Written in the Starlight by Rhapsody

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Riders on the Storm

Special thanks to our wonderful beta's Lydia and Spaceweavil!

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Beleg didn’t even manage to walk two hundred steps before he felt his chest tighten, forcing him to stop. He would have been dead by now, slain at the hand of the man Beleg had considered the dearest of friends. He would have been lying amongst the slaughtered orcs. How ironic, he thought, resting his palm on the trunk of the nearest tree. Leaning heavily upon his outstretched arm, he dropped his head and let himself have a moment of uncertainty, frowning. He couldn’t count how many times he had prepared himself to face death before. Life on the border couldn’t be called safe, not by any means. And yet he had never had such reflections. This time, as he remembered his own weapon raised against him and Túrin’s hand led by fury and terror, he felt fear grasp his throat.

His bow fell to the ground as Beleg covered his eyes with his hand. A moment later, he straightened, silently rebuking himself for letting such an offending thought linger in his mind. He was alive; Túrin was free; the three of them had managed to escape without serious harm. There would be time to reflect upon the peril he had faced later.

Yet, when the warden picked up his bow and examined the bowstring, he realized he couldn’t stop thinking about how he might have been buried in a shallow grave or forgotten like a stone lying in the dust on the road. Great Valar! Help me to fulfill my promise. Do not let me dwell in despair. Do not let my pain consume me.

“No time for weakness, Cúthalion,” Beleg told himself, gritting his teeth, despite the vile vision that he still saw in his mind. “Be strong.”

As if granting Beleg’s request, the vicious forest drew his full attention. The wind blew more strongly, carrying the creaking sound of musty branches and the smell of rotting undergrowth. Beleg looked around and decided to continue on his route back to the place of the skirmish. The sooner he got back his arrows, the sooner he could return to the camp. Then he, Gwindor, and Túrin could abandon this dreadful place.

A deep breath raised his chest, and Beleg felt much stronger and better. Above all else, he would love to see the marvelous stone walls of Menegroth and announce their return to the high king of the Sindar. However, for now, this thought would be his lone comfort. Until they reached Doriath, he should stay cautious, and he should do his utmost to lead the three of them back home.

Just before dawn, though Beleg doubted the sun would grant them its warmth and light this day, the warden reached the place where they had left the orcs’ carcasses to rot. He saw no movement, except for a sudden flutter in the bushes to the left. Three birds sprang up with a start from between the twigs. Beleg watched them fly away and sighed. Wincing from the odor of the corpses, he started to pull the arrows out, one by one, and place them in the quiver on his back. His eyes cast a series of furtive glances as he paced around the pile of bodies. The last arrow found its way into the quiver, and the warden looked around again. Noticing the orc killed by Gwindor, he debated whether he should take his dagger back. After all, they had not many weapons: his bow, his sword, and nothing more. Making up his mind, he fought back a hint of distaste and jerked the dagger from the orc’s throat, cleaning the blade by wiping it against the grass.

“Well done,” Beleg muttered and sheathed the dagger.

A quiet, yet clearly heard, growl behind him made Beleg turn to the right and tuck an arrow on the bowstring in one fluent motion. Two sets of yellow, glowing eyes watched him intently from the thicket behind the pile of corpses.

Wolves! Beleg pulled the bowstring backward.

The growl repeated, yet the beasts stayed hidden, not risking getting any closer to the hunter.

Slowly, Beleg walked in a circle around the orcs’ corpses, his eyes locked on the bushes and the two wolves lurking there. His steps were silent and deliberate; the muscles of his arms strained and quivered lightly. The arrowhead was aimed straight at the tangle of leaves and twigs, yet Beleg didn’t release the arrow. One single drop of the orc’s dark blood hung from the arrowhead and finally fell to the ground; at the same moment, one of the wolves set its head forward, showing yellowed fangs.

“Fool!” Beleg seethed. “You should have stayed there!”

The wolf growled louder and lowered its grey snout, its ears laid flat on the back of its head. The animal took three steps forward and stopped, still snarling.

“Fresh blood? Tempting, is it not?” The warden issued the quiet query while stepping to the side, the yellow eyes following his every movement.

A growl answered him.

“One more step and you will not eat anything more!”

What am I doing? Talking to the wolf as if I had lost my reasoning!

Weirdly enough, Beleg noticed the wolf backing off. In that moment, he decided to retreat, and though he didn’t turn his back to the wolves, he started to move backwards ever so slowly and silently, the arrow still ready to defend his life. Finally, he increased the distance and made sure the wolves didn’t actually intend to attack him. Perhaps I interrupted their morning meal, he sneered, taking his previous path and disappearing into the chilly fog. The two companions awaited him, and Beleg had no intention of dwelling here longer. The day hadn’t yet started, and they had a long and heavy road ahead of them.

Making his way back, Beleg considered every possible path they could choose. They would cross the mountains through the pass of Anach. It would be wise of them to follow the river then, to the place where Mindeb vanished in the depths of the woods of Neldoreth. There, they would be almost home, he thought, and felt a desperate need to hurry. With that, Beleg put the bow on his back and ran.

~*~

Meanwhile, Túrin strolled back and forth, observing the surroundings and fighting an overcoming sleepiness. Gwindor was crouched between the roots of a dead tree; his steady breathing and the calm look on his face clearly showed that he rested peacefully. Túrin sighed and started to circle the trees, as he had done countless times before during his watch. He found himself a bit envious, but he dared not ignore Beleg’s order. The third companion must have been very exhausted, Túrin pondered, and made a mental note to ask him later what caused this weariness. He wondered who the stranger was, though he could recognize the noble blood of a firstborn child of Ilúvatar in him. However, his appearance betrayed the many torments and pain he must have suffered. Túrin stopped abruptly in front of Gwindor. The eyes of the elf focused on the man, and a small smile greeted Túrin.

“I believe you have had a most welcome and deserved rest,” Túrin stated.

A nod was the answer. “Has Beleg returned yet?” Gwindor asked after a series of yawns and grimaces of annoyance. His limbs still ached; the stiff muscles and bruised chest didn’t make breathing any easier.

“No,” Túrin replied and reached to help Gwindor stand up. “I imagine he will be back soon.”

“Very well, Túrin. There is nothing more for us but to wait.”

Túrin cast a curious glance at him as Gwindor looked him over from head to toe.

“Gwindor son of Guilin at your service.” The elf answered the unspoken question with a short bow. “A wandering elf, a thrall escaped, whom Beleg met yesterday and healed the tortured spirit of with a new hope. I once was a lord of Nargothrond, until I went to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and was enslaved in Angband.”

The man smiled and bowed as well, but hearing the name of the evil land of Morgoth, he tensed and asked, “Then have you seen Húrin son of Galdor, the warrior of Dor-lomin?”

“No,” Gwindor sighed, watching the dark sky, where only the grey clouds were brighter as they wandered northward. “I have not seen him.”

Túrin set his jaw and turned his head with a grimace of pain.

Gwindor rearranged his worn-out clothing and dusted off the remnants of grass and dirt, still gazing at Túrin and pondering what to say.

“Yet, I believe,” he straightened and looked around, “rumor of him runs through Angband that he still defies Morgoth, and Morgoth has laid a curse upon him in turn and all his kin.”

“That,” Túrin set the black sword down, its point stuck into the ground, and rested his crossed forearms on the hilt, “I believe.”

“That is a very strange blade.” Gwindor pointed to the sword. “And unlike any that I have ever seen.”

Túrin noticed a note of judgment in his voice. An odd feeling chilled his spine. Gwindor didn’t trust him. Sighing, he picked up the weapon and went back to pacing around the two trees.

Gwindor didn’t surprise him with his mistrust, but, nonetheless, the accusation he had felt stung him in an instant. After all, he dared to aim a sword with one purpose: to kill his assailant. He realized now how close he had been to accomplishing this grievous task, and fear raised the hair on his neck. The orc’s arrow, that was what had saved Beleg. The orc’s arrow had caused him to drop the sword.

Túrin shook his head in disbelief. Suddenly, his freedom and renewed friendship seemed so unreal. As dawn broke, his heavy steps made a clear path around the trees. Gwindor stood nearby and watched the bushes. Túrin noticed the elf’s hand clasped behind his back, his fingers nervously entangled. He seemed to impatiently await Beleg.

Túrin felt an unbearable urge to justify his deed. He walked over to Gwindor and said distinctly, “If, by a slight change of fate, I had committed the most dreadful insanity of drawing Cúthalion’s blood, believe me or not, I would have carried this mournful burden for the rest of my life and would never have dwelt in peace. Never,” he repeated, looking Gwindor straight in the eye. “I would never have smiled, and the shadow of this crime, this sin, would never have left my face.”

Gwindor drew his brows together.

Túrin looked to the left and winced. Taking Gwindor by the arm, he said, in a low firm voice, “Know this. I would have remained in grief and mourned the only friend I have ever had. I would have died with his name on my lips when merciful death came to take me. Must I swear on this dull blade?”

“I know.” Gwindor exhaled. He sensed that the man had spoken the truth.

Túrin turned his back to him.

“I dare not judge you,” the elf added. “Terror makes us both its victims. Many days will pass before, at last, we can look at our past without remorse and that creeping guilt that is now tearing our spirits.”

“Wise words, my friends,” said Beleg as he revealed himself from behind the bushes. “Yet, I assume the farther we go away from the graveyard of this dark forest, the lighter our steps and hearts will be.”

Gwindor noticed the warden’s triumphant smile.

“Let us prepare. We will have many days for talking and reflection upon our return to Doriath.” Beleg motioned for Túrin to come closer.

Gwindor’s heart leaped with joyful relief. Túrin frowned.

“Is there something wrong, my friend?” Beleg asked quietly.

“I do not wish to go there.” Túrin averted his eyes from Beleg’s face.

“Why, pray tell? Is it not the place you can always call your home?” Beleg was taken aback but didn’t betray his slight ripple of annoyance with any gesture. His stubbornness always amazes me. He would go back to seek his revenge. He would want to see the dwarf’s head rolled off his neck. Of this I am sure. He hasn’t learned anything. Beleg sighed. He has not changed.

“Wherever you intend to go, my impatient friend, our route is now clear before us. When we pass the Anach, you can go any place you wish.” Beleg paused, seeing Túrin drop his eyes. “For, of all the things in this world, I now desire the most to return to Menegroth and to kneel before our king and queen, announcing this happy news that you are alive. My path is not a secret. Whatever you have in mind, I would give you my blessing. But be warned, you must recover first. Then you will be free to go where your anger leads you.” That said, Beleg gestured for Gwindor to follow him.

“Túrin, we are leaving,” Gwindor muttered and shrugged as he passed by. “Accept Beleg’s advice, for it is sensible, and do not feel offended. I have faith he has chosen wisely, and I will follow him even if my heart tells me to take the straightest road to Nargothrond, for I would love to see my beloved... home.”

Do not think that I would like to stay here. I am not a fool, Túrin wanted to shoot back at him, yet he bit his tongue. He set out, watching the two elves walk silently between the trees. Of course, Beleg was right, and Túrin realized how tough a road lay before them. However, he couldn’t help having the feeling he could choose the route through Dimbar and the woods of Brethil, straight to Amon Rûdh. Then, he could return to the Hidden Kingdom.

As they turned southwest and began the perilous journey from the Forest under Nightshade, Beleg’s mind drifted again to their fight with the orcs. An unsettling thought still disturbed him. Gazing back over his shoulder from time to time, as if to make sure Túrin followed, Beleg sent a silent prayer of thanksgiving and request to the Father of Arda. They still risked their lives wandering in the woods that lay at the foot of Thangorodrim.

Túrin’s stubbornness annoyed him; as usual he had to admit. Despite Beleg’s fatherly attachment and a strong bond of friendship, Túrin was the one individual that could drive him to anger, almost to boiling point within one moment. Many times, he had despaired of Túrin’s reasonless decisions, including the one concerning his departure from the realm of Thingol. Beleg had learned to grit his teeth, knowing there was no way for Túrin to understand the king had forgiven him. This man, Beleg looked back at Túrin, could distribute his stubbornness among a company of wardens, giving everyone his share, and he would still possess enough to be their leader.

Túrin noticed Beleg’s glance and gave him a mild smile.

You said once you would love to be one of our king’s warriors, so you could seek your revenge upon those minions of Morgoth that had tormented your family, Beleg mused, focusing on the scarcely visible path covered with leaves and broken twigs. A chance has come, my brother. Do not miss it now, when it is within your grasp. I have foretold the dwarf that he will not flee, that the wrath of the heirs of Hador will reach him. That, I do believe, will happen, yet you must learn to be patient.

Gwindor was also lost in thought. He longed to return home, but, unlike Túrin, he would willingly follow Beleg to Doriath first to pay his respects to the king of the Sindar and assure him of his everlasting gratitude to Beleg for saving his life, even though it had seemed to be hopeless at the moment they had met. Then, if chances would occur, he would love to finally see Nargothrond and to kneel before Orodreth. Many years had passed since the last time he saw his homeland. Many things had changed, though one thing in particular hadn’t. My beloved...

“Gwindor!” Beleg urged him on. “Do not stay behind. We do not wish to split up, do we?”

“Yes, of course,” Gwindor called back and quickened his steps.

The path climbed up on the hills. Though the three travelers still walked through the woodlands, they noticed the ground was more stony and raw. The pass of Anach was not so distant. They had only a few days ahead of them ere they would reach the mountains.

~*~

Time passed slowly, every single moment resembling the previous and the next, so the three wanderers didn’t care to count them or pay attention to how many days they traveled in the wild land before they came onto the pass of Anach, facing south. The road was heavy and their tired feet marked by many scratches and bruises. Beleg led the others without hesitation, setting the fast pace as if an invisible enemy chased them. He still felt the dreadful breathing of the evil forest they had left behind their backs; like poison, it occupied his thoughts, so he marched almost without stopping. The land became grey, and the landscape seemed identical wherever he turned his gaze. But he knew their path well.

Beleg could sense his companions’ dubious thoughts. The look on their faces betrayed them and made his task even harder. Gwindor grew weaker. His wounds were healed only provisionally; Beleg silently promised to tend to them once they found proper shelter and stopped for a well-deserved rest. Túrin seemed stronger, even though he had suffered terrible pain and torture at the hands of the orcs. His mind, however, seemed more reckless than Beleg could have ever imagined. Túrin’s stubbornness surfaced more quickly than Beleg had initially expected. This only made him set his jaw more tightly and speed up, so that he almost ran, leaving the two far behind him.

“Here we are!” Beleg sighed, once again glancing over his shoulder at Túrin and Gwindor. They tried desperately to catch up with him as they saw him stop and gaze at the distant land before him. A faint smile curved Beleg’s lips. His eyes lifted to the sky as he silently thanked the Valar for leading his steps up here. Now, the remaining route seemed easier. He felt sure they needed to go back to Doriath, even if Túrin disliked this idea. Gwindor, however, did not object.

Suddenly, Beleg felt a wave of triumph wash over him. He had succeeded. That was all that mattered.

“The ascent to this pass tastes sweeter than many victories,” he mused aloud, uttering a stifled chuckle as he noticed the hidden, involuntary impishness of his statement. His companions didn’t hear him, aware only of their labored breathing as they carefully climbed up the stony ground. “There will be the time for this later, Cúthalion.”

“Is this what I think it is?” Gwindor gasped, coming to stand beside Beleg.

“Yes, my friend, the pass of Anach,” he replied solemnly. “Our home lies there.” Beleg’s hand pointed to the foggy, distant line of the horizon.

Gwindor smiled, nodding. “This view makes me very happy.” He looked around. “I feel as if the weight of a stone dropped from my heart and my feet can take on a lighter pace.”

Beleg put his hand on Gwindor’s shoulder. “And if I promise you a large glass of wine and a comfortable seat near the fireplace, what will you say?”

Gwindor’s eyes twinkled. “Say no more, because you might see me run down this dangerous slope in such a hurry you will find it difficult to catch up.” He laughed, in spite of his weariness.

Beleg laughed heartily, thinking he would indeed find it hard to catch up with Gwindor’s steps if he continued to describe every possible convenience that could cross his mind now. Instead, he tried to focus on the surroundings, searching for anything that could threaten their way down the pass. Túrin joined them and they slowly descended, watching their feet.

~*~

“How many days...” Gwindor started, but bit his tongue in the middle of the sentence. “Do not answer,” he told Beleg, “I do not wish to make you lie.”

"The truth is, son of Guilin, I do not know,” Beleg sighed in response, measuring the distance to the nearest trees. “It depends on your strength, Túrin’s stubbornness, and my inerrability, and it also depends on what might disturb our return. If we are blessed in having a peaceful and safe way back to Doriath...”

Just as his words trailed off, the sound of hooves, clashing swords, and battle cries ripped the air.

“So much for a peaceful walk home,” Túrin snorted angrily, making Beleg scowl at him.

“I did not promise you a red carpet underneath your feet,” he shot back at him before realizing, all of a sudden, he was being unfair. “Let us stay hidden.”

“No,” Túrin objected, shaking his head. “What are we waiting for? Let us draw more of the orcs’ hateful blood.”

Beleg had already considered the possibility of being engaged in another skirmish and decided against it. After all, there were only the three of them, tired and not very well armed. He took a closer look at his bow, removing it from his shoulder and retrieving an arrow from the quiver.

“I say let us stay hidden as long as possible. We do not know how many of the enemies are heading toward the pass. We can be easily outnumbered and defeated. Is this what you seek, brother?” he asked in a stern voice, preparing his bow while his eyes peering round the stones and bushes.

“All I wish is to seek and destroy them,“ Túrin hissed.

Gwindor gaped at him, astounded. “We should not risk our lives for a trivial purpose,” he added.

Túrin turned to him, having a curse ready to roll off his tongue, but Gwindor suddenly straightened in an offensive posture, as if he wanted to say he would not accept Túrin’s denial.

“Fine!” Túrin’s shoulders sagged. “We will hide in the bushes like a mouse trying to escape a hawk. But what more can we do now?”

With these words, Túrin ran down the slope, followed by Gwindor and Beleg. They reached the nearest line of bushes and disappeared into the thicket, crouching down between the entwined branches and leafless twigs. Beleg put a finger on his lips, commanding the others to remain silent. Gwindor nodded, mouthing “Give me the dagger,” and Beleg reached behind his back, handing him the weapon. Túrin fixed his gaze upon the stony path as the sound of a ragged breathing drew closer to them. Grabbing a large stone, Túrin poked his head out of the branches that covered him, and Beleg whispered, “Get down!”

“One of them approaches! It’s really fast!” Túrin whispered back. “By the Valar! It’s not an orc.”

“I know,” Beleg muttered.

As the approaching enemy got so close that the three hidden travelers could see him, Beleg swiftly tucked the arrow he held on the bowstring and drew it, rising to his full height at the same time. The arrowhead pointed straight at the face, an inch from the nose of the mysterious figure, who, Beleg presumed, was trying to escape from something or someone. A pair of dark eyes flashing with anger and fear fell upon Beleg’s face, and, just in time, he halted the hand that held the bowstring. The elf stopped abruptly, glaring at Beleg and trying to recover his breathing. The next moment, Beleg bent forward and grabbed the completely stunned incomer’s sleeve, dragging him into the thicket.

“Shhh,” Beleg warned the elf, seeing him desperately want to say something. “Orcs?”

The newcomer nodded fervently.

“Many?”

Another nod confirmed his supposition.

Beleg cursed under his breath. The sound of steps and the orcs’ shrieks grew louder, so he made up his mind. Rising again, he sent all of his arrows, one by one, aiming true each time he released the bowstring. Túrin pushed the twigs aside curiously, just to see the orcs’ corpses lying on the path.

The remaining orcs turned to flee, shrieking with rage and horror. Túrin jumped out of the thicket and grasped two of the fallen orcs’ swords. He handed one to the newcomer, grabbing the hilt of the other one in two hands. Beleg nodded. The stranger looked at them questioningly; then a small smile twitched the corners of his mouth. Gwindor lifted his eyes to the sky.

“Now!” Beleg shouted, unsheathing his black sword. Spotting the blade, the newcomer’s face paled.

~*~

The sound of orcs following their prey reached Caranthir’s ears. Urging his horse forward with a vice-like grip in his knees, the elf unsheathed his sword in one fluent motion while his other hand found a small axe that would aid him after the long wait. Maedhros appeared next to him, the red plume of his helmet graciously mingled with his red tresses; his face bore a look of determination to kill the first orc himself. But Caranthir demanded the first kill, his anger consuming him fully. The humiliation he thought long forgotten became the fuel to his sword arm. His horse shrieked when he relentlessly hit its hindquarter with the blunt side of his sword. The impact of the blows surged through its fine-toned muscles. Caranthir’s blade decapitated the first orc he encountered, the power of his strike meeting another. Slowly, he allowed the darkness to take over, commanding his brothers not to get in his way. A fire burned in him, making him lose touch with his surroundings. All he could feel was his blade fluently cutting through meat, and all he could see were the bodies falling in front of him as if he was harvesting a field of grain. Vaguely, he tasted the enemies’ blood on his lips, but he managed, even with blurred eyesight, to hew them down efficiently.

Darkness reaped darkness. Maedhros watched his brother fully engage himself in battle, paying no heed to the dangers coming from all sides. But, almost naturally, both Curufin and Celegorm covered his flanks, making sure their brother would not be surprised. Years of training, fighting, and blindly depending on their brotherly bond made them work together fluently. Yet Maedhros knew there was no time for idle thoughts. He felt sure this was something that would remain with him for a long time, finally replacing the cowardly retreat from Angfaulith in his mind. When he found Amrod next to him, he watched his remaining two brothers ride a circle around the big group, driving the orcs together as a herd, slaying their enemies where they found fierce protest.

All had an intense look etched on their faces, with Caranthir in the very middle of the slaughter. With renewed fervor, all seven engaged in battle, leaving the hapless orcs no chance to defend themselves, paying for the years of pent-up wrath that now surfaced in an activity all knew how to do best in unison.

Moments later, when the seven closed the circle, it was Caranthir who threw his head back, howling a battle cry that caused his brothers to pause and rest on their swords. All knew that their brother would slowly return to his senses, and his mighty body would soon mirror exhaustion. For now, his rage was undoubtedly far from subsiding.

~*~

With a furious cry, Túrin overtook Beleg, drawing his sword against the back of the fleeing orc. Its dark blood gushed as the beast fell, crossing Beleg’s path, but he deftly jumped up in time to slay another. Behind them, Gwindor ran as fast as he could, his dagger shining in his left hand. Then he bent down to reach the discarded weapon of the dead orc. Thus armed, he resumed the chase with the dark-haired stranger by his side. As they caught up on the rest of the host, the blows of their swords and the rage that kept urging them on brought down four orcs.

“Túrin! To the left!” Beleg shouted, answering a powerful stab of an orc’s blade with a force that swiped the beast to the ground, already dead. Túrin shot a murderous glance at the attacker, retreating imperceptibly, his hand moving in a full circle. The sword he held made a smooth line along the orc’s chest. Another one threw a dagger, which was soon blocked in midair by the stranger’s weapon flying straight and clashing when steel met steel. Túrin turned to give the dark-haired elf a nod of gratitude. The other just smiled, continuing his deadly procedure.

The four warriors ran down the slope, closer to the cliff, driving the remnants of the orcs’ party to the edge. The orcs either nosedived off, tumbling down the stony walls, or managed to turn onto the narrow path that led to the grassy fields below the mountains. Beleg halted as his gaze fell upon the distant land at the foot of the mountains. It seemed that another battle had just taken place there. Several horsemen rode back and forth along the valley, their horses galloping so that their masters could defeat the orcs, who ran around shrieking. With Gwindor by his side, Beleg made his way down in haste, intending to force their attackers further, just in front of the riders. Túrin and the dark-haired elf followed them, and the four soon came into the view of one of the horsemen.

One of the knights turned his horse. The animal reared on its hind legs; the hooves clashed in the air as the rider urged it into a full gallop at once. With his sword raised, the warrior and the horse barreled through the field, closing the distance to the few remaining orcs and their four assailants. The knight made swift work of slaying the creatures; then he halted the horse.

Beleg lowered his sword, motioning for the others to do the same, as the rider approached them followed by the rest of the horsemen. The seven warriors surrounded the four, the horses trotting relentlessly in a circle around them. Beleg eyed the riders, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, which he had just dug into the ground. He knew who the seven riders were; he had seen them before, and now he wondered what could possibly be the worse: to face the Fëanorians or to find themselves encountering another group of Morgoth’s servants. Yet, his face betrayed no emotion as he stood proudly with his three companions by his side.

The warrior who had spotted Beleg first let his horse stop in front of the four walkers. With his brows drawn, he glared at Beleg. Then the realization came to him, and a fateful smile blossomed on his noble face. The two identical horsemen joined him, reining in their horses to stand on either side.

Túrin gaped at the knights open-mouthed. Then, he tapped Beleg on the shoulder, asking quietly, “Morgoth’s chains! Who are they?”

The dark-haired elf, who had remained silent up until now, avoiding the gaze of the seven and dropping his eyes, replied in a meaningful voice, “The sons of Fëanor.”

Gwindor gulped loudly and sighed.

“You know who we are!” the warrior in front of them barked out before commanding, “Give us your names!”

“Celegorm!” another ordered. “Back off!”

Beleg looked at the face of Maglor, nodding lightly.