[piosenniel]

Despite the seriousness of the problem for which they sought the Diviner’s aid, Endamir was suddenly beset by a fit of laughter. No, not laughter . . . giggling was the more exact term. He put his hands on his knees and lowered his head for a few moments, taking in some deep breaths in an effort to regain his composure.

‘What must Lómwë think of me . . . laughing like this?’ he wondered to himself. ‘I am standing here admidst the wrack and ruin of this fortress of the Quendi, my old friend teetering on the edge of death . . . that should be sobering enough . . .’ He raised up his head to look about the ruins. ‘And yet, here I am spooked by crows, beset by mad spirits, looking about at empty air, and listening to voices on the wind. It is a jarring mixture of the serious and the absurd.’

Endamir stood up fully and took a deep breath. Up the stairs, in the gloomy recesses of some windowless room, or so he supposed it, there came the low whirring of little wings, the sharp protests of metal upon stone. ‘What do you suppose is up there?’ he questioned aloud, even as he made for the steps. ‘Creatures of Morgoth? Metal winged bats of some sort? No, it cannot be. It was the Seneschal’s voice we heard, I’m sure . . .’