[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.