DISCLAIMER: The basic geography of Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien, as does Maglor. The marshes, however, are mine, as is the Dragon War and Ghardl. The basic plot is mine.

Tribe

"Well. This could be a problem."

Maglor stared out across the marshes. They stretched as far as he could see, clean to the horizon. He supposed he should have guessed – the seas were still rising after the Dragon War had melted much of the ice in the North, and he suspected that some of the Great Fires the dragon had lit still burned, boiling away water into the atmosphere. And now he had found a sign of it – a huge marshland that, as far as he could tell, cut a large area of Arnor off from the rest of Endor. But to reach Lórien, he had to cross it.

Maglor sat down on a rock, on the very edge of the marsh, and thought. As he sat, his hands moved almost of their own accord, reaching for his harp and tuning it carefully. Once it was set, he glanced down at it, seeming only then to notice that he held it.

"What shall we sing then, old friend?" he asked it. In his years alone amongst Men, he had taken to treating his harp as if it were his kin, speaking to it, keeping his voice perfect. "The Noldolantë, perhaps," he mused, and then nodded slowly. "Yes. On the beginning of the final end to the tale of the Noldor in Endor, I shall sing of the beginning of the tale." And with that, he began to play.

He played his sorrow, his hopes, his betrayals, his own treachery. He played to the marshes, the birds, the sky. After several minutes, he glanced up, and noticed to his surprise that he now played to a small group of Men as well. He reviewed his memories, but could find no sign of their village, or any other evidence of their presence before they had appeared before him. Nevertheless, they did not seem violent, and so he continued to the end of the song before looking at them again.

"Are you . . . the Singer?" asked the leader of the Men in halting, heavily accented Quenya. Maglor blinked.

"You know my language?" he replied in the same tongue. The man seemed to consider for a moment, and then nodded.

"I know it. It is the language of learning, the language they say the Immortals spoke."

Maglor frowned. "Who are these Immortals you speak of?" He had a few guesses, but it was best to be certain.

The Man smiled, and began to speak. As Maglor listened, he realised that this story had been learned by rote, repeated generation after generation.

"The Immortals came to us out of the West, bringing with them Light and Knowledge. They taught us to speak, giving us this language as our first. As time passed, we created our own tongue, but we preserved that of the Immortals out of respect for them.

"After a time, we came to their lands. There we joined with them in battle against the Darkness, an Immortal who had turned to evil, and sought to dominate all the peoples of the World, Immortal and Man alike. But we were victorious, and the Darkness was driven away.

"The Immortals left then, their task completed. They sailed across the seas into the Far West, to new lands that had been created for them. But one remained: the Singer. He was assigned by the leaders of the Immortals to abide here, to watch over Men until they were ready to journey into the Far West and to join the Immortals." The man paused, and looked at Maglor with piercing eyes that reminded him of his father. "We are told that the Singer walks the shores of the World, singing his sorrow in tones more beautiful than any we can create. We have heard your singing, and it seems to fit that description. Are you the Singer? Are we to travel to the Far West at last?"

The desperate hope in the man's voice caused Maglor to pause. He had been about to tell them the true story of the Fading of the Eldar, who were obviously the Immortals these Men remembered. But to do so now would break this man, would ruin his whole way of life. He had to tread cautiously. If he worked this right, he might even earn himself passage across the marsh before him.

"I am indeed the Singer of legend," he said, rising to his feet. "But I am afraid the time has not yet come. There are things that must be done before Men can sail into the Far West, things that I must do, and things that you must do." He paused, seeing understanding dawn in the man's eyes. "I must travel across this marsh, to the lands beyond. If you can assist me, I will . . ." Maglor paused again. What could he do for them? He had no possessions other than his harp and clothes, both of which he would need. Then he remembered. "If you can assist me, I will, on my return, show you a site suitable for a large village, even a town. It has a river, fertile soil for animals and plants, everything you will need."

The man considered this, and then nodded. "You did not need to offer anything, Singer, but the fact that you did so shows that you are indeed one of the Immortals. We will guide you across the marshes, and on your return, we will follow you to this site. My name is Ghardl."

The name was harsh compared to the eloquent Quenya of a moment before, but Maglor smiled nonetheless. "I thank you, Ghardl. Please, begin. The sooner I cross these marshes, the sooner I can return to you."

The story told by Ghardl is a rather distorted version of the Silmarillion.

Quenya was the tongue of learning even in the Third Age, and it seems reasonable to assume that it would have been kept for that purpose even up to the Fifth.

And in case you hadn't guessed, the Marsh is surrounding more or less the area that is now Britain.

Cloaked Eagle