Gwaith i Innas Lain: Quenta Ando Rauco
By San Antonio Rose
He alone of his brothers survived the First Age; the remnants of his house fell in the Second Age, and his people barely survived the Third and left Middle-earth at its ending. Well, most did. His lot was not so kind. He wandered through the Fourth and Fifth Ages and much of the Sixth—ages were shorter now—not able to fade like some Eldar, but learning to make his way in a world dominated by Men, hiding his true nature and abilities as Men forgot the Elder Days and fell slowly into darkness. In time he chanced upon fair-haired Men who called themselves Vikings and went with them on a voyage west to explore the new lands thrown up by the Breaking of the World. Their ship did not find the Straight Road—how could it, bearing one of the Dispossessed?—but they did find a fair realm they called Vinland.
In the ways that mattered most, Vinland was still Middle-earth, subject to death and the works of evil wills. But it was a fair land, and the Atani who dwelt there were new to him, and so he stayed. When the Vikings left, he wandered the length and breadth of the continents that would centuries later be called America, teaching and learning from those natives who would welcome a tall stranger with the light of Aman in his eyes. And he stayed even though the Secondborn of the old lands came to conquer the new ones and eventually made wholly new nations of them.
Then the world changed again in the last centuries of the Sixth Age, and suddenly the New World was one of the few safe places he could still hide. So he wandered the land called the United States and learned the new forms of music called "jazz" and "blues" and "rock 'n' roll," and though he shunned every offer of a recording contract, those who heard him in juke joints and honky-tonks and any other humble place he sang acclaimed him still as the greatest voice they had ever heard.
In these humble places, however, he met "hunters," mortal men—and sometimes women—who took it upon themselves to hunt the foul creatures that still haunted the shadows and made Isil and the stars of Elentári omens to be feared. He seldom revealed his name to these hunters and never explained that he was not a Man. But from time to time they had need of his aid, and he gave it willingly, hoping in some small way to atone for the wrongdoing of his past (twelve thousand years and still the blood-guilt would not leave him). And in return they left him alone, did not question the shape of his ears or the agelessness of his face or anything else that marked him as other.
He adapted. He survived. He was different, but most people did not disturb him or despise him save as "one o' them hippies" because his hair was long, the shape of his ears hidden by a native headband, and he had not mastered the art of driving a car. But in all those years, he saw no familiar faces, nothing that reminded him of Beleriand-that-was or of Aman.
So he was startled one rainy night in Tulië of the sixty-third year of the Seventh Age, while eating in a diner in a small Colorado town, to see outside an old black car that brought to mind a name he had not thought of in four Ages: Turambar.
Then he shook his head to clear it, for they were twain, the men in the car, clearly brothers, and neither so dark as Túrin Turambar was said to be. Yet as he watched them and heeded the Song as it told of them, the comparisons persisted and Túrin's chosen names practically applied themselves to the youths. Both fëar bore the scars of injustice suffered—Neithan; both shone with a light peculiar to the Dúnedain, stronger than he'd seen in centuries—Adanedhel. The elder, so cocky, self-assured, that was Mormegil, the fearless Black Sword; he would master fate if he could, face any foe, and follow no law but his own sense of right and wrong. But the younger, the taller... that was Agarwaen son of Úmarth, the man with curse and dragon-spell upon him, his home and family torn from him by the forces of evil, desiring to do right but caught between his own flaws and the curse that bound his fate from his earliest days.
But if Túrin, in whatever form, had truly returned to Middle-earth, that would mean the Dagor Dagorath was imminent, and this Age was not even a full century old. He had to be imagining things. He shook his head once more and took another sip of coffee.
And swallowed it in a hurry as the Song shifted in a way that warned of approaching danger—specifically, the Unhoused, dark spirits these Atani called by the Greek name demons.
He knew from long experience what commands demons would and would not respond to. They had not responded to Elven tongues in over an Age, never mind the oldest or newest tongues of Western Men, and his pride would not let him stoop to the Latin the hunters seemed to prefer. That left Valarin or Black Speech. He was ashamed to admit even knowing the latter, but it did sometimes serve...
Barely had he managed to recall the words he needed when a group of possessed mortals, reeking of sulfur, appeared in the diner at the exact moment Agarwaen got out of the car.
His breath caught. An ambush. Just like Glaurung had laid for Túrin in the First Age. But to what purpose?
The Atani in the room were dead before he could even react, but he stood and shouted the incantation in Black Speech just as Agarwaen entered and was caught. The spirits shrieked and fled their stolen hroar in foul-smelling bursts of black smoke, and Agarwaen was left panting and shaken but apparently unharmed.
"How fare you?" he asked, making his way to the youth to steady him.
"Fine," Agarwaen replied, still gasping for breath. "Thanks... I mean, for that. The rescue."
"No problem." The modern idiom still felt a bit odd, but then, English had never been his favorite language.
Agarwaen looked up at him then—that was surely unusual for the young Dúnadan, being accounted tall among his own kind—and frowned in confusion. "I... think I understood what you said. But I've never heard that language before."
The frown was returned, but before the conversation could continue, a frantic Mormegil burst into the diner with a shotgun and a shout of, "Dude, what the hell?"
"I dunno," was Agarwaen's still-shaky response. "Demons grabbed me the second I walked through the door. This guy," he nodded upward, "shouted some kind of exorcism and they took off."
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."
Mormegil took in the scene with a quick sweeping glance that spoke of long practice—another sure sign that these two were hunters—then looked up at his brother's savior with mild surprise and cleared his throat. "Hey, uh, thanks."
"No problem," he repeated. "Such spirits are no friends of mine, either."
Mormegil regarded him more closely. His tone was light when he spoke again, but there was wariness in his gaze. "What's your name, friend?"
A loaded question, that, though Mormegil could not know why. Yet answering would be the best way to earn the young Men's trust, and if they were as akin to Túrin as they seemed, they would need his help in dealing with a foe beyond the might of any Man.
He smiled gently. "I am Maglor Fëanorion."
Mormegil simply blinked, but Agarwaen's eyes grew wide with astonishment. "The Maglor Fëanorion?"
Maglor bowed his head in acknowledgement.
"That name mean something to you, Sam?" Mormegil asked his brother.
Agarwaen—Sam—nodded. "Yeah. I don't remember where I read it, if it was in Dad's journal or one of Bobby's books, but somebody wrote down his name with a note: 'We don't know who or what he is, but he's not dangerous and may be a friend.'"
Maglor let out a low, bitter chuckle. A Kinslayer, a son of Fëanor, accounted not dangerous and a friend to the Secondborn. The world had changed indeed.
Mormegil didn't miss Maglor's reaction. "You sure about that?"
Sam huffed in annoyance. "Dean. He just saved my life. I think we can trust him."
Mormegil—Dean—gave Maglor another appraising glance. Then he nodded once and came forward to shake the minstrel's hand. "Well, Maglor, I'm Dean Winchester. This is my brother Sam."
And suddenly some of their notes in the Song made more sense. "Sam and Dean Winchester," Maglor mused as he shook their hands in turn. "Yes... I've heard of you. Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo."
"What does that mean?" Dean asked at the same time Sam asked, "What language is that?"
Maglor answered neither question. "We must leave this place at once. I don't know what those demons had planned for Sam, but they will return. And they will be on guard against me as well."
The brothers exchanged a look and nodded. "That your truck outside?" Dean asked.
"No. My belongings are here." Maglor pointed to the pack and guitar case that still rested in the booth where he had been sitting, and a few quick strides were all he needed to cross the space to retrieve them.
"May be a tight squeeze getting you into the back seat," Sam noted apologetically as Maglor recrossed the floor to rejoin the brothers.
"I will be fine," Maglor assured him. "Let's go."
The street was clear, but running would look suspicious, so they walked swiftly back to the black car. Maglor folded his tall, thin frame into the back seat long enough for Sam and Dean to slide into the front, then stretched his legs out on the seat beside him as Dean drove away as quickly as they could without attracting attention. But they had not gone two blocks before Maglor sensed the demons returning.
"They come," was all he said, and Dean pressed the gas pedal to the floor, seconds before the radio went out. A deputy started to follow and found his patrol car plowing into a group of demons that appeared on the street a split second too late to catch their quarry.
Once they were safely out of town, Dean slowed to a less reckless speed and made a couple of phone calls to try to learn what was happening. He then glanced at Maglor in the rearview mirror. "Hey, Maglor. Do you know any way to keep those demons from finding us again?"
Maglor thought for a moment. "I have one idea that might serve. But you must turn off the radio for a moment, as it will distract me."
Dean frowned slightly and engaged in a silent conversation with his brother. Maglor had just begun to wonder whether they were using mind-speech when Dean finally nodded and turned off the radio.
Maglor reached into his pack and retrieved his harp. A pang shot through his heart as he checked the strings; this harp was practically his last piece of home, a begetting-day gift from his mother when he came of age, and he played it all too seldom now. But it was still in tune, and the strings seemed to vibrate of their own accord in anticipation. Nodding to himself, Maglor drew a breath and began to weave a song of protection and deliverance about the car.
Dean actually pulled over and stopped to listen and stare with Sam as Maglor continued to sing. Maglor himself was intent enough on the music that he barely noticed.
The three of them sat in silence for a moment after the song ended. Finally Dean whispered, "Dude. That... that was awesome."
Maglor gave him a small smile and put away his harp. "We should not tarry."
"Right, right." Dean pulled himself together and pulled the car back onto the road.
Sam fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment while looking out the windshield at the road before turning back to Maglor. "Um, Maglor," he began hesitantly, "don't take this the wrong way, but... what are you? I mean, you're clearly corporeal, and you look like a man, but we've never met a human with the power to do... whatever you just did."
Definitely a hunter, Maglor thought with mild amusement and decided not to feign ignorance. "Can I trust you not to reveal my answer save at greatest need?"
Another silent conversation ensued between the brothers.
"We should probably tell Bobby," Dean finally replied. "And maybe Ellen and Jo and Ash. But they're cool, don't worry." He glanced at Sam. "Got some crazy hunters out after Sam 'cause he's got freaky mind powers, so we understand wanting to keep some things on the downlow."
"You mentioned Bobby before," Maglor recalled. "Who is he?"
"Bobby Singer," Sam answered. "He's a friend of the family, kind of like a dad to us."
"Ah. I have heard his name, yes—in fact, I may have met him once." Just a decade or two before, if his memory of the bearded man called Bobby, with the gruff voice and kind eyes, was indeed of Bobby Singer. That wasn't the name he had given in town, the one Maglor had sensed was not his right name, but he had helped the man to fell a werewolf—not a once-human skin-changer, as was common in these days, but one of the dread ancient race that Sauron had ruled in the First Age—and though the hunter had plainly recognized that Maglor wasn't human, he had simply expressed his gratitude and promised to return the favor if ever he could. They had shaken hands, exchanged names, and parted company.
"Bobby's cool," Dean repeated. "And we're not gonna hurt you."
Still feeling compelled to trust the youths and to gain their trust by honesty, Maglor sighed. "Understand that I have not told anyone this truth in at least four thousand years."
The brothers exchanged yet another glance and then looked back at Maglor expectantly, though Dean did so by looking in the rearview mirror so as to keep some attention on the road.
"Nanyë Elda—in the language of your people, I am an Elf. A Noldo, to be exact. My grandfather Finwë, one of the eldest of our kind, was made king of the Noldor when they made the Great Journey from the east to Aman, the Blessed Realm, where I was born long years before the Sun and Moon were made. My father Fëanor rebelled against the Valar and led our people back to Middle-earth. I have been doomed to exile ever since."
"The Valar?" Sam frowned.
"Some Men call them gods," Maglor explained, "though by right that name belongs only to Eru Ilúvatar, whom the Hebrews called Yahweh. Some call them the Lords of the West, some simply the Powers. But I suppose it is most accurate in your tongue to say that they are archangels, charged with shaping and ruling Arda—this world—as the regents of Ilúvatar."
"And here I thought elves were short little twerps who lived at the North Pole," Dean remarked.
"Wait," said Sam, his puzzled frown still in place. "You said Middle-earth. You mean like Lord of the Rings Middle-earth?"
"Geek," Dean muttered.
Maglor ignored Dean. "Yes. I don't know how Professor Tolkien came by the Red Book of Westmarch or the other tales of the Elder Days, but his translation is accurate. The Rings of Power, save the One, were made by my nephew."
A stunned silence lingered for a moment, only to be broken by a snort from Dean. "Now I know why you won't tell anyone. They'll think you're crazy."
"Dean!" Sam cried indignantly.
"I'm not saying he is crazy," Dean shot back. "I felt the power in that song the same as you. I can see something in him that tells me he ain't lying. I'm just saying that most people wouldn't believe Lord of the Rings was real, never mind that some seven-foot-tall dude with long hair is really an Elf. Hell, he barely looks forty—you think anyone's gonna buy that he's older than the Sun?"
It was at this point in the conversation that Maglor decided to let the brothers squabble without his input and turned his attention to keeping watch for whatever dangers might attempt to waylay them before they reached... well, wherever it was that Dean was taking them.
The point in western Nebraska where they were to meet up with Bobby was ten minutes away, and Dean still didn't know what to think of the not-human dude they'd picked up in Colorado. He hadn't lied to Sam; every instinct told him that Maglor was leveling with them, and he wanted to trust the guy. But Elves? Angels? Lord of the Rings being a translation of a true story? It was a lot to swallow all at once.
He really, really didn't want to know what would have happened to Sam if Maglor hadn't been there, though. That much was certain. They owed him big time.
Bobby would know what to make of Maglor's story. If not, he could pitch it to Ash as a hypothetical when he called back. After they worked out what the demons were up to.
Speaking of Maglor, the self-proclaimed Elf had been strangely quiet since Dean and Sam started arguing. He vaguely recalled seeing some discussion somewhere online over whether or not Elves slept with their eyes open, but the times he'd glanced at the back seat, Maglor's eyes seemed alert, even if his focus was in the middle distance somewhere. It was almost like he was listening for something.
"Hey," Dean finally said. "You all right back there?"
Maglor didn't seem startled at all as he returned Dean's gaze via the rearview mirror. "Yes. I do not sense danger near us. But I do suggest that Sam remain in the car while you and I speak to Bobby in case they mean to catch us unawares."
Dean shot a glance at Sam, who had dozed off somewhere in the last fifty miles. "Yeah, I guess you're right."
Bobby was waiting for them when they arrived. "Who's your friend?" he asked as Dean got out. "Looks like he might be taller'n Sam."
Dean chuckled. "Yeah, the Sasquatch has met his match." Then he turned and nodded for Maglor to get out and was treated to a sight he rarely saw: Bobby open-mouthed in total astonishment.
"Maglor," the older hunter breathed.
"Mae govannen, Bobby," Maglor replied with a slight bow. "How fare you?"
"Older and grumpier, and I've got these two idjits givin' me heart attacks every six weeks, but other'n that, I can't complain. 'Course, you don't look a day older."
Maglor laughed quietly.
"I'm amazed you even remember me. That werewolf hunt was, what, twenty years ago?"
"A generation to your kind. To mine, it was but yesterday. And we do not forget as easily as do Men."
Dean frowned. "Wait, so we're buyin' this? This whole..."
"He's an Elf, Dean," Bobby nodded. "Whatever else he told you about himself, it's more than he told me, but I'd wager it's true. He ain't stupid enough to lie to a hunter."
Dean turned to Maglor. "I thought you said nobody knew."
Maglor smiled. "I said I had not told anyone. Bobby is a scholar, and he has had some little time to work out my true nature."
Dean looked back at Bobby, who nodded again. "It's true, son. All I had was a name."
Dean sighed. "Well, I think my mind is officially blown."
Bobby and Maglor chuckled.
"So, Bobby, you got anything for us?"
Bobby unfolded a map of the continental US onto the hood of his truck. "This is it. All demonic signs and omens over the past month."
The map was bare of any kind of markings.
"Are you joking? There's nothing here."
"Well, come on, there's gotta be something. What about the normal, low-level stuff? You know, exorcisms, that kind of thing."
Bobby shrugged. "That's what I'm telling you: there's nothing. It's completely quiet."
"Um siniath," Maglor murmured.
Dean glanced over his shoulder at the Elf. "What was that?"
"These are evil tidings. Seldom does the Enemy cease all activity for so long a period in these days. What is it you say—something must be up."
That came out so stilted that Dean was almost tempted to ask where Maglor had learned English, but he was interrupted by some sort of noise from the field beyond the truck, then distracted from that by his phone ringing. It was Ash.
Dean turned his back to the field and answered. "Ash, whaddaya got?"
Ash sounded like he wasn't sure whether to be excited or scared. "Okay, listen, it's a big negatory on the demons that tried to grab Sam. But I did find something."
"I can't talk over this line, Dean."
Wait—were those birds he was hearing behind him? At this hour of the night? And why did Maglor look as startled as Dean felt?
Ash was in the middle of telling Dean to come to the Roadhouse, but Maglor snatched the phone away from Dean and yelled into it, "Fly, you fool! The Houseless are almost upon you!"
Ash swore frantically, loudly enough for Dean to hear him, and hung up.
Maglor sheepishly handed the phone back. "I'm sorry, Dean. I should not have taken this from you."
"There are demons heading for the Roadhouse?" Bobby asked incredulously.
"So it seems," Maglor nodded solemnly. "Enough of them to disturb the birds even this far away."
Bobby shook his head. "Elf speaks bird. Figures."
Dean frowned at his phone, then at Maglor, and then turned to Bobby. "Where would Ash go? Your place?"
"Probably." Bobby sighed. "Better get movin'. I'll call Ellen just to be safe."
Nothing else needed to be said. Bobby went back to his truck, dialing his cell as he went, while Dean and Maglor walked back to the Impala.
Finally, Dean cracked a grin. "'Fly, you fool'? Isn't that Gandalf's line?"
Maglor looked confused for a split second before realizing whom Dean meant and laughing. "I had not thought of it, but I suppose you're right. Mercy, I have not heard Olórin's voice in... six thousand years, perhaps? He was hunting for the creature Gollum when last our paths crossed."
They got in the car, and Dean was just about to ask Maglor about the birds when Sam suddenly jolted awake with a gasp. The wild look in his eyes and the way his heart was pounding—hard enough to be seen through his shirt—told Dean that his brother hadn't simply been startled by their return.
"Sam? What happened?" Dean demanded. "What did you see?"
"Yellow-Eyes," Sam panted. "Ticked that he can't find me. 'S rounding up the kids like me—fight to the death—'s like Highlander..."
"What, 'there can be only one'?"
Sam nodded and closed his eyes against the remains of the headache that always came with his visions as he finally caught his breath. "Wants someone to lead a demon army in 'the coming war'—I think he means the Apocalypse."
"Dagor Dagorath," Maglor whispered, so quietly Dean barely heard him. "Entulessë Morgotheva." He then made a harsh noise that was probably some kind of curse.
Dean made note of his muttering but stayed focused on Sam. "Did you get anything else?"
Sam shook his head.
Dean pulled out his cell phone and called Bobby. "Sam's just had a vision," he said as soon as Bobby answered. "It's Yellow-Eyes; he's after the kids like Sam."
Bobby swore. "See if Maglor can help you find out more. Get back to my place as quick as you can after that."
"Right." Dean hung up and turned to repeat Bobby's request to Maglor, only to find the Elf rummaging in his bag once more. "Maglor?"
"My hearing is superior to yours," Maglor said by way of explanation. "I believe... ah. This should aid us." And he pulled out what looked like a miniature bowling ball wrapped in silk.
Dean stared incredulously. "A crystal ball."
Maglor chuckled. "Not of the sort you mean. The palantír shows the present, not the future, and its crystalline structure differs from the glass used in fortune-tellers' balls. Ada could have explained it better than I."
Sam's eyes popped open at that, and he added his own incredulous stare to Dean's.
Maglor ignored them. "I should warn you, though, that I have not used this stone in... well, nearly four Ages, anyway. I cannot guarantee that it will show us what we need."
"You'll try, though, right?" Sam asked.
Maglor smiled kindly at him then, and Dean was nearly overwhelmed with the sense that he was looking at a very old and very powerful being who was definitely not human. "Yes, Sam. I'll try."
With that, Maglor unwrapped the palantír, which really did look like a crystal ball except that it was opaque and almost black, and set his hands on either side and stared into it. Both Sam and Dean craned over the seat to see, but beyond some flashes of light from the depths of the ball, they couldn't make out much from where they sat.
"'S like watching someone else watch TV," Sam murmured, and Dean silently agreed.
Maglor suppressed a chuckle as he settled in to use his palantír—his, made by his father for his hand alone, not one of the seven brought from Númenor by Elendil. He was rather surprised that the Winchesters hadn't recognized the name from the movies, but since Peter Jackson hadn't gotten everything right, he supposed he shouldn't have expected the youths to make the connection.
Focus, he told himself, and the stone sprang to life. He instinctively sent his gaze east, the direction whence evil often came in the Elder Days, and the stone was drawn to a town that looked deserted. Oddly, the first detail he made out was a bell graven with a picture of a great oak tree.
Frowning, Maglor began to search the eerie empty street for any sign of life. But apart from an intense sense of evil, he found nothing until—
Maglor stayed the stone's progress, and very shortly a young Man with curly dark hair and a hobbit-like air came out of a side alley. But he bore no seeing-stone; how could he have even sensed Maglor's gaze, never mind spoken to him?
Hello? the youth repeated, apparently calling with both voice and mind in his anxiety. Is someone there?
Can you hear me, young one? Maglor called back.
The Man blinked but replied only with mind-speech. Yes. Who's there?
My name is Maglor. I am a friend of Sam and Dean Winchester.
The Man's eyes went wide. Oh, thank God! My name's Andy, Andy Gallagher. I'm a friend of Sam's. I just woke up here; I have no idea where I am or what's going on.
Maglor nodded, even though he knew Andy couldn't see him. Is anyone else there with you?
Not that I know of. Where are you?
Somewhere west of you. Sam and Dean are with me. Find a secure place, line the doors and windows with salt, and stay hidden. We'll figure out where you are and come for you. Do not trust anyone you meet there, even in a dream, understood?
Andy gulped and nodded. Understood.
Have you a weapon?
Andy shook his head.
Then choose a door fitted with iron. Perhaps a smithy—if there are iron filings, use those to line the doors, and keep an iron tool in your hand at all times.
Andy blinked in confusion, then nodded. Blacksmith shop. Right.
Maglor nodded in return. I'll tell Sam and Dean what I have seen. We will be there as soon as we can.
Okay. Thanks, man.
Maglor disengaged the stone and sank back on the seat with a sigh.
"Well?" Dean demanded.
"Your friend Andy Gallagher has abruptly found himself in a deserted town, apparently alone. I counseled him to surround himself with salt and iron and wait for us."
Sam frowned. "Do you know where?"
Maglor described what little he'd seen of the town, including the bell.
Sam cursed. "Cold Oak, South Dakota. Most haunted place in the US."
Dean had his cell phone out again in a flash. "Bobby. Change of plans—we gotta get to Cold Oak, South Dakota. That kid Andy's out there; it's probably where Yellow-Eyes is taking all of 'em."
"I gotta meet Ash and Ellen," Bobby stated with an audible grimace.
"I will go with you," Maglor told Dean quietly, and Dean repeated his statement to Bobby.
Bobby's relief was palpable. "Maglor's worth more than the five of us put together. Follow his lead, and you should be okay."
"Thanks, Bobby," Dean replied. "We'll try to be to your place by morning."
"Just be careful, ya idjits."
Dean smiled and hung up.
Sam shook his head as Dean started the car. "Maglor, you don't have to do this. It isn't your fight."
Both brothers were startled by the vehemence of Maglor's response. "Is it not? If I mistake not, this 'Yellow-Eyes' owes allegiance to Melkor Morgoth, who has ever been an enemy of my house. Lucifer you name him, the Light-bringer, but he has hated light and beauty since Ilúvatar gave Being to the Song. My father was in Valmar the day Morgoth slew the Trees, fairest of living things made by Yavanna's hand, to let Ungoliant, the great Spider, devour the living light and spin forth an Unlight the like of which you have never seen. Then they came to Formenos, my father's city, and before that Darkness I and all my house fled save only my grandfather, and him Morgoth slew before stealing all the treasures my father had made, including the Silmarils, mightiest and holiest of jewels made by Elven hands.
"In our grief and rage we swore an oath, my father and brothers and I, an oath that long ages I have wished I could recant, to pursue to the ends of the World any creature that kept a Silmaril from us." He shook his head sadly. "The oath is vain, for though we did regain them, we had forfeited our right to them by our deeds, and they are now lost to us indeed until Arda shall be unmade. It may be that my aid to you now will avail to secure the pardon of the Valar, should they deign to heed the plea of an unworthy exile. But whether they will or no, this much is true: you need such help as I would not withhold from any foe of Morgoth, especially not at his imminent return."
The Winchesters blinked in unison, looked at each other, and looked back at Maglor, who returned their gaze with a determined look of his own.
"So you're saying we're stuck with you," Dean summarized.
Maglor laughed, and the darkness of his earlier words left him. "If you like."
Dean simply shook his head and pulled out onto the highway.
Gwaith i Innas Lain: Team Free Will
Quenta Ando Rauco: The History of the Devil's Gate
Ada – Dad
Adanedhel – Elf-man
Agarwaen son of Úmarth – Blood-stained, son of Ill-fate
Aman – The Blessed Realm, the continent where the Valar settled; once part of Arda, but removed to a different plane during the Breaking of the World, when Arda was changed from a flat planet to a globe, and now accessible only by the Straight Road, which is hidden from mortal eyes
Arda – Earth
Atani – Men (general term for humans)
Beleriand – region in First Age Middle-earth where most of the events of The Silmarillion take place; largely destroyed during the War of Wrath at the end of the First Age and lost completely in the Breaking of the World in the Second Age
Black Speech – language invented by Sauron for the use of his minions (preserved for us mainly in the inscription on the One Ring)
Dagor Dagorath – the Last Battle/Armageddon (lit. "the battle of battles")
Dúnedain – Men of the West (singular Dúnadan); descendants of the Three Houses of the Elf-friends, some of whom have both Elven and human ancestry
Eldar – Elves
Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo – A star shines on the hour of our meeting
Elentári – Star-queen (Sindarin Elbereth); another name for Varda, creator of the stars
Entulessë Morgotheva – the Return of Morgoth
fëar – souls
Firstborn – Elves
Glaurung – eldest of dragons, who placed a spell on Túrin and was later killed by him
the Houseless – evil spirits, mainly souls of slain Elves who refused to go West, capable of possessing the unwary
hroar – bodies
Isil – the Moon (Sindarin Ithil)
Kinslayer – Maglor and his brothers had some really bad ideas in the First Age that led to their killing other Elves
Morgoth – the original Dark Lord (~ Lucifer)
Mormegil – Black Sword (Túrin's sword Gurthang was made of a black metal from a meteorite)
Neithan – The Wronged
palantír – seeing-stone (lit. "far-sight")
Secondborn – Men (humankind)
Silmarils – greatest and holiest of jewels ever made by Fëanor
the Song – The Ainur (~ angels) sang the universe into existence, and that Song includes all of history, though neither the Valar nor the Elves know many of its details; Maglor, being an Elf and a bard, is particularly attuned to it
Tulië – April/May
Turambar – Master of Fate
Um siniath – Evil tidings
the Unhoused – see Houseless
Valarin – language of the Valar
Maglor's dating of AHBL is based on the Reckoning of Rivendell and a note in the Encyclopedia of Arda, which is in turn based on one of Tolkien's letters, speculating that the Sixth Age ended with WWII and that AD 2000 is Seventh Age 56.
I'll assume at least a passing knowledge of Lord of the Rings in my notes. If you haven't read enough of The Silmarillion or The Children of Húrin to know Túrin's story, I won't spoil it for you in this note; just know that Túrin was cursed by Morgoth and that the Elves believe he will come back at the end of time to have his revenge. Maglor assigns each Winchester one of Túrin's aliases according to his personality.
Maglor's hiding his ears with a headband is a nod to Star Trek IV, though I daresay Maglor would have hit on the idea several centuries before Roddenberry did.