of ontological compression where the layers of Eä grow thin and the divine leaks through.

But more: it is an Axis of Memory.

Unlike mythic centers that stand immutable (Taniquetil, Ilmarin, or the Silver Tree of Aman), this Grove is not marked by timelessness. It is marked by recall. The Silver Leaf does not navigate by stars or stones, but by truth of memory. That means the Grove is woven into consciousness.

I postulate that the Grove is:

A convergent location in Arda where the Song echoes most purely.

A place retuned to divine frequency by Melian’s temporary re-entry into the World.

A site that harmonizes not only geography and history, but intent.

In brief: it is not fixed. It remembers itself through us.

That should not be possible.

But if Arda is wounded, if its Music frayed, then perhaps memory is the only road left unbroken.

The three leaves did not fall. They descended, as though returned from a higher octave. I am now convinced that they are not maps, but tuning forks—objects that align the bearer to the Grove’s frequency. Not by location, but by resonance.

This implies:

Memory is not recollection alone. It is invocation.

Travel to the Grove is less like walking a road, and more like rejoining a melody.

I suspect this may be the seed of a lost metaphysical doctrine: that certain holy places are less “locations” than they are stanzas in Eru’s Music, recoverable by living faith.

This accords with the lost writings of the Third Age mystic Elenedhir, who wrote:

“The road to the West lies not underfoot, but in the remembered chord.”

The Grove is a harmonic echo of Arda Unmarred, not its duplicate.

And therefore, though the way may lie through it, it is not a return to the Blessed Realm.

It is a rehearsal for Arda's healing.

Journal of Bishop Datlat

The very nature of Arda, as we understand it through the teachings of our Church, is inextricably linked to the Music of the Ainur, orchestrated by the One, Eru Ilúvatar. From this divine symphony sprang forth the world and all that dwells within it. Yet, since the opening of Arda’s crystal sphere by the founders of the Free Imperia – an event shrouded in the mists of their own desperate flight across the cosmos – we have inhabited a world that, while echoing the lore of old, presents notable divergences. Twenty years of diligent searching within this newly accessible Arda have yielded no trace of the majestic beings and flora that defined the High Magic of the Elder Days. The Great Eagles soar not in our skies, the wise Ents do not walk our forests, and the lineages of the Trees of Light – Telperion and Laurelin – exist only in fragmented memory, their children like the Silver Tree of Gondor and even other lines from the blessed realm like the Mallorns of Lothlorien remaining elusive. Even the celestial tapestry above us, while bearing familiar names, reveals a starkly different material reality. Mercury, Eärendil's Star, is a stone, not a star-borne ship; the Sun and Moon are spheres of fire and rock, not the last vestiges of divine light piloted by Arien and Tillion. Perhaps this Grove is a refugium sanctum - a spiritual Ark where the Music’s purest themes were preserved. If Melian has sustained such a realm, then the return of the Great may come not by summoning, but by pilgrimage.

Indeed, if the very causality of divergent mirrors of Arda may hinge upon such a place, might Time itself not regard the hinge point? Could Entwives, or other relics of Arda unmarred be reachable? May the actual Unbroken Road itself be found beyond the grove?

The leaves gifted by Melian serve as the key to this realm, acting not as mere physical portkeys in the manner of those that bind travelers to the dread domains of Ravenloft, but as conduits attuned to a deeper, perhaps spiritual, geography. Indeed, Archmage Mica of the Nine, a keen scholar of planar phenomena, has observed that the leaves gifted to Eltán and his companions resonate not merely with plant-life but with planar resonance. Like the portkeys of Ravenloft or the branch-gates of Alfheim, these leaves appear to be keyed not to a single location, but to a direction of spiritual desire—a compass of grace. The initial rites performed, notably the Ritual of the Dreaming Leaf, demonstrate that the leaf does not transport its bearer at random, but brings them toward Melian’s Grove from wherever they begin. This aligns curiously with legends of Neverland, or even the Astral journeys of the Silver Host. It suggests a psychosomatic metaphysical trajectory—the soul's yearning manifesting in place. This remarkable property, akin to the inherent limitations that prevented even the Númenórean Telmarundar from following the straight path to Valinor after the sundering of the world, indicates a journey bound by more than mere physical laws. This, to my mind, is entirely within Eru’s permissive design.

The lore preserved within the libraries of Duchy Eltan speaks of a Sundering of the Elves (Red Book, ver. 37-a, Library Eltan), a division between those who embraced the call to Valinor and those who remained in Middle-earth. This inherent duality, a foot in both the seen and unseen worlds, might offer a key to understanding the nature of the Mythic Arda.

Furthermore, the cataclysmic Downfall of Númenor, a world rent asunder by its own pride, resulted in a profound reshaping of Arda. Could this event, this cosmic fracturing, have had consequences beyond the purely physical? It is conceivable that the spiritual essence of Arda, and perhaps even aspects of its primordial reality, were, in a sense, sundered as well, receding into a parallel existence accessible only through specific spiritual resonance? The Elves, beings inherently attuned to the spiritual currents of Eä, might possess an innate connection to this realm, as evidenced by the leaves’ efficacy for those of elven descent. And do my own eyes deceive me, or do the eyes of our Emperor, of Dame Lidia, of the Twins, and of Eltán now glow with an echo of that starlight that was Varda's gift to a dark and dreaming world? Have they become Caliquendi, themselves now figures out of myth?

The prophecies of the end of days, the Dagor Dagorath, speak of a final battle and a subsequent remaking of the world in the Second Music of the Ainur (pages from presumed lost Ainulindalë ver. 14-f ruins of Zadan-An-Adun, 3rd layer). The emergence of a Mythic Arda, a potential repository of the unmarred beauty and power of the Elder Days, could have profound implications for these eschatological events. Might the return of beings and forces from this parallel realm play a crucial role in the final confrontation against the Shadow? Could the very existence of this preserved reality be a precursor to the Second Music, a sign that the original harmonies of creation are not lost but merely veiled, awaiting a time of reconvergence and renewal?

The directive given by Melian – “Serve the Will. Heal the Wound” – takes on a broader significance in this context, perhaps hinting at a cosmic healing that transcends the immediate struggles of our age.

If we consider the ancient theories, such as those found within the Kelestian cosmographies, which posit Arda as the prime world intricately linked as the core of the prime constellation of other spheres, then the implications of this convergence become even more profound. The influx of divine and infernal forces from across the multiverse into our sphere – the benevolent light of the incarnate Son, Aslan, and the seeming Ainur from other spheres, Odin, and Bahamut, alongside the shadowy influences of unnamed princes of the abyss, the dread of vampire lords, and the destructive might of entities such as that old dragon, be she called Tiamat or Takhesis – suggests a nexus point, a place where the currents of existence converge. The opening of Arda’s sphere and the subsequent emergence of a potential pathway to a primordial reality might be more than a local phenomenon. It could represent a subtle re-weaving of the very fabric of existence, a drawing together of sundered threads across all the spheres and planes.

If the health and fate of Arda resonate throughout the seven linked worlds, and thus through all the paths of existence, as some believe, then this rediscovery of a purer source, this potential healing of the deepest wound, could send ripples of consequence throughout the entire multiverse, influencing the balance of power between light and shadow, and perhaps even hastening the ultimate reconciliation foreseen in the final movements of Eru’s grand symphony.

The journey of the Swan Road Fellowship to Melian’s Blessed Grove represents a pivotal moment in the history of our age. It has opened a door to the possibility of a deeper, more resonant Arda, a Mythic Arda that may hold the key to understanding our present reality and our place within Eru’s grand design. Further contemplation, prayer, and perhaps future carefully undertaken explorations, guided by the wisdom of Melian and the grace of the Leaves, may yet reveal more of this profound mystery.

The Music of Creation, it seems, may have more harmonies than we have yet perceived.

From the journal of Bishop Datlat

Among the manifold mysteries now unfolding, the transformation of Eltán - once mere mariner, now seemingly unbound - demands fresh theological category. He has neither died nor wholly shed his incarnate nature, yet I cannot question his surety of the coming passage - will he pass, or perhaps has he passed into a state hitherto only seen in Glorfindel, or in tales whispered in the West? Is this transfiguration a sign of the Last Music stirring early chords? Might he be the forerunner of a new mode of being - not released from the Music, but dwelling within it freely, as both note and singer?

In Glorfindel we saw a soul re-clothed by grace. In Lancelot's tales of Arthur, the sleeping king, we see hope deferred, yet preserved. And in Odin - whom some of us recognize as one of the Ainur, sent into another realm to steward its own mythic maturation - we see the power of wisdom gained through hanging himself on the world tree, wandering, and watching. Each is a kind of Swan Knight: herald, judge, and paradox - passing through the liminal to the sublime, and returning, made anew, and moreso.

Eltán’s passage is thus neither mere miracle nor symbol, but perhaps a seed. If indeed he chooses/has chosen to go beyond, and he returns again, then the age of static theology is truly over. The Return is not history’s echo, but its overture.

Melian’s Grove is no longer a place. It is a mode.

We who study the sacral must ask: was the Grove always blessed, hidden in wait for the faithful to arrive? Or did the song, the ritual, the tears, and the trembling create its sanctity in the moment of harmony?

This question cannot be answered without violence to mystery, but it can be circled. There is strong precedent, even in ancient Valinor, for precession: holy places woven into the fabric of the world from its beginning. Yet the actions of the Fellowship, and Eltán most keenly, suggest sacralization as an act of joint authorship - divine and mortal braided together.

Perhaps the answer is: both. The Grove was prepared and waiting only because it was always going to be sung into awakening. A hinge-point, a holy cusp, timeless yet unfolding, where Return is not mere repetition but emergence. The divine here is not descending as in the elder days, but rising: upwelling through willing hearts.

Of all these mysteries, none confound nor illuminate more than the posture of His Imperial Majesty, Aragus Maximus I, before the unfolding sacred. That he accepted a leaf - however sardonically, however much with one brow arched - is no small gesture. For he is no mystic, no bard. His mind is forged of statecraft and scars, skepticism his habitual weapon.

And yet: he took the leaf.

This is no mere compliance. It is consent without conversion. A sacred doubt that governs not through belief, but through restraint. And is that not its own kind of grace?

I must now contemplate a theological model in which the Emperor is not priest, nor prophet, but agonist: the wrestling one, like Turin mastering his terrible doom, or the tale that Pope-Doktor Kane shared, from the Templar at his service, of Jacob by the river. He who is offered holiness, resists it - and so steadies it for the rest of us. In this, Aragus Maximus echoes the great shadows cast by both Melkor and Manwë. But he resists neither out of pride nor disobedience, but for the sake of clarity, duty, and love.

Now, with Eltán to declare him son, in full imperial pomp, this very night, and - not son by blood alone, but by truth - the circle turns again. The sacred may yet rest in skeptical hands. The leaf may guide even those who do not believe in its whisper. For what is faith, if not the act of stepping forward, when even the gods have gone silent?

A Mirror of the Song

Notes by Bishop Datlat, High Prelate of the Church of Eru Ilùvatar

I was called out to Morninghold on the afternoon before the Imperial Adoption rite.

There I found Radwen seated beneath the Singing Tree, where our journey had begun. Dame Lidia and the twins were with her; the silvered leaves in their possession glowed faintly, pulsing with a rhythm that did not match their heartbeats, but instead mirrored the wind-song through Melian's branches. None disturbed her vigil. Dame Lidia whispered that she had not spoken for hours.

Radwen’s eyes were closed, her form still. Yet from her parted bill issued a single note, held like a thread across dimensions. The note harmonized with no melody heard aloud, yet its effect was undeniable. The leaves pulsed in sympathy, then stilled.

Later, after, she would recount to Dame Lidia a dream: a white swanship sailing through stars, uncrewed save for a ghostly silhouette at the prow - herself, yet not. The ship glided across a mirrored sea that reflected constellations not charted in any lore of Arda. As it approached a crescent-shaped isle of light, she heard the voices of the Ainur singing not to her, but with her - a canon of becoming, endless in variation.

“I am born again and again in the dream,” she said softly. “Each return, a new verse in the same Song. But the rhythm… the rhythm is changing.”

Lidia's brows furrowed. “Changing how?”

Radwen simply replied: “It waits for someone to rejoin it.”

Speaking with Lady Vana, later, after, I learned that during that afternoon she had been helping the Archduke prepare for the rite. At what might have been the same moment of Radwen's mournful call, she said that Eltán's eyes flashed with a luminous, effulgent light. He looked up, she said, and whispered “I am coming.”