For the First Time in Forever by quillingmesoftly

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Winter Solstice

In which Neniel is depressed, Maglor frets, gifts are exchanged, and the Kindi celebrate the winter solstice. Warnings for a second-hand account of seasonal depression and profanity.

Winter fell over the Kindi settlement with soft blankets of snow, and even the Baranduin’s movement was more sluggish than usual. The whirlwind of work that autumn had generated – dismantling the buildings to set the rains, and flood the river; reassembling the buildings and all the furniture; pickling stores of vegetables and smoking and salting the meats – was done now. Now there was the indoor work: nets to be mended, cloth to be woven, gifts to be fashioned for Midwinter, animals to be fed. Every day at sunrise, Maglor would wake to the sound of Nurwë’s baritone rumbling with power, as he yanked the blankets off of Neniel, drawing her to her feet, into a hug. The sense of heaviness around her would ease as he sang. The sunlight seemed to help, as well. In the afternoons, she would often lie down at sunset; it would take her cousins and her siblings ordering, prodding and cajoling her for her to rise from her pallet and stick to the plan that she had made in the autumn, of meeting daily with the seventy, and working on their Sindarin. Every three days, Sílena and Ráca would walk into the longhouse in the early morning, take her hand, and they would vanish into the forest to run for hours at a time. She was better on those days, when she returned, with snow-flakes and spider-webs in her hair. She would smile and laugh in the evenings, even though it was obvious that she was not well, in the wan look of her face, the way that her smiles didn’t quite reach her eyes, in the way her clothes hung loose on her. Maglor found himself more worried than he had been in centuries.

That morning, on the day of the winter solstice, she’d eaten nothing at all, despite Regen's pestering. She had dressed with the heavy movements of somebody truly exhausted, had made no attempts at combing or braiding her hair, and had slipped out the door without even a terse word. Nurwë had gone after her, with brisk instructions to the rest of the household to ‘stop fretting and start eating, the bread will get cold.’ Maglor hadn’t challenged him on how he clearly had no intention of following his own advice. Hypocrisy of that kind was a father’s prerogative, if ever there was one.  

“She told me,” Maglor said to Regen, as they cleared the bowls away, as she kept shooting him uncomfortable, worried looks. Maglor could guess the cause. “It’s alright. I understand.”

Regen sighed, and rubbed at her forehead. “Well, that’s something.”

Maglor eyed her out of the corner of his eye as they rinsed the bowls. “She tried keeping it a secret from you?”

“No. She was so relieved that I didn’t have it too, that I wouldn’t have to go through it.” Regen’s smile was nearly as wry as her sister’s. “Neither Tauren or I have it. Emmá bound less of her power into us, and less of the weaknesses.” She jerked her chin to the screen, where behind it, Helado and Tauren were rousing Dînen from her weeks of sleep. “I don’t think I’m even as strong as you. But at least it’s not as bad as it used to be, before the Enemy was cast out.”

Maglor shook his head. “You’re very young, Regen, and I am very old. You’ll grow stronger. It takes time, to grow into gifts that your parents gave you.” Time, and practise. But Regen knew that, probably. “So neither you nor Tauren…”

Regen shook her head. “I get tired more easily, and sad more easily. But nothing like Neniellë. There’s – it’s like part of her just isn’t there, some winters, and all we can do is sing, and wait it out.” Her lower lip trembled; Maglor put an arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into the touch, her head resting against his ribs.

“She’s strong,” Maglor pointed out, but memory taunted him with Maedhros, with his spirit blazing white-hot in battle. Maedhros had been strong, too. Strength was not always enough.  “And she’s lived through it before. She’ll get through this.”

“I know,” Regen said, already pulling herself back together, and slipping her shoes on. Tough little thing. “I know.” She whistled for her dogs, and smiled up at him. “You’re right. It’ll get better after tonight.”

Despite the confidence in her tone, Maglor thought he’d feel considerably better if he kept an eye on Neniel that day. He finished putting the dishes away, and went in search of her.

He found her by the stream, looking somewhat less miserable than she had seemed at breakfast, but not well, either. Three otters were gathered around her, one curled over her bare feet, and the other nuzzling insistently at her hands. She looked up at him and managed a slight smile, but she made no motion to rise. The stream was frozen and the willow trees were bare, their grey trunks stooping and twisting and stark against the snow.

He sat down beside her.

“You don’t need to run after me as well,” she said. “Ataro already did that. I’m not about to drown myself in the water. Even if I could. You don’t have to worry about me.”

He nudged her, swallowing down the wash of fear that her words brought up. “I can’t just want your company?” he asked, deliberately keeping his voice light.

“I’m terrible company,” she snapped. “You know that.”

No, no, he didn’t. And he was quite sure that was his line, but he wasn’t sure saying so would be helpful. So, instead: “Hmph. You didn’t believe me when I said that to you. I don’t see why I should believe you now.”

Her hair was still knotted and tangled where it fell down to her thighs. She hadn’t trimmed it since the summer, when it had fallen to her hips. She might find that impractical for Mithlond.

“Because you’re much smarter than I am?”

“Really?” He kept his voice dry. “Everyone who lived through Beleriand begs to differ with you. Turn around.”

She glared, but eventually turned, without even asking why, the otters scattering at the movement and squeaking angry protests. Once they were assured that their lady was no longer going to move, they ran up onto her legs and her lap again, and purred loudly. In the summer, she would have asked him why, and Maglor would not be about to do this. But it was winter in Arda Marred, so Maglor drew the comb Helado had lent him out of his pocket, and started working on the knotted ends of Neniel’s hair.

He felt rather than saw the wince. “Sorry, Goldberry.” He rubbed at her shoulders in apology. It had been a very long time since he had had to comb anyone else’s hair, for it was an act reserved for family. But Maglor had slept on a sleeping mat in Nurwë’s longhouse for the past four months, in the same room as him, Dînen, Neniel and all her siblings. Why, exactly, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps for the sake of Finwë’s memory; perhaps it was simply because Nurwë thought Neniel would prefer having Maglor where she could keep an eye on him. All the same, though, he was glad to be considered family now. Combing her hair, singing to her, reaching out in thought…that was all he could do, really. The rest was up to her.

He’d worked through the knots at the ends of her hair and was up to the hair at her hips when she spoke.

“Maglor?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry. Thank you.” Her body had relaxed, shoulders dropping from their tense, irritated set. But now that irritation was gone, her tone was quiet and weary. She meant it, though, else she would not have scraped up the energy to say it.

“You’re welcome,” he told her. The glance she cast him over her shoulder was so tired, so very un-Neniel, that he swallowed and looked back at the knots in her hair, working his way up to the small of her back. If he kept meeting her eyes, the odds on him doing something stupid – well, stupider– were very, very short.

In hindsight, staying for the winter had been a terrible idea. He should have left earlier. But he had agreed to stay and leave with them in the spring. It had been a sensible plan, as far as logistics were concerned, and it wasn’t as though he had pressing business. But his attraction to her hadn’t passed at all, as he’d thought it would. Instead, it had deepened to something much deeper, much stronger.

It’s like having your heart walk around outside of your chest, Carnistir had said, when Makalaurë had asked him what being in love was like. If he ever saw Caranthir again, Maglor was going to apologise for…well, lots of things, including not doing a better job of looking after him, but also for having laughed when he had said that.

The situation hadn’t changed, though, even though his feelings had. Kinslayer. Possibly still bound to the Doom of the Noldor. Not really free of the Oath, although it slept. All reasons why it was a very good thing that it was unrequited.

If she were well, she would almost have certainly sensed the turn of his thought. But she was not, so Maglor went deep into wells of memory, pulled the comb through her hair, and began to sing in Quenya, a hymn to Vána and Yavanna, the queens of spring and earth, and of the renewal of all things green and growing, repeating the song until her hair fell down her back, waves shining in the weak winter sunlight.

She was trembling, he realized, when he returned from the memory. He walked around her and knelt in the snow in front of her; she was crying, silent sobs that made her frame shake. She hadn’t cried all winter, and Maglor felt a surge of relief at the sight.

He pulled the otters off of her lap, ignoring the scratches they dealt him in the process, pulled her to her feet and into his arms, and continued to sing the whole while. He sang until her sobs finally slowed to hiccups. His shoulder was damp now, and his eyes were burning, too.

“They are whole, they are whole,” she hiccupped into his shoulder. “The Valar are whole, the Maiar are whole, why am I not whole?”

Relief vanished like mist in the morning. Sea and stars, I’m a fool! “Shh,” he whispered into her hair. “Shhh, Goldberry. It will be alright.”

“You don’t know that!” Her fingers clenched in his shirt.

He tightened his grip around her waist. “What does the Song tell you?”

She was silent for a while, as the hiccups finally stopped. He leaned his chin on the top of her head. Her hands relaxed their grip on his shirt, slowly, as she spoke, her voice still thick from her tears. “That spring comes after winter. That my mother will wake again.”

“And?”

“That this ice will break in the spring. But it will come back. Again, and again, and again.”

“And it will melt and break again,” Maglor said, backing the words with power. “Is the sunrise any less beautiful because it gives way to sunset? Are the stars less beautiful for the darkness between each of them?”  

She sighed, and did not say anything for a long time, before she gave a quiet, exhausted, reluctant, “No.”

“I couldn’t hear you,” he said. “Say that again?” 

“You fucking could.”

Another thing that had startled him, when winter had first settled on them. Neniel had rarely chosen to swear in their time together before. He switched tactics.

 “Could I?” he asked her. “Iarwain, remember. I’m as old as the leaves, and the breeze, and the trees, old as the trees, and twice as creaky. I might have lost my hearing, too, in my old age. You never know.”

That worked; she gave a laugh against his neck, tired, but a laugh nonetheless, before she stepped up out of the hug and smiled up at him. Her eyes were red, the skin below them puffy, but the smile was sincere, the first smile that had reached her eyes since the end of autumn.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go back. We need to get things ready for tonight.”

“So we do,” she admitted, falling into step beside him. “Maglor?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry. For…everything. Thank you.”

Reminding her that she had nothing to apologise for, that it wasn’t her fault, that she was no burden, would do no good. In fact, Maglor could think of nothing else he could say that would do any more good. So instead, he reached over and held her hand, as they left the frozen stream and bare willows behind them, and walked back to the longhouse. 

There was an order to that day, Nurwë had explained to him. The meal, the gift-giving within the families, done in order of seniority by age, and before they would go down to the massive bonfire erected in a clearing in the eastern bank of the forest. Maglor was very thankful that Nurwë had pulled him aside at the end of autumn, and given him ample warning about the gifts, though. It had given him time to think properly about it, and figure out what was and was not appropriate. And so, after a brief argument between him and Neniel, where they tried to settle the differences between Years of the Trees and Years of Starlight, Maglor presented his gifts.

 For Nurwë and Salyë, a song that he had written as he walked in old memory through a similar celebration in Valmar, with special attention paid to those Eldar who had awoken at Cuiviénen, including Ingwë, Finwë and Indis. For Dînen, a circlet of blackbird feathers that he had collected and stitched together, and sung over to make sure the feathers stayed black. Dînen received it with a delighted smile, and he knew he had struck true. For Regen, a new flute that he had carved; for Tauren, river-reeds woven into a new block so tightly that they should sand and polish with the same ease as clay and sandpaper, and with a strap of nettle cloth sewn into it to function as a handle.  Helado had taken a bit more thought, for he had all the materials and plants that he needed, but Maglor had eventually settled on a soft pair of new shoes that he had traded for two rather large eels. For Ráca, a carving of a wolf, its tail curling around its side, and its nose pointed up as though howling to Tilion. So far, all of the gifts had been received with grateful murmurs and smiles. Regen had even hugged him.

Stop procrastinating, he told himself, and he met Neniel’s eyes. Her head was tilted to the side, and her smile was more than a little strained, but it was a smile nonetheless. He handed her gift over to her, and she turned it over in her palm with a thoughtful look on her face.

Jewellery was traditional, for this situation. Even though he knew it was a hopeless case, even though he was no longer Makalaurë to craft fine chains of gold and silver, his heart had overruled his pragmatism once more. His hair had grown considerably since he cut it in the spring; he had cut several locks off, and woven them together until they formed a braid as thick as a strand of yarn. He had considered carving the pendant into the shape of a water lily, but that had quickly proven far too ambitious. So instead, he had settled for etching a design of a water lily into the small, tear-drop shaped pendant, and going over the etching with the white paint that he had borrowed from Helado. Finally, he had sung over it, and persuaded every other member of her family to sing over it, singing their affection and their love for her into the charm, all the power of a thousand memories of laughter and love and sunrises encapsulated in it.

“Thank you,” she said, as she felt the power in the necklace. She immediately swept the mass of her hair off of her neck, and handed it to him, turning away from him with obvious expectation in her movements. He tied it around her neck, and she turned back to him with a smile.

A gift of jewellery did not mean the same thing among the Kindi as it would among the Noldor, where to accept and immediately wear a gift of jewellery was tantamount to accepting a suit. If it had meant the same thing, the necklace would have already been flung back in his face. Or perhaps she would have been gentle, or tried to be. That it didn't mean the same thing was very, very good, so Maglor was not entirely sure why his heart felt like it was sinking.

You didn't want her to know! Stop being so foolish. 

“Mine is not as sweet,” she told him, getting to her feet and rummaging through the benches. “I think you’ll find it useful, though.” She emerged with a pleased “hah!” She turned around, with a large bow in one hand, and a small pile balanced in the crook of her other arm. The bow was a large, Noldorin longbow, rather than the recurve bows that the Kindi favoured, and she strung it quickly. “I don’t think Gildor believed me when I said I was just curious, but he didn’t challenge me on it, either. And I think it turned out alright. Come over here and test it.”

Maglor swallowed and ran a hand over it. Well-made, with fine, detailed carvings on it that were nonetheless sufficiently light that it would not damage the wood of the bow with any further strain; the string was of the precious spider silk that the Kindi used for their very fine works. She must have traded something very valuable, for this.

He drew the string back, and tested its draw, before nodding. Well enough for hunting, or even combat at a short range, although it was not one of the great longbows that Fingon had favoured, with their fearsome range. But then, Morgoth wasn’t around anymore, was he?

He smiled at her. “Thank you. I might need your help. It’s been a while since I drew a bow.”

Neniel’s smile was very pleased, as she turned to her parents and her aunt, and began with their presents. The rest of the time was filled with laughter and teasing, especially when it came time to Regen’s turn.

“Well, it was going to be one of my snakes originally,” Regen said, and Maglor hoped that he was hiding the alarm he felt at that. “Neniel said that might be a good idea–” Maglor shot Neniel an icy look, and received a sunny, innocent smile that almost reached her eyes in reply. “–but then I tried talking to the snakes about it, and they all said it was far too cold to make new friends.” The grin widened, as Neniel sensed Maglor’s surge of relief. “So instead, Tauren said you might like one of the hounds, so I talked to Celenem, and he agreed that he’d go with you!”

The unfortunately-named dog lifted his head and barked from the corner of the longhouse where they had been ordered to sit. His eyes were dark and friendly, his coat a dark red-brown. Regen let out a lilting whistle, three notes from top to bottom, and Celenem rose and shook himself, and trotted over to Maglor.

“Is he one of your hunters?” Maglor asked, as he held out his hands for Celenem to sniff. Regen nodded.

“Rabbits, mostly. He’s not big enough to handle deer. But he’ll retrieve prey that you shoot as well, and he won’t fight with any otters.”

“That’s more your sister’s domain than mine,” Maglor said absently, as he sat still underneath Celenem’s inspection. Nine months old, or thereabouts, he thought. Old enough to leave his litter mates, certainly. “I wouldn’t worry about it much. Thank you for training him, Regen. He looks wonderful.” He cocked an eyebrow at Celenem. “Well, hound? Will you have me?” Celenem’s look was almost injured, as he sat and thumped his tail on the dirt floor of the longhouse. Maglor laughed, and rubbed behind the hound’s ears. “Very well, then. Although I can’t say I think much of your taste in companions!”

“You say that about everyone who walks with you,” Neniel pointed out, smiling. She glanced up to where the sunlight was already dimming, and her smile faded.

Nurwë said, as though finishing the thought his daughter could not bear to voice: “We should start getting ready.”   

“You can stop worrying about her so much, Iarwain.”

Mûk. 

Maglor looked back at Eirien, one of the fisher Elves, the first who had invited him to come and fish with her and her husband. He smiled at her. “Sorry?”

Eirien wore the daises for which she was named threaded into her brown hair, looking very different from her normally unkempt appearance, as she shot him a knowing smile. She had grown up as one of Tauren’s playmates, and perhaps that accounted for some of the way she admired Neniel so.

Eirien glanced to where Neniel was dancing with a number of other Elves in a leaping, spinning, jumping reel around the bonfire. The firelight played on the skin of Neniel’s back, illuminating the tattoo there: a stylized clover-leaf, looping around and pushing past the boundaries of a circle that attempted and failed to contain it.

“You’re looking at her like she’s an Elfling about to fall off the canoe,” Eirien said. “Relax. She’s not well now, but she’ll be well again by the first thaw.”

The confidence in her voice was so strong it almost hurt to hear.

“Why did you choose to follow her to Mithlond?” Maglor asked her. “You’re not that curious about the city. You love your life here.”

Eirien’s smile was fond as she glanced back out to the bonfire, where Neniel continued to dance. “I do. But many years ago, I caught the man I was courting at the time in another girl’s arms. She wasn’t to know, she was one of the des– um, I mean, the Doriathrim from around the Lake.” Maglor raised his cup in silent praise of the correction, and sipped. She’d been learning. “I ran into the forest crying. Neniellë came after me, hugged me, suggested a good number of insults for me to use on him, and then offered to dangle him upside-down from a tree for me.”

Maglor smiled. “Did you take her up on it?”

“Yes,” she said. “And the look on his face was a delight! But then she made me join in every other dance, and she didn’t have to do that. She danced the whole night with me, even though it was Midwinter, and she was no better then than she is now.” Eirien shrugged. “That’s why, for me. She makes a point of being there for people, when they need someone. Even Banë, even though they can’t stand each other ordinarily.”

Maglor snorted, and sipped at his cup of nanëni again. The animosity between Neniel and Banë dripped from every conversation they happened to have, like water from a net. After much study, Maglor had come to the conclusion that there wasn't much to the rumours. It was simply that they were born to annoy each other, Banë with his odd, very un-Kindi asceticism and insistence on formalities, and Neniel, who had elevated working around etiquette and manners and charming people anyway into an art form. 

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” he said. Neniel hadn’t so much as slapped him that morning after he’d told her everything. Varda’s stars, her first action had been to offer her condolences, even though she was still struggling to get her head around the darkness of what he’d done. Of course she’d treat Banë kindly, if he needed it.

“Indeed,” Eirien said, with a shrug. The song came to an end, and the dancers disbanded. Neniel and Saelo, Eirien’s husband, both approached. Neniel threw herself down beside Maglor, her skin shining with sweat in the firelight.

“Eirien, you won’t dance?”  Saelo asked her, setting his head in her lap and smiling up at her. Maglor felt sour jealousy at their ease rise up in his throat, and took another drink from the cup of nanëni.

“Iarwain has plied me with nanëni,” Eirien said cheerfully, and Maglor immediately protested the calumny. Saelo looked terribly amused.  “He seems to have been trying to catch up on a thousand years of gossip in one night!”

“Oh? A thousand years of gossip? Poor Iarwain! You must have been so bored,” Neniel said, with a laugh that was almost uncomfortable.

“Unfortunately for you, not at all,” Maglor told her. “Although we haven’t gotten onto elfling stories yet.”

“Hah! Terrible threat. Eirien’s too young to remember those.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not,” came a new voice from behind them. Maglor twisted his head, and found Ráca grinning down at them, a bottle of nanëni in hand. “I can think of a few tales that should be told tonight.”

Neniel pulled a horrified face, and Ráca grinned, sitting down beside them, and refilling Maglor’s cup. Maglor frowned and tried to remember how much he’d had to drink that night already. Two cups? Probably? “Mercy, Ráca!”

“Certainly not,” Ráca said, pouring nanëni into Eirien’s cup now, and then Saelo’s, until Neniel was the only one without a cup. Maglor offered his to her, and Neniel took it with a thin smile, and took a long gulp. “Iarwain, have you heard about the badger incident?”

“I have not. Say on, Ráca!”

Neniel glared at them both, as Maglor stole his cup back. Ah. Empty now. Well, that solved his problem of not wanting to get any drunker.  “Traitors. I am surrounded by traitors.”

Maglor was not at all sure what his expression looked like, as Ráca said cheerfully: “We love you too, Neniellë. Now, this was before I was born, but Emmá told me the story when I was about five. I think it was to try and discourage me from doing the same thing…”

The story went something like this. Neniel, as one of the very few children in the village when she was born, had a tendency to bring home injured animals as a toddler. It had started with injured otter kits, and Dînen had thought nothing of it; after all, an association would always exist between Neniel and otters, since they had first been Sung as a gift for her. It had escalated to orphaned wolf cubs, and Nurwë had rolled his eyes, but after all, it was not too different from the earlier efforts of the Quendi to domesticate wolves, so Nurwë didn’t worry much either. It had culminated in a five-year old Neniel bringing home an adolescent badger. The rest of its clan had reacted poorly, and that was how Dînen had come in through the door of the longhouse to find her daughter busily trying to persuade the entirety of the clan to stay. Dînen had apparently by this time, gotten the idea that this was not entirely practical, and tried to explain to her that the badgers would miss their home. The badgers had gone home, and the next morning, Dînen had woken up to find Neniel missing. They had found her after a day in the badgers’ set, over a mile away, exhausted and curled up with the latest litter of kits.

“They made a deal after that,” Ráca said, laughing. “Neniel was permitted to bring home any stray she liked, provided there was only one, and that it was smaller than a bear cub, but she was never to leave the house without at leastletting her parents know where she intended to go. And then they didn’t let her leave the longhouse for a month.”

Maglor had started laughing halfway through, sensing the turn of the story, and hadn’t been able to stop. It was so typical, so Neniel, to try and adopt an entire family, when her efforts to gain a single playmate went awry. Neniel stuck out her tongue at him, and Maglor shook his head at her, smiling at her.

“The whole clan?” 

 “It seemed like a good idea at the time!” she said, her cheeks flushing, taking his cup and gulping down more of the nanëni.

“Oh, Nenya,” Maglor managed, shaking his head, the endearment he had bitten back multiple times finally slipping free. His sides hurt, his belly hurt, and there were tears rolling down his face. “Oh, Nenya.”

“Oh, come on. This isn’t fair for me to come under all the fire.” She twisted her head to glance at her cousin again. “Ráca, what about the time–”

And that was how the night passed until dawn, with a lot of laughter, and bottles of nanëni being passed between them, more stories and songs traded until Maglor’s head spun and all their throats were sore. Only once the sun was high in the sky did the bonfire eventually dwindle to nothing, and the Kindi stumble back to their homes, voices hoarse from singing, hands raw from clapping and playing their instruments, wobbling across the rope bridges. 

 

Chapter End Notes

*cracks knuckles* Okay, here we go! 

1. Apologies for the fact that this is written from Maglor's point of view, rather than Neniel's. Most of my experience with depression is secondhand. I do want to write something about Neniel's depression from her perspective someday, but I think for this particular narrative, it works better for moving the overall plot forward for this chapter to be from Maglor's point of view. Can't say I'm entirely satisfied, but there it is. 

2. With Nurwë's wake-up calls: Elven-song seems to replace tech for the Kindi in many respects, so I think that Nurwë and Neniel have both developed charms for alleviating depression that would work almost akin to medication. But a big part of depression is that it takes away a lot of the motivation to actually treat yourself, which is one of the reasons why it's Nurwë singing. Considering that excessive self-focus is also a symptom of depression, living in a communal culture is another protective factor, and I think that Neniel's family, after over a thousand years of this or so, is more than aware of that. Actually, I imagine that the Kindi as a culture are...really quite good at dealing with depression.

3. Sunlight has long been noted as a protective or mitigating factor in dealing with seasonal depression. Varieties of depression which are more severe in the morning is not uncommon, either. 

4. I finally found a suitable alternative to Mam! Emmá is taken from Sindarin 'emel', mother, but it follows Kindi noun rules, which typically end in vowels rather than consonants. I'll go back through the other chapters and change them after Christmas, probably.

5. With the smiles never really reaching her eyes: What I really wanted to capture in this chapter is that often, depressed people still function, they even still smile and laugh sometimes. But to those who know them well, there is often a sense of absence, a sense that something isn't quite right. That seemed that would be the most dominant symptom of Neniel, in a mild winter. Others, of course, include reduced appetite, weight loss or weight gain, irritability, mood swings, and impatience. 

6. Celenem means 'swift-nose.' Maglor thinks it's an unfortunate name. You are welcome to disagree, if you like. xD

 

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