[Anguirel]

The Smith did not leave his position in front of the door. His frighteningly solid-looking hand grasped its iron knocker, sounding it again and again. Perhaps the Smith needed to maintain this activity to keep his appearance of physical form, which only hung over him while he laboured; or perhaps he had half a mind to the intimidating noice of iron slamming against iron, like a gong calling servants to the forge. Perhaps it was a gong calling servants to the forge.

"Insolent pups, I was instructed to become your master and to with you forge the Lord's armour, and I shall yet see it through. Unhand the only pupil who has obeyed me truly at once!"

When Oremir, Lomwe, and Lindir's set faces showed utter intransigence, the Elven-Smith's brow curved in fury.

"I brook no insubordination. I mean and will you no harm, but you must, and will, obey me."

Silence again hung in the air, punctured only by the physical, dull pummelings of the Elves struggling to restrain Endamir, and the Smith impacting the knocker upon its iron bed, again and again.

"Disobedience to me," the Smith said at last, "is treachery against the Lord Maedhros. You are assaulting and wronging your companion, who is loyal yet. Remember that I have no choice now."

The spirit knocked upon the door one final time before vanishing. Yet as ever he voice still sounded; a low, almost dirge-like whisper, whose sibilances and assonances the Elves could deduce were the ancient forms of High Quenya of the Noldorin dialect, spoken only by the most able and mighty of that race. They could hear only repeated uses of the verb "to bind", and the name Curufinwe; a name associated with two Noldorin only, the elder and the younger, the greatest and the most notorious.

At first cobwebs, silver threads they seemed, the lines of dancing light that coiled from about the anvil, from piles of arms abandoned in corners, from the great mailcoat, unquestionably that of a mighty Lord, that lay upon the Smith's work table. These slender patterns came from these things, yet were not born of them. And the chant of their maker, their conjuror, murmured on.

Fetters of truesilver, Elven-fair, they seemed; and though they bound with a will that could not be gainsaid, they seemed to call out, to urge a willingness to submit. As they reached the ankles of the resisting Elves, they caused no pain or tightness as they held fast; but coldness, certainly, not physical coldness, for they seemed as gently warm as the room, but a sort of invincible logic that was not prepared to surrender or to melt, not though the fires of Utumno burnt beneath it...

"Curufinwe, well you strove..." came the Master Smith's lilt...