Stories passed between the students who studied under master Rúmil. The Lambengolmo kept a good library, what more could be said? Of course his students would pass along some of the more interesting tales they read in his books. Tales grow. They change, especially on the tongues of excitable young loremasters-to-be. Scribe-work was dull after all, and when Rúmil left the room, they had to keep themselves entertained somehow. So whispers passed between them as their pens scratched across the parchment in the candle-lit room.

"I read that in the deepest depths of Oromë's forests there lives a kind of beast he only allows his best huntsmen to hunt. A deer, but pure white with a single horn growing from it's head. It's larger than a normal dear- fiercer too. The horn has certain properties though. Apparently if it's powdered it can be used as a love charm. Finon has some, apparently. He's told me his cousin brought back the horn after..."

Finon kept a vial of powdered pearl around his neck and was one of the biggest braggarts in Tirion. If Oromë kept such beasts was immaterial. Only a fool would believe anything out of Finon's mouth.

"Alassië tells me that she has been reading of the fates of the Quendi who died before the Valar found us and brought us to Aman. Well you know how it was, far more dangerous there than it was here. She says that there were some who remained with their families, who even came with them During the Great Journey and still haunt them to this day..."

Was it not said that such unhoused fëar had fallen under the influence of Melkor? It seemed rather foolhardy then, to come into the realm of your enemy where they were at their most powerful. Of course, if Alassië had not just been picking and choosing which bits of lore made the best story to her...

"I heard that there was a cavern deep within Oromë's forests, and within that cavern there is a pool. It's depths are such that it's pure black, but when a light is shown over it, it acts as a mirror. I've heard that you can peer into this pool, and if you look hard enough you can see into Mandos..."

The most foolish of the tales told. Honestly, were they training to be loremasters, or the writer's of Tirion's latest melodrama?

Still...

Tales came from somewhere. There might have been a pool in some cave somewhere. And anything that gave birth to such a ludicrous story had to be interesting at the least.


The air was thick, made to feel all the heavier for the darkness that surrounded him. Fëanáro eyed the flickering torchlight that he carried with him warily. It would burn out soon enough, flames needed fuel to burn and when that ran out...Well, finding his way out of here in the dark would hardly make matters simpler.

Eru, but he should hope he would be out of this void-damned place by then. His sense of direction wasn't that bad after all.

You might've marked your path, however, oh noble explorer.

Shoving the thought to the back of his mind, Fëanáro edged his way through the darkness, feeling along the walls of the cavern. The air smelled of water, and goosebumps rose on his flesh as the temperature suddenly dropped. He had to be getting close at least, then. Well. His trip wouldn't have been utterly pointless, even if he did end up wandering these caverns for eternity, until eventually starving to death. There was that one little bright spot to look upon.

Fëanáro gave a bitter smirk at the thought.

The torchlight flickered again, crackling, sparking. Shadows lengthened, creeping in on the elf as his eyes shot to the light. Do not go out on me. Do not go out on me. His nails dug into his palms, knuckles turning white as he willed the flames to stay lit.

The flames stabilized. Fëanáro let out the breath he just realized he was holding, and continued on.

His footsteps were one of the few things he could hear in this place. The sound of his own breathing. The constant drip of water from stalagtights. His vision provided little better variety. A black void stretched before him, only interrupted by what little of the ground and walls were lit and stained red by the fire of his torch.

And then...something else? Fëanáro's brows drew together and he stopped in his tracks. He turned around, sure he'd heard another pair of footsteps behind him, but...

No one

His mind must have been playing tricks on him. Reaching out for some other sound, anything in this near perfect sensory isolation. Shaking his head, he turned around and walked on.

And then he heard it again.

Ilúvatar in Ëa! No, better if he ignored it. To acknowledge that it was real would be just another step towards madness. Fëanáro set his gaze straight ahead and kept walking on, ignoring the sounds.

That was becoming more difficult as they grew louder.

Yes, they were definitely footsteps, he was sure of it now. It was becoming too much to ignore.

He spun around on his heel, light flickering at the sudden movement. Fëanáro ignored it.

Before him stood a nís, perhaps somewhere around his own age. Ordinary looking, rather plain really, he noted as his eyes traveled over her form, but dressed practically. Her clothes were of a thick material, made for getting dirty and caught in brambles. Of course, considering she was down here of all places that was hardly a surprise.

"Another one out looking for ghosts then?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow and leaning up against the wall next to him, "Or did you happen to take a wrong turn somewhere? I'm fairy certain the way out is behind us." He drawled, gesturing in the direction they had both come from.