Of Numenor That Was by Marta

Part the First

Menelgund dove through the air, willing himself not to cough at the fumes. He was the eyes, the nose, the ears of Manwë Súlimo himself! How could one so exalted as he retch like a common gull?

Yet the smoke carried more than just the smell of brine and ash. That he had smelled in Valinór, when the Elf-children made their festival bonfires. This was different. He dared a deeper breath and a putrid scent assailed him: singed hair and scorched man-flesh.

Menelgund climbed high, through the clouds, far above his brothers. Anything to get far from that awful odor.