“When shall we meet again in thunder, lighting, or in rain?” Fingon tilted his head back, taking in the cloudless sky. “Nay, nay, and nay again,” he mused, “and yet, the sunshine lights my life so very little.”

“He is in a most foul mood,” warned Maglor as Fingon sat down beside where Maglor stood.

A simple nod and the closing of his eyes was the received greeting. “I know. I stopped to see him first,” replied Fingon in reference to his cousin and Maglor’s brother. “Should I even ask what was going on?”

Maglor sighed as he lifted his arm up to allow one of his hawks a perch to land upon. The bird carried a twitching rabbit in its talons, which Maglor took hold of now to snap the creature’s neck then toss into a basket with three others caught that morning. “I mentioned that we needed rope,” he explained as he gave the hunter a treat, and then released her back to fly again. “He seemed to think that meant I needed him to weave some. Several hours and curses later, he smashed some dishes, scared the stable boy, and made a few nasty comments about those of us with two hands. Specifically, he advised where I could shove one of mine.” He sighed again. “Now we still have no rope, and we are lacking in dishes as well.”

It was still early in the days of the First Age. Territory was still being established, towers and fortresses built, but already there were the expected groupings and divisions. Maglor had adopted a piece of land that bordered the area Maedhros was responsible for, yet still spent much time with Maedhros. Their brothers had all but moved away once the great fortress was completed, content with ruling their own realms carved out of the lands that Elu Thingol had not the power to oversee despite his claims that they were really unwelcomed invaders of a sort.

As for Fingon, he had not so much claimed land as been assigned to it. His general approach for the last several months had been to venture away as often as possible, and typically those ventures brought him here to Himring. He nodded at what Maglor said, thought it all over, then told him, “Go. Hunt. Enjoy the day. I will take care of him.”

The discussion, as far as Fingon was concerned, was over. He stood, stretched, and jogged towards the fortress. Maglor considered following, but decided the suggestion Fingon gave was far better than the one shouted by his brother when he left the fortress earlier. He whistled sharply, and within a few minutes all eight of his hawks were back on their perches. It took only a little time more to saddle his horse and ride out with a pair of his hawks for an afternoon of hunting, though the prey would not be what he had expected.

On his way across the hilly terrain, Maglor encountered the badly covered trail of orcs crossing one of the dirt roads. He approximated their numbers to be small – a scouting party perhaps – on foot and too close for comfort. Instead of riding back to gather others, Maglor rode bravely on.

He sped his pace when he came to fresh carnage and the signs of battle. It was never a contest – the armed orcs had slaughtered three dozen men and several women who appeared to have been protecting infants. Bodies of the Sindar had been left to bake in the sun, and Maglor paused, his horse dancing amid the slain. Torn between staying to properly care for the dead and pressing on, he growled in frustration and spurred his mount on.

The trail was easier to follow now, with an obvious addition of at least some survivors being brought along. Not about to allow them to be enslaved or worse, Maglor rode hard, releasing his hawks to fly ahead and track the orcs. They flew back in short order, prompting Maglor to test the limits of his mount’s speed.

It was early evening when he caught up to the orcs. Without a bow, he relied on his sword and a hunting knife, and the prowess learned from years of hunting with his brothers and cousins, at times without any weapons at all.

The first orc, the closest one, was killed quickly – a slit throat. The second, beside the first, was elbowed in the head, and disemboweled as he stumbled. Three and four had enough time to turn and try to defend themselves; they both fell to Maglor’s blade. The fifth had lifted a mace above his head, but one of the hawks shot down from the sky and clawed out an eyeball. Maglor sliced the orc’s head from his shoulders before he had stopped screaming.

Chained with their hands together and to each other, a string of battered and beaten children and women tried to huddle together and stay clear of their unexpected savior and his mighty rage. As the last orc was felled, cries of relief erupted, and tears of mourning fell.

Maglor stayed the night with them, and spent the morning tending to the dead after he showed the survivors to the path. They each pieced together enough of what the other said to communicate a little, and he prayed for a safe journey as the remaining few of the tribe he encountered slowly made their way to where they believed they would find another tribe. These nomadic Elves, so spread out across the lands, were prime targets for the orcs. He wondered as he rode home how many would survive in the coming years.

It was not Maedhros who greeted him when he returned, but Fingon. “His anger is no more. For now.”

Three coils of rope were presented to him. “Thank you, cousin. I had no idea you had the skill—“

“I do not.” Fingon patted Maglor on the shoulder as he left, dark clouds beginning to crowd the sky. “We shall meet again, cousin.”