A fortress of gloom and decay lay at the foot of the mountain. Finoron, son of Eonn went down on one knee and placed his thumb inside the shallow medal-sized container held by his other hand. From it, a crimson dab was applied on his forehead in the shape of a semicircle. The paint container finally popped as it was covered shut and rattled away with the rest of his belongings. It was the twentieth and second day of the prince’s journey. The smell of his own sweat and the stillness of nearby waters filled his nostrils. He put an open palm on his chest and finished with the last lines of a well-known prayer:

 “Glory, oh glory to the wanderers of the sun, let us keep your honor and our duty. For the children of bright faces bring joy to the world and grief to the darkness. So shall it be for days eternal.”

He stirred and pulled his crooked shoulder strap back into position. The rattling of tools and pans and other equipment followed him into the darkness.

A great hall welcomed Finoron with the sound of scurrying spiders and cockroaches, as well as the occasional fluttering of tiny crystalline wings. He reached for the wall as he walked and felt the soft bristles of moss on cold stone. When his hand felt the stark ninety-degree turn of an archway, he stopped.

After a sigh, he produced a torch and the necessary implements to set it ablaze. The light colored the creeping vines a sickly yellow and yet it was not strong enough to reach the end of the room nor the bottom of the circling steps. The slow dripping of water and the sound of his own breath under the oppressive stillness of the place made him miss the noisy mountain winds he grew to hate mere days before. In an appeal to orderliness, he decided to explore the current floor before venturing deeper.

As he walked, the dripping was slowly replaced by what seemed the far-off sound of flowing water. He eventually reached the end of the hall where a great rectangular basin was fed a constant stream that glistened in copper hues. It was all flagged stone, with the head of a roaring lion serving as the source of the liquid. The stone seemed as solid as the day it was lain, albeit with the wear and tear of time and the gentle, caressing hand of vines and leaves embracing it. He hastily set his torch on a nearby wooden sconce that seemed as damaged and swollen as flotsam and leaned on the basin with cupped hands. He washed his hands and face and drank. With his eyes still closed, he welcomed this fresh feeling, for his own water had ran out more than a full day ago.

The soft flowing of water reminded him of the springs near the thicket north from his home village. The smooth surface made him think of the stones he’d throw with the other kids to see who could make it reach the other side. Back when the days seemed longer and the sun raised higher. When the ringing of the midday bell meant fresh bread and butter, and marzipan cakes if he behaved specially well.

A crash jolted him from the flagstone and opened his eyes. The sconce had crumbled away and the light rolled towards his feet, revealing the edges of a plaque and indented markings on the front face of the basin. As Finoron reached down to take his clammy light source, he glanced at the inscription and the words Leomas, the ever flowing glimmered over the plaque.

That’s right. He thought. He lay his torch between the slight crease where two basin stones joined and patted his left side until he felt a cylindrical shape hang loosely on his travelling pack. He unscrewed the lid and out came a parchment.

As he unrolled the map on the stone surface, his finger located the fortress within the zigzagging lines depicting the colossal mountain range now encroaching his location. a riddle scribbled at the foot of the fortress symbol read:

Down in the fortress of wilderness growing,

Leomas lay frozen yet water went, flowing.

Seeing the payment, with gold put to shuck,

Paying the price and then pressing his luck.

He recited the text and stared at the wall in thought. Small motes of light and shadow danced behind the eyes of the lionhead, as if the flowing mane was cutoff yet some distance from the wall itself.

Fortunately, he was prepared. From his chest pocket he retrieved a pair of golden seeds that shone like precious stones as the light of the torch licked them. Extending his arm, it was barely long enough to reach the face of the spouting lion. He grunted in discomfort as the hard stone pressed on his abdomen and he was able to feel with his fingers the slits behind the mane, dropping a seed on each so that Leomas the frozen looked upon the prince with golden, shining eyes.

He held his extended arm at the wrist with his other hand and with great effort they both pushed the lionhead at the nose until the pressure cracked the seeds and they entered small holes now aligned to their new position. The water stopped flowing.

Suddenly, the strong murmur of rasping of stone on stone echoed slightly through the hall, and the prince took his torch and put it in front of him with anticipation. To his right, the wall slowly split and opened a passage, the hard grumbling of moving stone drowned out the escape of insects and the odd adder. Behind this new square opening, the back wall of a small room could be seen. With a satisfied grin he pulled on his pack strap once more and walked into the room. As he entered, his gaze turned to the left at the sound of water flowing once more, the head of Leomas was sliding back to its original position, the weight of the liquid forcing it open. With the passage now closing once more, he hesitated. Knowing his pocket was empty, he stood still, watching as the head of the lion was slowly replaced in his purview by the enclosing stone.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

He exhaled. As he was about to turn, he felt the acute pang of a blade pressing on his neck.

“This safe room is taken.” The voice said. It sounded like a deep voiced woman or a teenaged man. Finoron raised his hands as a sign of peace, his lifted torch casted angled shadows on the wall that told the prince it was probably the latter. “Who are you? Speak quickly now.” Said the voice.

“I just want to rest” Finoron replied. “I am a traveler, and quite weary. The water of Leomas brought great relief to my heart, but my legs and feet now ache and the perils of the crimson ridges would not give a man rest. Won’t you let me keep you some company?”

The tip of the blade left his skin. Finoron turned slowly.

“I’m sorry” the lad said as he lowered his weapon. “These are bad lands and dark times, if you understand me. When the wall split there was no end to the manner of monster or filth I imagined could come through.” Finoron nodded at the young man. He seemed tall for his age and sported a kettle had that was a size too big and barely reflected the torch light under thick layers of wear and grime. His eyes glimmered in fiery hues just below the brim, but the round shape of his face betrayed his greenness. The youth continued: “As for me, I’m Eldag of Elchyall, the great red mountain. I come to this accursed temple to cleanse it, but at the moment, exploration has made me weary as well.” He looked down and sheathed his weapon in a rich orange scabbard that gleamed with copper and silver.

“I’m also hurt by your silence, traveler, for the mark of the sun upon your brow is not unknown to me and reveals a deeper purpose. What is your name?”

Just as he finished the question, the torch ran out. 

“Let me take care of that” Eldag said, he walked towards the corner of the small room and lifted a small iron lantern. While he attempted a small fire, Finoron noticed subtle shafts of light entering through several openings on the ceiling, it seemed that the small saferoom belonged to a much bigger space that didn’t connect with the main hall.

“I am Finoron, son of Eonn, son of Deionn,” he unclasped the brooch that kept his brown cloak joined at the chest to reveal a crimson sun on light grey clothing and arching golden lines that met his sides with an elaborate canopy of golden threads. “Lord of the Valley of Dimmas and Hundburg, and—” he hesitated for a couple of seconds “—and penitent, willing.”

The lantern began its shine through its ornate iron covering and four thin ox horn walls. Despite the unfortunate last title, Finoron’s face looked regal and stern in the soft red light, the wisps of torch smoke gave him an air of etherealness, and his eyes were dark blue and deep, as with someone who has lived through much in little time. Eldag was marveled. He bowed slightly in reverence and looked up at the prince.

“To find the fifth prince of men in such uncouth dwelling, is this perhaps your penitence, Lord? If you pardon my asking.”

“Indeed.” Finoron said. He gestured at Eldag to get up. “Fortunately, it seems we share a goal. For reasons I shan’t yet reveal I must atone by releasing this place that no men dare enter from the darkness.”

“Almost no men” Eldag dared. Finoron chuckled. “Yes, you are right my friend. Come, are you hungry?” He motioned to the unoccupied corner. “Let us rest here for a bit and discuss more.”

After a few minutes, the Finoron sat on the ground. He’d splayed three sufficiently flat stones found in the rubble with a small piece of bread on each, still on top big leafy wraps. Besides them lay two opened jars, one with dried fruit and the other with brownish nuts of many kinds. He pulled an ornamented green waterskin and undid the red knot that kept its contents in place. A word of prayer came under his breath and he drank while squeezing the pouch. He then lifted his arm and offered Eldag a drink.

“It’s Hallowdale, it’ll lift your spirits and improve your rest.” Eldag looked at the pouch and then back at Finoron “Thank you my lord, but I must decline, for I have nothing to offer you in return.”

“I insist,” Finoron said, “but if you must pay, the tale of your journey and that which you know about this place will suffice.” Eldag stared at the pouch for a moment, but eventually accepted it. He drank slowly and closed his eyes as he felt the strange warm liquid paradoxically cool his throat and nostrils with each breath. He swallowed again and returned the waterskin.

“The harvest went bad.” Eldag said, “It was such a great yield until just about the end of the season, but then it rained and rained for days my lord, it rained day and night and then day and night again non-stop. It rained from the waking prayer through the ringing of the dusk bell through the light of the next day. It rained until the horses lay restless and the old got sick of their wet feet. It rained for so long that for those living near the Red River, the grief of a lost harvest was followed by the grief of lost home.” A tear ran down his cheek and the trail shimmered with lantern light.

“I say it’s this place. I’ve seen it—” he swallowed and rubbed his eyes, “The lord is away in campaign and the steward, pardon my language, is a useless fool. And the men won’t listen to me, they say I’m too young. But like I said, I’ve seen it. The elves and sprites, they’re here. They’ve revived this place.” He leaned closer to Finoron and his voice fell to a wet whisper. “They say that deep below they worship their wicked gods. They’ve called for our ruin and their dark spirits obliged, but ours?” The light in his eyes was troubled with tears again, “Our Sun answers not.  I’m ashamed of my doubt, but I won’t lie, I can’t anymore. But, it’s just so hard my lord, what did we do wrong? We did the prayers and the fasting, we still do, we do them all over and over and they just don’t work.”

Finoron pursed his lips. He put his hand on Eldag’s shoulder and shook it gently. After a moment, he said: “I hear your tale, and it pains me. Worry not about your wavering faith, for these are dark times indeed, and you are a man of worth.”

Eldag gave the prince a quizzical look. “How could you tell such a thing? Ah, it is no reproach, I just feel so… unworthy.”

“The Hallowdale lifts the spirit indeed,” Fenoron said, “but it’s also said that it burns the sinner’s body and makes its spirit quake. For you to enjoy its gifts shows to me that you’re a man of virtue, enough to trust, and eventually you may return to the path.” He wrapped the red thread around the pouch and did the knot once more. He then continued: “But do not let your heart falter, not yet, especially now with such peril at hand. We shall need the Lord of Radiance more than ever. Come now, let us eat some bread and then prepare; the sooner we delve into the depths, the sooner we may return to the light.”