Gargoyles- Genesis (Revision)
By Mike Norrish (mikenorrish@usa.net)


Prologue- In the Beginning 

Watch...

Watch the endless ballet of the universe, as it swirls in its chaotic path
towards nothingness...

Watch as a primal consciousness moves throughout the depths- alone, forever
alone, without company, without an equal...

Omniscient hands begin to work on the void, seeking to end the loneliness,
stirring stray particles, until they spiral into order.

Watch as whole worlds form out of loneliness- but rock alone cannot provide
company, cannot provide love.

And so the hand becomes smaller, microscopic, stirring the very molecular
vectors of the earth, encouraging each atom to form, in its own tiny way,
a part of the whole...

Watch as the hands of the creator mix RNA, DNA, and finally life itself from
the rocks of chaos... Intelligence grows, and the gift of magic is given,
and then snatched eagerly, devoured like a ripe fruit given to a hungry
child- a child that grows into adulthood, and, like all adolescents, rebels...

Dissidence. Like a cancer it grows, and like a tumour it is removed, torn
from the body of the whole, and cast into the endless pit, and so the body
is saved in time.

The creator observes the salvation of its children, and turns his hand to
the next world, confident that its firstborn are capable of surviving on
their own- capable of containing the dissidence until it can be turned to
a better purpose...

Part One- The World of Humans

So- where to begin? A story can have many beginnings- we could start on a
world far away, on a parallel Earth, when a screaming infant emerges from
its mother's womb, to find a world full of magic. We could begin with the
pain felt by Nuada the Perfect when his arm was cleft from its shoulder.
We could begin  with a fissure opening in the earth, red eyes peering out
of the darkness, with the destruction of the One Ring, with a mighty war
for power, or with the stone of destiny screaming a proclamation that
struck fear into the hearts of all who heard it...

No. That would give too much away too soon. Let's begin on our own world
for the time being. Let's start with a ball of fire on the plains of Africa,
dropping a red, winged creature in the path of a charging cheeta that is
about to devour the first artist of an emerging species. The prehistoric
asthete does not fully comprehend the event- does not have time to, before
the flame reappears, taking the creature away again  But when it is gone,
the cheeta is dead, the artist saved. The impression lasts- from mud and
twigs a figure is constructed, an idol of protection- a winged icon that
will last in memory until mankind learns to carve its image from the rocks
of the earth- until earth must face its first serious menace.

Now we begin- on the Isle of Erin- always known for it's strange occurrences.
To begin with, there was no real hint of trouble- just some strange lights
in the sky, unusual noises in the night, but the locals, the tribes of Nemed,
felt strangely as if there was trouble brewing. They readied their ships,
tiny though they were, and prepared to return to the mainland at the first
sign of danger- And so it was that one night on the coast of Gaul a humble
fisherman was met by the sight of a hundred tiny boats  trying frantically
to reach the shore, full of frightened and angry passengers- each one as
white as a ghost, as if they had just had every illusion shattered  before
their very eyes- all that was left of the sons and daughters of the once
mighty tribe of Erin.

Aaric moved along the beach, distributing rags to soak up the blood of the
wounded that had come on the Nemedian boats.
"Over here, lad," He heard his father call him, from across the beach,
barely audible over the thunderous crashing of the waves. He followed the
sound, finding his father huddling over the quivering body of a fallen
warrior. Wetting a rag, he applied it to the mans wounds.
"There ye go," he whispered to him, as he cleaned the wound- then, suddenly
he froze. Amongst the  gashes and abrasions that you would expect from a
bladed weapon, there blackened areas of charred flesh- almost as if his
attacker had used not just sword and club, but flame as well. He examined
the wound more closely. If he had wandered into a burning bush, or been
caught in a fire, he thought, surely he would have been burned all over.
He checked again- there were many burned spots, but they were all apart
from each other. None of the surrounding flesh was burnt- it was almost
as if a single, confined finger of flame had attacked this man, thrown
from a distance, deliberately. Aaric shuddered at the thought- a weapon
so unlike anything he was familiar with, that it was completely unimaginable.

Later that night, in the place of gathering, he questioned his fellows.
During the course of the day he had seen several other refugees with similar
burns- and worse. People with limbs missing, or even transformed. Among the
wounded were the mad- driven insane by the horrors they had witnessed.
"Did ye see them?" he whispered to his friends, "It was horrible- so
unnatural"
"Aye," Taroc, the chieftains son, replied, "They say that what you saw is
barely the start either. There are men out there that can barely speak- and
they're the lucky ones. I've seen people tonight that were more akin to
animals- all trace of humanity stripped away from them."
"Are there any sane amongst them at all?" Aaric asked, shivering in the cold
night air.
"There are some- the healthiest are to be questioned later. I've heard the
ravings of the others, though. They spoke of silver mists, warriors coming
from the sky, the ground, all around them. Whatever attacked the Nemedians,
it can't have been human."

There was a commotion at the other side of the room. The curtain was drawn
away from the entrance , and two men entered- the first, and mightiest
looking was Calaan, the chieftain. The second was tired, haggered looking,
with signs of battle covering his battered body. Both had a look of desperate
purpose in his eyes.
"My brothers," Calaan addressed the hushed crowd, "I have terrible news.
Bor Nog," he identified the Nemedian by his side, " has told me of the
terrible fate that befell his people. They have been attacked by forces-
inconceivable to us. Weapons we cannot imagine in our worst nightmares.
They are not of this earth, cannot be killed, and know no mercy. Those that
did not run have been slaughtered, or taken as slaves." The crowd began to
murmur, fear and horror filling their voices.
"What are they? Where did they come from?"
"We don't know where they came from," Bor Nog spoke, in the soft lilt of his
people, "But they called out to us- told us of our fate- and they gave us a
name."
Taroc stood up. "Who are they?"
Bor Nog looked over to Taroc, and then around the room. He stared into space,
a look of pain crossing his features, before finally speaking. "They call
themselves... they call themselves..." he began to waver, as a strange
crackling noise began to permeate the room, coming from somewhere out to sea,
"...They call themselves..."
Suddenly, a crash of thunder shook the room. Bor Nog fell to the floor,
whimpering, "fe...fe.."
An almighty voice filled the room, and the sky lit up, as if in broad
daylight.
"TREMBLE, MORTALS- YOUR WORLD IS NO LONGER YOUR OWN. YOU WILL FALL, AS HAVE
SURELY AS THE OTHER PUNY CREATURES WE HAVE FOUGHT"
Calaan turned his head to the sky, and shouted in the direction of the voice,
"Who are you? Why are you here?"
The voice answered, "WE HAVE COME TO COLONISE- AS YOU HAVE SPREAD YOUR SEED
ON YOUR WORLD, SO DO WE AMONGST THE BORDERS OF REALITY. WE ARE THE FEY!"
With that the noise stopped, the light vanishing as suddenly as it had come.
Calaan turned to his tribe, and whispered in a horrified, subdued tone,
"We must leave this place. If they are coming, then the shore is the first
place they will attack. And if they are truly immortal, then we will have no
chance."
Aaric rose from his seat. "Maybe they aren't immortal. The wounded spoke of
warriors- if they exist, surely they can be hurt."
Bor Nog recovered his composure, rising wearily from the floor. "We had no
chance, lad. They always attacked at night, when we were at our weakest.
Their weapons had us before we could even get close. When we did manage to
get close, we were slashed, with tooth and claw."
Another warrior stood and addressed Bor Nog. "You mean they are animals?"
Bor Nog turned to face him. "They are whatever they want to be. They can
dwarf the tallest man, or fit into an acorn cup. They can move beneath the
ground without digging, fly without wings, even our thoughts are not safe
from them. They always knew exactly what we were going to do next."
"Then it is settled." Calaan spoke with a note of finality in his voice. "We
move tomorrow. There is not enough of this night left for them to complete an
attack. If they come for us tomorrow night, let them search for us first.
Perhaps, if we can enlist our neighbouring tribes, we can beat them with a
united front. Until then, to bed. We must rest, if we are to travel in the
morning."

The night passes... but of course, we all know that the night is where the
true power grows- the earth shielding her magical children from the sun's
rays, allowing them to spend the full wealth of their power- but indeed,
there truly is not enough time to press another attack, nomatter how much
magical potential resides in the air. Nonetheless, magic continues- and is
concentrated on one figure, malcontented, cursing destiny.
Night passes... 

"Carefully, mind you don't break them!" Dahon, the master of totems,
supervised the loading of the tribes sacred statues onto their carts.
"Are you sure these are absolutely necessary?" Calaan questioned Dahon.
"Moving these- idols can only slow us down, Dahon. Our men can not be made
weary by transporting unnecessary baggage."
"Do you wish to destroy the gods of our people?" Dahon retorted, "If our gods
fall, so does our tribe." They watched, the statues were moved, one at a
time- huge stone effigies, roughly the shape of a human being, either a man
or a woman, but hideously deformed, with horns adorning their faces, the
tails of lizards trailing behind them, and the wings of bats protruding from
their backs. These were the gods of the pre-fey tribes of Europe, ten to a
village, all cast in rough stone sculpture. Calaan gave up hounding Dahon,
and moved to supervise the other villagers.

By early morning, the tribe was on it's way, bound for the next village
inland. Men, women, and children, all in an exodus, running from a fate
beyond all their darkest fears. With them travelled the survivors of the
Nemedian massacre. By mid day, they had reached the next village. They
passed the many round huts, until they came to one larger than the rest.
Calaan gestured to them to remain where they were, and stepped up to the
entranceway. A man of similar stature to Calaan emerged, flanked by two
warriors.
"I am Malon." He spoke to Calaan. "These are my aides, Jarrah and Kerrin.
What brings you to my village in such numbers?"
"We bring terrible news," replied Calaan, "These unfortunates," he gestured
towards the Nemedians, "have been driven from their homes, brutally murdered
by an invading force. They move to attack us next- and anybody else that
stands in their way."
Malon's eyes widened. "This is grave news indeed." He addressed the crowd,
"Make yourselves comfortable in our village. Jarrah, see if you can't find
accommodation for our guests. Kerrin will inform you all of our laws, to
ensure your safety." He turned back to Calaan, "Who are you,chieftain?"
"I am Calaan, leader of the tribe of Baraan"
"Welcome Calaan." He began to move back inside his hut, gesturing for Calaan
to follow. "Feel free to make use of our meagre entertainments. In the
meantime, tell me about these invaders- everything, from start to finish."

Meanwhile, Aaric and Taroc were attempting to familiarise themselves with the
village and it's surrounding terrain. Accompanying them, as a guide, was
Jarrah."Ye've picked a good spot for your settlement," Taroc commented to
Jarrah, "very defensible."
"Aye- what makes you say that?" Jarrah turned to Taroc, with one eyebrow
raised, "Do you think there's some hope against these invaders of yours
afterall?"
"If they really had that much power, why would they need to colonise? Why
couldn't they just make a home by magic?" Aaric spoke up, "They can be hurt,
I'm sure- just as surely as you or I. Look," he gestured the surrounding
landscape, "Those hills- if a tribe was hidden in there, it could take the
Fey weeks to find them- they're bound to send search parties. And if we can
catch them in small numbers..."
"The hills are open. There's no place to hide in them at all," protested
Jarrah.
"Calaan will think of something! We can't just let these- things take over!"
Aaric looked to the sky, checking the direction of the sun, "We must go back
to the village. If we can rally our peoples before dark, we may have some
hope."
Taroc spoke, "Jarrah, how are your people armed?"
"Mostly cudgels. We have some daggers and swords, of iron."
"How many of your villagers are fit to fight?"
"We have almost five-hundred men and women, all ready in case of trouble."
Aaric pondered this. "If we combine that with our tribe, and the Nemedians,
then we'll have almost fifteen hundred. The Nemedians claimed that it took
three days for the Fey to catch up with them, when they fled from Erin. In
comparative distances, that gives us about a day. They only attack at night.
We should have just enough time to prepare." He ripped a strip of cloth from
his cloth.
Jarrah and Taroc looked at him, with puzzled expressions on their faces.
"What are ye planning, lad?"
"Watch."
Aaric folded the cloth, and placed in it a stone from the ground. He swung
the cloth around his head a few times, before letting go with one end. The
stone flew from the cloth, and struck a nearby tree.
"I used to play with these when I was a child. Bor Nog said that they couldn't
get close enough to the Fey to use their weapons. If we use these instead,
then we should negate that advantage, if no other."
Taroc whistled. "Very impressive!"
"Aye but is a day enough to train fifteen hundred people?" Jarrah's brow
furrowed once more.
"In a group, yes. I know about a dozen other youths with the skill. If we can
teach the people a group at a time, then we can get through half the
villagers. The other half can use normal weapons, and take advantage of the
distraction." The three of them grinned at each other, the light of new hope
entering their expressions, and started to walk back towards the village.

The next morning, the training began. Malon and Calaan had authorised the
project without objection, on the condition that a select number would escort
the children of the three tribes to a safe place before the battle began.
The villagers- already capable warriors- soon picked up the skill of using
the sling, and by nightfall they were ready. With the children safely hidden
in the hills, the warriors lay in wait for the invaders.
Aaric and Bor Nog addressed the assembled army, discussing the battle plan.
"When the Fey attacked Erin, we could see the solid forms of their warriors."
Bor Nog recounted his experience of the previous battle. "If we aim for
those shapes- nomatter how incandescent they are- we're bound to hit
something. The attack always begins just after the sun sets- watch out for
storm activity over the village."
Aaric gestured to the different positions around the village. "Move your
teams to their positions- slings around the perimeter, to protect the
infantry. Be ready to move to face the attackers- remember, we have no way
of knowing from which direction they'll be attacking.
The teams moved to their respective positions, as the sun set over the hills.
As they settled in place, crops of storm clouds started gathering over the
village, as thunder crashed in the distance.
"Steady," Calaan called to his warriors, "wait until you see something
tangible."
The slingers readied their weapons, with projectiles of both stone, and of
anything else they could get their hands on- fruit, lumps of wood, chunks of
iron from the primitive forges, not yet formed into weapons.
Suddenly, with an enormous crash of thunder, a bolt of lightning shot from
the sky, striking Malon's hut. Other bolts struck, destroying the homes of
the villagers. As the horrified villagers watched, a glowing, silver mist
began to rise from the ground, directly to the east of the village- facing
Aaric's team.
"Ready to aim- wait for your targets," shouted Aaric, struggling to raise
his voice above the noise. Then, in the mist, a shape appeared- a huge,
shambling shape. A bolt from the creature leaped into the crowd, hitting
a warrior next to Aaric. The unfortunate man collapsed screaming, the side
of his body seared, as if by a violent flame. The bolt struck again, and
again, and again, mercilessly. Before the army had even had time to rally
themselves properly, ten of them lay dead, charred beyond all recognition.
"What are you waiting for? Fire!" Screamed Aaric. 
The slingers recovered their senses. Raising their slings, they fired at the
shapes in the mist. Most missed, but then one of the creatures screamed in
pain, and dropped to the ground. The villagers cheered, the other teams
rushing to the battle. Taroc came to Aaric's side.
"So they are mortal after all!"
The villagers pressed closer, some of them entering the mist. These soon
emerged, however, covered in blood, bleeding from horrific wounds. And still
the bolts called their toll. By this time, the figures in the mist had
become more distinct- smaller, more elegant looking creatures becoming
visible as well as the monsters. The greater numbers of slingers fired,
once more, into the mist, and this time several figures fell. Another volley
was fired, and then another, each one claiming more of the invaders- of
which, on closer inspection, Aaric was surprised to find that there were
fewer then they had anticipated. Could it be that the Fey, in their
arrogance, had assumed that only a small force would be needed to take the
village? Screaming, the Infantry teams ran into the mist. Aaric dimly saw
them attack the startled invaders, only to fall, but taking a large number
of the Fey with them. The mist began to recede, taking the bodies of the
wounded with it- but leaving the mangled corpses of the infantry. As
the slingers continued to fire into the mist, the invaders slowly retreated.
As a final parting shot, A huge volley of bolts emerged, killing a large
number of slingers. Beside Aaric, he heard Tarocs voice cry out, only to
stop abruptly. Crying out loud, he rushed to his friends aid. He arrived
barely in time to see his eyes roll upwards into his skull, as the life
passed from him. Aaric collapsed on the ground next to Tarocs corpse, too
upset even to move. Finally, the mist disappeared. The Fey had lost their
first battle since their arrival on earth- a victory for the humans soured
by the huge numbers of the dead- an army of fifteen hundred reduced to
barely a third it's original size.

The next morning was spent tending the wounded, burying the dead. Aaric
roamed the battlefield, devastated by the loss of Taroc, looking for
survivors. Of these, there were depressingly few- all on the brink of death,
or driven mad. Suddenly a cry came from the far end of the field.
"Calaan! Malon! There's something here I think you should see!"
Aaric rushed to the place where the voice had come from. Calaan and Malon
had already arrived, and were staring at something. On the ground lay a
fallen warrior- a warrior with pointed ears, an elegantly woven tunic, and
an air of regal superiority. Without even having to think, Aaric knew he was
looking at one of the Fey.
"Why wasn't he taken with the others?" Calaan wondered. Aaric inspected the
ground surrounding the Fey. Around him were several projectiles from a sling-
all iron. He bent to pick one up, but drew his hand away quickly, as he was
almost burnt by an intense heat coming from the ore.
"The iron!" he exclaimed. He tried to pick up another piece, but was likewise
unable to touch it. "The iron burns them, traps them, makes them vulnerable!"
Calaan gestured to a couple of swordsmen standing nearby. "Cover me!" He
moved inside the circle of projectiles, and, taking the creature by the
wrists, so as to avoid it's hands, dragged it away from the precious metal.
It began to groan, and Calaan abruptly hit it over the head, knocking it
unconscious again.
"We can learn much from this creature! Bring him back to the village."
They dragged him back to the ruined hulk of the village, depositing him in
one of the few huts still standing, with many items of iron to bind him.

Slowly, the children and their escorts filed back into the village. The
villagers set about burying the dead, and attempting to rebuild their straw
huts. Malon grinned grimly at Calaan.
"It seems our hospitality must be slightly lapse at the moment."
Calaan smiled wearily in return. "In times of war, much must be sacrificed,
Malon. I'm sure we couldn't have offered you anything more."

During the course of the day, many runners came from the surrounding villages.
Each one had had some attack from the Fey, or had received refugees. Warnings
came from all over Europe. Many villages had succeeded in pushing back the
invaders, but the majority had fallen. Around the village, however, all was
quiet, save for the moaning of the wounded. Night fell, and the surviving
slingers prepared for a counter attack, if one was needed.

Then, shortly before dawn, a figure was seen approaching from the east.
Malon questioned the watchman. "Another runner?"
"I presume so. Surely no normal traveller would survive with the Fey out
there."
As they watched, however, they saw the warriors near the stranger shout,
startled, and run towards him. The stranger raised his hands, and they froze,
only to resume their attack as he moved out of their range.
"What on Ea?" Calaan rushed out to meet the stranger, grabbing an iron sword
as he went. As he approached the Stranger, he pulled back his hood, revealing
pointed ears, and long dark hair.
"Put your weapon away," he said, in a dry, mocking voice, "I'm not going to
hurt you."
"What do you want, demon?" Calaan demanded.
"You have one of my kinsmen. I wish to  arrange his release."
"What do you mean 'arrange'? can't you just take him?"
"I prefer not to. Believe me, a bargain would be much more profitable."
"What could we have that would possibly be of use to you?" Malon snorted.
"My aid." The stranger grinned. "I'm going to help you beat the Fey."

Watch this one... he has grown amongst titans... Dissidence appears once
more- but this time for a greater good... A trickster, a sourer of milk,
frightener of cattle, a rebel that has finally found the reason behind his
existence. Or so he thinks. Watch him- he has more power than even he
realises- and a destiny that will span millennia...

Calaan regarded the creature with immediate suspicion. "Why would you aid us
against your own people?"
The creature snorted. "My people? Be careful of your assumptions, human. The
creatures that invade your world are no more my people than you are."
Calaan raised an eyebrow. "Do you deny that you are the same species as the
other creature? There were many like you in that army."
"I will tell you everything you need to know in due course. Know, however,
that this is not his battle, or mine. We are conscripts. We fight unwillingly,
for a hated leader." The creature looked flustered, looking towards the sky.
"Come inside, out of the sun. I will tell you all then."
They moved inside one of the larger huts left standing. Out of the sunlight,
the creature began to look more relaxed. Crossing his legs, he hovered a foot
above the ground. The humans crowded around him, iron weapons at the ready.
"Several years ago, the various races of the Fey decided they needed a
collective leader to unite them. We were all separate races then. You know
us from the dark tales you tell your children, from the few forays we have
made to your world. For generations, we had fought amongst ourselves- we had
forgotten what for. When the idea for a collective ruler emerged, the
peacemakers in all our races grasped it like a drowning man on a straw."
"And did you choose a wise leader?" Malon asked.
"We chose a Fomorian." the creature spat, "Balor, of the Baleful Eye. Ea
only knows why he won the position. The Fomorians- the Nightmare race. They
are the main military power of the Fey- a race of Fighting animals. When the
choice was made, it shocked the entire Fey world."
"How did your people come to make such a dismal choice?" Aaric enquired. 
"The stone of leadership. The king of each race stood on the stone, one at a
time, hoping that the stone would cry at their footfall. When Balor mounted
the stone, it's cry shook the world. His first act as Ard Rig was to imprison
ll the other kings- Cereborn, of the Elves, Dagda, of the Tuatha De Danaan,"
he paused, as a look a pain crossed his face, "Oberon, of the Galadhrim.
Balor turned our world into a military state. His next step was to find new
ground to conquer- to satisfy his blood lust. That's how we came to be here
now. My friend and I are conscripts, from different races- there are
similarities between our two races, which explain our appearance. He is an
Elf. I am Galadhrim, if you hadn't guessed."
Calaan, Malon, and Aaric moved to one side, out of earshot of the creature.
"He sounds like he's telling the truth," Aaric said, "When he mentioned his
king being imprisoned- there was true pain in that voice."
"It's going to take more than a tone of voice to convince me," Malon growled.
"What *proof* do we have of his loyalty?"
Calaan moved back to the creature. "What is your name, creature?"
The creature looked evasive. "To give my name would mean placing myself
completely in your power. You can see why I would be reluctant to give it to
you. For the time being, call me by the name given to me by your legends-
The Gruagach."
"Well, Gruagach. What can you to prove your loyalty to our cause?"
A sparkle entered the Gruagach's eye. "Wait until nightfall- our magic is
not yet properly adapted to your world. Until it is, we can only work
effectively at night."

Night fell. As they watched the sun go down, the villagers emerged from
their huts, eager to see the Gruagach's demonstration. Escorted by Calaan,
Malon, and their bodyguards, the Gruagach strode into the middle of the
square.
"Approaching in ten minutes is a small party of Fomorian warriors- looking,
presumably for myself and my friend."
"How big is 'a small party'?" Malon asked, suspiciously.
"Only about twenty warriors. No Elves, just Fomor- the other races would be
too unreliable in hunting one of their own."
"We fought not many more than that last time," Calaan commented, "then we
had an army three times the size of what we have now. I lost my son in that
battle, Gruagach- whatever you have planned, it had better be good."
"Patience, my friend." The Gruagach grinned wryly, "soon you will be able to
eat parties this size for breakfast. Watch- come here, boy." He gestured
towards one of the youths of the village. The boy's feet began to move as if
of their own accord. He gasped, fighting every inch of the way, until he
stood in front of the Gruagach. "Relax, boy- I will not harm you." He placed
his hands on the boy's temples, a light growing in his eyes. After a second,
he let go, and the boy staggered back, dazed.
"The test subject, if you will, has now been given some very special talents-
vital to you in the upcoming skirmish. Observe." The Gruagach raised his
hands and released a bolt of lightning at the boy. The villagers rushed
forward, weapons raised, ready to strike down the Gruagach. But, just as the
the bolt was about to strike, the boy raised his hand, as if by instinct. A
glow suffused his body, shining with a bright blue light. The bolt struck
the glow, and dispersed, harmlessly. The boy stared at his hand, as the
thrill of power coursed through his body. Grinning, amazed, he pointed his
arm at the Gruagach.
The Gruagach nodded to him. "Take your best shot- your instincts will tell
you what to do."
Silently, but with an air of exultation, the boy released a lightning bolt
of his own, deflected by the Gruagach's shield.
"Congratulations- you now know the basis of Human sorcery," The Gruagach
said to the boy. He addressed the crowds, who stood by amazed by the display.
"Everywhere on your planet is a strong magical field. To those creatures
such as the Fey- to a lesser extent the Fomorians, fortunately- this acts as
a huge power source for our natural abilities. We used Erin as an entry
point because of all the places on your world, the magical field was the
strongest, and most able to power our gateways. You, however, were not born
to magic. You must be taught, educated. What I have shown you is the most
basic of spells- a weapon that relies on instinct. The rest I will tell you
later. In the meantime, we have a scouting party to deal with. Form a queue,
if you will," he said with a mischievous grin.
One at a time, he touched the temples of the villagers. As he blessed the
last of them, the mist began to approach. The Gruagach raised his arms, and
a glow suffused the village, protecting it from the lightning strike, "Now,
go forth, and show them what you can do!"
The villagers surged forth. From within the mist, bolts of lightning shot
forth, striking the villagers, but bouncing harmlessly off their shields.
Shouting battle cries, the villagers shot back. The primitive Fomorian
shields cracked and broke under the onslaught- five hundred humans against
the twenty monsters. The collective shield of the monsters fell, and the
mist disappeared. Beneath it lay the most hideous creatures the villagers
had ever seen- malformed, multi-limbed bodies, bestial faces, enormous
slashing claws, and horrendous pig-like faces. Shocked by the creatures,
the villagers stopped firing. Seeing the gap, the monsters charged,
disembowelling several villagers in the process. Several of them charged
straight at the Gruagach, firing bolts as they went. The Gruagach shot
into the air, out of their reach, firing bolts as he rose. His persuers
were soon reduced to charred corpses, as his superior fire power
overwhelmed them. "Fight, you fools!" he called to the frightened villagers.
Stunned, the villagers raised their hands, and opened fire on the invaders.
The creatures recoiled as the bolts struck their shields, driving them back.
One by one, the shields collapsed, and the invaders died, burnt memories of
the horror.
The Gruagach floated back down to the ground, Grinning from ear to ear.
"I told you!" he said, "they didn't stand a chance!"
Calaan approached the Galadhrim. "All right- you've proven your loyalty thus
far. Can we trust your friend?"
The Gruagach beamed. "With your lives, if necessary!"
Calaan looked at the Fomorian bodies lying on the ground, and at the glowing
shield covering the village. Around the square, the villagers were laughing
and congratulating each other. Some were testing their powers on nearby
rocks and trees, blasting the unsuspecting landscape into mute testaments
of the Gruagach's good will. Of the five hundred, there were only a few
dead- much less than the casualties of a normal battle. He smiled, and
extended his hand to the Gruagach.
"Come, my friend- let's release your comrade."

What is the nature of magic? Several things point to an explanation-
Iron is a major contributor. We have our own magic now- the magic humans
call "technology". And perhaps to describe it as magic is not altogether
inaccurate. Take a large piece of iron, preferably ring-shaped, definitely
magnetised. Place it over your transistor radio, and listen to the howls of
pain. Now observe the same reaction in ever telepath, every psychic, every
clairvoyant... Is it any wonder that gipsy fortune tellers prefer to be
paid in silver? Cross not magic with Iron- for the two are related, and
yet opposite- it is the iron in our minds that gives us magic, and the
iron in the earth that keeps us from exploiting it...

Darkness. Pain. An agony of paralysis, his senses dulled by the presence of
the hated blinding mineral. Then light. Caomhin opened his eyes dimly, the
aches in his bones growing dimmer as the iron was removed from around him.
Looking around, dazed, he saw the shapes of several humans- A young man,
his beard barely apparent on his youthful features, and older warrior, his
grey hair and beard framing a face full of wisdom, and a slightly younger,
though similarly authoritative, face, still filled with traces of suspicion.
Then he saw his Liege.
"My lord!" he cried, struggling to rise to his feet.
"Easy, my friend." The Gruagach spoke softly to him, helping him up.
"My lord, the humans have found a way to beat Balor's armies. There may be
hope for them-," He rushed the sentence, still not quite registering the
presence of the humans properly. At the edge of his senses, the presence
of the iron still distorted his recovery.
"Relax, Caomhin. Look around you. We're in the human camp- they've already
defeated two attacks- one with our help."
"What of the revolution?"
"Slow. Those in the army that don't honour the stone's decision are afraid
of the consequences of rebellion. I've heard that Nuada may be planning to
move, though."
Caomhin stood, unsteadily, by himself. The Gruagach remembered the presence
of the humans, and motioned him towards them.
"This is Caomhin. He and I served together in the wars against the Fomorians.
Caomhin, this is Calaan, Malon, and Aaric." he motioned the humans. "Aaric
was the one who came on the idea of using projectiles against your regiment."
Caomhin turned to Aaric. "You do both our worlds a great service. Not many
mortals are able to penetrate Danaan shields and live"
Calaan addressed the Gruagach, "How long will it take you to teach the other
tribes the power?"
"It depends on how scattered they are. Have you thought of the advantages of
concentrating all your people in one place?"
"The thought had occurred to me. How long will it take if they are
concentrated?"
The Gruagach considered this. "Not long. If there were more of us it would
be easier, but convincing others of my kind to desert Balor could be-
difficult. He has some interesting methods of persuasion."
Caomhin shuddered. "Aye- ten lives per deserter. The more of the Army that
fights against him, the more innocent people ae executed."
Aaric pondered this. "Would they have carried that out in your case, Caomhin?
You were captured, not deserted."
The Gruagach grinned. "Not bad thinking, for a mortal. Maybe if you were to
accidentally 'capture' an army of truefey. We could adapt your weapon quite
easily so that it effects intrinsically magical creatures differently to a
non-magical creature- say, a Fomorian. What destroys a Fomor could just as
easily stun an Elf, Galadhrim or Danaan. Caomhin- how do you feel about
betraying us to your superiors?"

The preparations were made over the next few nights. messengers were sent to
the other tribes, telling them to rendezvous at a village further inland-
conveniently situated in the middle of a large, mountainous valley. The
tribes prepared themselves for the long journey. The Gruagach and Caomhin
trained the villagers further in the art of magical weapons.
"Try to make sure that the army they send after us is mostly Elves and
Galadhrim. They're the most likely to follow us. Try to keep the Fomorians
in as few numbers as possible- and no Danaans. I don't want to have to
kill any of the Shining Ones just because our magic can't stun them
properly. Above all, they have to be seen to be fighting as convincingly as
possible." The Gruagach instructed Caomhin extensively before sending him
back to the Fey camp. With a few minor bolts, he gave Caomhin the appearance
of having been involved in a magical battle. Caomhin winced under the pain
of the injuries, but otherwise said nothing. Finally, the tribes finished
packing their belongings, and Caomhin was sent on his way.
The Gruagach wandered around the village. How ironic, he thought, that he
was reduced to associating with these primitives. And yet, they had a
dignity about them- much more than some Fey he had met. True, they had
more arms than the humans, and considerably less charm, but they were still
Fey, and therefore by definition superior. And yet not, somehow. Wandering
into the place where the statues were displyed, he stopped. Despite the
numerous battles, the twenty statues representing the gods of the two tribes
still stoo, unscathed. He inspected them more closely- they were primitively
crafted, with little sense of true art- and yet, they still held a sense
of dignity and menace. He stood, looking up into the monstrous faces of the
gods. More than a match for a Fomorian in terms of monstrous size. And
strength as well, judging from the bulging, if badly crafted, muscles. He
grinned to himself. Trust the humans to worship their own nightmares.

Two days later, their efforts paid off. As the sun set, a huge army of Fey
appeared on the horizon- at least a hundred warriors, Caomhin at their head.
The villagers behind him, the Gruagach grinned- the army was mostly Elves,
with a few of the Galadhrim amongst them. Here and there a Fomorian could be
seen, watching to make sure the battle went according to plan.

On the Gruagach's signal, Calaan and Malon sent the tribes screaming into
the battle. The battlefield quickly dissolved into chaos, bolts of deadly
lightning flying in all directions. On the command of the Fomorians, the
Elves started firing bolts at the humans. Occasionally, a human would fall,
as his shield shattered, but more often, the Elves collapsed to the ground,
stunned by human magic. Soon, the humans realised that apart from the
occasional genuine bolt, most of the elves weaponry was nothing more than an
elaborate light show! Heartened, the humans pressed still further, stunning
more elves. Dismayed, the Fomorians fell, again and again, their weaker
shields crumbling, their flesh charred. In mid battle, Caomhin and The
Gruagach met.
"How did you get such a great turnout?" the Gruagach asked Caomhin.
"I told them of how easily the evil Gruagach had slaughtered the Fomorian
heroes that they had sent after him. After I had spoken to all the Elves
about the plan, there were no shortage of 'loyal patrons' waiting for their
chance to fight against the defector. The Fomorians saw the logic- Elves and
Galadhrim are less vulnerable to magical weapons, plus they are more powerful
magicians themselves. Why waste a perfectly good Fomor when a scummy Elf or
Faerie will do the job twice as well, and not be as easy to kill?"
"Any other news from the Otherworld?"
"There are rumours that Balor is planning something to stop the humans from
using magic as effectively- it may be time to find those of them with the
gift and teach them proper sorcery. Meanwhile, Nuada and the Queens want to
see you- quite urgently, apparently. Something about a counter attack."
The Gruagach nodded sagely. "I'll go as soon the Humans are on their way to
the gathering. Have any of the Leys been discovered here yet?"
Caomhin nodded. "There is a road across the water now. It's guarded at both
ends, by Elves, as is the gateway- although there are Fomors watching, as
usual." Suddenly they noticed the eyes of a Fomorian turned towards them.
"Damn!" The Gruagach turned to Caomhin. "You traitor! To think I trusted
you!" He unleashed a barrage of bolts onto Caomhin.
Caomhin sneered, and released his own weapons. "I guess that makes you even
more stupid then that philandering fool you call a father, half breed!"
The Gruagach turned white. Without a word, he raised his hands, and blasted
Caomhin's shield to fragments. In seconds, Caomhin lay unconscious at his
feet. "Apologies, my friend," he whispered to his comrade. Turning, he
dispatched the watching Fomor with a single blast.

The battle was over. All around, unconscious Fey lay. In amongst them the
corpses of Fomorians gathered flies. The Humans and the Gruagach moved
through the crowd, trying to revive their captives. Soon, a sizeable army of
Elves and Faeries had made themselves at home in the village, swearing their
allegiance to the Gruagach as they rose. Observing this, Calaan and Aaric
confided.
"Notice how they all seem to defer to him," Calaan remarked, "almost as if
he was a fallen leader."
"Caomhin called him 'my liege'. He's obviously a nobleman amongst their
people."
Calaan nodded. "That reminds me- he was asking after you today- wanting to
know about your past, things you've  done- said he was trying to find a lad
of 'suitable intelligence'. He seemed quite impressed by your plan with the
slings."
"Did he give a reason?"
"No- he wants to see you later on. Speak to him after he's sorted his army
out."
As the day wore on, the Elves were briefed as to the situation, and began to
prepare themselves for the journey to the meeting place. As night began to
fall, Aaric sought out the Gruagach.
"Ah, Aaric. How goes it with you?" The Gruagach gave him a friendly grin.
"It goes well," Aaric smiled back, "Calaan said you wanted to see me."
"Indeed. I've heard word that Balor may be planning to restrict you humans
ability to use magic. How I don't know- but I'm sure you can see what it
implies."
Aaric paled. "We would use our ability to defend ourselves by magic!"
"Exactly. Fortunately, I have a contingency plan. It is possible to teach a
human to use powers beyond what you are used to- true magic. Only a few
people are able to learn the art- the more intelligent ones, those gifted in
the arts. From what I've seen, you fit the criteria- are you interested?"
Aaric started, excited. "Yes! What must I do?"
"I have to make a journey to my homeworld- the Queens of my race, and the
Danaan military leader have requested my presence. I want you to come with
me- be introduced to the ways of my people, and to the magical world. I will
train you on the way, but the final teaching will come from the queens."
"What of the meeting? They will be lost without you to command them and
teach them."
"Caomhin will look after the army while we're away. Time flows differently
in the Otherworld. By the time your training is complete, the meeting will
only just be starting. We'll be back in plenty of time. In addition, you'll
be able to teach the others with your talent- your power will be more than
sufficient for teaching purposes, even if you only spawn lesser mages." He
looked towards the horizon. "We will leave at daybreak, when the Fomorian
defences are weaker. Inform your superiors- you're in for an adventure
beyond your widest dreams."

Part Two-  The World of the Fey

Watch... Even as we observe Aaric and The Gruagach begin their perilous journey 
to the Otherworld, so does another. He has seen his race perish under the 
tyranny of the Baleful Eye. He has fought the powers of darkness, and won 
countless battles- as magician as well as adviser. He saw the first humans 
emerge on that other Earth, and fought in the battles that they waged against 
Sauron. He knows of the rings of power. He is master of magic, the greatest mage 
the universe has ever seen. He is servant to the creator, a guide sent to earth 
to ensure the survival of all races for the final purpose. He is dead, but lives 
on- and he watches all...

As they passed through the village of Baraan Aaric surveyed the wreckage left by 
the Fey.
"This is the legacy of the Fomor, boy," The Gruagach said grimly, "what they 
can't conquer, they destroy. Much of my homeland has been lost in this way."
"It's madness!" Aaric stifled his horror, as he saw the smashed huts and 
scorched earth where his tribe had lived until so recently.
"Thank your lucky stars you left before they arrived- or else you'd be no 
different to the Nemedians right now."
They approached the coast, on the edge of the village. Pulled up onto the shore 
were the remains of the Nemedian boats, smashed to pieces by the invaders. "Not 
much point in trying to use any of these," the Gruagach observed.
"How did your people cross?"
"We travel along Ley Lines. Our people are still working on finding your planets 
natural paths. The one that we found here is heavily guarded, at both ends. 
Fortunately, I have the means to make my own findings." He withdrew a small 
crystal from his pocket. "Time for your next lesson, Aaric. This crystal is 
found abundantly in my home- but only a few are taught how to use it. Take it."
Aaric took the crystal in one hand, turning it around so that he could see the 
prismatic refraction of the light in its many facets.
"Concentrate your thought on the landscape around you. Now, direct those 
thoughts towards the crystal. Allow your mind to be the advocate for its 
search." Aaric complied, and a dim light began to glow in the stone. The crystal 
began to sway, twisting on a strange angle. The Gruagach looked delighted. 
"Good! Now, follow the direction of the swaying."
They walked along the beach, following the light swaying of the crystal. 
Eventually, the swaying diminished, and the crystal pointed, unwavering, at the 
ground.
"Excellent! We've found a node. Want to do the honours?"
"What do you mean?"
"Somebody has to open it, don't they? Now, in order to use proper magic, you 
must use the force of your will. This is focussed by the words you use- it's 
your belief in the effect of the words that make the magic work, all in the Fey 
tongue- traditionally Elvish." Aaric nodded his comprehension. "A spell has 
three parts- an address, a command, and a method. First the address- 'Ennyn', 
the name of the object. then your own name- 'Im Aaric, Aran Baraan'- that is, 'I 
Aaric, lord of Baraan'- then your command. 'Edro!'. Then you need to give it a 
direction- 'an', 'at','Eriu','Erin'. Try it."
Aaric raised his arm, and addressed the area the crystal had pointed to.
"Ennyn! Im Aaric, 
Aran Baraan. 
Edro an Eriu!"
The ground began to shake beneath them. Suddenly, a bright portal opened ahead 
of them, a whirling vortex stretching out into infinity.
"Step inside- you may experience some 'discomfort'- it's not really designed for 
non-fey use."
Aaric stepped into the portal, followed by the Gruagach. Suddenly, he felt the 
ground vanish from beneath him, as he was sucked along the pathway by a force 
outside of his control. He felt as if his insides were being turned inside 
out...
Aaric did what any normal person would have done under the circumstances- he 
passed out.
When he awoke, he was lying on a beach, facing the opposite direction to the way 
he had come. The portal facing towards the Gaulish shore was diminishing, and 
had almost vanished. The Gruagach stood over him, with an amused expression on 
his face.
"The best way to travel," the Gruagach grinned. "Come on- we have to go to the 
Hill of Tara- that's where the gateway is. There are Fey everywhere, so be 
careful." He gestured, and a chain appeared around Aaric's neck. "This will help 
us travel without attracting attention. Come on."
They travelled until they came to a small settlement of Fey. Around them, Aaric 
saw many Nemedians chained in a similar way to himself. They looked haggard, 
drawn. Each one of them had clearly been through their own private hell. Without 
stopping, they passed through the village and continued on their journey.

Eventually, they reached a large settlement. This had clearly once been a 
principle centre of Nemedian civilisation, as ruined huts were spread far and 
wide. Fomorians were everywhere, watching the other fey with a suspicious eye. 
At the edge of the village was a large hill, with a pulsing glow on the top.
"Behold- the gateway!" the Gruagach motioned towards the glow. "Come! We must 
reach the top before we are questioned!"
The Gruagach half led, half pulled Aaric through the town, his face hidden by 
his hood. Eventually, they reached the base of the hill- the almighty Hill of 
Tara, place of kings, seat of the Ard Rig of Erin- now reduced to a portal for 
invaders- a large number of which stood guard.
The Gruagach surveyed the scene with a bleak expression on his face.
"This isn't going to be easy. They won't allow humans to enter our world." He 
paused for thought, before sighing and putting his hands to Aaric's ears. "This 
won't hurt much, boy. Just stay as miserable looking as you do now." 
Aaric felt his ears tingle, as the Gruagach's power ran into them. He felt a 
similar energy enter his eyebrows. Quickly, he felt his features change.
"There. Now you look like one of my people. There's an aura of magic around you 
to make you appear naturally gifted as well. Now for my part of the disguise." 
He grimaced, and a look of disgust crossed his face. As Aaric watched, he 
doubled his height, sprouted two extra arms, and assumed a face possessed of 
unrivalled hideousness. In short, in every possible way the Gruagach now 
resembled a Fomorian general. He dragged Aaric up the hill, abandoning any 
carefulness he might have had before. Midway up the hill, a Fomorian rushed to 
meet them.
"Mazga- Uruk mal. Furug ga Naz, ka?" The creatures speech was hideous, guttural. 
Too many teeth were used in the forming of those words. A shiver travelled up 
Aaric's spine. 
"Furug ga Naz Gruagach!" The Gruagach whipped away Aaric's hood, letting the 
Fomorian see his face- transformed to look like the Gruagach's own. The Fomorian 
chuckled- a harsh rattling sound.
"Barak mal. Kaulok ma Balor!" He moved aside, letting them pass. The Gruagach 
continued to haul Aaric up the hill.
"What was all that about?" Aaric whispered to the Gruagach.
"The long and short of it is that I captured you, and am taking you to Balor. 
Apparently, he will be quite glad to see me- from what I understood of the 
language, anyway. It was designed for people with fewer fangs." It doesn't 
matter, anyway- they're going to let us through the gate!"
They proceeded up the hill. Ahead of them, Aaric saw the shape of the portal- a 
green glow on the top of the hill, guarded by a singular elf- obviously, the 
Fomorians thought the rest of the hill was sufficiently guarded. The elf stood 
by to let them pass. As they walked past him, the Gruagach let the illusion 
down, just for a split second. Recognising him, the elf grinned.
"Good luck, my lord. Their Ladyships will be delighted to see you."
The Gruagach smiled and nodded. He stepped into the gate, pulling Aaric behind 
him...

The gate between worlds opens- just as it did so many years ago to allow the 
first Fey to explore the new Earth. For centuries it has lain ready, waiting for 
discovery- a deliberately created portal between dimensions...

When Aaric regained consciousness, they were in a land like nothing he had ever 
seen before. Above them, the sky was a dark shade of purple, dotted with stars- 
a whole galaxy visible from the top of the hill. A gentle breeze blew all around 
them. Most prevalent of all, however, was the sense of magic- almost solid, a 
tangible presence. In this light, the Gruagach radiated a sense of power, as he 
was returned to his own element. Still in their disguised forms, they descended 
the hill, easily passing the Fomorian guards.
"It's quite a stupid way to patrol, actually. Note the way they all face 
outwards, away from the gate- they can't conceive that anything could slip 
through the security on the other side... Come on, we have to get to the Danaan 
camp."
They moved amongst the tents stationed around the gateway- regiments waiting to 
pass into the mortal world. Reaching the Danaan camp, they found a tent that 
seemed smaller, more nondescript than all the others. Without pausing to 
announce their presence, The Gruagach charged straight on in. Inside was a young 
woman. Seeing them, she gasped. "What are you doing in here? This is my private 
tent!"
"Relax, Arafel," The Gruagach returned them both to their original forms. "It's 
me."
A look of relief crossed Arafel's face. "Thank Dana it's you!" She threw her 
arms around him. "Welcome back, my Lord. The council has been eagerly awaiting 
your presence."
"Not here- it's not safe to discuss the matter amongst the camp. No doubt Balor 
has ears everywhere. In the meantime, I have a request to ask of you. How good 
are your cloaking spells?"
Arafel reared up, pride inherent in her voice. "Second to none. I could hide a 
whole continent, if needs be!"
"Good. I need you to travel to the mortal world. on the continent across the 
water from the gateway, you will find a combined army of Humans and Fey 
travelling to a mountain range far inland. I will be gone for some considerable 
amount of time- you know how time passes here. Fortunately, I should be finished 
in time to join them at their destination, but until then they shall need your 
protection. Hide them as best you can."
"That I will, my lord."
"Than you, Arafel. You don't know how valuable this is to our cause. Where is 
the council to be held, by the way?"
"On the eastern wing of the Danaan sector- away from Fomorian influence. They 
don't dare travel amongst so many of the Shining Ones. You would be well advised 
to travel there directly, my Lord. As we speak, Balor prepares to counter your 
educational influence on the mortals."
"Of course- we shall leave directly. Come Aaric." They started to leave. As they 
left the tent, however, the Gruagach suddenly turned back inside. "Arafel- be 
careful. Our magic is weaker in their world. You may find that the Fomor are a 
more even match than you're used to."
"I don't anticipate any problems."
"All the same, use caution- I don't want to lose you." He turned, and left.

This is the world of the Fey. Some call it the Grey Havens, others call it 
Arcadia. It is a world divided, a world of unparalleled beauty- and unparalleled 
harshness. Aaric will only see a fraction of it, but the Gruagach has seen all- 
let us observe it, from our own unique perspective. We see a vast continent- not 
a world, but an island floating in space, separated into four distinct areas. 
Three are mostly covered in forest- a different aura surrounding each. Two are 
mythical- fairy castles, elven homesteads, majestic peaks glimmering with marble 
sheen, one stately and noble, the other with an air of mischief. The other two 
are  dominated by enormous cities. The first is made of shining metal and glass- 
a technological version of the fairyland castles. This section has many rolling 
hills and crystalline lakes. The last- and definitely the least- is a stark 
wasteland, volcanoes dominating the skyline, belching fire into the atmosphere, 
its vast metal city rusting in decay.
Welcome to the land of the Faeries-
The Fomor, dark and military, composed from nightmares
The Elves, The Firstborn, children of Middle Earth, noble creatures of Magic
The Danaan, of Aldebaran, Masters of magic, technology and the land
The Galadhrim, Tricksters, Changelings, Masters of mischief.
Enjoy your stay.

A week had passed since The Gruagach and Aaric had arrived at the council.
Aaric's magical training had proceeded magnificently. He could now perform
almost any feat, the Isle's magical field adding to his own natural strength.
They had yet to meet with the Queens- the audience was that afternoon. They
had faced surprisingly little opposition on the way- the Fomorians seemed
reluctant to enter territory occupied by their ancestral enemies, as if the
ground itself was anathema to them. They had eventually arrived in the Grey
Havens- the part of the isle inhabited by the Elves, the great firstborn race
that had migrated from Middle Earth so long ago.
When the time came, the pair moved to a large tent in the centre of the
encampment. They waited nervously.
Eventually, the curtains at the far end of the tent opened, and four figures
came sweeping out. Aaric gasped- nothing had prepared him for the sight of
the three monarchs. All were dazzlingly beautiful- the first, tall, with fair
hair reaching to her waist. A great ring lay upon one finger, encrusted with
rubies, and She radiated pure power. The second resembled the mother of
worlds, with flowing hair of raven black, full red lips, and bright, green
eyes. The third was younger, but held the essence of pure magic. There was,
however, an element of uncertainty and insecurity about her, as if she
herself was a newcomer. The fourth was a Warrior, eternal youth on his face,
but with great age in his bearing. His right arm ended not in flesh, but in
a great silver gauntlet, it's joints engraved with fine wires and the faint
outlines of hydraulics and printed circuits.
"Aaric- allow me to introduce their majesties- Galadriel, Lady of Lorien,
Keeper of the ring Nanya. Dana, Mother Goddess of Aldebaran. Titania, Queen
of the Faeries. My step-mother."
"Welcome, Gruagach. Too long delayed has been your coming." Galadriel spoke to 
him in calm, measured tones.
"We made haste as best we could, my lady. Travel is not easy in these
troubled times. How is it with you, Mother?"
"It is not well, step-son. Your brothers and sisters still refuse to accept
my rule. You alone stand beside me, of all the children of Oberon. Indeed,
many have chosen to willingly follow Balor rather than accept me as queen."
Titania looked immeasurably sad as she described her plight.
"No matter. They no longer deserve to be called my siblings. They are
traitors, nothing more. If they die beside Balor, it is their own folly."
The warrior stepped forward. "If I may interrupt this exchange- we have
pressing business to attend to, if this war is to be won."
"Indeed, Nuada." Dana stepped forward. "We have grave news, Gruagach. Balor has 
found a way to circumvent the defences you gave the humans."
"As you know, your weapon relies on Earth's natural magical field for its
power."
"True. Whilst that remains, Balor can do nothing to stop them using it, save
for the annihilation of every life form on the planet."
Galadriel spoke. "That is precisely the problem. There is more than one type
of portal available to one with enough power. Balor has found one that can
siphon the very magic from a planet. He has constructed a conduit for it on
the isle you call Briton. Fortunately, the process will take some considerable
time, and can be easily disrupted, if the apparatus is destroyed in time. I
suggest you would be wise to rouse the humans to destroy this portal, before
it destroys them."
Nuada stepped forward. "This is where the second point of business becomes
important." He paused, and drew a breath. "Balor is mustering all the troops
he can spare, and is preparing to send them against your army- to destroy
them before their meeting, if possible."
The Gruagach smiled. "That's no problem. My Fay will defeat the Fomor without 
any trouble, once they have trained all the humans- and that won't take more 
than a day, once they arrive."
Titania addressed him, her face grave. "The Un-Seelie stand amongst them,
Gruagach. Your humans are no match for your siblings."
"They are traitors- diminished in power by their desertion, and accusation
against our father. My Fay can beat them. They side with the murderer of our
mother, to accuse their own parent! They are filth- fit only for the
scrapheap of life."
"Balor was never the proven killer of Maab, Gruagach." Galadriel pointed out.
"Indeed," Dana added to the conversation, "it seems strange that Balor could
have smuggled a master warrior into the commanding ranks, and killed only the 
Queen."
"Enough!" Titania seemed distraught.  "Our business is not to quarrel over
guilt! We must find a way to beat the enemy- both our kind, and theirs."
"A creature of sufficient size and strength could provide an even match for
the Fomorii, allowing our Fay to deal with the Un-Seelie," Nuada stated,
ponderously, "But where could we find such a creature?"
"Such a beast does not exist," The Gruagach seemed certain, "The Fomorii's
fellow monsters exist only by Melkors perversion of Illuvator's fairer races.
Orcs are based on Elves, Trolls on Ents, and the rest. True Fomorii, however-
the strongest kind- evolved independently. No equal exists amongst our ranks.
Finding one in the universe at large is too time consuming to even consider-
even if we did find something, there is no guarantee that it would ally
itself with us, or that we would arrive back in time."
"Enough." Galadriel sounded a note of finality. "We will re-convene in the
morning. In the meantime, this session is over."
They left, each considering their own idea of the plight.


The Gruagach wandered around the campsite. Suddenly, a force began to tug at
him, drawing him in a certain direction. Drawn by the impulse, the Gruagach
followed a path to an area behind the camp. From the mist emerged the figure
of an old man, regally dressed in white robes. Atop his head sat a pointed
hat with a wide brim, of the same dazzling white. However, the figure was
slightly translucent- The Gruagach could see the faint outline of the
background landscape through the old mans body. Oddly, this did not surprise
him.
"I thought you died in the Fomorian War."
"Perhaps I did. But then, perhaps death is something I Will never truly
experience. I've been dead once before, you know. Then, I only gained more
power from the experience."
"Granted. I take it you're here to advise me?"
"Obviously." The old man seemed impatient- a familiar attitude, well known
to all that had known him in the past.
"There seems little I can do. If Balor is draining the Earth of its magic,
then the humans will be helpless against him."
"You have your race to protect them."
"Not half of what we had before. It was the Faeries that turned the tide in
the great war- but half of them are Un-Seelie. They fight for Balor. Never
has his victory been so complete as when he killed Maab- from that time forth,
we have truly been divided."
"So another solution must be found. One that matches the Fomorii's own
strength, if not their magic. Something to even the odds, and remove their
threat whilst the Un-Seelie are being dealt with." The goading tone in his
voice was clear. It was obvious that the Gruagach was being led towards the
answer his own mind was trying to deny...
"You already know what you must do, Gruagach."
"Why does it have to be me? This goes against everything that is sacred! Why
can't you do it yourself?"
The old man scowled. "Fool. Look at me! Do you think I would survive beyond this 
realm? It is magic alone that stops me from dissolving, from dying
completely. It must be you- you are the one chosen for the task. The Creator
himself has named you as his Avatar."
"But how can I create life?"
"You will not. You will merely provide a vessel for the power. Hold still,
boy."
A bolt of lightning arced between The Gruagach and the ghostly Wizard. The
Gruagach writhed, as power flowed through his form. Then, as suddenly as it
had begun, it stopped, leaving the Gruagach glowing slightly.
"There. Now you have sufficient power for the animation of your creations.
With any luck you may not let us down too much." The figure faded.
The Gruagach sighed, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.
"Thank you, lord Mithrandir..."
He turned, and went back to the camp.

Lightning crashed in the sky above the alpine valley, its forked tongues
illuminating the mountainous peaks. From far and wide, the tribes had come-
an endless sea of human beings, all bearing the burdens of battle, all hoping
to turn the tide and free their planet. For each tribe had, at some stage,
suffered immeasurable losses- men, women, children- the Fomorian armies, with 
their Un-Seelie allies had shown no mercy in their relentless attack. Still,
despite this, the volume of supporters was enormous.
Calaan and Malon led their people through the unfamiliar territory, the
assorted Fay amongst them. Their losses, unlike Aaric and The Gruagach's
journey, had been many- the power was growing weak, the defences less potent.
Arafels timely arrival had given them safety during the latter half of their
journey, arriving just as the bulk of the Fomor army was about to sweep onto
the tribe. Just when they thought they would be discovered, a shimmering
light had formed near Caomhin, and the Faerie woman had shimmered into
visibility. "Stand still", she had ordered, without stopping to introduce
herself, and in their shock they had obeyed. She raised her hand and
surrounded them with light, just as the Fomor had appeared over the ridge-
and strode straight past them, an expression of infuriated confusion on the
face of each and every one, their prey snatched out from under their noses.
When the army had passed, then and only then did she allow them to move.
Still, even her power had begun to wane- she of a race in which magic
occurred naturally as breathing. There were times when she could be seen to
approach, a slight distortion in the air, before she rematerialised...
All around them, cliff-faces and mountains soared. Cold air bit into their
bones. Still, despite the cold, they had a tactical advantage- the local
tribes were familiar with the landscape, and all its hiding places, something
the invaders could not hope to compete with. Nonetheless, Calaan yearned for
the return of The Gruagach, and for Aaric with their magic. "Where could they
have gone?" he wondered to himself.

Night fell- but the sky did not get any darker. A dark shadow lay across the
land, ashes rising into the air, mingling with the foul essence of the
invaders. Dark shapes flew overhead. Caomhin shuddered. "Nazgul...".
"No." Arafel reassured him. "The Nazgul are all dead- they died when the
halfling cast the ring into Orodruin. Still- their beasts still exist. No
doubt the Fomor still use them. Damn." She cursed. "That means they know
we're here. It will only be a matter of time before they attack."
They stood on an outcrop of rock above the valley. In the distance they could
hear the thumping of boots on the ground, all in step, of the Orcish army
forming over the horizon. Amongst the ordered militants the hideous voices of
Fomorian commanders could be heard giving instructions- "Nak- garok ka naz
xajog"- "Search- they are here somewhere..." Occasionally they felt the surge
of power as an Un-Seelie relieved just enough power to ignite a pipe of
hallblowers or to solve any number of casual arguments.
Shuddering, the pair turned their backs to the horizon and trudged back to
the camp.

Calaan woke to a black morning. Leaving his hide tent, he went to the main
command tent of the humans. There, Malon was waiting for him.
"Has there been any word of Aaric and The Gruagach yet?" he asked.
"None. I'm afraid we may have to consider the possibility that the enemy have
gotten to them."
Suddenly, a commotion was heard outside. Calaan and Malon rushed from the
tent to see a bright, swirling light form a short distance from the tent. A
hole opened in the center, and The Gruagach staggered out, followed by a
groggy- looking Aaric. They walked forwards, slowly, still recovering from
the trip. A haunted look was in the Gruagach's eyes, and a slight glow still
surrounded him. Aaric looked much better- the trip to the havens had done him
some considerable good. The Gruagach approached Calaan.
"What news of matters here?"
"We have as many tribes as survived the journey- some ten thousand warriors.
The Enemy are amassing over the far mountain range. What of the Otherworld?"
"Not much has changed back home. It is imperative that we win this battle,
and reach the isle of Briton. I'll explain later. There are many of my own
kind amongst the enemy- training must begin immediately." With that, he
trudged straight towards the barracks, to begin rallying the warriors for
their magical lessons.
"What's his problem?" Calaan asked Aaric.
"I don't know- he's been like this ever since we left the Havens- as if some
great burden's been layed on his shoulders. He's right, though- Balor has set
up some sort of device on Briton that will eventually stop us from using
magic. We must destroy that as soon as possible, or we will be absolutely
helpless, whether we win this battle or not. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have
to start some training of my own." Leaving Calaan to ponder his words, he set
off in search of likely wizard material.

The next night was even darker, if that were possible- a sure sign of attack.
Aaric and the Gruagach had done their best- Aaric's experience on the Isle was
sufficient to teach his pupils the most basic lessons- sufficient to generate
a weapon from their own strengths. The Gruagach had exhausted himself,
training warriors by the droves to use natural magic. Finally, the finely
honed battle skills taught by the Elves, and the Stealth techniques taught
by Arafel finished the training of Earths first great army.
"Right," the Gruagach addressed the army, his voice carrying across the masses
by means unknown to man or beast, "Your powers will be noticeably weaker, but 
you should have sufficient strength to wound. We have enough Fay to balance 
their magic, and enough in terms of numbers to balance their strength. Good 
luck. To Victory!"
He raised his staff, and shot a bolt of lightning into the sky.
Simultaneously, every one of the warriors shot a bolt after it, in answer.
For a second, the sky was illuminated, day-bright, as thousands of brilliant
strands wove together in the night sky...
And died.
Confused, the warriors attempted send another bolt. The lightning faltered,
twisted, and sparked out again.
"Oh no," whispered the Gruagach. "Balor must have had his device working for 
longer than we thought. We'll never beat them now! Our warriors won't even be 
able to get near the Fomorii, let alone hurt them!"
Malon turned to him grimly. "Your magic has united all the free peoples of
this earth- and now it will enslave them with it's failure. I never trusted
you, Gruagach. Frankly, if the Fomorii don't kill you, I will."
Calaan stepped between them. "Wait, Malon- this isn't his fault. There may
yet be a chance."
"Yes- though it wears on me. There is another way to match them, in brute
 strength, if not in magic." He took a deep breath. "Would I be right in
 assuming that all your tribes brought their god-statues with them?"
"Of course. The village priests wouldn't have it any other way." He gestured
towards the walls of the valley. In every nook and cranny, shaded by shadow,
a stone statue huddled, its winged shape crouching menacingly on its perch.
"Good." The Gruagach started running back to the encampment. "We don't have a 
moment to lose!"
Calaan, Malon, and Aaric caught up with him in the town square, in time to
see him produce a book from his robe. He opened it, and began to read.
"Aan ar kelligan. Voros Gruagach an Illuvator!"
The glow around his body brightened...
"Etain mal, etain fand, etain skellig!"
Lightning crashed in the sky, illuminating the valley...
"Veros lammienm, vamos hemis, boros jannas
quddin majos umnus, terris, noireum venete!"
His voice rose to a crashing crescendo, and energy flowed from his body into
the earth, running along the ground and up the mountain side. In his own
language he cried one last sentence:
"I lu nom de Illuvator, ji commundee- Evulle!" In the name of the Illuvator,
I command thee- Awake!
A thousand eyes, a thousand roars, a thousand pairs of wings blowing in the
howling gale- With a shattering bellow, the Gargoyles awoke!

At last- the culmination of centuries work is complete. With the creation of the 
Gargoyles comes the final player in the final great war, of which Earth is the 
staging ground. Guard us well, protectors of the night... and guard yourselves- 
your greatest challenge is still yet to come...

Overhead darkness exists. No light penetrates the clouds. But, in the midst of 
the darkness, shapes can be seen...

The Gruagach charged into the human army. "Get back! There's no way you can beat 
them- leave them to us."
Confused, the humans turned and started back towards their huts, save for the 
magicians, and the chieftains. The Fay army began to advance towards the 
Fomorii, their faces grim, the certainty of death foremost in their minds.

The darkness begins to part slightly, and the shapes become more distinct- 
silhouettes flying in the moonlight. An eerie cry is heard, then another- the 
roaring of demons and angels at war. From out of the black plunges the badly 
injured body of a Nazgul beast, its Pterosaur wings spattered with its own dying 
blood...

The Elves began to attack the Fomorii- without much success. Caomhin rushes into 
the fray, silver sword raised. The beast raises its claws, ready to disembowel 
him...

Plunging through the stratosphere, the angels howl races to the defence. A razor 
sharp claw moves easily through the flesh of a Fomorii warrior, saving the 
hapless elf from certain death. 

Dahon stood in the doorway of his hut, mouth hanging open, religious exultation 
in his eyes. Calaan appeared behind him.
"Magnificent isn't it? Incidentally, at the first sign of the words 'I told you 
so' you'll be the first one to be fed to them." Dahon merely stood and stared as 
his gods came to life before his eyes...

Again and again, the Fomorii fall to the Creatures' claws. Triumphant, the Fay 
turn their attention to the Un-Seelie- a battle that is both brief and one 
sided...


Bodies littered the battlefield. The victors moved amongst them, in a daze- 
never had they seen such incredible bloodshed, such horrendous battle- but it 
was victory, nonetheless! Exulted, the humans moved amongst the hundred of 
fallen Fomorii- and inevitably came across their new allies. They huddled 
together as the Creatures approached. One Creature, slightly larger than the 
others stepped forward.
"What are you?" One of the humans cried out.
The Creature looked confused. "We- do not know. Once we slept- now we exist. We 
have never had names before- we have never needed them."
Another of the humans spoke- one from the tribes of the North. "When the statues 
were forged, our people had a name for them."
Dahon interrupted- "So did our tribe- we called them Gods. But these are no 
Gods- to claim so would be the ultimate blasphemy"
The Creature raised a talon. "Wait- we do not wish to be called Gods. But what 
is this other name you speak of?"
The Northerner stepped forward. "We called you 'Gargoyles'- protectors."
"Fitting indeed. So, then, that is what we are. Gargoyles, protectors." His 
people murmured their agreement.
The Gruagach stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Dawn will soon be upon us."
"And what of it?" The Gargoyle leader looked mildly bemused.
"There are certain limitations attached to the magic that brought you to life. 
Although you were technically brought into being by the creator, it was done 
through Fay magic. Which- for the moment, at least- is not effective enough to 
keep you animated during the day."
The Gargoyles looked horrified. "You mean we must die again at the end of this 
night?"
"Not die- only sleep. At daybreak you will revert back to your original form 
until sunset. A minor setback, with several possible advantages."
"Such as?"
"The first is obvious- you won't require sleep. However, there may be an even 
greater form of rejuvenation. When you were created, your bodies were crafted to 
match the forms in which you were sculpted. This will be repeated when you wake. 
Any wounds that you sustain during the night will therefore just be another 
normal part of your body the next night- and that's not allowing for the 
roughness of stone changing to smooth skin. If you take that into account, then 
any abrasions, light wounds, sicknesses, ailments, anything not serious enough 
to affect your appearance as statues, will be gone at sunset. Think of it- 
complete healing as you sleep."
"And what of damage to our stone forms?"
"Ah. That could be a problem. Presumably, minor damage to you while you sleep 
will alter your appearance when you wake- lost limbs, for instance. Any parts 
separated from your main stone form will be dead. Unfortunately ,if you were to 
be shattered completely you would be beyond saving- stone dead, as it were. 
Anyway, it would do you well to find a place to roost- out of reach somewhere, 
so that anybody with the wrong intentions is unable to reach you."
"Agreed." The Gargoyle leader turned to his fellows. "Come- we will retreat to 
the mountains."
The air was filled with hundred of winged figures, leaping up into the air, off 
rocky spires, and into the open sky, to alight in the unreachable crevices of 
the mountains, creating a multicoloured tableau of flesh against the mountainous 
landscape. As the humans watched, the sun rose over the horizon. As each 
gargoyles was hit by the first rays of the yellow eye, the colours were replaced 
by uniform grey
"Well, that's that, then." The Gruagach started to walk back to the main body of 
the encampment.

Later, the leaders of the three races met to discuss the destruction of Balor's 
magic drain. In the centre of the room was a large illusory map of the continent 
and the surrounding isles- produced by the combined magic of most of the Fay in 
the room. Obviously, the drain acted even as they spoke.
"It should only take a small group to destroy the device itself- a few Gargoyles 
should be sufficient for the actual destruction. A larger group would attract 
too much attention. Myself, Aaric, Arafel, and our team of Gargoyles will travel 
here-" The Gruagach indicated the isle of Briton close to the Irish gateway. 
"Aaric, to try and enlist the help of any human survivors we meet along the way, 
Arafel to provide protection, the Gargoyles to provide the brute force, and 
myself as the guide." The group murmured their assent. "Excellent! Now, the 
drainage device is here-" he pointed to a spot on the smaller map of Briton, 
which enlarged to show a large stone circle, a funnel of energy seeming to 
emerge from the air around it, "over here is the nearest Lay-Gate. I'm 
relatively sure it can be reached via the one close to Baraan. If nobody has any 
objections, then We'll leave on the hour."

What goes on in the mind of Balor of the Baleful Eye? At the moment it is fear. 
Fear of defeat, fear of death- fear of his grandson. It has been long since the 
prophets told him of his grandson- and how he would be slain by him. Long since 
he had locked his daughter, Eithne, rare in her beauty amongst the Fomor, in the 
tower. Long since a lone Danaan warrior had breached that tower- and spirited 
away their child.
No we gaze upon that same tower- used now for the imprisonment of the Three Fey 
Kings. This in itself is a miscalculation- for Balor, in his stupidity, did not 
see where the true power lay in his rivals. Celeborn pines for his lost wife and 
freedom- whilst outside Galadriel continues to rule The Havens with the same 
power she always has. The Dagda sits in the corner, his only complaints 
regarding their diet, otherwise uncaring, optimistic that someday his superior 
sister and mother- Dana- will turn the might of the land to his freedom and a 
large meal. Only a single lone figure- the most powerful of them all- is truly 
trapped, immobilised by the iron bars, with no hope of escaping unaided- his 
wife young and inexperienced, his followers divided, his son lost in the Earth 
Realm.
Help, however, comes in many forms. Take heed Balor, for a new champion has 
arisen amongst the Fey- Lugh of the Long Hand, the Il-Dana, who will once father 
the almighty Cu Chullain. He comes now to the tower, bent not on conquest, but 
on freeing the three imprisoned rulers. But you may meet him later.
If you recognise him, you may even call him Grandson...

The Briton Portal opened, spilling the assorted humans, Fey, and Gargoyles onto 
the rough ground. The Gruagach stood amongst them, watching amused as Humans and 
Gargoyles alike struggled to retain their consciousness after the journey.
"Pleasant Trip?" He asked mildly.
The Gargoyle leader merely grunted, as he hauled himself off the ground, 
stretching his wings speculatively 
"Alright then. Let's go. Arafel, can you shield us?" 
"I should be able to- the magic drain puts a tremendous strain on my powers at 
this proximity, but the technological side should still work properly." She 
touched what looked like a simple arm band, intricately patterned, on her wrist, 
and a shimmering mist surrounded them, briefly visible before fading into the 
landscape. From inside the Danaan shield the surrounding territory looked 
slightly blurred, as if seen through a massive heat barrier. From outside, only 
dim shadows were visible. Nodding his approval, the Gruagach led the group 
towards the massive stone circle that lay ahead of them.

The battle has passed into legend in times since- although the true start of the 
battle has been lost. None but an ancient elite know of the true cause of the 
second battle of Moy Tura- indeed, modern accounts of the legend place the 
battle on Erin, and attribute it solely to the Danaan. The true tale is best 
told by an anonymous observer, an ancient historian- although not as ancient as 
myself- who observed the battle in the form of a stag, from a safe vantage 
point:
"The portal was minimally guarded at first viewing- It was no problem for the 
invaders to overpower the guards, leaving a path clear for the Gargoyle Warriors 
to topple the enormous stone megaliths from their places, stopping the flow of 
magic into the Otherworld. However, even as the party was celebrating their 
victory, a huge army- the sum total of all Balor's armed forces- appeared around 
them, Balor himself at their head. All seemed lost, but the Gruagach's team did 
not give up- Fomor after Orc after Fomor fell beneath Gargoyle claws and Faerie 
Lightning. But it was to no avail- it seemed that the errand of salvation would 
become a suicide mission. The Fomor pushed towards the tiny group, slowly but 
surely overwhelming them by sheer. Force of numbers- but just when all seemed 
lost, thunder rocked the English countryside. From the sky rained the combined 
forces of three races united, and at their head, a mighty figure surrounded by a 
million tiny, winged, attendants. Thus came Oberon, and at his side rode Dana, 
Galadriel, With Nuada close behind, his silver arm blazing in the light of the 
magic surrounding them. And beside Nuada rode- legend. The Army of the Fae 
descended upon the Fomorian forces, rending their lives from their bodies. 
However, the Fomor were mighty, and more skilled at the art of war than the 
other Fae. But even as Balor rallied his forces, Legend soared from Nuada's 
side, to greet the Fomor King. And so it was that Balor gazed from his throne 
into the eyes of his Grandson, and the forces of darkness fled with his death."
So ended the reign of Balor of the Baleful Eye, and the Fae invasion of Earth.


Epilogue

The bodies of the fallen Fomor warriors melted into the earth, fertilising  the 
rough ground. The air where the portal had once been felt drained of life, and 
several Gargoyles who had wandered too close had reverted to stone, as the magic 
that animated them was sucked from their bodies, but slowly but surely the 
atmosphere was beginning to feel normal. The leaders of the three surviving Fae 
races met in a hastily constructed command tent at the rear of the battlefield.
"Well, aren't we glad that's over." The Gruagach appeared before any of them had 
had a chance to speak.
"Indeed- but we still have one problem left" The three leaders stood aloof of 
each other, even as Oberon made his statement. "Our four races have fought 
almost constantly since we found ourselves concentrated on that enchanted 
island. With Balor gone we no longer have a common leader"
Galadriel stepped forward "We fear that without a leader to unite us we would 
fall back into war upon our return home."
Suddenly a shimmering mist appeared in their midst. Before their eyes the 
translucent form of the ancient wizard materialised- a long dead shade, 
transparent in the night air.
"The Maia have long foreseen this moment- and so I am sent. Know that there is a 
purpose to all- including this invasion. On this occasion, many things have 
taken place which would not have occurred otherwise- not the least of which is 
the creation of a new species. But of equal importance is this- The end of the 
Second War of the Fae. Here are the instructions given to me by the creator: You 
have come to this new world- a world intended to be shared by three races. 
However, only one Fae race can claim the earth as its home- the others may 
visit, but must reside in their own domain. Your assignments are thus: The Fomor 
are to remain dormant- trapped beneath the crust of this world until the time 
for them to awake is near." The remaining Fomor warriors cried out in protest- a 
cry that died, as they faded away into nothingness. Two portals opened behind 
the Maia Sorcerer. "Galadriel and Celeborn- your race is to return to the 
Otherworld. Your battle has already been fought, your time passed. You will have 
the full benefits of the entire isle, to cultivate and enrich with your own 
beauty." Galadriel nodded her assent, and led her Elves through the first 
portal, which closed behind her with a sigh. "Dana. Your people first dwelt 
amongst the stars. I therefore bid you return to Aldebaran- there are no longer 
any Fomor to drive you away."
"As you wish, Mithrandir" The Tuatha De Danaan marched in single file into the 
second portal. Not until the last of the Scientist /magician race had entered 
the portal did it reform itself into an enormous glowing ball, shooting off into 
the immense starscape from which they had come so long ago.
"Oberon and Titania. The magic of this world is much depleted, and is therefore 
out of balance. We fear that without a magical influence present, the world 
would not be able to continue its existence. Your magic is the strongest of all 
your races- even if you lack some of their discipline. Therefore it is the 
decision of the creator that your race will remain on Ea- however, you will not 
take land from the humans or the gargoyles- you must take as your dwelling place 
the Isle of Avalon. May you always dwell there in peace and harmony-at least 
until it's time for another war." A fleet of skiffs appeared, floating in mid 
air, all bearing the face of Gandalf on the prow. The Faeries piled into them, 
pushing and shoving each other in an effort to reserve a place of greater 
comfort. The fleet of skiffs rose into the air, and soared towards the 
shoreline, leaving only The Gruagach behind.
"Why do you not go with your family, boy?" Gandalf eyed the Gruagach 
speculatively.
The Gruagach shrugged. "I felt a compulsion not to."
"Excellent! That's exactly what I had intended! You are perceptive, aren't you?"
"How are you able to be here? You said you hadn't the power to survive in the 
mortal realm anymore"
"And I haven't. It took the entire power of all the surviving Maia to bring me 
here- and it may well be my last act. I must depart this world soon, for the 
next life- for good this time. No last minute resurrections, no ghostly 
materialisations. I've been working a long time with you ephemerals- It's past 
time for my retirement."
"Is that why I'm here? To here your last testament?"
"Not quite. I have very little legacy to pass on that isn't already recorded- 
I'm sure even the people of this world will hear of me someday, should the right 
fae happen to whisper in somebody's ear. No, the purpose I have in mind for you 
is much more important." His face became grave. "Whether you intended to or not, 
you are an Avatar of the creator, responsible for the creation of a new race. 
Your task will not be as easy as that of your ruler- you are to leave your 
people, and forever live amongst the mortals, representing them to your 
contempories. No longer are you a Child of Oberon, but his equal, in power as 
well as authority. Guard your charges well- both races. We will need them in the 
last battle. Now I must leave. Fare Thee Well, Gruagach." With that the old man 
faded from existence, never to be seen again.
The Gruagach stood on the deserted field, considering his situation. Looking 
around him, he saw in the distance winged figures wheeling in the moonlight. 
With the tiniest effort he sprouted wings of his own, and launched himself into 
the air. Across the landscape he soared, observing the vast tapestry below- two 
races at the dawn of civilisation.
Banking left towards the distant mountains, the Gruagach prepared to face his 
destiny...

The End