[Anguirel]

Malris walked through the gate in total silence, but his eyes would tell quite enough. They flashed alternately with fury and wonder; anger reaching the surface when he looked back at the Helm, amazement when he gazed skywards towards the Voice's second manifestation. To Lindir's reproach he made no sign of replying.

Instead, he turned abruptly and faced Oremir. "You seemed less than surprised," he said coldly, bitterly, "that Lindir brought the Dragonhelm of Dor-Lomin into this place, against my decision that it should be entrusted to Ulmo."

A pause, long enough to triple tension, short enough to cheat Oremir of a chance to defend himself.

"If you told me that you knew nothing of it, you would be a liar. You are one of the truest Elves I have known. Therefore confess to me. You allowed Lindir to bring the Helm, maybe even aided him. Some strip of pride, of exultation in possession, propelled you both-perhaps you too, Endamir," he adds sharply.

"I scarcely know who I can still trust. Oremir, both you and Lindir spoke against this voyage. At least have the strength to admit your fault. The ever-present Noldorin flaw of pride dragged that Helm to this place. It may have destroyed Lindir's hroar. Think on that, before you are so quick to accuse me again."

Malris now glanced back to Lomwe. "What now? I hope you all realise that all of us would lie in worse states than Lindir's were it not for that song. The strains of Maglor's Noldolante drove back the enemy this eve. It is in following those strains that the only hope of restoring Lindir in body and spirit lies. We must go into the fortress, and find the Voice's source, or at least others, like the spirits that cheered for us in the fighting's heat. And this time," he finished with a dark look at the Helm, "we leave accursed curiosities behind."

His answer made, Malris strode on into the courtyard's centre, and then turned left, pulled by the western wall, the cloisters, the chambers and the stairs that led to his old chambers, to the place he had inhabited with lost Giledhel. But something made him pause. He turned back to the southern wall, beckoning the others after. A noise was building up, slowly but surely; a vulgar Elven ditty sung among the common soldiers, fluttering on the breeze;

Yes, we will stand for Maitimo
For well-formed Coppertop
And bear our spears and scorn the wind
The snow, the orcs, we bear alike
We drive 'em back with fire and sword
For noble Coppertop!

It was a bizarre, incongruous sound, full of many comic memories quite ill-fitted to the situation; and despite themselves, despite division and danger, adversity and peril, despite Lindir's plight, something that was, absolutely literally, the ghost of a smile would shine briefly on six faces. Here and now, it was, far more than the echoing, epic beauty of Maglor's song that had repelled the Orcs, the sound of hope.