Maedhros dangles from the face of a precipice upon Thangorodrim, the wrist of his right hand bound to the rock. He has been left there for around thirty years, yet the fire of life still burns within him, not yet extinguished.

Amidst the usually barren terrain of the Iron Mountains, his sharp grey eyes spot a figure. He calls out weakly, summoning what little strength he still has.

"I...was not expecting...to encounter anyone today." His voice rings clear, yet it is cracked with the parch of thirst. A draft of cold wind sents ashen smoke over the terrain, but the Elf barely reacts. His red hair hangs like a tangled curtain around him.

"A favor, if I can ask that of thee... bring me reprieve from my predicament. The only way I can escape my bonds... is through death now."