Island of Sorrow RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

For a long time, the Lord of Mandos said nothing. He stared off into the distance as violent and sorrowful images paraded through his mind. The lives and deeds of these suppliants could not be readily altered or erased. None of the three had any understanding of the perils they would face by their decision to remain within the Halls of Remembrance to support their beloved Lady. While memory may bring solace and warmth, it can also be a sharp blade cutting through to the most painful of times, a frightening reminder of paths not taken or bloody deeds that refuse to go away.

Dare he grant them what they had asked? In all the years that he had born this sceptre, never had one of the corrupted Elves petitioned to be admitted to the inner halls. Generally, they sulked along the outer edges, afraid to step inside or to go any further. The mere fact that these three had voiced this request told him that something was beginning to come alive within their fëar that seemingly should have died long years before. He remembered within the music a tiny refrain, a few notes tentative and half hidden, that might, with patience and effort, become something greater and more melodious.

No, he could not turn them down. Yet their words so innocently spoken could not be left unchallenged. Turning towards Calëlindo, he spoke in a gruff voice, "Do you remember what your name means? The meaning of "Calëlindo" in the common tongue? I thought not...." Nàmo's voice became gentler as he began to explain, "It means song of light, or one whose song brings light into the world. If you stay here, it will not be easy. You will learn what this light is, as will your companions, and you will also come to see how far you have fallen short. That is hard, even for those who have lived a traditional Elven life, and for you it will be even more difficult. Think on this, each of you, and make sure this is what you want."

"And you Lady..." Here, Mandos turned to face Giledhel. "Are you certain you want these rascals to remain with you. You too have unfinished business, and the memories that come, some of them involving these poor corrupted creatures, will sometimes be hard. Can you look them in the eye and accept them for what they are, and the hard path they have travelled? Or would you prefer to do your thinking on your own, in solace and isolation? I will not say "yes" to these three unless it is your wish that they remain within your company."

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


‘It is I who wish to remain in their company, my Lord.’ Giledhel stepped forward from the other three Elves. ‘Do not banish me to my own solace and isolation. I have had enough of that in those long years after Malris had gone and I was left to the solace and isolation of cold stone.’ She looked toward Calëlindo and the others. ‘There are times I regret ever having left Valinor. The reasons of my younger years seem less well thought out in retrospect. There were decisions made in haste and in the heat of the moment that had been better laid aside and given more consideration.’

‘I know my mind was hazy, clouded . . .’ she looked toward the three Elves. ‘It was easier that way,’ she went on. ‘I could pass over things, forget them.’ She looked about at the pleasant halls flooded with their subtle light. ‘I don’t have to do that here. I’m safe here. I felt that from the first.’

She paced a little before the Vala and the Elves. ‘I remember everything that happened to me,’ she said in an even voice; her eyes on the random patterns of the smooth, marbled floors. ‘And I remember your part in it,’ she went on in a subdued tone, looking at the three Elves. ‘My death and yours, and those years locked together in that room.’

‘I could have been completely lost, you know. But there was something in you, in each of you that I recognized and which gave me some hope. I remember the first time I reached out to what I’d seen. And again, I might have been lost then. Between us some tenuous connection was made, though . . . some thin, little line we wove between us. Grudgingly done at first, I think . . . but it became habit and habit done day in and day out forged certain bonds.’

‘You’ve said many times that I was kind to you . . . I think, though, it was as much for myself as it was for you. That kindness which you allowed and fostered even in your own way . . . it recalled me to myself. And for that I’m grateful . . . and thankful, too, that by some grace you were also benefited.’

‘I’ve made a lot of wrong decisions. It will take a long time to sort them out. And I can’t say I won’t make a few more.’ She glanced briefly at Lord Námo; then, returned her attention to Calëlindo, Salmarion, and Alcamírië. ‘If you will, I would ask that you allow me to stay in your company. I think we can continue to benefit each other . . . yes, I do think we can . . .’

*************************************

Child of the 7th Age's post

"Let it be so then, gracious lady, as you have requested. A boon for you and your three companions. Each of you may walk the gentle fields here and think long on what went right and wrong, and how you might want things to change or continue as your journey goes forward. There may be a moment when you leave these halls, but I think not for some time, and that day may never come. But for now it is enough that you have chosen the path of contemplation and vowed to help one another through your ties of friendship. Go now and find your way into my realm."

Mandos said no more but turned and walked away. The Vala did not think that these four would stay locked up in a single room as they had done for long years, but rather walk outward and explore. For the halls of Mandos are amazingly wide and capacious for those who choose to wander. He promised to keep an eye on them and see how their journey continued. Perhaps the trek would not be so easy as they blithely assumed at this time, yet also not so hard as he had first feared.

The male Elves especially intrigued him. So very few of the corrupted were brave or gentle enough to step within the halls of Mandos and face the memories of the ill deeds they had done. Out of the thousands that had passed in front of him, only a handful had the courage to stay. He had hoped someday this would change. Perhaps these three were a harbinger of better things to come. Would that the tangled web of shadows on Middle-eath would only straighten out and let in some light for poor Elves such as these! But the latter was too much to ask, especially with so much under the mastery of Sauron. For now Mandos was content to welcome his guests, offering them the Halls of Remembrance as a place of refuge and hard contemplation.

[Anguirel]

The mysteries of Valinor are deep, and jealously guarded from men's thoughts. To linger too long in the Lord of Mandos' caverns becomes a transgression. With a howl of northern wind out of Forochel the tale returns for the present to the Isle of Himling, the Fortress of Himring, strange remnant of Elvendom that was.

Two figures, tall, beautiful and filled with a happiness no Noldo had known truly in that place, as they thought, for many Ages. The bliss of the forge.

For as Malris and Tasareni worked at the stair that led to their one path of escape, they felt as if they were combining in a work of craftsmanship too long denied. The original joy of the Noldor that Melkor twisted to cause so much pain. The innocent art of knowledge, creation and invention, as with Malris' broadsword and Tasa's blade they wordlessly struggled with the silent rock.

Nor did they work in utter darkness. White-red starlike sparks flew up as the stair proved a whetstone, not a destroyer, of their weapons, forged with talents long lost to Men. And the runes of Curufin's dedication on Cirlach's length seemed brighter than ever. The stair groaned its resistance with horrific grinding, but the Elves felt their mastery, as if they dealt with a scolding child.

And so the cacophonous clanging of the crag gave way to the hum of a hinge's harmony. The stair creaked upwards, revealing the downwards shaft to a corridor below.

Formed by Naugrim. Unseen by Orcs. Restored by Noldor. The way was open.

***

Yet in one respect Malris and Tasa had been mistaken. Himring still knew the crash of hammer on cast-iron anvil, even as it still knew the routine of the sentries who still, trained by their Seneschal, guarded the gatehouse.

Further on into the Dwarven Corridors, the sound of a smithy reverberated. A craftsman's tool pounded a horseshoe into shape; then a knife; then the boss of a shield; then, with different tools, a ring.

The Master Smith could devise swords that sliced Trollflesh like tender lamb, and broochs that carried the letters of entire epic poems in delicate engraving.

There was no one like him any more. But he was looking forward, oh yes, so much, to having pupils again.

[Envinyatar]

It was day, now, and the dark maw of the now revealed corridor beckoned. Orëmir was scarce convinced it looked any more inviting or safer for them in the morning’s light.

‘Well, then, let’s light the other torch, he said, putting his against that of Lómwë’s already lit one. Each of them had secured two or three other spare brands to their packs since they did not know how long the journey in the dark might take.

Lómwë ducked into the opening, holding his brand before him. Endamir followed, as Orëmir brought up the rear. They had traveled for a length of time down the twisting passageway when a very faint sound, one far away, seemed to reverberate against the stone hallways.

‘Do you hear that?’ Orëmir called out, hastening to be abreast now of his brother and Lómwë. ‘What can it be?’

[piosenniel]

Endamir could hear the chink – chink that rang off the stones. And at first he thought that it was the sound of stone tumbling against itself. But it was too regular in rhythm.

He put his hand out against the underground corridors wall. The stone was smooth, intact, unlike the unfortunate stones of the above-ground fortress that had been battered down by the battles and the elements. In a way, it relieved him that this part of Maedhros’ stand against the Darkness from the North still stood solid. It was as if the fëar of the Noldor still shown out brightly against the deep shadows of those awful days.

At least he hoped it was something of Elvenkind or of their allies that kept the way below the fortress whole.

‘I can’t say what it might be, Orëmir. I have no “feeling”, good or ill, at present to tell me what to do. ‘I say, though, let’s proceed with caution. Our weapons near to hand.’

[Anguirel]

From the vast array of tools laid out on the rack and the shelves of oak against the wall, the Master Smith had selected a single, tiny hammer, gleaming sharply in the darkness. Sometimes the light it threw was reflected, revealing for a moment part of a vast, antiquated cuirass, the hilt of a sword, the long, bitter head of a lance, for those with the eyes to see. But no one who needed eyes had come here for a long, long time: of that the Smith had made sure. He knew that he was the only artist left here; outside there were lost, lone spirits, as he would have been had he lacked the focus of the armoury, to keep and to cherish. There were Trolls that made lairs in collapsing masonry, and far worse around the borders of the lake that was still slowly destroying the ancient craft of the Dwarves, seeping patiently and destructively...

He had no time to think of them. He was almost as busy as he had ever been. For some days the premonition had lingered in his head, the persistent voice of an Elven woman, he knew not, cared not, who.

"Six pupils are coming to you, Master Smith. Six pupils just for you. Gather them all and teach them, whether or not they wish to attend. Teach them everything you know, and do not let them leave your apprenticeship till the Lord himself comes back!"

Till the Lord himself comes back. That was a certainty, the way the elven woman had spoken it. And it was clear which Lord, too. Not the younger one, he was already here, anyone could hear that, and the forge had never interested him unduly. No! The true Master of Himring was returning to inspect his servants!

Whether or not they wish to attend. The Master Smith was a practical operator. Clearly there must be a forceful but not unkind means of restraint should the pupils choose to disobey their teacher.

Clink, clink went the little hammer on the slender, smooth rings of silver, knotting them through each other. And the Smith whispered lost Curufin's charm of mastery and intelligence as the fetters began to form, wriggling in a peaceable, but cogent life of their own.

Clink, clink...

[Anguirel]

Now fully committed to their journey through the long derelict Corridors, Malris and Tasa advanced cautiously. Their eyes had grown wide and filled with light; Malris' like that of the stars, while Tasa retained something of Tilion's vessel's sheen. Both stretched out their free arms, for touch as well as eyesight would be vital here. Exhausted temporarily, perhaps, with the moving of the slab that had granted them passage, Malris' sword Cirlach now seemed dull as lead, its runes entirely undiscernible.

"I have some flint and tinder in my pack," Tasa ventured. "Should we light it, or spare it for an occasion of greater need?"

"Nay, I see naught amiss with lighting it," Malris responded. "We are now without two advantages we shall gradually acrue-our adjusting eyes, and the return of the rune-light. For now, the flint will be our greatest help."

They edged back against a wall and Tasa unbuckled her supplies, searching for the stones and the dry twigs that they needed. When these were found, it seemed there was fewer fuel than might be expected-very likely some sticks had been dropped in Tasa's mountainside slip-but they both reckoned it would be just about enough, and they set out soon with new hope and light.

Their hearing had grown acute as their eyes struggled, and both felt the presence of still, but slightly rippling, water, in a large body, not so far away; which Malris guessed might be the lake which had brought the Dwarve's old toils to a stop. Hoping that it might lead them eventually to seawater, they decided to proceed in its direction.

Ripples do not form in lakes by mere idle whim.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The air was old, stale, and it made Tasa shiver. The smell of ancient rock long enclosed hung on the still air and the darkness was stifling, barely changed by the flickering torchlight.

Tasa could see the faint gleam of dark water in the distance. Where before they had walked with fingers touching the damp stone walls, now the passageway opened wider and Tasa and Malris walked side by side in expectant silence, both listening for any sound save that of their soft footsteps.

A subtle whisper born by the windless darkness seemed to meet Tasa's ears.

"Malris," she whispered, her voice like small bells heard from afar in the fog of a cold morning. "Did you say something just now?"

[Anguirel]

Malris looked at her curiously. "Not aloud," he said, a little uncertainly, for indeed he had begun to think deeply on his brief exchange with the houseless shade of his wife, his mind straying from his and Tasa's current, obscure path.

She had gone West, well and good, part of his mind reassured him.

But had she done so with a hidden store of bitterness against his long, unavoidable absence? And other bones been liberated too?

Could she still be in the company of the accursed yrch creatures, her defilers and murderers, who had turned her against him? And at this the hand which held Cirlach shivered, very slightly. Yet he was certain he had let out no sound.

He turned to Tasa, solicitude in his gaze. "Are you certain it was a voice you heard? Not some bestial cry or a movement of the water?" he whispered back. It seemed dangerous to besmirch this place of long silence with chatter.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"No... I am not certain." Her words were little more than a breath, a warm breeze against the cold. It had seemed little more than this hiss of a disturbed snake basking in sunlight, yet there had been more to it... the soft lilt of an intended utterance.

She closed her eyes, relaxing her shoulders and standing tall, listening. Whatever it had been, it was no longer, or was well hidden.

"No." she added finally. "It must have been the whisper of pebbles sliding into the lake, or some such natural thing."

She did not mention to him the harsh voice, like plate armor falling, grinding across hard rock, that now murmered grating nothings in the back of her mind and promised her to lay in wait on the far side of the lake.

"You truly heard nothing?" Her voice shook as she shivered against the sound that seemed not to be there.

[Firefoot]

Clink, clink. The ringing sound seemed to come from all directions and none, sounding at regular intervals that did not quite match the tempo of their steps. With every clink, Lómwë could feel his nerves growing tenser and tenser. He did not like caves or tunnels, least of all dark, damp ones like this that had no easy way out. He would be glad to see the light of day again. A shiver ran up his spine. If they saw the light of day again.

“It sounds like a hammer,” Lómwë realized. This revelation was hardly comforting. Noise so regular could hardly be natural, but still… a hammer would indicate something – someone – with knowledge to use it. Was there no end to the menaces of this place? And still the chinking continued.

“Is there nothing we can do?” he asked miserably. “I do not like this wandering, practically waiting to be attacked. Few that we have met on this island have been kindly to us, and I have little faith that this one will be an exception, so intent it seems on destroying my nerves.”

[piosenniel]

The corridor slanted downward and water had seeped in through cracks in the stone, making the way slippery. A number of times one or the other of the brothers had nearly slipped and fallen down.

The darkness consumed the edges of the light their brands threw out and pressed in against their spirits, too. Endamir had tried a number of times to get a feeling of where Malris and Tasa were, but either the pair was too far away or something deliberately hindered their effort to communicate. ‘Perhaps it is simply the thickness of the stone corridor,’ he said to himself after another futile attempt; that, and the fact that many thicknesses of earth and rock again hover all about us.’

The sound of the hammering grew louder the longer they went on. The corridor, itself, took several turnings, but he noted as they had gone along that there seemed to be no passageways running off it to either side.

They had used a number of the torches they’d brought with them when Endamir halted them at another turning of the corridor and said perhaps they had better go back. ‘Once we run out of what brands we have left, we will be in utter darkness. Let us go back to the opening and make another plan.’

He was just pushing them to turn round and retreat when one of them cried out. ‘Look there, behind you! There’s a light!’

[Envinyatar]

The hammering had stopped, he noted, and only the dying echoes of Endamir’s voice and his surprised reply eddied dully against the stone walls. Orëmir narrowed his eyes at what seemed a thin slit of flickering orange light that now danced in the corridor a little ways away from him. It grew larger as whatever door had barred it from their sight now opened wider on silent hinges.

The last of their torches were already burning to a dangerous low. There was no choice but to go forward now toward the source of the light, or retreat in the absolute darkness of the underground corridor.

[Anguirel]

"You truly heard nothing?"

"Nothing but the sound of the water ahead," Malris replied, a grim note in his voice. Tasa was clearly hearing something more precise, more frightening, than she let on.

Another foul former lackey of Morgoth, aimless in spirit form? The cowardice of the creatures incensed the Elf. When in the days of the old wars a dozen of them would not have faced him in open battle...now their pathetic remnant, a mere handful of defeated, homeless, pointless souls with nothing to do but brood, dared to assault those he held dear without facing him first...

But was he no better than them? Had his success been any greater? He had not held Himring. He had not defended Giledhel. The fortress and the marriage, as foretold, had crumbled...what was he to do now? What was he here for?

"Tasa," he uttered aloud, "whatever you hear from It...Him...do not let it sway you. Concentrate your mind on anything of light and joy you recall, even in this place. I will try to help you. We are Elves of the Light. There is so much we knew of happiness ere Doom fell upon our people...think of Valinor, Tasa, with all your might."

As he spoke, the sword he bore started to regain its lustre-a mercy as the lighted tinder flickered disturbingly. Around them light not so unlike that of Tilion fell, as the Tengwar runes of Cirlach remembered the Silver Tree their maker had invoked long ago.

Yet Tasa shuddered. "Malris...the blade...put it away for the present."

He looked at her in utter confusion, before he saw the expression...almost one of pain...on her face.

"As you wish," he whispered back simply, sheathing the sword, and something of the shadow of the mind passed from Tasa's complexion, even as the shadows of the wall regained it.

They were now walking side by side, the passage having widened considerably as they drew closer to the sound of the liquid. The water was lapping louder than ever, and by the different stamp of the darkness ahead-its coherence, its almost gelatinous wholeness-they knew they looked upon the lake they had sought. Yet it was as still as black as those parts of the walls not revealed by Tasa's torch.

But it was not to remain so. A curve of greyish, dirty-white foam like a scimitar's slash told of the movements the Elves had already heard...

[Anguirel]

The tapping of the hammer was by now almost musical; a music only the Noldor could understand and respond to. Had a Dwarf heard it, they would have spat and muttered about Elf nonsense, stamping their feet to ward off unease; had one of the Sindar or other Teleri been witnesses, they would have touched sprays of hawthorn to ward off evil; while Aftercomers would simply have fallen into contented sleep, and never woken up. But to the four Noldor, despite themselves, it would be as lively as the most haunting of dances, yet with more artistry added. This was the forging of their fathers that they witnessed, that had been sacred in Valinor, fell in Middle-Earth, but was always beautiful.

The sound seemed to make the light grow stronger, pushing back the shadows and half-blinding the sunstarved walkers.

Then the artist beyond the light laid the tiny hammer down, and a clear, proud, and, yes, almost breathless voice, filled with the anticipation of Ages, called out:

"Who visits the Armoury of the Lord Nelyafinwe, Guardian of Himring Hill and Head of the House of Fëanor? Step into the chamber if ye be true Noldor, as I surmise."

[piosenniel]

‘Maedhros' smith?’ Endamir looked puzzled at the greeting. ‘It sounds like the old fellow, but surely he cannot have survived all these years hiding out here beneath the fortress.’ He smiled in the darkness. ‘He did love his forge, though, didn’t he?’

His hand strayed to the sword he wore at his side. ‘Do you remember, Orëmir, when my blade was nicked badly in one of our skirmishes beyond the northern wall?’ Nelyafinwe wanted to make me a new blade, but I told him how our mother had designed the traceries and our father had forged them for us . . . and well, no other blade would do for me.’ Endamir laughed, recalling the arched look the smith had given him at first. ‘But the old fellow worked his magic on it, until none could tell the blade had ever had a fault.’

‘Come! Let’s go see him. Perhaps he has seen Malris and Tasa or at least can aid us in our search.’

Endamir approached the doorway lightly. ‘It is Endamir, here, son of Maltanië of Tirion the metals worker. I rode with Malris, who bears the great sword, Cirlach. You mended my blade for me once a long, long time ago. If it pleases, then yes . . . my companions and I would like to come in.’ He motioned for the others to follow.

[Anguirel]

The formal tone the voice had called out its challenge in now vanished, replaced with a palpable sense of joy, added to the previous excitement.

"Endamir, m'boy! But of course, splendid! And young Oremir...and-how could I forget?-were ye not acquainted to my best follower, Lindir? Wait...don't say that he too is here!"

The light engulfing the party stopped becoming threatening, fading away till it no longer blinded the Elves. They could now discern its source, a great hearth beyond what was undoubtedly an armoury and a forge, combined. But of the Smith himself there was no sign, though his voice continued to hail them amiably, and as if, too, he could now see them all.

"Tremendous, tremendous. Four of you," the Smith's voice paused here thoughtfully. "You spoke of Malris...did he survive the long ages?"

There was a resounding smash of iron on iron and the Smith suddenly coalesced into view, looking, if anything, more of flesh and blood than any of them. He was beating a bar of iron into shape with the largest hammer in his rack.

Physically, the old Elf was huge, broad, tall, and muscular. In fact, he seemed little changed from the days when Endamir or Lindir had known him in Himring, two Ages ago; which some of them found disconcerting...

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir hung back, reluctant to come inside and confront the Old Elf. He remembered hours spent over Nelyafinwe's forge with his master urging him to stay the course, to do and redo work should even the tiniest blemish be detected. It was because of the Old Elf's tutelage that he had become such a master in shaping metal. His own skills had been considerable but they were sharpened under the unrelenting pressure of one whose craft was second only to that of the mighty Fëanor and to Celebrimbor.

What would the great craftsman say if he knew that his poor student no longer even plied his hand at the forge? Lindir doubted that the Old Elf had heard of the Elven Rings or the foul deeds of Sauron that had led to the slaying of Celebrimbor and the ravaging of Eregion. In any event, Lindir was not about to tell him what had happened during those dark times in the Second Age or how the events had turned Lindir away from being a craftsman or even how things were fast deteriorating now on Middle-eath. He rarely talked of such things to others, his great sadness at what had happened and his feeling of responsibility, remaining quiet even among his companions.

Lindir leapt back as a great plume of flame went up from the forge and illumined the faces of all those standing in the room. He would rather be anyplace but here. He did not want to be discovered, to have to explain why Lindir the Great Craftsman was now Lindir, the simple scout. But there was something more to his reluctance. Although Lindir had always respected the Old Elf's skills with metal, he had never totally trusted him. There was something about the gleem in Nelyafinwe's eye when he worked with a chunk of iron or gold, coaxing and pressing the metal to bend to his will. There was a reckless greediness, a desire to have things his own way, to make the world bend to his desire, that Lindir found objectionable.

If truth be told, Lindir had been the first of the lesser craftsmen to be suspicious of Annatar and even of Celebrimbor's secret actions in those days long past. His suspicions had been stirred because he had seen a similar look on the face of this craftmaster from Himring many years before. No, whatever Endamir and the other companions might think, however much they might ply the Old Elf with questions, Lindir would not believe or trust him in the slightest.

The craftsman turned scout reached out with his mind, his thoughts blocked from others but extending towards his companion Endamir. Be careful, my friend. Do not trust this one, nor put faith in his answers. For I know him well. Take care less we be worse off than when we began. "

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa's mind was occupied yet with the sounds... she wondered at them, fearful, her Noldorian curiosity pushing her to learn more even as her softer side recoiled in horror. From a soft whisper, the not-sound had grown to a cacophony of battle, metal scraping metal, the screams of the dying, the splitting of flesh and muscle and the slow drip of blood from an already forgotten corpse.

Surely... surely it could not be imagination? If Malris heard nothing, if he felt no such relentless anger slipping effortlessly to surround them, then it must be only within her mind.

Tasa probed her defenses, finding her mental barriers weak, shattered in places from her previous battles with Giledhel and her minions. She could not block another mental assault. She could only hope for a physical battle where long unused muscles could effortlessly wield dancing twin blades. She could master any opponent with speed and cunning whether or not she matched him for strength. Yet she felt naked in the burning bright of midday, weaponless in the midst of battle. She heard the soft hiss of a blade removed from its sheath; the sound had no purpose, no reason for existence. Cirlach had long been in Malris's hand; Tasa's blades were strapped crossways upon her back, beneath her pack, ready to be drawn in haste from either side of her long, silvery golden braid.

As light from Cirlach's runes filled the dead air, Tasa witnessed her body as though from afar, seeing, rather than feeling, each limb begin to shiver and then shudder. She felt the air grow colder, though Malris seemed not to. The sound had come with the renewed light.

"Malris... the blade... put it away for the present."

He did as she asked, worry lines etching his brow.

The black lake now stood before them, deeper than either could guess, a surface neither dared to break. They stood a moment, watching, Tasa still struggling against that which every instinct told her to be true, yet that which Malris could not confirm even with an uncertain shiver against the lurking unknown.

A curve of white foam slashing across the murky blackness caught Tasa's attention. She reached over, taking hold of Malris's left arm, eyes wide with fear.

"There is something in the water..."

He placed his hand on Cirlach's hilt and the grating noise, before deadened once more to nearly a whisper, roared somewhere within Tasa's ears, echoing through her head. Tears fell in soft streams down her white cheeks.

"No!" The curve in the water cut closer to them, moving in a swift 's' pattern, coming from far and away to the left. Tasa grabbed Malris's sword hand and released it equally quickly as though it had burned.

With the contact, she had heard a rageful shriek of near ecstasy. With release had simply returned the grating of before; the angry battle sounds with a voice and unknown words.

Whatever moved just below the surface came nearer and nearer, now almost upon them.

"Malris... do not draw your blade... Please... your sword, it is the--"

She screamed over the sounds that Malris still heard nothing of, petrified, her words laced with agony. Sounds of steel on granite clawed through her mind, blocking her own voice from her. Malris's attention wavered between Tasa and the water. He had to draw his sword. The creature was upon them.

As a rain of oily liquid burst forth from the edge of the lake, a roar, now heard by all, came forth as well, accompanied by the putrid smell of stagnant water laced with rotting plants and small, dying creatures. Malris's blade was in his hand in a breath's time. Tasa's cold hand released his arm and she fell, unconscious, to the damp stone beneath them.

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir caught the warning Lindir had given to his brother. He could not read what underlay the craftsman’s words and he wondered at them. Surely Lindir of all Elves would revere the Master Smith. But along with Lindir’s silent warning words was a look upon his face of reluctance mixed with dread . . . a very real aversion.

There was really no choice, though, but to go into the fire lit chambers of the old Elven Smith. The last of their brands had sputtered out in the deep darkness of the corridor. Orëmir kept his eyes and ears open for any trap the Master Smith might spring upon them. But he seemed harmless enough, and was so genuinely pleased to see them all. And try as he might, Orëmir could not sense any foul presence near them in the chamber.

‘Master Smith, we are seeking that very Malris that you named. He and another companion of ours have gotten separated from us. And we fear they are lost somewhere in the great underground hallways of the fortress.’

Orëmir stepped closer to the forge, his eyes on the Smith as the light from the fire played about his form. ‘Might you have heard them? We need to find them and be on our way.'

[Anguirel]

Neither the Smith nor the four Elves of the search party could know of the desperate straits Malris now faced; his companion slumped on the subterranean shingle, a horror he could scarcely put into words lurching towards him.

It was such a thing as the tales scarcely hinted at; the abominations of Nan Dungortheb, the vast gnawing Things that the Dwarves cursed in their sagas, the serpents commanded by Osse in the heights of his fury...it had something of all these, but it could not be precisely identified with which.

Its flesh was to look at like that of a garden slug, foulest of kelvar, loathed even by the Laiquendi, devourer of nature. Yet when Malris, his sword in both hands, swung it into one of the limbs that approached, he felt endurance he had only known in Trollflesh. He wrested Cirlach, burning and whirring crazily, from the mollusc-wound...the limb retracted, but was replaced intstantly by another.

The lake-Thing was bloated, obese, and as the Elf fought against it it seemed to him that it fluctuated like a whirlpool, points in it sinking deeper into itself, dragging in the filth of the lake, compelling even he to edge slowly closer, though he resisted it with haughty power and contempt. The enemy had no head that he could discern, no part of it more crucial than another. Malris even wondered if it was not one monstrosity, but many bound together.

"Maedhros!" he yelled, the old battle-cry pouring out with ease. "Maedhros! Take that..."

For a moment he felt It touch his flesh glancingly, and he felt as if everything wholesome was draining out of him, leaving him to become another hopeless, half-dead fish being. Then he slashed Cirlach down on the nearest length of Its invasions, and he sprang higher up the lake's bank, pulling Tasa along by the arm.

"Ulmo! Uinen who ever knew mercy!" he shouted, tears in his eyes, scarcely feeling his voice his own now, his left hand continuing to strike in defence against the tentacular pursuit, while his right gripped Tasa firmly.

And to his unending amazement, he saw a slightly darker, solider shape some distance away; no rock, he realised, but a raft of dark wood. If he could reach it they might yet cross the Lake and find a way to the light and the rest of the company...

[Anguirel]

Back in the armoury, the Smith frowned in thought at Oremir's words, and carefully laid down his iron hammer. The moment the tool rest unsupported on the slab of stone that was the craftsman's desk, the Master Smith once again, and just as instantaneously, vanished. His voice continued in the same tone as if nothing had happened.

"So Malris had a companion, you say?...I wonder..."

But whatever the great blacksmith had wondered, he did not tell it, switching his tone.

"I am sorry. I am being inhospitable, my friends. I have little in the way of food here, but his Lordship kept a good cellar beyond this armoury, and I know the location of the key. Do find places to sit, and shall I fetch you some hot wine to refresh yourselves? It is so very long," and invisible, merry laughter travelled the air, "since I've had a visit, after all."

The armoury was at least warm, and there was plenty of space on great oaken benches by the fire; which in itself, if looked at closer, was interesting, seeming to stem not from coals, or from wood, but from bands of metal arranged curiously, with siphons pointing upwards. Those who remembered the Smith best would recall his eccentric heat distribution projects. He had apparently, over the long years, perfected one; the basking feeling spread throughout the room, a welcome change.

"As for Malris," the voice cut in after a pause, "I'll get back to him in due..."

At this moment the Smith appeared to the Elves again, his tall figure hunched at the lock of a low threshold, turning a key in its lock to open the door.

"...time. But first...I wonder...have you heard certain...singing...at night time? And have you come to the same conclusion about it..."

The door swings open. The Smith is again heard but not seen.

"...as I have?"

[Firefoot]

Lómwë was liking this situation less and less as the conversation progressed. Although he at first had been relieved to discover that the source of the clinking appeared to be no more malicious than the helpful spirits who had let them use the gatehouse, the smith’s many questions did not sit well with him. Lómwë had also noticed how the smith had not answered Orëmir’s question about Malris and Tasa, in either negative or affirmative, instead putting it off, as if there were secrets to be kept. And Lómwë had had contact with too many evil spirits to trust this one at face value. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but seeing that the smith unlock the door immediately made him wonder if he wasn’t going to try to imprison them.

Nevertheless, he uneasily took a seat on one of the benches near the fire, keeping his sword close to hand, although he did not know how much use it would have. Carefully, he answered, “Yes, we have heard singing, on the first night we arrived. But as to conclusions we have drawn, I do not know that all of ours are the same. For myself, I have not made up my mind.” He decided to press the smith for some more information and see if he was similarly evasive; if he continued to dodge their questions, Lómwë would truly start to suspect him of less than honorable motives. “I am curious, however, about what conclusion you say you have drawn. You have been here much longer than any of us and have surely had more time to study the matter.”

[Anguirel]

For some time the Smith seemed to be otherwise engaged in the wine cellar beyond, leaving Lomwe's cautious query drifting on the air. The Master Smith's voice continued to reach the four Elves was they rested in the heat, intermingled with the clangour of bottles and glasses being moved about.

"Ah, the Hithlum vintage...awfully fine...reserved for his Lordship and the brothers of course, not common folk like us, I'm keeping it so he can have his customary drink after he admires the new mail...well...ah, yes, this is perfect. Thargelion-made! Tremendous, tremendous...now, five of these seven goblets...I mean...four, I don't drink myself any longer, sadly..."

Before long a tray, several silver cups and a bottle of white wine upon it, could be seen advancing, at a constant speed, firmly, unfaltering, towards the party. The Elves realised that the unseen Smith must be carrying it.

"Now, then. As to this voice-do have a drink, by the way, I'll just lay it down on this slab...there-the Voice. This young fella-" here Lomwe realised he was being referred to-"says you heard it on the first night you came, but I'll wager you heard it on every night since as well, no?"

A pause hung in the air, before Oremir, wanting to bring the Smith to his point, nodded. Had he been visible, the Noldor felt, they would have seen the Smith nodding back, before he went on.

"Aye. Of course it's tricky to measure time down here-time of day, that is, light and twilight and season, for the chronometre I forged can give me a fine arithmetical answer."

Several of these words seemed to be technical jargon, most likely of the Smith's invention, though Quenya in basis. Only Lindir recognised them, remembering tinkerings of long ago.

"But as I reckon it," the Master Smith said, "the song rings out, clear as a clarion or a great bell, in the dying hours of twilight. Even down here it can be heard. Over-powering beauty, innovation, poetry, sadness. The Voice sings of the Noldolante, the tragic but heroic fall of our race. And I cry, though there be none to see nor hear it. I weep dry tears...that Song told me everything that had happened since the Nirnaeth, everything since I plunged into the Orcs on this thresholds and slew enough to force them out, before my body broke...before I refused my summons. From it I know of the death of six of my seven lords. Five of those fates I believe. But one...I have proof is false. I digress..."

The Smith paused, portentously. Perhaps he had a little sense of drama.

"The Second Son of Feanor is on Himring's Hill, and has been ever since the end of the First Age. The Song is his. It can be, can come from, no other."

[Child of the 7th Age]

The Smith's words echoed eerily throughout the chamber. The tenor of the voice reminded Lindir all too much of a creature with flailing tentacles intent on beguiling his chosen prey before he ensnared and engulfed them. The Elf was not about to be swallowed up. Conquering his very real fear, Lindir took another step inside the room and stared the Smith in the eye, "Have you seen this shadow of the night? Have you stood before him as I now stand before you? Many have heard tales of how Maglor wanders the shores of the world, singing laments of despair and regret. Perhaps your story is no more than one of these."

Lindir refused to turn aside. What was said here was too important, for himself personally if no one else. He gathered his wits and plunged ahead, determined to speak the truth as he saw it, whatever the consequences might be. "And what if your story is true? If Maglor was alive, truly alive, he would come to meet his old friends. The Maglor I knew would not tantalize those who love him and stay hidden from their view. And if Maglor still bears a living body but his mind leads him to such deception, then he is not the Lord I once knew. I will have no part of it."

"Or are you perhaps saying that Maglor is only a shadow creature, such as you and the Diviner have become? If so, he has naught to do with us, who still stand here among the living. When I came to this isle, I understood not the line between dreams and reality, the trench that stands between the living and the dead. But having come ashore and seen what has happened to people I loved, I begin to comprehend that awful truth. There is no hanging onto Arda after the body has departed. To do so brings only sadness and pity. If the song we hear comes from a shadowy apparition, we can do nothing to help. For each Elf bears responsibility for his own fëa. It is not I who must look deep inside Maglor and make the decision that it is time to depart. It is he alone who can do that."

No, Master Smith, I care about one thing only, and it is not chasing after shadows. Where are Tasa and Malris? For they are my friends. Why do you seek to entice us with this singing spirit when our concerns and duties lie with our companions, who hopefully still stand among the living? Have you forgotten what it is to be an Elf? Answser us now, and we will leave you in peace."

[Anguirel]

As Lindir talked, all else fell quiet. The silence lasted even after his fiery reply was over, as if the burning words, blazing to hide the fear behind them, still hung in the warm air, not suffering any to follow them.

Then the Smith spoke, wherever he was. His voice was stern, exasperated, schoolmasterly.

"I believe the insult to my...state of being...was one you should not have uttered, Lindir. In this place you must have met many of the Houseless Ones. I remember how to be an Elf a good deal better than most. I recover, even, the appearance of a body when I toil in any way, such were the chains of love that bound me to work in life.

"I have not forgotten to be an Elf. I fear you've forgotten to be a friend, young one, for all your bombast. I said I would get to your Malris in due time and I do not lie."

Another pound sounded on the anvil and the Master Smith was before them again, hammering a grieve into shape. It was crafted of bronze and gleamed strongly in the fire-light. The Smith's black hair was wild behind him, tossed by his continual, slamming motion.

"I care not what you think, young one, of my assurance that Maglor is at the keep. I told it merely so you'd understand why I, a plain worker in metals, pay heed to some echoing minstrel's fancy. Some time ago...the night before last as you'd know it, perchance...the Singer told of a wife and a husband, long ago sundered, who were to meet again briefly come the daylight. I was confused, certainly; for when I hear Maglor, usually his strains pertain to my work. I hear of armour forged, worn to battle, swords broken and made anew, gratitude for martial services rendered...listen this eve and perhaps it'll be in similar vein."

The Smith had finished the grieve, and so naturally could not, once more, be seen.

"So you might say it was out of the ordinary. But Malris had a wife, didn't he, lost in the retreat? Perhaps, sour Lindir, Maglor is not so uncaring of you and your kind after all. But I have more to tell, and if you were hard put to listen to me last time, you'll be twenty times more so now..."

[Envinyatar]

There was something in the evasive way the Smith spoke that grated on Orëmir. He sat his glass of wine to one side, untouched. To drink of it, he felt, would give some sign of camaraderie between him and the Smith. And he was not sure he wanted that bond, tenuous as it might be, between them.

Or perhaps the old fellow had become a dotard of some sort, as men who had lived a great span of years were often wont to do. Perhaps his mind lived only in the past . . . was fixed on it and those who moved within the history of his frail mind.

But he thought not. The Smith’s hands still held steady to the tasks at hand. And it was the way he artfully turned the questions back to the subject of his own interest . . . as a skilful smith would do with a piece of work he wished to capture in the metals turning on his anvil and twisting in his fire.

And what of Maglor? Weary as he might have been after the ages long thirst for the silmarils, still did he not follow his brother into one last folly? Did he not take the oath and call upon himself the Everlasting Dark?

Hemmed in by the surrounding rock, by the darkness in the caverns beyond this chamber, Orëmir felt a certain unease settle in upon him. He turned to Endamir, staying his brother’s arm as it lifted the wine to his lips.

‘Do not drink, brother mine. Stay your hand! The Smith has other things on his mind than helping us to find our friends.’ He shifted his glance to the Smith for a moment and then away as quickly. 'There are other ways in which he seems to want to direct our thoughts . . . paths of his own . . . ways in which he seems to want to instruct us. His talk is too diverting for our own needs.' Orëmir narrowed his eyes. 'I want to find our other two companions and leave this grace-forsaken scrap of land, this haunted remnant of old glories and defeats.'

His eyes looked about noting a few old pieces of wood stacked near the far wall of the chamber. ‘Let us make our farewells and thank-you’s to him for his hospitality . . . and be on our way.’

[piosenniel]

Endamir leaned against his brother, a slightly bewildered look on his face. ‘Do you fear the wine’s been tampered with?’ he whispered, setting his glass off to one side of him. His gaze lingered on the space where the Smith had been, where his voice had continued to come from. ‘He seems harmless enough, doesn’t he? What is so worrisome to you?’

He rocked back and forth on his cold stone seat a few times, thinking. ‘I do find it odd how he can manipulate objects, though he has no body with which to do so.’ Endamir looked at Lindir and Lómwë. Their faces seemed to reflect the same misgivings his brother held.

For one brief moment he felt a small twinge of doubt, but it cleared quickly away. ‘I just don’t get the same sense of foreboding as you, Orëmir,’ he continued, whispering to his brother. ‘He still seems the kind, helpful fellow I once knew. A little older, a little more prone to telling long stories and with the wish not to be hurried about it or distracted with too many questions.’ Endamir raised a brow toward his brother. ‘He said he has some knowledge of Malris and Tasa – or so I thought. And that he would get to them in good time.’

Unthinking, he picked up his glass of wine and took a sip. ‘It’s really quite good,’ he offered, noting the look of reproof on Orëmir’s face. ‘And really, if he said he would get back to them, it must mean that really they are alright. Don’t you think so? So we might as well enjoy ourselves in the company of an old friend while we wait . . .’ His voice had risen to a louder pitch as he spoke on.

Another small twinge of doubt assailed him. But it was easily flicked away with another sip of wine. And for half a breath, he might have thought his reasoning a little tenuous. But he was feeling quite comfortable in the warmth of the chamber and he was finding the Smith’s voice more and more . . . well, soothing . . .

‘I for one would like to hear more of what the Smith has to say . . .’ Endamir yawned widely, he was feeling a little tired and really . . . it was so comfortable here . . .

[Anguirel]

The Smith's voice was warm, although a little weary now.

"That's right, drink up, drink up. Wine greatly refreshes body and spirit...though not spirit alone, to my sorrow...and you must all be very tired. You've found a save refuge now...though we will have to get to work soon, you know."

This remark would puzzle the listening Elves, save Endamir; what work was referred to? Was the Master Smith going to help them search for Malris and Tasa? Endamir would merely smile gratefully and pour himself a little more wine. But the Smith was at last getting to the point.

"So. From Maglor's song we can deduce that our mutual friend Malris found his wife...in spirit form, I presume, poor lady. Where, you will ask, did he go after that? Well, my braves, I have had a strange dream-for I dream still-and I deem that it came out of the West.

"In this dream, which fell upon me after Maglor's harp-chords had long died away, I saw an Elf-maid-so she seemed, and yet more, for there was great power about her. I now believe she was one of the haidmaidens of the Lords of the West.

"She told me that my lord Maedhros had never died. She asked me what token, what proof of his passing I had; and I could only tell of the Noldolante's strains telling of his downfall. She dismissed it, in her clear, beauteous voice, as the despair of his broken brother, Maglor, and no truth. For she bade me prepare for the coming of the Lord of Himring; told me of six pupils who were close at hand, and told me to join with them to craft a new suit of armour for the Lord..."

The Smith appeared by the entrance through which the Elves had entered the armoury, whether by design or by chance blocking any escape.

"There are only four of you, aye. But Malris was ever forthright and impetuous. I say he and the companion you speak of are already with my Lord! We must, must prepare for their coming! Fie, sloth! To work, to work!"

The wine in Endamir's veins would rise up in passion, as if urging him to his feet, to seize a hammer in his hands and obey the Smith's instructions...

***

A raft. It still seemed impossible. Once such a miracle had come about, whether by Uinen's doing, or Ulmo's, or by chance, Malris felt little surprise at the speed with which he was able to leap onto the dark, yet remarkably unrotted and sound wood, though Tasa, still sunken in her cruel swoon, was tucked under his right arm, though Cirlach was gripped in his left, though the dread Master-Thing of the lake still pursued him.

The raft gained, Malris laid Tasa down, none too gently, for the urgency of his plight could spare no such thoughts. A black ash pole was upon the raft; he seized it up, having sheathed Cirlach, and paddled with all the vitality he possessed. Now it was down to the trial of the body, not the mind or spirit; and in the body Malris knew his game. As he thrust the pole, spear-like, through the foetid water, he forgot almost everything, felt like an a mitious youth in Tirion, about to embark on an especially crucial foot-race...

But like the very image of despair and ignobility, guilt and reproach, the creature of the unending, befouling mass could not be shaken off. Like despair, it made its gains slowly; inch by inch, it sloughed itself forward, then faster, and the gap between the mindless, purposeless, savage Thing of nihilism, and the raft, that stubborn but brittle hope, grew narrow to the point where cold terror almost conquered the struggling ferryman...

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa woke suddenly to gentle sounds of water splashing lightly very near to her ears and to the cloying smell of dampened old wood. She recognized the feel of a watercraft without a second thought and the lap of lake water against her fingertips confirmed it.

She opened her eyes quickly, seeing nothing at first... the fire of their torch had gasped and sputtered to an irrevocable end in the onslaught of the water creature. She felt warmth on either side of her; Malris stood over her, pragmatic as he was of old, his legs keeping his unconscious companion stationary even as he concentrated their weight to the center of the raft for balance. He grasped the long pole with both hands, Cirlach sheathed.

It was with that observation that Tasa recoiled, her eyes clenched as tightly shut as her fists, and her body tensed. The point of the sheathed blade dangled near to her heart in a manner she could not help but find alarming and the feel of it, even inches away bored into her.

"Malris..." Through gritted teeth Tasareni forced the words, her voice shivering with the struggle. "It calls... Cirlach... Cirlach calls to... iron... Malris, the chains... I can hear the chains... they threaten to bind me... Malris make it stop, please make it stop..."

With tremendous effort she forced her body into submission, reaching up and grasping her companion's leg.

"Malris... please..."

[Envinyatar]

‘To work, to work!’

Orëmir’s eyes narrowed at the spirit’s command. Endamir had struggled groggily to his feet and even now reached forward to grasp a hammer in his hand.

‘Lindir! Grab my brother’s arm!’ Orëmir took a firm grip on his twin’s upper arm, restraining him from following after The Smith. It was by the barest of inches that he managed to duck as Endamir swung the heavy hammer at his head. Orëmir wrestled the tool gone weapon from his brother’s grip and it fell clattering to the stone floor.

‘Hurry! Let’s haul him back to the passage way.’

Half dragging the stumbling Endamir along, Lindir and Orëmir sped as quickly as the resisting figure would allow toward the entryway to the chamber. Orëmir reached out with his one free hand to grab at Lómwë’s cloak and spin him about in their direction.

‘This way, Lómwë! Get away from him!’

[piosenniel]

Two demons had tight hold of him. And the one foul creature was trying to trick him by using his brother’s voice. Orëmir would not handle him so roughly, would not keep him from something he truly wanted. Orëmir’d come with him, hadn’t he, even though he’d protested at length that this was a foolish, foolish trip. No . . . Orëmir would not do this to him.

Endamir struck out wildly with his feet, trying to kick at his captors. He pulled one arm free from the blackguard’s grip and swung willy-nilly at one of the foul creatures. ‘What have you done to my brother and my friends!?’ he cried.

There was a satisfying crunch as his fist connected with someone’s nose.

‘Help! Help!’ he cried louder. ‘They’re trying to kidnap me!’

[Firefoot]

The edges of Lómwë’s suspicion had been slowly worn away by the smith’s helpful manner. Perhaps he was not withholding information at all, merely choosing his own time and way to give it. By now, he had given them all the information they had asked for, seemingly as well as he could. He certainly seemed knowledgeable about the island, and he said Malris was coming here… would this not be a fine place to wait…?

He absently took another sip of wine. How strong was this stuff, anyway, that his head should feel so cloudy? He had not even drunk the full glass – and surely this was only the first? Lómwë thought so, but he could not remember clearly. He tried to follow the movement of the smith around the workshop and found the continued disappearing and reappearing increasingly disconcerting. He appeared in front of the doorway. Lómwë frowned. Blocking the doorway… like the hazily remembered lock and key…

“To work, to work!” the smith was now saying. To work? No… he was no smith… but he found himself slowly standing, as if to reach for one of the hammers. No, he ought to be fighting this, right...? Why was his mind so cloudy? He could hardly think; he felt almost dizzy. Dimly he heard Orëmir’s voice; Lómwë’s first inclination was to slap him – why was he talking so loudly? Wait, slap him – where had that come from? Oh, his head! Lómwë felt as if it might split open at any moment.

“This way, Lómwë! Get away from him!” Yes, of course! The fog in his head seemed to thin; he turned to follow Orëmir and Lindir, trying to lead a thrashing Endamir away from the chamber. How foolishly the smith was making them act! This thought brought a new wave of pain through his head; he just wanted to lay down and let it pass – and with this very thought the pain seemed to subside slightly. Lay down, yes… No! He plunged forward after Orëmir and Lindir just in time to have his face whacked by Endamir’s fist. For a second Lómwë thought he would pass out as the general pain in his head centralized in his now broken nose, and it was without thinking that he swung out at the source of this new pain. His fist connected solidly with Endamir’s head even as Endamir called out for help.

In a moment his thoughts cleared despite the intensified pain, and he realized just what he had done. What was this place – the smith! – doing to him!? But the looks he received from Lindir and Orëmir were mixed incredulity, confusion, and relief at Endamir’s abated struggling. “Come on! Let’s carry him out,” said Lómwë, feeling rather abashed. They really had to get away from here…

[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...

[Envinyatar]

What deviltry was this? Chains of Elven truesilver, bright and strong, came snaking across the floor toward his ankles. They were borne on the words the Smith wove in the chamber; subtle, transient words just beyond the reach of even the keen ears of the Elves. But words none the less filled with old power. Orëmir had no gift or skill to ward off the foulness that was now contrived to bind him and his companions.

Worse, though, were the effects of the Smith’s false wizardry on his brother. Endamir seemed ensorcelled; bound not by visible chains but by more insidious fetters which robbed him of his judgment and his good sense.

Orëmir’s hands and arms were not yet bound. And the light links of the chains had not yet tightened on his ankles when he drew his blade.

‘Let go my brother, fiend! Was his mind not befogged he would not be the “loyal” puppet your wine and words have made him!’ he cried to the Smith. ‘Free us all, lest you fall altogether into shadow and are shown rightly to now be the Constrainer’s tool.’

He stepped as much as the chains would allow toward where he'd last seen the Smith. Orëmir raised his sword and made to strike . . .

[piosenniel]

‘Let go my brother, fiend!’

There was something familiar about the voice, though what it was exactly Endamir could not say. It came from one of those Elves who had tried to carry him off from the Smith’s chambers. Who was he speaking of? That other man, perhaps, the shorter one . . . with his softer, artistic face. He too had tried to pull him away from the Smith.

Endamir watched with some satisfaction as the chains crept close to the limbs of the miscreants. His own hands ached to be about the Master’s business.

A sudden movement on the part of the shouting Elf alarmed him. In the fire’s light the Elf’s blade glinted wildly as he made to strike at the Master Smith. For one short moment, on the crosspiece of the blade, a faint inscription picked up the light catching Endamir’s attention. It made him pause, some memory struggling to the fore of his thoughts.

And as quickly as it had come, it faded.

This man was threatening the Smith. Endamir drew his own blade. He thrust at the attacker, deflecting the blow aimed at the Master.

‘Submit!’ Endamir hissed at the Elf, lunging at him with his sword . . .

[Envinyatar]

Time stretched out in discrete increments as Orëmir watched his brother draw the blade that was twin to his own. He searched Endamir’s face for any sign that his brother knew him. There was none. All hope fled as Endamir advanced upon him. Wrath contorted his features and a madness shone in his eyes.

‘Brother!’ he called as Endamir made a thrusting feint. Orëmir pushed it to the side with a quick side sweep of his blade. ‘Brother! Do you not know me?’ Endamir’s blade was up once more, clashing against his own.

The fetters grew more tight about Orëmir’s ankles. His brother, unencumbered by the silvered chains, moved with a certain grace as he drew closer to his Master’s perceived foe. Orëmir blocked the rain of blows as best he could, trying desperately to keep his blade from off his brother’s body. Endamir for his part fought fiercely to get inside his foe’s defenses.

In the end, Endamir made a wild thrust at him. And had he been the enemy, Orëmir would have slain him then. But he could not bring himself to this defense. Nor could he, now as the fetters hobbled his movement, simply step out of harm’s way.

It was no surprise, then, as the last blow met the center of his chest. The sharp iron point of the blade sliced through him, the weight of his brother placed well behind it. A look of great sadness came over Orëmir’s face as the metal rent his heart.

His spirit, even before his body had hit the stone floor, fled West.

[piosenniel]

Endamir pulled his blade from the fallen Elf’s body and turned toward the two others who had protested the Master’s instructions. ‘Drop your weapons, insolent pups!’ he hissed at them, echoing the Smith’s own words. ‘Else you meet the same fate as your black-hearted companion!’

He brandished the bloodied sword at them. The silver chains moved relentlessly about the two men’s limbs he noted, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.

‘There is work to be done here. Great work! And all under the hand of the Master. Drop your weapons, you disobedient curs. The task is at hand . . .’

[Firefoot]

Lómwë could feel the fogginess trying to return to his mind, and having already succumbed once, he knew he would be susceptible to it were he not on his guard. But Lómwë had already conquered the demons of his own mind and was now all the stronger for it; he kept the fogginess at bay, and thus felt the full horror of Endamir’s deed. Now Lómwë wished he had hit Endamir’s head harder.

In his distraction, he had forgotten to watch for the bewitched chains, and saw that one of his ankles had been fettered; even now the chain was snaking up his leg.

“There is work to be done here. Great work! And all under the hand of the Master. Drop your weapons, you disobedient curs. The task is at hand,” said Endamir, seeming to find satisfaction at Orëmir's death and at his and Lindir’s bindings.

“Great work!” Lómwë spat out the words as he still struggled with the relentless chains. “Great work! You call murdering your brother great work! Endamir, you have become a fool. He was your brother, Endamir, your brother!”

“And you!” Lómwë rounded on the smith. “What was your intent in bringing us here? To make us all as mad as yourself – as mad as you have made Endamir, as mad as you almost made me? Is this your great and mighty work?”

But his attacks seemed to fall on deaf ears, and he felt the beginnings of despair as he cried out, “Kill me like you killed Orëmir, but I won’t do your work, however you try to force me. I will not do this Orc-work.”

[piosenniel]

Orëmir . . . The name rang familiarly in Endamir’s mind for the shortest of moments. Less than a breath it niggled at his thoughts, just out of reach. The foggy shadows reached up and swallowed it leaving only the hollow name eddying in his mind.

‘Orëmir,’ he said, tasting the sound of it on his tongue. Must be the name of the one that fell to my blade. Look how his henchman now takes up the cry.

Endamir turned his attention now to Lómwë, the one who had cried out. ‘Don’t talk to him like that!’ he rasped as the Elf accused the Smith of vile things. He slapped him hard on the cheek with the flat of his blade.

‘Will not do orc-work! Who are you to call the Master an orc, you base fool?! He will lift you up; give your paltry little life a glorious purpose.’

He brought up the tip of his blade, touching it lightly to the side of Lómwë’s neck. The fetters had not yet tightened about the Elf’s arms he noted. Narrowing his eyes he gave Lómwë a dismissive look. Deep in his eyes, barely veiled, though, burned a lust to clean away this base piece of chaff from the workshop; to spill his blood on the stones.

‘Go on, now. You know you want to draw your weapon and have at me; kill me even. Go on, why don’t you?’ he asked smugly. ‘You and your foul tongue are naught but forge fodder anyway . . .’