The House of his Enemies and the Slayers of his Kin (джен)

Himring is probably the coldest place that Maeglin has ever been.
He tries to put away that thought, and not to shiver very visibly as he glances up through his lashes at Maedhros Fëanorion. Terrible and fell, his father had always said were the sons of Fëanor, and Maeglin can believe it. Of course, his mother’s stories had been different. But they had been few and far between.
Above, Maedhros shifts forwards in his high seat with a slight rustling of heavy robes, and Maeglin trembles involuntarily. Out of the cold, he promises himself. Only the cold.
“You wish to leave Gondolin,” rasps the lord of Himring, with no small amount of incredulity in his voice. “To come here?”