Quenta Narquelion by bunn

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Dawn of War

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For three more years after the rising of the Star they lived in the forest, hunting deer, and often, too, hunting worse things that roamed now freely through Beleriand, even into the southern forests. Fëanor was able to keep away some of them; the great spiders that strayed from Gorgoroth and the were-wolves feared him and his spirit-blade. But still the woods grew darker, and on East Beleriand the hand of Morgoth lay heavily.  

They moved west again within the shadow of the woods, closer to the sea-cliffs, where the sea winds held back the fumes out of the north that increasingly hid the sky, and where seabirds still nested along the jagged cliffs.

Elros and Elrond had grown tall enough to shoot a small bow, to ride, and to fight with the short-sword. They had learned to compose verse in several of the more popular modes, and to speak the Quenya of the House of Fëanor almost as fluently as they spoke their mother-tongue, Sindarin, and the Mannish Taliska that was the common language of the Havens.   

They had just returned to the camp clearing from a hunt with Maglor and some of his people, flushed with triumph, with a dead deer slung over the back of a horse and the tall shaggy hunting-dogs running at heel, when they heard it, echoing from a great distance through the trees. Trumpets. Unmistakeable, proud, joyful, and completely unexpected.

“What is that?” Elrond said, whirling towards the sound, nervous and excited at once.

It was a note that Fëanor knew, and yet for a moment he could not remember where he had heard it before.

Maedhros got to his feet slowly. The remaining Noldor in the small group were looking at each other in amazement and hope.

“That, unless I have gone mad,” said Maedhros, “is the sound of the trumpets of Eönwë, Herald of the the Valar.”

“Yes!” Maglor said, and his eyes were bright, but his voice carried a note of fear. “ I would know that note anywhere. Those are the trumpets of Eönwë. And there is only one reason that the trumpets of Eönwë would be heard in Middle-earth... It must be...” he met Maedhros’s eyes, and Maglor’s face was full of a wild hope again.

“You think that the Valar are going to war?” Maedhros asked him.

“Let us find out!”

He took the mare’s halter from Elros and hurried from the clearing, west, towards the coast. The others followed him eagerly.

Seen from the edge of the forest, looking out west over the cliffs that fell down to the bright water, blue as the sky, the Bay of Balar was an amazing sight. Far away, beyond the cliffs that fell down sharply towards black teeth of rock, all around the small shadow that was the distant island of Balar, the sea was filled with uncountable tall white sails, more great white swan-headed ships than Fëanor had ever seen. It seemed that the Teleri had been busy for the past five hundred years, building new and larger replacements for the ships that Fëanor had taken from them.

Most of the ships were anchored, awaiting their turn, but those that were moving were heading in an endless stream towards the distant quays and landing-places of the deserted Havens. Far away, beyond the furthest of the white ships, Fëanor, straining to see, could just make out a great dark shape in the water. It could have been, at that distance, an island, except that there had never been an island there, in the midst of Belegaer, the Open Sea. But Fëanor knew without seeing what it was. It was Ulmo, Lord of Waters, who came with the Host of the Valar to war.

Elros stepped forward quickly north along the cliff, looking eagerly towards the Havens, but Maedhros caught him by the shoulder.

“No,” he said.

“But our father could be there!”

“There is no sign of his banner. None of those ships is Vingilot. Look at them, Elros. They are ships of Valinor, all of them, not the ships of Middle-earth. Not one is flying your father’s colours,” Maedhros told him. “We cannot go to the Havens, and I will not let you go alone. The ships cannot come here, under the cliffs. The river is more than fifty miles away, and after that you must pass the reed-beds and build a boat to take you across the full width of the Great River to the quays. You know what is wandering that land now. The Enemy has the River watched. You would never reach them.”

“We’ll take the risk,” Elros said, “We have our knives. This is a battle we must be in. Elrond, you are with me?”

“Elros, you are thirteen years old!” Maglor said to him.

“We are old enough to fight,” Elros said, his head going up proudly. “Did you not say that one of the Sons of Bór who fought in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad was nearly our age? Yet he was old enough.”

“He was fifteen, and he was a Man of the line of Bór! They grow more swiftly than we do. You are Elven-kin..”

“Half-Elven,” Elros interrupted.

“All the same, you are nothing like so tall and strong as poor Borthand was,” Maedhros said sharply. “You are too young. He was too young! I cannot risk what few people are left to me, taking you to the Havens.”

“Because you are rebels against the Valar,” Elrond said, looking troubled. “You think that all these people with the white sails would attack you?”

“I do not know, “ Maedhros said uncomfortably.

“Only, I can see that some of their ships are flying the colours of the house of Finarfin, aren’t they? Isn’t he your uncle?”

“If you, cousin Elrond, are not fully aware that it is much more complicated than that by now, then I don’t know what to say to you,” Maglor told him, and Elrond gave him an awkward half-smile.

Maedhros said, with a tense, strained look on his face. “At the moment, they are disembarking troops onto a hostile and unknown shore, for the first time in their lives. They have never fought in Middle-earth. Most of them have never fought in earnest at all. They will be nervous. They will be deadly. I remember too well what that was like. This is not the time to approach them to explain who you are. So far as they know, everyone who is left in Beleriand is a servant of the Enemy.”

“King Gil-galad would know us,” Elros said obstinately. “Or lord Círdan, or the lady Galadriel. Surely they would remember us...” and he looked at Elrond.

“I think they would too,” Elrond said, staunchly.

“There is no question that they will remember you,” Maglor said firmly and reassuringly. “But from the banners, the High King and his friends are still on Balar Isle, not at the Havens. Very likely everyone at the Havens has come straight from Valinor, and has no idea who anyone is here. They might not even recognise me or Maedhros,” he said, looking ruefully down at his own worn coat. “I must admit that neither of you look like princes of the line of Doriath and Gondolin. I’m not sure you even look like sons of the House of Hador! More like Beren coming out of the the wilderness, you look, the pair of you. We should make you something better, before we arrange for you to see your kin...”

“Perhaps if we wait a little, allow them to come ashore and set up their camp first,” Elrond said to his brother, a little uncertainly.

“I do not mean to wait here for them to try the crossings of the Sirion,” Maedhros said at once. Maglor raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Fëanor too turned to him in surprise, wondering what he was up to. He had thought Maedhros a spent force, after the nightmare of the Havens.

Maedhros beckoned the other Noldor closer, and raised his voice a little, so that everyone could hear him, there on the green clifftop in the sunlight, where the sea glittered brightly far below, and far away the white ships moved against the blue.

“Morgoth will hope to use us to distract the Valar, if he can. He will try to force us to create doubt, to weaken the alliance between the Noldor of Valinor, the Vanyar and those who still live on Balar. He will try to use our Oath to drive us against the Star in the West.” Maedhros said, and his voice was level and calm, but his face was bitter.

“No more. No more of it! I will not wait here to be forged into his weapon. I will not ask you to follow me against your own people ever again. ” There was a little relieved murmuring at that.

“We will fight our true Enemy. The armies of Valinor, no matter how late they have arrived, bring us new hope. We will go north and east, into the mountains, to our friends of Belegost. The Eldar of Valinor know nothing of Dwarves, but we do. We know the East, and we know the paths across Lothlann to Thangorodrim better than anyone else. From the Ered Luin, we can plan our own flank attack, without any risk of being tricked into an engagement with the Valar. Prepare yourselves. It will be a long march, and a dangerous one, but I know you will all endure it, all of you who are left of our House, you who have proved loyal above all. ”

Fëanor was impressed. It was a plan that took them away from the Valar and their Silmaril, but closer to Angband. Risky, but a clever way to bend the Oath back towards working for them.

Maedhros turned again to Elros and Elrond, speaking more quietly, only to them. “Come with us,” he said. “Come to Belegost and meet with the Dwarves, in their houses of stone. We will make you swords, and teach you to use them. This war will not be over swiftly, I promise you. There are few in Middle-earth who know more of fighting Morgoth than we do. You will learn much, and we can keep you safe, at least for a while.”

“Swords?” Elros asked, with his hand on the hilt of his knife and a hopeful light in his eye. “

“You shall have swords made by the smiths of the House of Fëanor. You will not find such swords elsewhere in Middle-earth,” Maedhros said, “As soon as you are tall enough to wield them. I know that Maglor will not leave you here, in this forest under the hand of Morgoth, and I am ... reluctant to have you carried off by force. I offer you a place in our company, and a just reward for your time.”

Elros looked across at his brother, suddenly uncertain “What do you think?”

“It sounds a better idea than being spitted by an Orc, or even worse, by one of our own kin,” Elrond said. “And also it seems to me we have little choice.”

“I think so too,” Elros agreed, although he did not look entirely happy about it.

Then Elrond frowned and turned back to Maedhros. “But... do you mean that you are asking us to swear to your service? Because I’m not sure...”

“No,” Maedhros and Maglor said together, so quickly that Maglor smiled at it, and even Maedhros narrowed his eyes a fraction in amusement when he caught Maglor’s eye.

“Your fealty is not something you should offer anyone, not without the advice of your father,” Maglor told them.

“Let us be clear,” Maedhros said, speaking now in the formal mode in Quenya, the language of his house. He spoke a little slowly, to be sure they would understand. “You say you are almost grown: therefore, I speak to you as men. There may be times when we ask your obedience in the next while, to assure your safety and ours. I expect you to obey, and I will offer you what protection I still can. But I will not be your lord. You have no obligation to us at all. You are our hostages, no more.”

Elrond looked away in distress at that, and Elros took half a step towards his brother, looking worried.

Maglor said quickly; “It is only that there must be no doubt cast on your standing with the Valar, or with the High King, and most of all, with your own people.”

Elrond exchanged a long look with his brother, and then nodded. He began to reply in Quenya, then checked, and spoke instead in his mother-language, the Sindarin of Doriath. “Very well. We will agree to go with you, and obey your commands. At least for a while. Only... if you hear anything of our father...”

“What we hear, you will hear,” Maglor confirmed. Elrond gave him a small smile.

“Very well, it is agreed.” Maedhros said, his face serious. He looked so old now, Fëanor thought, watching, as if he had not smiled for centuries. He hoped that Elrond and Elros would never wear that haunted expression. Nobody’s son should look like that.

“You will come with us, for now. If you wish to go to war against the Enemy, we will help you, as soon as you are old enough. But do not ask me to let a boy of thirteen go out with a knife to war against Morgoth! I will not pretend to you that we have not done terrible things, Maglor and I. But even we would prefer not to have your deaths on our hands. Come. Get your things. We must be on our way before nightfall.”

“It may be that we will find other allies from beyond the mountains,” Maglor told Elros and Elrond as they walked back to the camp together. “The kinsfolk of Bór the faithful, those who survived the great battle, they settled east of the Mountains, near Belegost. I do not know if they are still there, but they may be. You might like to meet them.”

“I’d rather meet the kinsfolk of Ulfang,” Elros told him. “With my new sword, I’ll meet them!”

“Very likely you will. But you’ll need to be a bit taller first.”

......

 

Years ago there had been many bridges across the wide silver river Gelion, for the convenience of travellers passing from Beleriand east into Ossiriand or to the old home of Beren and Lúthien at Tol Galen. But none of the bridges were still standing. Nothing good came out of Beleriand any more.

That left the most southerly crossing of the Gelion as the ford of Sarn Athrad, almost fifty leagues North of the Taur-im-Duinath, across land that was for the most part open grassland where the servants of Morgoth roamed now freely. Any troop of orcs would fear the Sons of Fëanor, even now, but numbers would tell, and there they were at a disadvantage. They could not afford to attract attention.

They crept warily along the Western river bank, vital supplies loaded on the few remaining horses, with a handful of scouts ranging ahead to watch for trouble. Fëanor went ahead of them, watching for trouble, wary of Balrogs. But the land was strangely quiet. There were signs that there had been orc-armies encamped by the Gelion not long ago: trees hacked and marked with evil runes, the ground scarred and burned.

Men, too had been there, leaving here and there an old coat or a broken pot, and tearing up the soft ground by the river into mud with their cattle. Once or twice they saw them at a distance, tall and strong, carrying banners like those that had been Uldor’s, as well as the black mace of Morgoth’s allies. Fëanor was sorely tempted to stride among them unseen, dealing death, but it would have served no purpose but to attract attention, and he restrained himself. Three times they came upon roaming orcs, travelling in groups by night or under the cover of the black, burned-looking clouds that often covered the Northern sky. The Elves folded around them, moving swiftly and silently, and slew them almost before the orcs were aware they were surrounded. None escaped to give the alarm.

But as they moved north, quietly stealing from hill to copse to reed-bed, moving in the grey morning and the half-shades of evening, and taking advantage of the autumn river-mists, it seemed that Morgoth’s supporters were fewer than they had expected, indeed, were withdrawing to the north and to the west.

The news of the arrival of the host of Valinor had reached the Enemy, too. Morgoth the craven was pulling back armies into the North, to concentrate them where they could best protect him, and sending hosts of orcs and his new-come Eastern men west to war. It left the land along the River Gelion quiet and empty.

They came into sight of Amon Ereb on its hilltop, and found it in ruins, unrecognisable now as the last stronghold of the sons of Fëanor. Maedhros had feared that it might be held against them, that Morgoth would have chosen to garrison the place as a defence of the Andram, as he himself had done. But it seemed that Morgoth’s generals had chosen destruction over defense.

At last they came to the great wide bowl of land in which the fords of Sarn Athrad lay. The sun was rising in the east behind the mountains, washing the land to the west with a golden light that shone beneath the lid of dark cloud, and hid its scars, but the river itself still lay glinting dark in the long blue shadow of the mountains.

Maedhros surveyed the wide valley cautiously before they approached, but there was no sign of any enemy. But to cross the river they would have to descend into a wide space where there was no cover, and nothing defensible at all, on the broad paved dwarf-road that had once led from the mountains to Doriath.

The river was wide here, opening out into a great pool before it met the long shallow causeway. There were small islets set here and there in the stream, designed for those who wished to rest during the long crossing of the ford. The last time Fëanor had passed this way, the islets had been shaded with white birch trees and set with stone benches. The trees had been felled and now lay piled grey and sad along the shore where the road led into the water.

“Mount the boys on two of the horses,” Maedhros ordered. “Elros can take the grey mare, and Elrond shall have my horse, those two are swiftest. Any stores we cannot carry will have to be left here. And everyone else, weapons ready. Be alert. If there is an attack, this is where it will come.”

“This is one of those times when we said you must obey,” Maglor told Elros and Elrond, checking that they were both mounted securely. “If enemies come up behind us as we cross the ford, get across the river as fast as you can, and follow the old road east. We will catch you up, if we can, but do not wait for us until you reach the mountains. If we do not come, take the road North. Not South, that goes to Nogrod. North. Ride straight to Belegost, tell them that the Sons of Fëanor sent you, and ask for refuge with the family of Audur, of the house of Azaghâl . Have you got that?”

“Can’t we help you fight?” Elros asked him, in a voice that was trying desperately not to be shrill. Elrond was looking strained and unhappy, perched high on Maedhros’s tall stallion.

“Use the speed of the horses, and keep yourselves well clear, this time. Your turn will come,” Maglor said. He grinned at them reassuringly over his shield, and drew his sword. Around him, the other Noldor were finishing repacking the few supplies, checking their gear. “Don’t worry. We’ve done this before. Are you ready?”

The horses sidled and snorted as they entered the shallow water, although it was only a few inches deep. The Noldor closed in behind them on foot, swords in hand, watching the horizon.

“This is where Beren came down and slaughtered the army of Nogrod,” Maglor said, half over his shoulder to Elros, who was riding next to him. “That’s why I said, don’t go to Nogrod. In fact, it might be better not to mention Beren or Doriath in Belegost either.”

“We’re not ashamed of our family,” Elros said, indignantly.

“And why should you be? But there’s no need to tell all at once. You are princes of the royal line of Gondolin, and sons of the House of Hador who were allies of Belegost in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. That is worthy of honor, too.” Elros considered this, and nodded. Maglor turned, walking cautiously on the wet rock under the water, and scanned the land behind them. The horizon was still clear.

“This is that same ford?” Elrond asked. “Is the gold and treasure still strewn on the riverbed?” He peered from the horse’s back, down into the pool beside the causeway, trying to see through the river-reflections and shadows.

Maglor had told them a good deal about the battle of Sarn Athrad, where Beren had caught the Dwarvish army that had sacked Doriath, taken from them the Silmaril and left none alive. Fëanor supposed that as recent history went, it was one of the less uncomfortable topics for him to discuss with Beren’s great-grandchildren.

“I doubt it,” one of the other Noldor said. “Orcs don’t like water much, but they love gold. They have been swarming all around here. Men, too. Men love gold more than orcs do, and they don’t mind water at all.”

“As opposed to Elves, who don’t care for treasure at all, Alwion,” Elros said sceptically.

“Hah! Well, I for one would trade all the gold in Angband for a surety of no arrow in my back. And drier feet. This water feels like it comes straight from the snows of Mount Rerir! ”

They reached the small flat island, still set with broken columns marked with dwarvish runes, that marked the midway point across the ford. There had been a building here once, an inn that had served travellers on the busy road that had carried trade from Doriath, Nargothrond and the distant Falas to Thargelion and the kingdoms of the Dwarves.

As he came out of the water, Alwion bent and hooked something out of the water with one finger of his sword-hand : a golden wrist-cuff worked with some fine markings. It was a little bent and battered, but still shining. “There you go,” he said handing it up to Elrond as they crossed the island. “It seems the orcs have not picked up everything after all. A remembrance for you, young lord.” He stepped into the stream again, heading for the further shore.

Then his eyes widened, and he leapt backwards, away from the water, only just keeping his feet as he landed in a shower of icy spray. The horses shied and backed away towards the middle of the small space of dry land, whinnying in terror. Something huge and black had reared suddenly from the deep pool beside the ford ahead of him, huge claws snapping. Each claw was the height of a tall man, and there were many of them. Water flew in all directions. Only his sudden leap backwards had saved Alwion from being snapped in two.

Fëanor, like all the rest, was taken by surprise. They had all been watching the skyline for threats. None of them had seen or sensed the darkness lurking in the pool until it broke the surface.

The beast lunged forward, towards the island that was their only refuge above the water. It was bare, sandy, and not more than a double handsbreadth above the water at the highest point, and now it was crowded with Elves, who were hastily forming a shieldwall, and behind them horses and hounds. Alwion had dropped his shield and was busy trying to convince Elrond’s terrified horse not to bolt.

Fëanor threw himself out, unseen, onto the surface of the water, and struck at the thing with his spirit-sword. It was like striking at the gates of Angband itself, armoured with huge plates of some thick black material which overlapped, leaving no clear flesh to strike at.

It fell back for a moment, but his sword made little mark on it, and he resolved that he must look at the blade again. It should have more strength than this against the beast.

Or beasts; another of them was crawling up into the shallow water of the ford to the East, between the beleaguered Noldor and the road to the mountains. It struck heavily at the nearest Elves, who caught the blow with difficulty on their shields. Some of them had managed to grab spears by now: they had been loaded on one of the horses, as less likely to be needed in the kind of battle at the ford they had expected.

They thrust at the beast that was attacking their eastern side. It grabbed at the movement, splintering the shafts. Fëanor charged, fleeting unseen across the water, and it roared as he hit it but that left the other thing free to come up on the other side. And now there was a third, crawling many-legged and armoured out from the pool into the shallow water of the ford from the West, its huge claws snapping. The stench of Morgoth was everywhere in the air, sharp and sulphurous, almost choking.

From the centre of the island, Maedhros called out hoarsely, a jumble of words that Fëanor could not quite make out, but he could feel the strength beating out of them.

Then Maglor’s voice joined his brother’s, clearer and more musical, rising above the sound of swords and the crashing of the water under the massive claws. He heard the sound of Maglor’s harp, strange and delicate in that desolate place, and understood.

Fëanor hastily joined the group on the island, slipping unseen into place as the savage claws crashed again on the shieldwall, and the horses screamed and reared. The sound of the river was growing louder, and now there was a vast slow rumbling behind it. The wide empty valley was shaking. The black clawed beasts slowed their attack, hesitating.

Then it rolled into view, at first just a white line in the far distance, but swiftly growing in height, utterly improbable in that wide open valley, spilling out onto the banks as it came. A vast wave, white-crested, enormous. It roared as it came, and all the while as counterpoint, quiet yet clear, Maglor’s harp and voice sang the low island up into a refuge tall and strong, holding them high above the water as if on a great cliff that stood against the Open Sea, as the huge wave crashed past them. The beasts of Morgoth were lifted and carried off bodily, smashed against the rocks, impaled by the tree trunks caught up in the tumult and torn apart by the power of the angry river.

And then all was calm again. The river subsided, back into its bed, sparkling bright in the growing light from the rising sun, which could now be seen just above the mountain-wall. The running water moving over the stones sang quietly to itself, in harmony with Maglor’s harp, which rippled on for a little while as the ground sank beneath them, and then fell silent.

“Onward!” Maedhros ordered, as if nothing had happened at all. “We must get up into the hills. Who knows what other surprises have been left for us here?”

They hurried across the rest of the ford warily, but met no more opposition. They rode up into the woods of Ossiriand, autumn-golden still, though the sun had now moved high enough to be hidden behind the clouds from the North.

Elros leant down across the horse’s neck once they were well clear of the water. “What under the Sun were those things?” he asked Maglor. His face was still pale with shock.

Maglor shook his head “I do not know. The Enemy breeds many such beasts, but infesting the rivers... that is new. Usually they fear running water, and the Sun.”

“Like the spiders, in the woods,” Elros said, remembering. “They wove their webs to keep the light out, and we burned them.”

“Yes, they were very similar, if not quite so large. I wonder if there are dark caves beneath the river where those things sheltered from the light? It was our ill fortune that we crossed before the Sun was high.”

“Ill fortune?” Elrond exclaimed. “It was amazing!”

Alwion, who was still walking next to them, smiled, “He’s right, my lord. It was.”

“It was hard work,” Maglor said. He rubbed his face with his hands.

Elrond looked at Alwion in curiosity. “Can you do things like that too? Raise the river?”

Alwion made a face. “Me? I’m not a lord! Maybe I could raise a mist, on a lucky day. But I’m better with a sword.”

Maglor said “The use of the arts of mind is how the Elves first began to choose kings and lords, long ago, did you not know? On the long and dangerous road from where we first woke by Cuiviénen into the West, we chose to follow those with the strength to shape the world to protect us. Raising land or water, strength against the shadows that sap the heart, healing; all the arts of the mind.”

“It’s not just that we think they look good in crowns!” Alwion said, grinning. Maglor rolled his eyes at him.

“The art runs in families: mine and yours,“ he told the boys. “Or at least, your Elven family — and Lúthien of course. I never met her, but I hear she had all her father’s skill and all her mother’s strength. I don’t know if Beren and Tuor had such talents. If they did, I never heard of it.”

Elros frowned. “So how did Men come to make kings?”

“I have no idea,” Maglor said. “Perhaps they chose by wisdom, or by force of will. But now they do as the Eldar do and make kings by blood and seniority of line, I believe. Well, mostly.”

“But we could learn to raise the river too? Will you show us how, Maglor?” Elrond asked hopefully.

“Certainly, if you like. But it may not be so easy to practice. The river Gelion runs through the lands that we protected for many long years: Amrod and Amras on the west bank, Caranthir to the east. It answered when we called because it remembers us still. So it is not just the knowing how to call, and having the strength and will to do it, but calling a river that will answer you. Like calling a horse, or a dog... Much easier if it knows you already. I could teach you the way to sing the ground up in defence. That is simpler.”

“I’d like that,” Elrond said. “Like calling a horse? It does not sound too difficult.” He rubbed the horse he was riding idly on the neck with one hand.

Maglor looked up at him. “You must promise me, though, that you will only practice when I am there to help, at least until I say you are ready. I remember, when I first started working with those songs, I was not much older than you are. I went off into the hills behind Tirion all alone, and buried myself in a landslide. Maedhros and Fingon had to come and dig me out... All the while they were digging, I was pleading with them not to tell our parents. I don’t think they ever did, either! But that is not a risk to take in Middle-earth. It’s exhausting, using your strength like that, it leaves you vulnerable.”

“It was quite a foolish risk to take even in Aman,” Maedhros said, coming up behind them with the rear-guard. “And no, I never told them. It seemed unlikely you would do it twice... Elrond, I think we are close enough to Belegost now that we are unlikely to be attacked again. I’d appreciate it if I could reclaim my horse, if you are not too tired to walk for a while. Maglor spoke the truth when he said using the art like that is an effort.”

Elrond dismounted, and handed the horse to Maedhros, and Elros gave his to Maglor, who mounted with some relief. They walked on in silence for a little while. Elrond looked thoughtful. After a while, he asked “Do you think the River Sirion would remember us? Me and Elros, I mean.”

“Perhaps. There’s only one way to find out,” Maglor said.