[piosenniel]

The Master of His Lordship's Smiths,’ an officious voice 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.’

My brother’s death has been dismissed as a mishap! Endamir felt the urge to laugh welling up from some place deep within where reason blurred into madness. That shadowed place where thought and feeling jarred against one another; their sharp edges now gleaming in the unrelenting light, now sinking into unremitting darkness. And razor-edged they cut at him, so that the blood flowed ever and anew…and there was no healing.

A sudden weariness assailed Endamir, one of body and of spirit. The laughter died within. He was tired of this game. His head swung towards Malris as he spoke.

‘We seek free passage out of the Fortress, nothing more.’

And then to where the Chamberlain sat, his manner irritated by the lapse in protocol.

‘Maglor…awaits you in the Observatory Tower.’

Endamir stepped forward, grey eyes sharply cold as he spoke toward that empty chair. ‘We seek nothing from you. There is no need to ask your leave or leave of any who linger in this place of horrors.’ He bowed slightly, a grim smile on his face. ‘You can make our apologies to your lord, as you wish Chamberlain. My brother and I regret we have other business to attend to.’

Bearing Orëmir still upon his shoulder, Endamir turned and made his way from the chamber, heading toward the edge of the island where the ship was docked.