[For once, it's a relief to be so thoroughly wrong. He listens with his tongue between his teeth to stop an instinctive outburst, recognizing in himself that tendency to fuss--

How little he needs to do that over beings older than his entire world. Especially when they've so much grace and certainty about things that fill him with instinctive horror.]

Ilúvatar, [quiet, respectful, testing the alien name on his tongue,] who Made you. [There are questions he'd ask if the situation were less dire; questions he's not sure would be answered.]

"Dreams made flesh," you said; you were drawn to us across the Fade and given shape. But something's sickened you and begun to eat away at that... [It trails off; there's a quiet oath as he wracks his brain once more. This is a piece--

But they're missing so many others.] Damn. It means something--it has to.