Trinkets by Independence1776

No Man's Land

Maglor fights a monster during his wandering years. Horror. Ficlet. Rated Teens for mild violence.

Written for Elleth in the fall of 2012, using the prompt: "Walker sees the mist rise / Over no man's land."

Maglor crept around the boulders littering the pebbled lakeshore, a brace of rabbits hanging over his shoulder. The sun hovered above the horizon, staining the sky red and orange. The waves lapped softly around him, nearly drowned out by the wind whistling through the almost bare branches-- and the rock formation that the local mortals said contained a monster. Maglor had spent enough time around the formation (no Man went on this side of the lake, so the hunting was plentiful) to know that the gaps in the jumble of rocks caused the hollow whistling noise when the wind blew from the north. There was no reason for the mortals to lock themselves inside the wooden palisade simply because it was an eighth of the year past the autumn equinox. A fisherman’s wife had warned him earlier in the week that he’d want to stay in the village tonight rather than in his solitary cabin that was far too close to the formation for the village’s liking. It hadn’t helped that tonight was a full moon.

But Maglor didn’t care; he’d fought in Beleriand, in Aman, and more times in his wanderings than he cared to remember. This night would be no different than any other he’d spent alone.

He crossed the lawn and proceeded to skin and prepare the rabbits for eating. One to roast tonight and one to go in his pot of perpetual soup. He finished just as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon. He stuck one rabbit on the spit over his banked fire, dumped the pieces of the other in the soup, grabbed a change of clothes, and headed down to the lake for a quick wash. The birds had quieted down for the night, though he heard an owl hooting in the distance. A large bat swooped overhead and headed over the lake. The water was chilly, especially with the wind, so he didn’t linger. He wasn’t a fool, though, and locked the door behind him. There was always the chance that the fear was deliberately caused by someone in village, and Maglor knew he was an appealing target. One dead man, living alone tonight against all warnings, would be reason enough to keep the legend and the terror going.

Maglor firmly intended to disabuse the culprit of that notion.

It grew late, and the crackling of the fire was the only sound he heard. Even the wind had died down. But he should have heard owls.

Maglor frowned into the flames. That meant one of two things: someone was in the woods, or the monster was real. Given how close the village was to the stones despite the legend, even though it was across the lake, he knew it had to be just a story. A monster of Morgoth or Sauron wouldn’t attack on only one night of the year. It made no sense. This terror was the work of Men.

So when Maglor heard heavy footsteps crossing his wooden porch, he threw open the door, sword in hand, hoping to frighten the mortal. Only to blink in shock at the being in front of him, and then duck when the bipedal monster took a swipe at it him with its clawed paw. Maglor thrust upward, hitting it in the chest, but not deeply enough to do more than cut it. But it stumbled backwards with a roar, nearly falling off the porch. Maglor stepped forward, pushing his advantage, and it tripped down the stairs, landing unsteadily on its feet. That split second of disorientation was all Maglor needed to cut its head off.

Upon which a mist formed above it and disintegrated in a sudden gust of wind. Maglor leaned against a pillar holding his roof up and stared down at the bloody corpse. A Maiar of some kind, one of those who fled or had remained hidden these long years since Beleriand. Once a year appearances and a constant unseen threat were well within its intelligence and capabilities. And now it was dead.

Maglor hoped Morgoth was aware of what happened to his minions from his prison in the Void.

He went back into the cabin, kicking the door shut behind him, and cleaned his sword. He couldn’t move the body by himself, and having someone from the village help him in the morning would show the villagers that they no longer needed to fear it. Its death would give him some much needed respect-- and therefore space-- in this land.