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Tagroval landed on the mountaintop which still smelled of freshly-hewn stone, and, of course, of hallowed ground. Maybe rock would be a better word. Was rock a ground? Surely it was something to sit on. Below, at the roots of the mountain, Lady Yavanna and her Maiar planted the forest.
Yes, this would be a good place to live. Not as far as Middle Earth, but not in Valinor proper. Somewhere more quiet and a little more subdued.
He took to the air again, circling around the mountain, seeking a good place for a nest.
Some years later — a dozen or two — a fleet of ships appeared in the distance, like a white flock, and it wasn't long until they landed. A multitude of Men came on the shores, and into the land. Their exclamations of awe rose into the sky. In a few years, they built the first cities, and a road to the mountain. Fortunately it wasn't too close to the nest of Tagroval’s family.
One day the Edain came to the mountain: a perfectly silent crowd led by a descendent of Melian. There was something about them that felt both ancient and new, and none of the eagles dared to land. Instead they circled above, silently pondering what it could all mean.
Since then the Men came often, but rarely in such a large and profound group.
Years passed, the trees grew and so did the cities of Men, and eventually a new king led the procession. And later, another. Tagroval didn't pay much attention to those changes.
On the distant sea, ships grew bigger and started leaving for long. He had to look really carefully to see them — visible only in good weather — at the distant shores in the east. Then a great war was fought there, but the eagles did not concern themselves with Middle Earth much, except to agree that they'd made a good decision to not live there.
People came to the mountain less often, and Tagroval appreciated the peace, but a shadow darkened his thoughts.
The cities grew bigger and richer, and the Men became restless. They sailed back and forth, talked louder and often smelled of fear. One day a brilliant ship came from the West, and Tagroval saw glimpses of his friend, but they did not talk. The visit was short and focused on the king's palace, and the shadow thickened.
Years passed and Men stopped coming to the mountain almost completely. They spoke to each other more angrily, and not in the melodic words of Sindarin. But the forest was still green and full of game.
The ships sailed back and forth, but most didn't resemble birds anymore, they were more like dragons — full of gold and yet greedy for more. The smaller, birdlike vessels sailed east from time to time, but never came back.
One spring a new king came to the mountain. His company was much less numerous, but his eyes were sharp almost like Tagroval’s and his heart willing to take flight — but too many burdens weighed him down and with each season he grew more tired. And the processions weren't getting any bigger. One day he did not come again.
Not long after, the fleet went to war.
When it returned, the wind smelled of fire and Tagroval shivered in apprehension.
Soldiers patrolled the low part of the mountain road, and a new silver dome shone in the city. Nimloth screamed wordlessly in fire and soon many Men followed her.
It was time to leave.
Storms came and later earthquakes, and one day when a host of his brothers and sisters appeared on the horizon, Tagroval joined them, and with him all the Eagles of the island.
The fleet followed them.
The Eagles flew back and forth, seeing, remembering, witnessing. The screams. The smoke. The laughter. The fleet.
It finally landed and — like a rat into a nest of much nobler creatures, the king led his army into the white shore.
Unseen, brighter than Taniquetil, higher than the flight, both ancient and new — and the world broke.
Somewhere beyond the storm a queen climbed, too late.
Even further, a flock of ships took flight.