Glorfindel held the Wizard's blue gaze for a moment, "What have you found?" he asked with a frown.
"We have found a door," Mithrandir looked from him to the master healer arranging his braids into their normal position falling over his chest. "A door which I cannot open." He paused momentarily to let the gravity of his words sink in, "But I believe that our friend can."
"You are wasting your time." Finbaran insisted, shaking his head. His silver eyes shifted between the faces around him. He looked at Fundin, but the dwarf's eyes were narrowed in suspicion.
"Considering that our primary suspect has just become our primary victim, I very much doubt that, Master Ataxo," Glorfindel growled.
Finbaran balled his fists and closed his eyes. He seemed to shrink inside the secret dimensions of his mind. "I did not hurt the elfling I swear it on the Anvil of my lord." He laughed nervously, looking up at Glorfindel. His gaze was full of swirling secrets. "I know not what has befallen our Sylvan guest." Finbaran shook his head, "but his condition was poor when he arrived," he tried his best to sound convincing, "Sometimes elves just fade." He said bluntly, looking from face to face for an ally. "Mithradir," he smiled at the wizard, "Have you not enjoyed my pyrotechnics throughout these long ages? I have seen how you have delighted in my craft! I am no warrior, my good lords, I am an artist, not a Kinslayer."
The look of distant memory that crossed the wizard's face was pity and regret.
"Unfortunately, the two do not exclude each other." Glorfindel shook his head.
Just then there was the sound of a commotion outside. The double doors to the infirmary opened inward and a group of guards poured in, carrying the covered body of Iston on a bier between them. They were quickly followed by Lhossiel who staggered in the arms of one of her fellow march wardens. She wept in choking, desperate sobs that echoed in the rafters and seemed to tear through her small body.
"Will you let me examine the body?" Finbaran asked Glorfindel, craning his neck to see around the taller elf.
"Absolutely not," the golden warrior said, following the new arrivals with his eyes. He turned to Erestor, "I want to examine the body myself." He said and the librarian nodded. "Take Master Tentaluntë and find out what's behind that door." Glorfindel ordered, sharing a look with the Wizard. "You have my permission to set him on fire if he does not comply." He did not see the nasty look that the Master healer shot to his back as he followed the newcomers into the surgery.
"That will not be necessary." Finbaran smiled sarcastically and stepped around the wizard with his chin raised, "if you want to waste my time, I suppose we had best get it over with." He cocked one eyebrow at the dwarf, "I assume that you will want to see this."
The dwarf raised a bushy eyebrow, "Aye, a real water lock is a thing of beauty, Master elf."
Finbaran sighed, but looking down at the unfortunate creature, breathing so loudly that the old physician worried for his heath, beady black eyes peering up at him, round and expectant, Finbaran found that he could not deny any member of his race.
So it was that Erestor, Mithrandir, and the dwarven warrior were led by a very rattled and deeply insulted Finbaran down through the cold storage, through the long, winding path at the bottom of the crevasse to where the water washed away the bottom of the cavern. The water from earlier had dried, and the bare expanse of rock once more looked entirely unremarkable.
Tentaluntë sighed audibly again and mumbled something bout an inquisition. He nearly vanished into the darkness in his black silk robes, disappearing except for the slightly lopsided gleam of his eyes. Holding his long sleeve back, he moistened his right hand in the flowing water. He paused, taking a deep breath and shaking his head as if he could not believe what he was about to do, stood in front of the wall. He pressed his palm flat to the stone surface. For a moment, nothing happened, then, so bright that they hung in the eyes for minutes afterward, eight blazing beams of silver blue light shot out from his hand, shooting across the vast surface of the rock, forming the star of the house of Fëanor. The lines split, forked, and twisted themselves into star, bright Tengwar in rotating, shifting calligraphy that spiraled out from the center.
"I haven't seen a proper water lock in three thousand years," Erestor said to Mithrandir, sounding impressed.
"This reminds me of Narvi's work." The wizard observed.
"It's beautiful." Breathed Fundin.
"I taught Narvi everything he knew." Finbaran shook the water from his hand with more than a little pride and watched the mechanism turn. The lines of text resolved into a single verse of poetry.
"By the grace of Mahal." Fundin shook his head.
"So, to the god of steel and stone, pour out a little drink, Aule, who Earths proud pillars made, who mountain's steel foundations sink, ye who pass this arch of light," Erestor struggled with a word, "no evil here permit, who life and death in balance bear the creator lord will make them fit." The Librarian read aloud. It was in a very old form of Quenya, in an obscure script and a nearly illegible font. He held his breath when he recognized what he had read and fixed the wizard with a look of shock.
"Fascinating," Mithrandir whispered as the wall seemed to vanish in a snap of Finbaran's moistened fingers and the sudden rush of air filling a vacuum where several tons of stone had been. In front of him, there gaped a tunnel receding into darkness. It had been carved into the cavern wall in perfectly smooth faces. He folded his hands behind his back and stepped into the darkness. Lights bloomed in hazy blue lines along the path as he went forward.
"I did not realize the cult of Aulé still had a presence among the Noldor remaining in Endor, Master Tentaluntë," Erestor said to his fleeing form.
"I would expect you to know little of those histories you did not write yourself, my dear Erestor." Finbaran quipped. With a glance at the Wizard, the librarian followed him into the passage. They were followed by the dwarf, who stood there momentarily in awe as if he could sense something that the others could not. The lights raced on ahead of them and illuminated another set of doors. These were made from iron and had only a single gem in the center. Finbaran held one eye to the iron door, and the gem flashed with a clear light. He stood back as there was a sound of a distant and complicated mechanism releasing.
"The people of Imladris have benefited immensely from the blessings of my lord over the years, my dear counselor," Finbaran said. The door sank into the ground with a low, hydraulic hiss, and he stepped over it. There was another door beyond. "Save me the sanctimony."
"How many doors are there?" Erestor asked, choosing to ignore the heresy. Looking back, he saw that the first door that they had passed was sliding shut.
"Nine, My lord." He had done something because the two halves of the steel doors were swinging back. They journeyed onward, deeper and deeper into the earth. Indeed, they passed through nine doors, each with its own unique and ingenious lock, and as they passed deeper into the ground, they became aware that they were leaving the safe bounds of Rivendell behind them.
"We must have gone at least a mile," Erestor noted as they reached the final gate, a simply crafted wooden door that opened with a plain key from Finbaran's belt.
"Some of the protective spells around the valley can be disruptive to my work." The master healer explained. He stepped through the door, and the wizard followed him. Mithrandir stopped with an audible intake of breath. Erestor had to step around Mithrandir to see what had halted him in his tracks.
"Ai Eru." The elf gasped. Standing before him, smiling radiantly and glowing from within, was the lady Celebrian.
.
Glorfindel looked down at the body with his hands on his hips as Lyra pulled aside the white blanket. Lhossiel gasped and went to touch her husband's still face. She fell upon his body in grief, clutching onto his curled hands, screaming out her misery even as her comrade held her from behind. Whispering words of comfort in their strange woodland dialect. Glorfindel shook his head in pity as he examined the body superficially and energetically.
The elf was dead beyond even the skills of the master healers of Imladris to revive. His limbs had begun to stiffen, and his hands folded in on themselves upon his chest. The expression on the cold face was one of deep sadness. His eyes were closed and already appeared sunken.
Glorfindel touched the top of the Sylvan's plaited head, then his throat, heart, and belly. Gently feeling for the last fading fingerprints of spirit as it fled for the halls of Mandos. The body was thin as if from many months of sickness and disuse, but there was no wound on him or sign that he had been attacked.
"He died of grief," Glorfindel observed. He had seen it many times over his long life.
"Why would he leave me?" Lhossiel was begging as her lieutenant embraced her and rocked her back and forth.
Glorfindel shook his head, "why indeed?" he frowned. "Did anything happen that might have upset him?"
"I know not, my lord!" she shook her head, "I returned from thanking Lord Elrond and found the window broken and my husband gone."
His eyes then noticed something which Erestor had not. There was blood on the dead elf's hands. But something was wrong, for it was not the dried color one would expect to see on the flesh of a corpse that had spent the night lying under a drift of leaves. It was fresh. Glorfindel looked more closely, and as he gently removed the grieving widow's hand, his eyes became round.
"Lhossiel," the golden Warrior asked in an even voice, turning her small hand over in his own, "How did you cut yourself?" but he knew in that instant that driving a shard of glass into another being's back would leave such marks on the aggressor. They made eye contact over her husband's corpse, and the sylvan Elleth's gaze went from aggrieved to shocked to filled with fiery madness.
"Lhossiel!" Lyra exclaimed, seeing the blood.
"He said that he would give Iston back his words if I just did what he said." The elleth confessed tearfully. "Not my fault that all the half-breeds look alike." The warden who had been comforting her stepped back in confusion, and Glorfindel quickly rotated his grip to grab the widow's wrist.
"I'm taking you into custody," he told her, still incredulous.
"If I finish what I started, he will bring my Iston back." She muttered, nodding as if this was perfectly logical. He studied the elleth, trying to understand her motives. A part of Iston's mind must have still been intact. He had seen her twisted and corrupted in grief for his condition and, unable to communicate and lost in his own addled mind. He must have died from the horror of it. A wave of sympathy swept over the Golden Warrior's fëa. To use the love of a husband and wife against one another, the Enemy truly knew no limit to his cruelty.
He had not seen her palm the scalpel from the tray of surgeon's tools. As a warrior, Glorfindel had finely honed reflexes, especially with the broadsword, but for simple speed, it was hard to match the draw of one of Thranduil's scouts. He was too slow to catch her as she buried the short blade into his forearm with all her strength. It hit a tendon, and he gasped in pain and released his grip. She jerked it out of the wound, and blood sprayed across the body of the dead elf.
Lhossiel pushed the wheeled surgical table towards Glorfindel and got just enough of a head start to make it to the doors. She burst into the hallway and saw two sentries running toward the commotion from either direction. For a moment, it seemed that her capture would be inevitable.
Glorfindel shouldered through the doors, clutching his bloody arm, streaks of red already finding their way toward his elbow. The nurse was behind him, holding a towel to help stem the flow of blood, but he paid her know mmind.
"Lhossiel," he spoke to her gently. She turned to him, winked, and with a vertical leap, she disappeared into the carved Mallorn branches of the shadowed tracery.