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The shadow pulled away from the two-souled one, only half satisfied. This new one had power. Was power. But the shadow was strengthened by the animal soul. Not enough! This one's sword did strange things that only the shadow could see: he held it between them, slowly approaching. Who was this one? No man!
You are not of this Middle Earth.
I am of Oromé, foul one.
The shadow said nothing, made no thought. To do so would be to lose strength. The shadow made to flee.
Arato brought the sword down into the midst of the darkness. The shadow screamed in his mind. Then, as if a fire's black sooty smoke was made to return to the wood and flame, so the shadow hied itself to the black blade. In moments, the air was clear though cold. The sword was not the shadow's prison, but the door to that prison from which there was no escape.
Join your master, foul one.
He sheathed his blade and approached Mara, who knelt over the prone form of Wenda.
"Is she well? Or ill?"
"I know not!"
Then Wenda's eyes came open suddenly and she coughed. She recognized Mara, who helped her to sit up.
"Are you well, Wenda?"
She nodded. "But Pada and Muna! What of them? Where are they? Why can't I sense them?" Suddenly her eyes went wide and her mouth formed an 'O'. Then tears flooded her eyes; she did not wipe them away.
"What is the matter, Wenda?" Mara asked.
"It stole my reindeer shape!"
Wenda would never walk the earth on four hooves again. Mara held her close as she wept. Arato kept his distance, for Wenda did not know him well. He looked up and saw the Ent.
"Hoom! You have done a mighty thing, human with the dark sword. Hoom hom! The shadow will not return?"
"Nay, not ever."
"Hm! That is well. That is very well!"
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