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Malris was startled by the uproar taking place around Lindir and Orėmir's peculiar catch; for himself, he was far more interested at first in the massive, plump wild salmon. Fish and fishing had been other tastes he had acquired during the long years of the Third Age. He had been absorbed in watching the flesh roast darker in the heat of the fire.
"All very well," he murmured with a smile, "and your roasting, Lindir, seems proficient enough; but have you tried the delights of salmon, properly cut, in the form which Uien sends?"
It was then that he realised that Lindir was not listening, nor was he intrigued now in the slightest by the stake and its rich, succulent burden.
"Aye, that is right," Lindir was saying, gesturing at the helm by Orėmir's leg. "Look here. Underneath the encrusted grime is a layer of pure gold. And from the weight of the thing, I would guess that the entire helm may be crafted in gold. I can not imagine who would ever want a helm with such weight. It would give me a massive headache."
Malris nodded as he approached. "Well, it is a puzzle. They would need the physique of an Elf, but the craftsmanship is not in the fine Noldorin style...'tis cruder to my eyes...more utilitarian, a helm such as the Atani wear...'twould seem it's some kind of elf-man's...adanedhel..." He jerked back as, seconds after Lindir, he realised the helmet's provenance. Lindir spoke for him.
"The Dragon-Helm of Dor-Lomin, which graced the head of the Mannish warrior Turin..."
"Turin, who fell to Glaurung away to the south? How did his helm reach Himring?" Malris muttered sceptically. But there seemed indeed no other answer to the riddle. More than anything else, Lindir's excitement, as he clutched the thing like a child, could not be in vain; nor Endamir's foreboding as he reproached the elf-smith-for truly, Lindir was a smith again in this hour.
"This is a foredoomed thing, and doubly so for being found in this cursed place."
Lindir, though, did not-could not-relent. The arguing voices grew louder and harsher. Malris sprang between the two Elves.
"We cannot come to dissension over this thing. Why, it is mere Orc-plunder. Think clearly. Himring was abandoned after the Nirnaeth. Turin died decades later. It was not Elves who brought this helm here, but Orc-soldiers, robbing a dead man's corpse they would never have dared to near in life. They rested in the ruins of the lower parts of Himring...and there they lost it, perhaps by mishap, or trickery, or fate.
"Once this might have been a great Man's helmet. Now it is soiled by the hands of cowards and scavengers, the same sort who killed my wife and Lomwė's. Do not grip it to you any longer, Lindir. It is not worthy of you."
A new smell interrupted the proceedings. The roasting salmon was starting to burn.
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