[piosenniel]

In the flickering light of the fire, Endamir's face bore a look of dismay, an awful dread. ‘You will excuse my words, Lindir, but I would speak plainly if that is indeed the heirloom of the House of Hador my brother has had the misfortune to find.’ He reached tentatively for the object, wanting to feel the weight of it; the heaviness of the metals themselves and the measure of years it bore. But Lindir kept it close; his fingers pinning it to his chest. Endamir withdrew his hands and stepped back a pace, letting his eyes take in the Master Smith and the prize he clung to so covetously.

‘You frighten me, Lindir. This sudden change I see in you. Where is the true spoken companion who warned us not to come on this last adventure. “This way lies madness” were the words you used.

It frightens me,’ he said, pointing to the crusted helm. ‘All of this frightens me.’ Endamir’s arm swept round in a large arc, taking in the greater part of the isle that lay in darkness before them. ‘Look at you, clutching that thing to you like some grand thing you made yourself. Even now the firelight picks out the same mad glint in your eyes that drove Fëanor after his beloved jewels when they were stolen.’

He stepped back further. ‘That is a foredoomed thing, and doubly so for being found in this cursed place.’

‘No matter that a great master made it. It is made for war and destruction. And no matter how brightly the light glints from its shiny grey steel and golden crest, it draws death and darkness to it like a beacon. Throw it back into the pool that hid it these long years. I beg you. Follow your own warnings and be rid of it.’