As I climb the stairs back to the others, terrified faces turn towards me. I am shaking all over. Only Artanar’s support prevents me from collapsing on the ground.  Everyone stands frozen and mute. I should say something, but I have no words. Someone else speaks.

“Eldar of Aman, we shall now go forth and deliver everyone from thraldom of this place! We shall go forth!”

Ingwil’s firm voice pulls us together, and we go on, further inside the mountain, where not a tiniest sliver of daylight penetrates the walls of stone. Endless tunnels stretch to all directions like an underground spider web. These passages lead to workshops and mines where the captives of Moringotto have toiled in slavery, to dark barren cells that have been their only place of rest, to torture chambers where their souls have been broken. The very sight of all these places… I cry. We cry. My heart bleeds for what I see.

Yet not as much as for the sight of those we have come to free. First, we come upon them in one of the mining shafts, a dank and cold tunnel. Maybe some fifty people are huddled together in the corner there. At the sight of our torches they shield their eyes or look away; it almost seems as if the light hurts them.

“Fear nothing,” says Ingwil. “We are here to free you.”

Some of the captives turn slowly, blinking against the light. A few hushed whispers and some quiet sobs echo in the silence, yet none of them speaks aloud. The faces turned towards us are pale and gaunt. Their clothing is scarce; it keeps away neither the cold, nor the dankness. Many bear wounds and scars on their bodies. And their eyes... Ai, Valar, their eyes…!

Their eyes are like windows of a long-forsaken house, and behind them lurks only emptiness. Their eyes are like frozen pools, sealing away with an impregnable shield all that was once alive and hopeful. Their eyes... their eyes are not the eyes of my people.

This is a nightmare. Our journey over the Sea. Endórë. This war. All of this. This is a nightmare, and it will fade with the first light of the morning. The Sun will rise, I will wake up, and the evil dream will be gone. Surely such horror cannot be present in Arda? For a brief while I convince myself of that.

But then my self-deception shatters. This is reality. These are my people. This is what Moringotto has done to them.

“Come, we shall lead you out of here,” my kinsman repeats. He takes a step towards them; they recoil, some cover their faces. “Do not be afraid. My name is Ingwil. We are of your kinsfolk. Please, do not be afraid.” A slight note of despair enters his voice. “Please.”

At first, only some muffled sounds from the corner break the silence, but then one steps forth and approaches us with slow, hesitant steps. The figure enters the ring of torchlight. It is a woman. Dark hair and pale skin, as much as can be discerned under the layers of grime and dust, mark her as one of the Noldor. She has been tall and beautiful once, but slavery has left deep marks. She is limping, her spine is bent, and a long scar disfigures her face. Still, her eyes glitter defiantly, almost wildly in the dim light. She stands before Ingwil and looks at him closely.

“The Valar - speak their names!”

Confused, Ingwil stares at her.

“Do it!” she repeats sharply, and he obeys, naming the Valar and the Valier. That is not enough. “And… songs. Songs to Elbereth. Do you know any?” Her intent gaze is still bound on Ingwil’s face.

Understanding dawns in my cousin’s eyes, and he starts to recite one of his own lays about Varda kindling the stars. For a short while the black, dank walls retreat, and we stand under a dome of dark velvet, as countless dots of light slowly appear above our heads and arrange in familiar constellations. Some other captives step forth slowly. A glimmer of uncertain, hesitant hope appears on their faces.

“Yes. You are of our kinsfolk,” admits the lady when Ingwil has fallen silent. Then she sighs. ”Something… happened. Our chains fell off. But we were not certain. We cannot be.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Never certain. Never safe. They have deceived us before. Kind words, fair forms… and then – pain. Terror.” Her wide eyes gleam with a feverish sheen.

“My lady, I understand.” Ingwil says gently. “But it is past. It is all in the past. Fear no more. We shall protect you.”

“Yes.” She draws a deep breath. “Yes. I believe you.” Slowly, her eyes clear, and she adds, “We shall help you to find the others and bring them out.”

Most of the captives have now risen to their feet and come forward. My heart clenches at the sight of the raw bruises around their wrists and ankles, of their unsteady, faltering steps.

“My lady, you should allow us to search for the others. You all should get out of this confinement as soon as you can, to receive care and healing.” 

She shakes her head. “No. You would not… you would not find all places. Our aid, weak as it is, may be of some use.” Her gaze passes her companions of misery. “Some of us do need to get out swiftly,” she admits. “But the others shall aid you.”

She speaks to them quietly, and they divide. Nearly half of the captives seek the door; most of them must be either supported or carried. The rest join us, guiding us along the dark passages, pointing towards new and new places of imprisonment. Without their help we would miss at least half of those, and hundreds would remain trapped in this place of terror.

We find only Elves. When someone remarks on that, the dark-haired lady merely shrugs.

“We are stronger,” she says shortly. “Better as slaves. The Secondborn were fed to Wargs and Orcs.”

We shudder, recalling the Warg-pit, and also hearing her nearly indifferent voice as she says this. But maybe this shield of indifference has been the only way to survive, the only way to retain a little bit of sanity in this unending nightmare.

“Who are you, lady, and how long have you been here?” asks Ingwil.

“Who am I…” At first she frowns, as if trying to unravel the meaning of the question, but then her confusion somewhat fades. “Failwen. I am Failwen. Yes. How long…? I know not.” She shrugs. “How do you measure time… here? I was captured in the Battle of Sudden Flame. My husband Gelmir is one of the lords of Nargothrond.” Failwen falls silent and stares ahead unblinking. “Was,” she then corrects herself quietly. “He was.” Her eyes are dark with memories, and she says nothing more for a long while, merely points to the doors to be opened, to shadowed hallways to be explored.

I do not know how much time passes; it seems to stand still in this place of torment. The scenes of suffering and misery soon blend together, but entwined with all I see is an overbearing sense of shame. We encounter Moringotto’s darkness now and are terrified. They suffered it for years. More than one hundred and thirty years of the Sun have passed since the Battle of Sudden Flame.

We have come to one of the lowest levels, to a tunnel with roughly hewn walls and a ceiling that nearly brushes our heads when Failwen’s strength falters. She stumbles and leans against the wall; her face is pale, her eyes closed.

“Lady Failwen, you must seek rest at once.” Ingwil approaches her. She opens her eyes, full of fear. Her breath comes in swift, painful gasps. My kinsman extends his hand towards her. “Please, allow me to help you.”

Failwen recoils at first, but then her eyes clear. Hesitantly she takes a step towards Ingwil and leans on his arm. My cousin looks at me, as if seeking my permission to go with her. I nod.

“Go, lady, we shall look in there,” I fill my voice with reassurance I do not feel.

“This passage yonder – it is the last.” Failwen’s voice is barely audible. She is trembling.

Ingwil leads her away, back towards the entrance. We remain in the torchlit twilight, the tunnel stretching in front of us. I draw a deep breath and turn towards the others.

“Let us go on.”

I shudder. What shall we find?