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Halted at every turn they tried to take on this cursed journey. Lómwë was sick of it and frustrated. It caused them all this grief, and now it offered healing and relief. Not likely – not here. Perhaps if they were lucky, this would be the last time, and no more dangers would be met. Lómwë doubted it. “Even if it was not the Smith who shut the door behind us,” he commented to no one in particular, “someone must have. Someone wants us to go this way.” Whether this was true or not did not ultimately matter, however, as they had no choice but to follow the Smith out through the back passage ways.
They passed through room after room, the most of their purposes seeming to have been forgotten long ago. So subtle was the change in the sorts of rooms and the feel of the air that Lómwë did not at first notice when they left the armory and were heading on into the ancient Keep. At least that seemed right…
Except that Lómwë slowly began to notice that these parts were feeling, well, more occupied, increasing his mistrust of the smith once more. He seemed honest enough now, but which of them really knew where he was leading them?
The feeling rose to its height as they were passing what seemed to once have been the audience chamber, and Lómwë refused to remain silent over it any longer. “Do the rest of you not feel it?” he asked. “Smith, where are you leading us through these twisting passages? Or rather, to whom? What are you not telling us?”
“I am only leading you out, as you asked,” said the Smith, sounding rather hurt.
“You would do better not to sound so wounded,” retorted Lómwë. But the Smith had no chance to respond because it now became very clear that they were not, in fact, alone…
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