3. Transportation
Majestic, that was the word. Thorondor was majestic, what with his piercing jet-black eyes, shining beak, razor-sharp talons and gleaming golden-feathered wings, thirty fathoms wide.
Those wings had borne so many, had come swooping in to save the day countless times. Maedhros Thorondor had spared, coming just in time to stop the arrow of Fingon; those twain he had carried to Mithrim. The lifeless hröa of Fingolfin he had brought to the grief of Turgon. A wounded Beren and weeping Lúthien he had flown to the edge of Doriath. The body of Glorfindel he had recovered from the abyss.
But what thanks had he gotten, that spirit of the air? None, save from the one from whom it mattered: Lord Manwë. King of Eagles though he was, he was still only a vassal.
