If he examines the coin in his hand, he will find that it looks very old; the face of a crowned woman on one side is half worn away and the edges are thinned and nicked. On the other side is a sigil whose meaning he does not know. It is crafted of true unalloyed silver, though much of it is covered in a sooty patina.

A set of minor artifacts, possessed by shades… did not The Corruptor sing of such things in the time before?

”Four things manifest from shadow: illusions, ghosts, tricks, and lies. Point me to something I can lay my hand on, shade.”

Oromë turns the elder coin between his fingers. “Or there are depths to which I can consign you whose infinitude is beyond your imagining.”

She bows her head. “Wise words, and yet perhaps not wise to the ways of this world, Hunter from Outside.” She gestures and a clear glass sphere forms in her hand, which she throws to him. “For illusions can be laid hands upon…” She gestures and a scene appears inside the globe of Morgoth Bauglir standing in this very basement, other figures seen faintly behind him. “…and may also illuminate truth, and not lies.”

“Then it is as Manwë foretold,” he says, staring into the sphere. “With each provocation, the Enemy grows more brazen.”

Oromë looks Naamah in the eye. “You would aid my pursuit of this monstrosity. For vengeance alone? Or have you an end upon this earth to which you would see me turn my powers?”

“Vengeance is a sufficient aim to garner my aid,” Naamah replies. “The spirit within the coin he carries is an enemy of mine. But,” she smiles at him, just a little bit temptingly, “I think we could perhaps work together, even past the immediate synergy, to great mutual benefit.”

Oromë looks between her and the coin, weighing. He nods. “It’s a foolish hunter who tracks a game hare but ignores the wild hawk.”

Outside, he straddles his mount and triggers its ignition. The coin rests within his quiver. Upon his return to Chicago, the coin — and the knight, and the wizard — will lead him to his quarry.

Naamah manifests a helmet and riding leathers of all white, and mounts up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist while managing to rather gracefully keep clear of all his weapons.

Dark and tumultuous nighttime. Gray oaks containing their own seeds. Broken swords reforging, going molten, turn to ore and rock. A bunch of huge clocks spinning around for some reason.

Realities forking and splintering and seceding left, right, and center. A world where men were only half as tall and spent all their time eating and drinking and walking about the countryside. A world where Melkor swayed the other Valar from the beginning and reigned unopposed. A world where Fëanor crafted the deathly hallows and stuffed Mandos into a hall closet.

And what have we here? Slavering purple-black hounds tearing at a carcass, many-limbed sea fiends snapping a body into pieces, massive armored beetles grinding a corpse between their horns.

Oh. I’m back in the void, but I went insane.

That’s not so bad.

Melkor floats within a roiling rainbow-black nothingness, riding the waves as they come. The waves get higher, he gets higher. Easy peasy. But the void is bothered, irritated, disgusted. It sucks him with irresistible force into one cheek and spits him right out. Melkor’s head rings with a pitoong! as he hits the rusty blue spittoon at the end of the line.

Melkor catapults up to sitting and slaps his hands to his cheeks in shock.

“Whaugh?!” he coughs out.

He is lying on a couch with faded orange plaid upholstery, in front of a cozy fire. The room is dark, with stone walls and floors, all covered in thick cozy mismatched textiles. An enormous grey cat is lying across his legs, staring at him. Harry and Michael are sitting in mismatched squashy armchairs on either side of him, talking quietly. Michael is holding his sword, sheathed, across his lap.

“Easy there,” Harry says. “You’ve been out for a while. We brought you back to my place since it has better wards and you said someone might be after you right before you collapsed. How are you feeling?”

“Fiiine?”

Melkor throws up onto a cozy mismatched textile on the floor.

Harry sighs and gets out some stuff to clean up with. Also a bowl, which he leaves next to Melkor.

Meciel walks out of the shadows and sits in the chair Harry just vacated. “I’m glad you’re awake, but you should know that you’re not particularly fine. The mortal body that was materialized when you brought us out of the Void isn’t built to withstand your native magic - you lost maybe twenty percent of your bone mass and you’re going to feel like you have a moonshine hangover for a day or two.” She looks at him very seriously. “I should be able to heal all of the damage, eventually, but you need to be careful - if you keep doing this your body will give out, and I’m not sure what will happen to you then.”

“Listen guys, I lost 20% of my bones and I feel like I drank a bunch of moonshine. We need to lay low for a couple of days so the super serious librarian harpy running my own personal invisible ICU can glue me back together.”

:Was that about right?: 

:Just about.:

“Who is it that is coming for you?” Michael asks, leaning forward.

“I’m gonna level with you Michael. I don’t have to play this straight you know. I could lie through my teeth and still sleep like a baby. Even though babies don’t have teeth. But I’m gonna tell you the truth. And here it comes:”

Melkor tries to lean forward to match Michael’s intensity but this enormous gray cat has his legs stuck and all feeling full of pins and needles. So he lays back down, but in a solemn fashion.

”Aliens. Aliens in themed costumes with dimension-traveling technology and a morally absolutist thirst for extrajudicial rendition.”

“What… kind of aliens? We talking little green men? Echolocating dog packs? Lovably tenacious pygmy bears? Is an egg gonna hatch out of your stomach?”

He does ye olde artful shrug. “Eh, a face on a brain case, two arms, two legs, some genitals between ‘em, standard sylvanoid body plan. More magic than the local yokels around here, but not as flashy as your friendly neighborhood wizard.”

He essays a stroke on Señor Gray Cat.

”Geopolitically speaking, there’s this one elite faction of oligarchs who’ve got it in their heads that they’re the ones who should be calling the shots. And what do you know, their most outspoken opponent ends up on the top secret kill list.”

“There are aliens with magic?” Harry asks incredulously. He sits back down in his chair heavily (Meciel dodges him and relocates to the arm of Melkor’s couch). “And they’re assholes. That just figures.”

Melkor nods grimly. “The number of tropes they have at their disposal is practically immeasurable.”

“Wait… does that mean you’re an alien?”

“Only when I’m in Chicago! Back home, you fools are the aliens.”

Michael leans in seriously. “Melkor,” he asks, “are you bullshitting us right now? Because oligarchic sylvanoid aliens with magic is a lot.”