Water had leaked through his boots by the time he folded back the flap of his brothers' tent, and looked around. Celegorm was nowhere, but Curufin was standing over a large table in the middle, inspecting a set of throwing daggers. It seemed that not even long distance travel could keep him from working.

“The Edain say that the wolves come from the Iron Prison itself, Lord Warden,” one of the guards told Maedhros. “And some are bigger than a horse.” “Perhaps their horses are very small,” a scout offered. “Well,” said Bór, the Easterling, “the only wolves I have seen were perfectly wolf-sized.” “Fear makes all monsters grow,” said the guard, “and yet I wonder…” “If the Edain told you the truth?” Maedhros glanced at him. “The Enemy never tires of creating new monstrosities. If they are his next target, I pity the wolves.” When everyone looked at him with barely contained curiosity, he could not suppress a smile. “For the Stars of Varda, my friends, cease this! Speak your mind. You all wish to ask me if there are horse-sized wolves in Angamando; but to my surprisingly bitter regret, the only answer I have for you is I do not know.” His eyes narrowed. “What I do know, however, is that at least one fire-breathing monstrosity of a dragon is still there, alive and well, and with each passing year it grows.” “There’s a bet on who shall be the one to slay it,” said the scout. “You are leading, Lord Warden.” “Of course I am,” said Maedhros. “But the High King is a close second.” “Of course he is.” Maedhros pulled the sword off the whetstone, pushing the blade back into its sheathe. “I am riding out tonight to have a look at those giant wolves,” he said, right as the thought formed itself in his mind. “If you incidentally find yourselves in the courtyard after nightfall, you may come with me; although I shall not need more than three. I seek to surprise them.”

ten years ago yesterday, I posted the first chapter of 'The Seven Gates'.

“I am going to count as long as my fingers allow me,” said Maedhros leisurely. “Which is, alas, not very long,” said Fingon.

"Where are they now?" Maedhros asked, and his voice was commanding. "Down in the camp somewhere, I imagine," said Caranthir. "Do not be surprised if you see them with Eöl's men. They came to Himring and asked for protection, as they had been cut off from Thingol's lands since the Flames struck. Our brothers made sure that their plight was known in Doriath, and indeed Thingol had taken in those who chose so – but more then half remained with us, among them a very skilled silversmith." "What of Eöl, then?" Fingon raised an eyebrow. "Did he die in the Flames?" "No one seems to know," said Caranthir slowly. Silence settled in the room, tense and uneasy; and Fingon leaned forward in his chair. "What happened to the other half of your sentence, cousin? I keep hearing its silent echoes; why would you be afraid to speak it?" "Not afraid," said Caranthir, "but weary. Weary because I think I know the answer to what I am about to ask; you, however, shall not be ready for the question, either." "What is it?" Fingon asked again; and Maedhros's skin crawled with unease. Caranthir sighed. "Tell me, High King – when was the last time you have had word of your sister?"

Snippet Saturday ❤️

okay, here we go