In the Darkness by Independence1776

“What was the scariest thing you’ve ever seen?”

Maglor looked askance at the man sitting diagonally from him across the nearly new-- but still stained and marked-- wooden table. Two of the other men gathered around it laughed, though a couple more looked disturbed. Maglor wondered what they’d seen, but living near Mirkwood was bound to cause something unsettling. The other people-- like Maglor himself-- had come to Dale for the fifth year anniversary celebration of Smaug’s death and the return of the King Under the Mountain.

It was two weeks long, culminating in a large feast in the streets of the city itself for the common folk, and a feast inside the mountain for Dain II’s guests. If Maglor had known the identity of two of the latter, he would never have come north. But as far south and east as he had been, the only rumor that had reached him was that Smaug was dead and that the Dwarves lived once more in the Lonely Mountain. There had been nothing about Thranduil’s actions, or of the battle that took place. But the rumor of a rebuilt city had been enough to tickle his curiosity. And large celebrations always needed musicians.

So he had come, signed a contract, and now he was stuck. There were enough people here from various lands that if he left now, he’d be untrusted to hold contracts in some cities where he normally could find work. His only option now was to avoid the Elves-- and hope they didn't spot him. The Dwarves didn’t concern him.

Someone getting up to use the privy jostled the table, breaking Maglor out of his thoughts. Reflexively, he scanned the room, but he saw nothing of note-- just people eating and drinking after a hard day’s work of setting up the booths and decorations, as well as the day-to-day life that couldn’t stop.

Rathi, a man from Laketown, said, “It’s obvious, isn’t it? It was the night King Bard killed Smaug. To have a dragon rushing down on you, knowing there was nothing to defeat it and that even the lake was scant protection? Everyone lost family or friends that night. We’re just lucky King Bard hit the only vulnerable spot on that beast’s breast.”

A few murmurs of agreement rose, but a visitor from Gondor said, “Yeah, okay. That’s plenty terrifying. But I’ve heard enough about the dragon already. Surely someone’s seen something else?”

One of the other visitors, a musician like Maglor, nudged the other’s arm. “And you can only speak to fighting off a poorly planned ambush by two highwaymen on your way up here with a caravan of goods. So shut up.”

Amid the hooting and laughter, Kolgrím-- another man from Laketown-- said, “It wasn’t the dragon for me.” He stared down into his mug of beer as the table quieted. “Mirkwood… It’s always been on our borders. The Elves say it was green and good once upon a time, but I have trouble believing that. And it used to be a bit of a dare for teenagers in Laketown to enter the borders--”

A woodsman from the western side of the forest snorted. “You try living there, son.”

Kolgrím shot him a disturbed look. “Everyone stopped when…” He shuddered. “There was a spring not far into the eastern edge. It was a good place to go if you wanted to say that you’d been in the forest-- far enough in you couldn’t see the edge, but close enough that it wasn’t utterly dark. There was a small waterfall tumbling down the rocks, and it gathered into a little pool with a lawn around it. And the pool trailed off into a little stream that eventually went into the swamps. It was a gorgeous place.

“And it killed my one of my best friends.” He looked up then, and the hair on the back of Maglor’s neck rose. That was near-- too near-- the Necromancer’s territory. “We guessed that it was a spirit of some sort. But Leiknir… he was drawn in. I don’t know what he saw. Because what I saw was nothing good.

“You have to understand. The Necromancer wasn’t a rumor, and we knew the forest was dark. But we were young, reckless, and thought no harm would come to us. No harm had in the past to people who’d visited there. But maybe we had been lulled into a trap.”

“So what happened?” the visitor from Gondor asked.

“I saw something that looked like an Elf. Only… it wasn’t. There was something wrong. You know that feeling you get when you’re alone and you hear something creaking in your house? That dread? That’s what I felt. But Leiknir walked toward it wearing a smile-- and it took him.

“It went inside him.” Kolgrím gulped a large swallow of beer. “I know he fought, because I could see it in his face. But the… thing… fought, too. Scratches by his own hand, unearthly screams. He eventually went into convulsions and died. Leiknir died that day, with all of his friends looking on, helpless.”

“Are you sure it was a spirit?” the visiting musician said.

“With the Necromancer living nearby? Of course we were!”

Maglor shivered. A Houseless Elf, likely called by the Necromancer, and gone only Eru knew where now. He hoped it wasn’t east. Maglor leaned forward. “How did you escape?”

“We ran, after the spirit started leaking out of his body. We never buried him.”

“I’m sorry,” the woodsman, a man named Nollarr, said. “Fire would have driven it away from that spot, though too late to save your friend.”

“Did anything like that happen to you?”

Nollarr shook his head. “We were raised to avoid what felt like good spots. They usually weren’t. But even with the Necromancer gone, there have been problems. A new creature wandering the wood likes to drink blood. It’s killed animals, young ones. And it’s crawled into our homes to do the same to two babes in cradles. We’ve tried hunting it, and the Elves picked up a trail that led here. So consider this your warning. Something evil is out there.”

Several men nodded, and the man from Gondor looked at Maglor. “No stories from anyone else?”

Maglor said, “I think we’ve heard enough, don’t you?”

“I’m sure a wandering bard like you knows some good ones,” he shot back.

Nightmares of the Darkness of Ungoliant still haunted him nearly seven thousand years later. That was the one time he could have been called a coward, and he wouldn’t have contested it. He shuddered at the memory. And the sight of the Doomsman standing above them on the shore… The Curse and Doom that followed… “I do not wish to relive them.”

“And I don’t wish to hear any more, either,” Kolgrím said. “This isn’t a game or a contest.” He glanced into his mug. “I’ll buy everyone another round.”

A few mutters of agreement, and the conversation switched to lighter matters. The man from Gondor eventually wandered away to another table, and Maglor could occasionally hear snatches of conversation where they were trying to outdo one another with tales of horror.

After another hour or so, Maglor begged off when Kolgrím did and they left the tavern together. The stars shone steadily above them, and their breaths misted in front of their faces. Kolgrím tried to hide it, but he jumped when shadows twitched in the torchlight. Maglor bit his lip and said, “You couldn’t have done anything. It was a Houseless--”

“I know exactly what it is. The Elves told me years ago.” He glanced at Maglor. “I’m not surprised you know. You look like you’ve seen a lot.”

Given how long he’d been alive, that was an understatement. “Some of the tales I can tell would ensure you would never sleep again.”

Kolgrím snorted and started walking again, turning into a more crowded thoroughfare. Maglor dodged around an amorous mortal couple unaware of anything around them, and caught up to the man he’d met on the barge from Laketown. Kolgrím said, “Not all of them you lived through.”

“Hardly all.” Maglor would be a poor bard if he didn’t collect stories and songs. “But enough.”

Eventually, they separated and Maglor continued onward to the boarding house where he had a room for the duration of the festival. The streets were no less crowded near it, and the only reason he had his own room was because he was a hired musician and not merely a visitor. But the festival officially began in the morning, and it meant people were celebrating early. So he had to dodge quite a few drunken revelers, nearly running into a pair of Elves as he did so. He ducked his head, muttered an apology in the local language, and hurried onward, not daring to look back in case one of them did. It was one thing to be a slightly clumsy man on a crowded street. It was another to be recognized as a Noldo.

Maglor pulled his tunic on over his head and had just buckled his belt over it when someone knocked on his door. He padded over to it and pulled it open to see the landlady. “Yes?”

“Káno, there are some visitors who wish to speak to you. They’re in the sitting room.”

“I’ll be down in a moment.”

She nodded and he closed the door after she turned to head back downstairs. Visitors at this hour? He hardly knew anyone in the city, and certainly not well enough for them to call on him. Though maybe Kolgrím and some of the other people he’d met last night wanted to do something. It was possible, though unlikely this early. Still, the landlady wasn’t shaken, so it probably wasn’t Elves.

Maglor pulled his boots on, strapped his knife to his belt, locked his room behind him, and slipped the key into his pocket. He went downstairs and headed to the sitting room. Breakfast could wait.

He walked through the doorway and stopped. Getting breakfast first would have been the better idea.

Four Elves stared at him. All were dressed in leather armor, heavily armed, and were clearly not pleased to see him. The redheaded woman-- one of the Elves he’d nearly ran into last night, damn it-- shifted on her feet, one hand on her knife. But it was the brown-haired Elf next to her, the one with the Sindarin-style, long, white knife, who spoke. “My father the king desires to speak to you.”

Thranduil had sent his son to collect him. This was getting worse and worse. Escape was now not only unlikely, but inadvisable-- and insulting. “As he wishes, Prince…”

“Legolas,” the man snapped at the same time he flicked a hand in some sort of signal.

Maglor was marched out of the house with no opportunity to grab breakfast. It was still early enough that the streets weren’t crowded-- the festival had yet to open-- and while their passage caused looks and whispered remarks, it was a fairly swift journey over the multicolored stone-paved roads to Bard’s palace and its guest house where the royal Elves stayed. Maglor was immediately ushered inside the latter, though two of the guards remained outside.

He did not protest when his knife was stripped from him and he was frisked for further weaponry. He was not quite a prisoner, but it would take very little action from him to change that. And that was one of the many things he had no desire to do. Prince Legolas and the redheaded guard led him to a small room on the second level, one overlooking the street rather than the courtyard. Neither one stayed with him, so Maglor took the opportunity to search the room for useful items in case he needed to defend himself.

The two couches were useless; the sconces were securely fastened to the stone walls, though the silver candlesticks on the sideboard could be used as a weapon in a pinch; the window could not be opened (and the drop onto the cobblestones would not be pleasant even if it could or if he needed to break it); and the wooden sideboard’s cabinets were empty. Apart from the braided rug on the floor and the heavy curtains on the window, there was nothing else in the room.

Maglor sighed and went back to the window. There, he at least had something to look at while he waited.

It wasn’t too much longer before the door opened again. Maglor turned around and nodded politely at the blond Elf who entered, followed by his son. Thranduil’s berry-and-leaf crown was a far cry from the glamor of Doriath, but this wasn’t Doriath. And that was the problem.

The wooden door closed and Legolas stood in front of it, a hand on his knife. Thranduil stopped next to the sideboard, well within reach of the candlesticks, though he too was armed. “What are you doing here, Kinslayer?”

Not an auspicious start, and Maglor couldn’t help but wonder if any answer he gave would satisfy Thranduil. “Some months ago, I heard a rumor that Smaug had been defeated, the Necromancer fled, and that Dwarves lived once more in the Lonely Mountain. I wished to see it for myself.”

“Yet you came knowing my kingdom was nearby.”

Maglor winced. He’d known, and he’d thought it worth the risk. “I had not anticipated meeting any Elves. Until I reached Laketown, I had not even heard of the Battle of the Five Armies. But I had come so far that turning away made little sense. And I needed the money performing at Dale’s festival would bring me.” Neither man so much as looked as if they cared. “I wander, and that requires funds. Wandering farther than normal more than usual.”

Thranduil ran a finger along the sideboard. “Or you could cease your wandering life and settle down with one of the clans who tolerate you.”

Maglor raised his eyebrows. “You know about them?”

Thranduil matched his eyebrow raise. “I rule Silvan Elves, and many of them keep in touch with relatives in other clans. Your travels and doings are not unknown to us.”

Maglor had often relied on that network during his wanderings. He simply hadn’t imagined it that word of him would be passed this far west. He sighed. “Does Galadriel know?”

Legolas said, “Due to the Necromancer, we have not had contact with Lothlórien in many long-years.”

“Your foster son laps up any knowledge of your whereabouts. If he passes the information to her, we are unaware of it. He desires to see you again.”

Maglor looked back at the king. “I cannot imagine why, after what my family and I did to him. I could not stand to.”

Thranduil’s face shifted into a more displeased expression. “Shame then, Fëanorion, that you cannot even see one who professes to love you? Yet you came here, near to the kingdom of one you drove from his birthplace?”

Maglor bit back a rather cutting response. It would not do to lose his temper here, and especially not over the Kinslaying. “I am ashamed and regretful, as you should well know if you converse with my foster son. As for Elrond, my visit would open old wounds, and they would remain open when I left again. I have hurt him enough. Furthermore, the Silmarils were not--”

“So you are not here to see the Arkenstone?”

Maglor blinked and stared at Thranduil, bewildered at the change of subject. “Why would I care about a stone that the Dwarves found and shaped?”

Legolas dropped his hand from his knife. “There were rumors among our people that it was a Silmaril, no matter that Father could confirm otherwise. We did not know how far east they spread.”

“The Oath has not awakened.” Maglor rubbed his forehead. “I swear that you.”

If there was one thing that everyone in the room knew, it was that Maglor kept his word. Thranduil nodded. “I am glad to hear that.” He turned and sat down on the nearest couch. He gestured at the one on the opposite wall. “Please, sit.” Maglor kept the surprised expression off his face and did as ordered. Legolas remained standing by the door. Thranduil continued, “What do you know of other recent events?” Before he could answer, Maglor’s stomach gurgled. Thranduil said, “Did you not have a chance to eat?”

Maglor shook his head and Legolas briefly went into the hallway. When he reappeared, closing the door behind him, Maglor said, “I know that the Necromancer has fled from your wood. I know neither the why nor the how.”

“He fled from the White Council,” Thranduil said. “Your cousin is among them.”

That would be reason enough to flee rather than fight. “So they did not defeat him?”

“Unfortunately not,” Legolas said.

Thranduil said, leaning forward, “Do you know who he is?”

Maglor got a sinking sensation in his stomach. “I had assumed one of the Úlairi or a lesser Maia of Morgoth’s. We have enough trouble in the east with those that I could not bring myself to care overly much about one in the west, especially with Galadriel on his borders.” He closed his eyes briefly, realizing what they were implying. “The Necromancer is Sauron.”

“Mithrandir confirmed that nearly one hundred years ago.”

Damn. And they had done nothing in the meantime? Realistically, though, how much could they do? But-- He stared at Thranduil. “You lived for nearly an Age with Sauron on your border?”

Both Thranduil and Legolas’ body language shifted into pride. Thranduil said, “We have. While we may have lost ground, we still survived. And that without much help from anyone.”

Maglor couldn’t help but smile. Sauron to the south and a dragon to the east-- and they were undefeated. If only the Oath and his family’s actions hadn’t caused so much division in Beleriand… “We did not do nearly as well.”

“’Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass.’”

Maglor grimaced at Thranduil. First being reminded of the Prophecy last night, and now, not twelve hours later, he was being quoted it. “I remember,” he said, a little more harshly than he’d planned. “I remember far too well--”

Before the conversation could devolve into an argument and further dredge up memories best left dormant, the door opened and a mortal servant entered the room, carrying a tray of breakfast foods. She set it on the sideboard and fled the rather heated atmosphere. When the door clicked shut behind her, Maglor slumped against the cushions. “I know, King Thranduil. Our actions cost us everything.”

He stood up, picked up a small plate on the tray and filled it with a pumpkin pastry, a slice of fresh bread, and several links of sausage, ignoring the way the two men watched his every move. He poured himself a glass of water and leaned against the sideboard. “As I had planned, I will leave when the festival is over. There is no point in my staying here.”

“Where will you go?” Thranduil stood and picked up the other pumpkin pastry from the tray.

“East. Too far south I will avoid. I heard rumors in eastern Khand that a warlord was beginning to gather power further west. I think we both know who that warlord is likely to be.” He paused to take and chew a bite of sausage. “Apart from my own lack of desire, I will not risk dividing the remnants of the Elves by going west. If war is coming… I do not want the Oath dividing alliances yet again, even Ages after it ended.”

Thranduil nodded and finished his pastry. “Then I will tell my people to ignore you. Good day, Maglor.” He wiped his fingers off on a linen napkin and left the room, his son following behind him. Maglor sank down onto the couch Thranduil had deserted and finished his breakfast.

When he opened the door to the hallway, the female guard led him back to the entrance, where he reclaimed his knife and left the guest house. Once out of sight, he leaned against a stone wall and rubbed his forehead. Of all the things to learn… When his contract ended, he was taking the first ship to Rhûn he could find. There were people he needed to warn.

Chapter End Notes

The quote from the Prophecy of the North comes from "Of the Flight of the Noldor."