The Dark of Delossad

Dolthafaer frowned at the still form of Laelas – the name of the injured Elf they had come across in the darkness of Delossad – lying sprawled upon a thick bed of grass and half-closed flowers.  He was a Wood-Elf, friend of Barangolf and Tinurendis, one of those missing from the caravan that they had been searching for in the Hithaeglir. 

The poor fellow had only just managed to tell his tale before falling into a swoon.  Most of the details were still a mystery to Dolthafaer, not the least of which being the fact that the Elf had been found so far from the Hithaeglir.  But he did not much like the idea of rousing Laelas now, even to bring him the rest of the way to Imladris.  More than anything, it seemed to Dolthafaer, the Elf needed to rest.

And he also had another reason to linger in Delossad. 

Get out.

Dolthafaer glanced at the archway that led out of the shadowed ruin for what felt like the hundredth time.  Thendryt had left not long ago, sporting what was most likely a very broken nose from their brief altercation.  He found the Man’s presence in Delossad as bewildering as the Elf’s, and his behavior doubly so. 

It was clear to him that Thendryt had had no hand in Laelas’s plight, and so his business in Delossad had been completely unrelated.  But why, then, had he reacted so… strongly to their presence?  Get out, he had commanded them, again and again, practically snarling at them near the end.  Every one of his actions had been to drive them away.

From what?

What had he been doing here? 

Why had he wanted them to leave?

Dolthafaer stirred from his post beside Laelas and sauntered over to Luthelian, who was standing guard across the courtyard.  The young Arrow turned to him with bright eyes when he approached.

“Watch him,” he told her in a low tone.  “Let him rest for another two hours, and then we take him back to Imladris.  But for now… I would see what the Man was trying to hide from us.”

Luthelian answered with a salute, though he could tell by her expression that she very much wanted to join him on his search.  It could not be helped.  Laelas was helpless, and Thendryt could return at any moment – and besides that, Dolthafaer was reluctant to encourage her curiosity when it came to the Man.  Up until now, his conflict with Thendryt had been known only to himself, Parnard, and Yrill.  The last thing he wanted was rumour of this to reach the Warband, Khalis and Elisbeth. 

Not yet. 

So the Lord of the Arrow set off alone across the courtyard and up the crumbling stairs to the doorway of the ancient prison.  Large iron-studded doors still stood on corroded hinges, surprisingly sturdy despite their age, and they groaned in protest as he threw them open.  He wrinkled his nose at the scent of dust and stale air that greeted him.

He took a moment to light one of the torches that had been resting in heavily-cobwebbed grates, and he used it to light his path as he ventured further into Delossad.

The main corridor was long, very long, and empty, save for the occasional collapsed wall or toppled pillar and layers upon layers of dust.  For the most part, the connecting cells were still shut fast with iron grates, and Dolthafaer checked each one for signs of recent use.  The ones that were not sealed were empty and untouched.

The further Dolthafaer ventured into the dismal ruin, the more his skin crawled and his heart balked against the choking darkness.  The flickering torchlight cast haunting shadows about him as he walked, but nothing stirred.  He grit his teeth and pressed onwards.  Eventually, the passage became narrower and the cells became smaller.  The stonework seemed to be in poor repair.  It started to become colder, too.  The tattered remains of heavy drapery clung to the walls between the cells.

One of those drapes caught his eye. 

Cobwebs had been shaken off of the wall-hanging, and something reflected strangely in the torchlight – a dark, damp stain, worthy of note in the bone-dry ruin.  There was a smear on the wall nearby, drops on the floor. 

Blood.

Thendryt’s blood. 

Dolthafaer hesitated for a moment, standing still with the torch in his hand, listening – for sounds of approach from behind, for sounds of movement ahead.  Silence.  Darkness.  Nothing.  The Elf grasped the drape and pulled it aside, revealing a small open doorway.  At once the strong scent of blood nearly knocked him back on his heels.  Another moment of hesitation, another deep breath, and then he stepped inside. 

It was a small room, not half the size of the other cells.  It might have been a store room at one point.  But now – in the flickering torchlight, Dolthafaer saw banners lining the walls.  Torn banners.  Burt banners.  Some were new, some were old, but all were ruined and all of them bore the sign of the Iron Crown.  Piled on the floor were scattered bones and bits of armour and discarded weapons.  There was a heap of clasps in a far corner, all bearing the same mark as the banners. 

Angmarim, he guessed, as he sifted through the grim debris.  One skeleton was nearly intact, a dagger jutted through its shattered ribcage.  The blades were curved and their make unmistakable.  There were broken tables littered with scraps of parchment and broken pencils and other grim knickknacks.  He turned a strange jeweled hairpin over in his hand before setting it back.

He moved around the perimeter of the room, deliberately ignoring what waited for him in the center – a large stone slab, perhaps dragged in from a more damaged part of the prison.  Some unknown sense was urging him to ignore it, to leave it alone, and he found himself wrestling with the childlike impulse to simply leave this horrid room rather than face it. 

Once he had circled completely around the room, he stopped.  He drew a deep breath.  He turned, raising the torch to get a good look at what was arranged upon that table. 

Tools. 

Knives – sharp, dull, sharp, toothed.  Hooks.  Spikes.  Vices.  They were laid out neatly, methodically.  The tools themselves were clean, shining in the torchlight – but beneath, the stone table was soaked with blood. 

And beside them was a book, leatherbound and unadorned. 

Dolthafaer snatched up the book and all but fled from the darkness of the prison.

---

Once outside, Dolthafaer silenced his scout’s question with a look and moved to an empty part of the courtyard.  He settled down with his back to a tree and held the book in front of him. 

Day One.

Myrith. 

Fire. 

A page of careful sketches – but of which, Dolthafaer could not guess.  Splotches of ink – he assumed it were ink – made deliberately, but in no clear pattern.  One seemed to be in the shape of a crown.  Three pages of this.  And then…

Yorag. 

Nails.

Another page. 

Dyruk. 

Water.

Two more pages. 

Purz. 

Cutting.

More sketches, and this time, Dolthafaer began to understand their nature.  He flipped from page to page, stopping to study the occasional scratched note and messy diagram. 

A name illegible beneath a dark smear of blood or ink, and then pages upon pages of writing so messy that Dolthafaer could only catch one word out of ten.  Eventually, the scrawls focused into one steady stream:

WEAKNESS WEAKNESS WEAKNESS weakness weakness weAKNESS WEAKNESS WEAKNESS

Dolthafaer stared at this last page for a very long time, an unreadable expression on his face.  It was nearly dawn, he realized, dimly.  They would need to depart soon.  Laelas needed the attention of healers.

He held the mind of a madman in his hands.

But what to do with it?

After a moment of cool contemplation, the Lord of the Arrow took the last written page – WEAKNESS, WEAKNESS, WEAKNESS – and tore it from the book. 

He needed to find Yrill. 

He had a message to send the Man.