DISCLAIMER: To avoid spoilers, I'll just say that anything you recognise belongs to Professor Tolkien, even if you don't fully recognise it.

Religion

Maglor was tired, filthy and wounded when he stumbled into the village on the edge of the marshes. He didn't know where he was, and didn't actually care. All that mattered was that he was in something that would pass for civilisation. Surely, even in a Mortal village, they would have someone who could heal him and feed him. Unfortunately, he had no sure way of being able to speak to them, and no energy to do so. Instead, he took the direct approach. Staggering to the centre of the small cluster of huts, he simply curled up on the ground and waited.

Some time later, he awoke with a start to find himself in an enclosed space. There was a fire burning cheerfully next to him, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he began to make out the dark shapes of Men – short, like Ghardl had been – clustered on the far side of the fire. One of them noticed his awakening and nudged his neighbour. After a longer sequence of nudging, a woman near the door rose, walked over to where the elf lay, and handed him a bowl.

Maglor looked down into the bowl. It seemed to be filled with some sort of meat in some sort of liquid. Beyond that, he could not tell, but it was hot, so he ate it to warm his chilled bones. When he finished, he smiled and sat up. "I thank you," he said in Quenya to the woman. She returned his words with a blank expression and went back to her place. The Man who had first noticed his movements came over to take her place, kneeling down before Maglor. He opened his mouth, and Maglor braced himself for some incomprehensible Mannish tongue. What he got was far worse.

"Praise Merkot you live," said the man in a harsh tongue that grated in Maglor's ears. The Black Speech! he thought, his mind whirling.

Outwardly calm, he replied in the same language, though it sickened him. "I thank you for your care. Where… where am I?" he asked. The man grinned.

"You are in our village, Master," he replied, "on the edge of the Marshes. We have been waiting for you for a long time. A very long time."

Maglor frowned, trying to make sense of the mortal's words. Could it be that these Men had heard the same stories as Ghardl's people, but merely adopted the wrong language to remember it in? "Why did you await me?" he asked.

At this, the Man's expression grew troubled. "Do you not know?" he asked. "Are you not the mighty Zaron, servant of Merkot the Great Lord of Darkness? Are you not both wise and terrible?"

Maglor stared. This was more than a simple language swap. He had heard 'Merkot' in the Man's earlier speech, but had thought nothing of it. In context, though, it could be no other than Melkor. With great effort, he stammered, "I… I wish to test you," and lapsed into silence.

The Man seemed to accept this, fortunately, and nodded. "You have come, then, mighty Zaron, to cast down our enemies and bring the Hai People to your glorious realm of Lug Bug. There we will sacrifice other men and the accursed Elves to your master and ours, the Lord Merkot."

Maglor nodded, still in shock. To find people who would believe things like this… "Merciful Manwë," he muttered.

Instantly, the Man's expression changed. "You speak the Forbidden Name of the foul Enemy," he said, his expression dangerous. "You cannot truly be Zaron. You have deceived us."

Maglor shook his head rapidly. "No!" he cried. "I have not!" O sweet Nienna, aid me! he thought, but received – of course – no reply. The Men were still angered – more so, in fact – so there seemed to be no aid forthcoming.

The mortal beckoned to two of his people, who rose and walked around the fire, carrying crude yet heavy-looking axes. "It is told in our tales that Zaron and Merkot are so powerful that they cannot be slain by mortal hand," he said, almost conversationally. "If this is true, you have nothing to fear. If it is not…" He grinned, revealing black teeth filed down to points. "If it is not, then we will feast well this night."

Maglor stared in terror as the two axe-men strode towards him. As the first lifted his weapon, the ice in the elf's veins became hot fire. Leaping from the bed where he had been lying, he grabbed the axe and swung. The skull of the second axeman caved in under the blow, and Maglor hurled the axe, spinning, across the space to the leader of the group. It slammed into his neck, crushing both his throat and spine, and provoking cries of outrage from the other humans. By that time, however, Maglor had already leapt over the falling body of the axeman and fled the hut.

Outside it was raining, as it often was in this part of the world. Maglor ducked between two huts and then struck out to the north. The Marshes were ahead of him, promising hours if not days of hard travel, but behind him was a horde of angry men, and that gave him all the energy he needed.

More linguistic mess, oh yes.

We're almost there now - two more chapters, I think, and we're through. Unfortunately, nothing of those chapters is actually written, so I can't say when they'll be done. Once they are, though, I'll finally be able to get away from this 'fic - it's getting far too depressing for my liking. I'll get back to something else - most likely the sequel to Darkness Falling - and from there, we'll see.

Cloaked Eagle