[Anguirel]

Even though he had ultimately been led into the Keep against his will, Malris still felt a part of himself shuddering with excitement at the prospect of once again looking upon the heart of Himring. He noted with a heady pride barely suppressed in his mind the sigils and marks of Maedhros and of Maglor carved together when they passed them; the great chambers, empty but all the more magnificent for it, flaunting their magnitude and purity; the torches, unlit but still apparently well-kept...here and there slabs of granite, marking where the soldiers of Himring's final garrison had fallen.

The Master-Smith ahead of them had reached a mighty pair of double-doors, bolted with a great...mast...of iron. "Beyond here lies..."

"The audience chamber, aye, of course I remember," Malris cut him off, sharply perhaps, but more due to impatience than malice. He walked forward and heaved one end of the bar; the Smith tugged at the other end. Dust, unmoved for Ages, showered about and haloed above the heads of the Elves, tinging their hair with argent. And the doors swung open.

“Do the rest of you not feel it?” Lómwë asked, breaking the miasma of silence that had fallen upon them throughout the journey. “Smith, where are you leading us through these twisting passages? Or rather, to whom? What are you not telling us?”

When the Smith protested that he was leading them as he had been bade, Malris found himself believing the spirit, but there was little time to argue.

The audience chamber of Himring was, unlike many of the rooms they had passed, still furnished; because its contents were carved out of the very stuff of the mountain. Against the walls rows of stone chairs jutted from the floor, the enduring seats of the Court and Council; an aisle separated the two groups of them; and at the end of that aisle stood two great rock thrones, one about a third smaller than the other. Finally, some yards away from the thrones but level with them, another small chair was positioned.

It was this chair that now moved, shaking and jerking, a voice coming haphazardly from its creaking.

"The Master of His Lordship's Smiths," it announced. "Malris, Standard Bearer to His Lordship. Lómwë, warrior of the outer Marches. Endamir, warrior of the Fortress; he carries his brother, and it appears there has been some...mishap. Lindir, Smith to His Lordship. Tasarënì, lately a warrior in His Lordship's Service, now a follower of Artanis."

"We know who we are...Chamberlain," Malris answered, "and indeed, we can keep you better up to date. I have not borne a Standard in Ages, and Lindir has long laid down his tools. Oremir was not hurt in a mishap, but murdered through the plots of the Diviner. We seek free passage out of the Fortress, nothing more."

"I apologise profoundly for any...lapse...in protocol," the Chamberlain's voice returned from the chair in an irritated tone. "Perhaps you would be interested to know that His Lordship Kanafinwe Makalaure Feanorion, called Maglor, wishes to meet with you. He finds the...official atmosphere...of the throne-room oppressive, though believe me, I have often tried to persuade him otherwise, and so awaits you in the Observatory Tower."