Remmirath
'And it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the sea, and thereafter wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret beside the waves. For Maglor was mighty among the singers of old, named only after Daeron of Doriath; but he never came back among the people of the Elves.'
- The Voyage of Eärendil, the Silmarillion
Ouch.
That feels a somewhat... Underwhelming way to put it, but I do believe that the utterance fits. I feel like Tulkas' punching bag.
All things considered, that is not as bad as it could be.
Rolling over amid a symphony of complaints from bruised skin and muscles, I find myself lying under a moonless night sky, the stars glimmering overhead in all their splendour. It reminds me a little of the old days.
Speaking of which, what happened? The last thing I recall was the horizon falling away and a lektaie big wave heading straight for me at ludicrous speed. I had never seen the like before and I doubt Arda has either for that matter, not since the ancient tempests before the Spring. I could have sworn the crest of the thing was up in the clouds. Goodness knows how I survived that, and I must have done as evidenced by the fact that I am not currently being attended to by the Mandonildi.
Most bizarre.
I narrow my eyes, noticing something. The stars are wrong. I know every splendid jewel in Varda's tapestry and none of them match. Anarrima, Remmirath, the Valacirca... Even Menelmacar is missing. I can see a red star that reminds me of wandering Carnil, but it is in entirely the wrong place for the time of year.
Either Varda has got into Oromë's secret wine cellar again, or this is not Arda.
It must be linked to the wave, but Vaire knows how. Waves are not generally known for their tendency to depart the walls of the world. All questions for another time. For now, I should see about finding shelter and something to eat.
Aching, I sit up and assess what I still have on me. Aside from my surprisingly functional hröa, my clothes are salt-stained but otherwise intact, as is my dagger, bow (albeit with an empty quiver), a handful of mallorn nuts left over from my last brush with civilisation and my pack, though much of its contents have spilt. At least I shan't be sleeping without a blanket... Where is it?
A pang of sorrow (sharp and hot, rather than the cold dull ache to which I have grown accustomed) stabs my heart as I rummage deeper, even though a glance has already told me the truth of the matter.
My harp is gone.
I had protected it like an elfling for centuries, the one thing I still really cared about in all the world. Father made it for me, a gift when I came of age.
Gone.
It takes some time for the tears to run dry, but as always, they do. Ultimately, it is a thing, and perhaps there is a chance it may be found.
Sitting up once more, I repack what I have left, rise to my feet and survey my surroundings properly. It appears I am on the shore of a lake, surrounded by steep hills on all sides almost as if dug out by hand. A quarry lake? It must have been abandoned many years ago if that is the case however, for the slopes are weathered and old trees have taken root.
The thought crosses my mind that perhaps I was perhaps somehow washed to Tol Fuin, the vegetation is not far divorced from how I remember it and it would neatly explain both age and solitude, but no, while the hills of old were home to many mines, there was nothing worthy of such a vast quarry as this in that land.
Well, if it is a quarry lake of unknown origin, then the odds are there are no fish to be found beneath the mirror-like surface unless they were introduced. But where there are trees, there are usually animals and more importantly, the means to make arrows to hunt them with. Likely enough there are some wild fruits and roots to eat as well. I might not be Atyarussa or Minyarussa, but I know my way around the wilderness well enough these days.
Life has been kind to me as the year warms. There are plentiful fish in the lake (which is fed by a river as it turns out) and enough forage to survive easily, which means I have been able to set aside the mallorn nuts for a rainy day. My living conditions are poor by all but the humblest peasant's standards, but I have a roof over my head which only leaks a little bit and a mostly-draft free space in which to sleep in my ramshackle hut at the foot of a willow tree.
The poor quality is not too much of a concern, as it is a deliberately temporary measure encouraged by a total absence of nails and my being forced to use makeshift flint tools.
Anyway, I have a stock of dried meat, enough to support a little exploration of my new home. Yes, home. I have wandered for centuries, but I needed time to recover from my battering. Since I am now less blue than pink again and have stopped aching with every step, that would appear to be achieved.
First off, I think climbing the hills is in order. That will give me a better vantage point.
A day's cautious walk sees me scrambling up the slope. It is not a particularly difficult climb, not compared to some of the cliffs of Lindon, but it is hard enough going to be worthy of care.
As expected, the view from the top is impressive. The lake sits at the centre of a crater of sorts about seven daur across, taking up about a third of that area, with a waterfall dropping into the river I saw before. Of note is a small island in the centre of the lake, which further puts to bed the question of it having once been a quarry. The site of a meteor crash seems more likely now.
While the crater is only sparsely foliated, mostly around the lake itself, to the north stretches a vast boreal forest as far as my eyes can see, which is less than I would expect. The horizon seems to fall away at a distance, yet another mystery for the growing pile. For one thing, if this is not Arda (and since Varda has not set the stars aright, I am now working under that assumption), why are so many plants and animals familiar? For that matter, who made them? Yavanna is not here, unless the role of the Valar is much different to how we were informed.
To the south rise mighty mountains, snow capped even in the meagre heat of summer that shut off my view almost entirely, but to the east and west stretch rolling moorlands and yet more forest. Pristine wilderness.
I wonder if this is how Grandfather Finwë felt, looking down upon the shores Cuiviénen from the slopes of the Orocarni?
It has been over a month and I am considering returning home. My stocks of food are running low and though I can forage for a while, the peak of summer feels to be over, and if that is as hot as it gets here (which the evergreens surrounding me support), then I need to lay in plans for a harsh winter sooner rather than later.
As I turn that thought over in my mind, something in the sky catches my eye: Smoke. Woodsmoke, if I am not mistaken from the colour. It looms above the treetops ahead of me, blowing away eastward.
Quickly, I scramble up a tree and peer towards the source. It turns out not to be one cloud, but many thin trails rising from the banks of a river I have been following for the past few days. In my heart, I had begun to wonder if I was the only person in all the world, but if that is natural then I am a Nogoth.
Descending once more, I set off at a quiet jog for the source of the smoke.
Night has fallen by the time I arrive. More oddities there; the moon has a different pattern of craters and never appears in the sky beside the sun, while both rise and set much faster than I am accustomed. Rather than long summer evenings as I would expect at this time of year in the north, the westering sun passes to sunset within half an hour, almost seeming in haste to meet the horizon.
Anyway, it appears I am not a Nogoth, for unmistakable are the shapes of simple, temporary dwellings in the gloom, a couple of dozen at most. A communal hearth smoulders in the centre of the tiny village, filled racks of fish and other meats set all about. Nobody seems to be about and I am unsure if that is a good thing or not.
Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I will have to approach sooner or later and an idea springs immediately to mind. It worked for cousin Artafindë, so maybe it will work for me as well.
Silently, I rise and enter the village, padding over to the fire. For the latest of all too many times, I miss my harp, but I was not known as 'Maglor the Minstrel' for nothing. Marshalling my voice, I begin to sing softly to the glory of Varda's stars, even if they are not present for now.
Soon, I hear sounds, movement. Curious shadows move beyond the edge of the circle of firelight and-
From above, a huge beast dives upon me with a ferocious roar.
Immediately, I dart aside, nimbly dodging the winged behemoth as it slams into the ground, vicious talons leaving gouges in the earth. With practiced ease, I draw my dagger and square off, trying to get a measure of my assailant.
It is like nothing I have seen before, with the head, neck, talons and wings of an eagle, but with a leonine torso attached like some idle imagination brought to horrible life. Are the others hiding from it? The shadows seemed to back off hurriedly when it appeared.
Turning its scarred face to me, I get a good look at it. One eye white and clearly blind, a notched beak and feathers smeared with... Is that some sort of woad?
I do not have time to ponder that as it pounces again with its wings flared, slashing razor sharp talons each twice the size of a finger at my face. I duck under the swing and roll, getting around its side and away from the fire. To my surprise, it grabs a burning brand from the pit and hurls it at me. I manage to dodge the worst of it, but the glancing blow of the unlit end stings.
This is not some beast! Beasts do not improvise weapons, nor do they generally paint themselves. If it is not a beast, then it can probably be reasoned with, assuming it is not a servant of the Enemy. That possibility seems unlikely here, and since my dagger is not glittering with the cold blue light that warns of such creatures, it is almost certainly not an abomination of his design.
Sheathing the blade, I dodge another set of swipes and unveil my fëa, its pure light shining brightly across the village and almost drowning the fire's glow.
My assailant does not seem to like that and shields its working eye with a claw in surprise. With eyes half in the Unseen, I see more of its ilk where there had been shadows, also covering their eyes.
Half-raising my hands with palms outstretched, I sing again, a nonsense tune invented on the spot.
It takes a while, but the situation eventually calms down. An old-looking... Person, I do not know quite what they are yet, with a decorated staff steps up and says something to the huge warrior catbird. Guessing it to be a leader of some sort, I offer some of the leftover meat from my pack and that seems to buy me an entry in their good books, since the old catbird squarks cheerfully at me and ushers me inside what I assume is its yurt.
Not seeing much practical alternative than to trust that tenuous interpretation, I follow.
The walls are made from the hide of some sort of animal, mammoth perhaps, and the interior is littered with assorted trinkets. Carven ivory sticks, figurines, bangles, even a couple of hinged gold torcs which it slips on along with some brightly coloured earring-like things made from dyed feathers. It reminds me a little of Grandfather's stories about the Lindar back at Cuiviénen. I am beckoned to sit across a smaller fire and a shout from the old catbird summons what I guess to be a youth of his kind, bearing with it a lit brand to stoke the private hearth. A few more words (it is clearly a language, even if I have not the foggiest what anything means yet) dismisses them again.
The old catbird, who I am beginning to think is male if the depth of his cracked voice is any indication, starts talking animatedly at me, reaching over to the side and dropping assorted herbs into a small clay pot full of water hung over the fire from one of the support poles.
I try to discern some pattern in the words, but it is not easy. Eventually, he starts making excited whooshing noises at me while gesturing at the fire and waving his, for want of a better word, arms about like a maniac.
It takes a moment to click, but I unveil my fëa again, less intensely this time. That provokes more of a response and he starts chanting and singing, tapping a couple of the ivory sticks together. It is quite a nice tune and I tap along to the beat with my hand against the rug I am sat upon.
The catbird seems to approve and gabbles some more before carefully pointing at me, then at the mat.
I nod, guessing he intends for me to stay put.
He then takes the clay pot and downs the contents in one enormous swig. Seconds later, his eyes roll into the top of his balding head and he is well out of it.
I wait patiently, fighting off tiredness.
When the old catbird wakes up, he makes yet more excited noises at me such that I begin fearing he will have a heart attack at the rate he is going and I am given a meal of mixed forage and meat similar to what I have been living on so far.
In the much better light, I can see the remains of a yellowish tint to his plumage and coat, both of which have otherwise turned mostly white. The others of his little community are mostly an assortment of dull browns, whites and blacks, with the odd standout that reminds me of the birds to be found in the jungles among the western slopes of the southern Pelóri. Given the sheer variety and distribution, I suspect this is natural. Clothing seems more an afterthought against the cold or a decorative tool than an essential matter of modesty, though bangles made from ivory or coloured stones are commonplace. A sort of woad also seems popular among some of the bigger males, hunters or warriors of some sort like the big, grizzled catbird I was attacked by on my first night. While the average specimen is tall enough even on all fours that they can easily look me in the eye, those individuals tower over me.
Though I still cannot not understand a word he says, the old druid leads me around the village, followed by the same youth as before. Whatever I - or the brew, possibly - has done has convinced him that I should stay it seems, based on his miming. These strange beings have sparked a curiosity in the world I had long thought extinguished, so I am inclined to agree.
In the end I live with them for three months (or at least, three cycles of the moon, for my awakening beside the lake had seemingly fallen upon a new moon) and through an awful lot of work and an accommodating host am able to pick up much of their language, along with the name of their kind; Griffons.
According to Lefkiourá (the old Griffon druid I have been staying with), they will be moving on soon. Winter is coming and already the moors are already covered with snow. It shan't be long ere the lowlands also have a lasting coat. Also from the same source, the 'gods guide me' and as such he wants me to lead them to an overwintering site.
The last time I was responsible so many lives, I was leading an attack upon my own people for the sake of a jewel, may Ilúvatar take the three of them. Still, Lefkiourá cannot be dissuaded. They have done good by me, so it is only fair I try to do the same by them, I suppose.
Heading north shan't be of much use, it will only get harsher. The moors are perhaps just as bad, for they appear from a distance quite barren and will not provide much shelter from the prevailing westerly. South then. I briefly consider the lake, but I do not know how deep the water is or exactly how cold it will get. If it freezes entirely or floods with the spring thaw, then that could spell disaster. I saw what might be a pass in the mountains when I first left the crater, however. It might simply be a glacier valley, but that would still guarantee shelter, fertile soil and fresh water.
The march is a slow one. These folk do not share my stamina and the pace is kept down by the young and old in the group. Lefkiourá, easily the most wizened of the lot, is pulled on a sled by a couple of the hunters, surrounded by an improvised bed of yurt frames and covers. I walk alongside most of the time, watching the trackless wilderness for signs of habitation or any routes that look more promising than the current valley. The u-shaped dale through which we are passing is clearly glacial as I feared, with an almost cyan river running down the middle. The water is tangy with minerals and the air is crisp, but the grass and other foliage is far from verdant. We are too far north for lush terrain like that found in the Calacirion, certainly well beyond the realm of olive and grape.
Each evening we halt and set up camp. The Griffons are quick in assembling and taking down their yurts while hunters go out. I usually go ahead for an hour or so before returning to scout out the first leg of the next day's journey, picking up any berries and the like that I run across as I go to add to the supplies. Occasionally I catch a coney or small bird if I am lucky, but my improvised flint-tipped arrows do not fly so well as the fine works of real fletchers barbed with equally fine steel, nor am I going out my way to find game.
Come to think of it, I shall have to grow out my hair, for I only have so many bowstrings and I do not see many fair maidens willing to part with a few strands in my near future.
As I crest the last rise, I discover we should be out of the mountains by tomorrow evening. From this height I can see league after league of forest stretching before me. Pines dominate the foothills, but down on flatter ground these give way to endless deciduous trees. In the far distance, I can make out a scar running across the forest that might mark the course of a great river.
I wonder if there are Onodrim out there? Unlikely, unless I am sorely mistaken and this is in fact a merely a land of Arda so distant that even the stars are strange...
"Forged Gold?"
I turn around. "Aye? And please stop calling me that, Sharp Point."
The young Griffon, actually called Akakhménos, does not seem phased. I must be losing my touch. "I have been wondering ever since you arrived in camp, what is that thing?" He gestures at my scabbard with a talon.
"A dagger." I reply, returning my gaze out over the foothills. We shan't be able to travel many more days ere the snow gets too deep. As it is, the Griffons pulling the sleds are having problems.
"No!" The black and grey Griffon replies. "I know that, I am not a little cub! What I mean is, what is it made of?"
I am tempted to dismiss that question as well, but come to think of it, I have not seen anything metal since arriving, other than a few gold trinkets and an occasional copper tool. If that is the best they can do, then these Griffons must be well behind the times. Those were the sort of things Father grew up with.
After brief consideration, I answer in Sindarin. "Steel."
"Thornang..." The druid's apprentice rolls the word about his beak. "What is that?"
"A metal, like gold only far harder." I reply.
"Can I hold it?" He asks.
I consider for a moment before nodding. Drawing the dagger with my good hand, I flip it and offer the hilt to the cub. "Have a care, it is sharp."
Akakhménos gingerly takes the blade and runs quizzical eyes over it, gently bending the metal to get a feel for its pliability. That in particular draws an uncannily Elven look of surprise from him. "I have never seen anything like it. You use this stuff a lot?"
I nod. "Aye, where I am from, we make many things from it; tools, weapons, armour. We even build with it sometimes."
"How? Like how Mardonios gets copper from stones?" Akakhménos asks.
"In a manner of speaking. You need a special tool." I explain, eyes darting across the landscape again in search of a good spot for the camp. Somewhere by a river but not liable to flood. The trees are not making the task an easy one. "Iron, carbon, chromium..." I muse to myself in Sindarin before returning to the local tongue as best I can. "I shan't be able to make more steel, much less steel of any quality. I do not know how to build the tool to do so. Raw ang is much easier, one merely requires a good lothblab, and ore of course." I scratch my chin thoughtfully and find to my mild annoyance that there is a little stubble forming there, an unwanted gift from my grandfather. I may be a wanderer, but I am no vagabond. "Something to consider for the future, if I see a vein."
Akakhménos passes the dagger back to me. "We had best get back, Lefkiourá will be worried."
I nod, for all his gruff attitude towards the youth, Lefkiourá does care greatly about his apprentice.
Lefkiourá is busy. Since the first thaw, he has been hobbling around the camp counting things and having Akakhménos fill a jar with various seeds. According to Akakhménos, it is traditional for the druid at the beginning of each spring to assess the fortunes of the clan this way.
Apparently since last year there have been three births and two deaths, one of whom was a sickly infant from the previous year and the other a hunter involved in an accident. Food stocks are down, but the clan has more assorted tools, particularly axes. Axes seem important. It is a crude way to account, but it serves their needs.
Interestingly, I also gleaned a little more about my hosts. Aside from the discovery that despite their avian characteristics, griffons are mammals, I also learnt that Lefkiourá is a hundred and ten years old. Considering that most of the clan seems to consider sixty to seventy a good run for a healthy adult like the unfortunate hunter, that must be a fairly impressive age in the reckoning of his race. Akakhménos meanwhile is nineteen and will undergo his initiation rites this summer. He was quite surprised when I revealed I am six and a half millennia old, give or take. To be honest, I have somewhat lost track between cosmological shifts and apathy.
Lefkiourá’s response was merely to shrug and count me as a 'spirit' before moving on to the next item on his mental list.
Bundled up with my cloak, I am spear fishing, which has been my usual activity over the unexpectedly mild winter. Much as I have preferred my own company these past three millennia, the old druid warned of the dangers of wandering alone into the woods and I am inclined to agree.
Being alone in an unknown wood during any winter is dangerous enough, but if his warnings of the wildlife are even halfway accurate, danger could easily turn to suicide.
I have considered trying to build a lothblab, but without ore there really is no point. Mardonios has none right now either and spends his days knapping flints and tutoring his young son in the art.
Food is always useful however, and I am seldom disturbed in this spot away from the main stomping grounds of the camp, so this is good enough for now. The nearest people to be seen are a trio of griffonesses nattering while weaving baskets from reeds pulled from the riverbank, one of them simultaneously nursing a small cub of perhaps two or three summers.
Once spring sets in in earnest, then I might return to the lake. As interesting as these folk are, I do not wish to bring the Doom down upon them by lingering, assuming it can reach me here. There is no way to test the theory without inviting disaster, so I would rather not take the chance. Ere I go though, I will have to see about asking if I can take a few of Mardonios' flint works with me, for I shall sooner or later need a tool for which a knife cannot substitute. Alternatively, an antler could make a decent pickaxe if I can find one in order to get the ball rolling on some basic metalwork.
I may not be my father or Atarinkë, but one does not grow up a prince of the Noldor, much less a son of Fëanáro, without learning one's way around a forge. Little used though the skill has been in my life up to this point, I will require some degree of self-sufficiency beyond simple hunting if I am to improve my odds of solitary survival, not to mention retaining some shred of sanity. Proper tools will be needed to make new bows when my current one succumbs to wear, to make instruments and preferably also a home that is not a cobbled together mass of branches.
There was an island in the lake, perhaps I could maintain a quiet existence there for a while? The land is so empty that it is not like I shall be bothered much, if at all, and the cold water will serve as a better barrier to the beasts of the night than any stockade I could easily construct or guard.
A week later, I quietly depart into the night. None mark my passage and I am soon well away from the camp.
I follow the pass we took to reach the winter camp, making good time thanks to the now-familiar route. This time however, I am on the lookout for ore veins in any and all cliff faces. Even surface deposits should not yet have been exploited, under the circumstances.
My theory proves itself correct when after several fruitless days, I discover a small, bright green streak in a boulder broken off from the living rock. Malachite, if I am not mistaken. It could be mariposite, in which case I am wasting time and energy, but I chip away at the boulder anyway until my hands ache and collect the resulting debris in my pack. Casting aside my now-ruined improvised tool (a vaguely sharp lump of rock, since an antler or a deer from which to extract one has proven elusive, despite the ideal habitat of the forest), I continue on my way, thoughts turning to tin.
While both are common in the Calacirion and the local abundance was one reason Tirion was settled there, I cannot be sure the same will be true of these mountains, which I ought to name.
One of my first queries to Lefkiourá was on that topic once we understood one another, but he had simply called them 'the mountains'.
My distracted musings on fitting names are interrupted when I practically trip over an outcrop of blocky, steel-grey crystals almost covered by the thin layer of snow still lingering from a flurry last night. Blinking, I stare at it suspiciously.
Carefully, I take a piece of the malachite from my pack and scratch it against the crystal, leaving no impression. That eliminates a few possibilities. Next, I reach for a nearby piece of quartz and this time make an impression. Leaning in, I sniff at the scoured surface. Garlic, that means mispickel. It is not tin, but one can make arsenic-based bronze.
Thank you Father, I wish I had not made my boredom with your lessons so obvious.
It takes about an hour to unearth the crystal and part of the attached rock. It is heavy (though somewhat less than I would have expected), but if I am correct then hauling it back with me will be all the supply I should need for some time, at least long enough for alternatives to make themselves known or I have the means to go on another, better planned expedition.
Besides, if I find more malachite then I can simply drop it off somewhere safe and come back for it later.
The chunk does not fit in my pack very well, but other than carrying or kicking it, I have little in the way of choice if I am to bring it to the lake. Thus, I put up with the minor inconvenience and continue my plodding way, bow in my for once less-aching left hand in case something appetising makes an appearance.
The leagues pass under me easily and though I spot and memorise a few more small deposits of malachite, I on second thoughts decide against taking any as I do not want to risk injury.
On the thirteenth day, I finally see the lake once more, a few lingering traces of ice visible around its edges. Assuming the years here are the same length and fully aligned, it must be well into the second half of Ethuil by now, even if the chill in the air would disagree.
Descending into the crater the following afternoon, I spot the remains of my ramshackle abode and make for it.
The roof has collapsed, presumably under the weight of uncleared snow since there are no strong winds here to cause damage. No matter, I had very little stored inside and was planning to move anyway.
Though night is falling, a couple of hours of repairs see the structure restored to temporary usability.
Reaching the island the next day is only a small challenge, for while the lake's water is too deep to simply ford and the cold is still biting enough that bodily harm is a real possibility from extended exposure, an improvised raft and some patient paddling are all that is required to bring myself and my less water-resistant possessions across (leaving the heavy ore behind for obvious reasons).
The main problem facing me now is construction materials. While the raft can just about bear me, it will not serve to carry masses of wood, if only because it would run the risk of tipping and dumping me into the frigid water.
No matter. All I need do is, as Father was once suggested; invent a new, artificial sort of boat. Or should I say, coracle? I have never built a boat before, but how hard can it be?
Stats
Page generated in 0.024 seconds
Total duration
676 users online
943,471 hits today, 2,814,898 yesterday
FIMFiction
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fanfiction
Designed and coded by knighty & Xaquseg - © 2011-2024
Follow & Support Us
Support us
SubStar
Chat!
Discord
Follow us
Twitter
MLP: Friendship is Magic® - © 2024 Hasbro Inc.®
Fimfiction is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by Hasbro Inc.®
So why Maglor? He's as guilty of murder and other evil as his brothers. Or is he just in the cover art? Haven't read it yet.
11539840
'Why Maglor' is a question I can't really answer right now (spoilers for a future story), but this story is indeed narrated by Maglor and from his perspective takes place well after the drowning of Beleriand, toward the end of the Second Age.
As for guilt, that depends on how one interprets Maglor's repentance and fostering of Elrond and Elros. Plus of course there's the argument that they were trying to reclaim stolen property and that Dior (and later even moreso Elwing) should have given over the silmaril to avoid a bloodbath when approached diplomatically, that being both the lesser evil and politically pragmatic. How able the Fëanorians were to 'be the better Elf' and walk away (and thus their degree of guilt in the second and third kinslayings) comes down to exactly how tightly bound Elves are by fate and the nature of sworn oaths, which is an overarching plot topic in the Quenta Nairelossëo I've been writing.
My word, I must sound like a member of the Fëanor-did-nothing-wrong crowd, but I really am not!
At bare minimum though, Maglor at least wasn't involved in the attack on Beren and Luthien perpetrated by Celegorm and Curufin, which caused a major diplomatic incident with Nargothrond and most likely (but less vocally) Doriath as well. Nor do we know his position in the events surrounding the murder of Eluréd and Elurin, which was directly perpetrated by Celegorm's servants in revenge for his death. One must wonder why it was only Maedhros who went out to search for them, and perhaps I might explore that in another story.
This surprised me, pleasantly.
11540417
I hope I can continue living up to that for the rest of the ride, thanks for the early fave!