King Thranduil shrank back from the deep well’s outer rim.  Hidden far beneath the lowest caverns of his Mirkwood palace for untold eons, the dark abyss now gaped open and spewed forth a darkness that was a living entity.  A reeking stench of things putrid and long dead; foul, evil things that had never walked the earth above nor seen the light of day oozed from the pit and hung in the air, cloying and thick.  The Elf Lord was overcome by a fear the likes of which he had not experienced in over a thousand years and his arm rose defensively as if to ward off a physical blow.   He forced his gaze away from the open shaft in the cavern floor and looked to Ganduil.

          “Quickly!  Seal it off!” he commanded.

          The two Elven metal smiths standing ready hastened forward.  The two grappled with the great iron plate until they were able to maneuver the metal cover over the well’s opening.   The lid, circular in size and etched with Dwarven runes, slid forward until it closed over the gaping maw with an echoing clang.   Once the cover was set in place, they proceeded to slide large iron spikes through the newly bored holes cored out around the outer edges of the metal.   Expertly they hammered the spikes into the stone flooring alongside those spikes already sunk within the stone and then poured molten lead over the edges of the iron cover, sealing the plate to the cavern floor.  Their job completed, both smiths hastily gathered up their tools and together they lifted the stout carrying pole bearing the cauldron of molten lead between them.  They quickly shuffled out into the outer passageway and made their way back through the tunnels to the forges outside the palace.

          After the two workers were gone, Ganduil, the king’s oldest and most trusted confidant, moved to his liege’s side.  He placed a nervous hand upon the king’s forearm and leaned in closer to Thranduil’s ear.

          “It is done, majesty,” he reported.  “Hopefully, it is not too late.”

          Thranduil yanked his arm away from his minister and glowered down at the Elf beside him.  “Not too late!” he thundered.  “You think it is not too late!?”

          Ganduil blanched and backed away from his king, pressing his back against the stone wall of the chamber.  He knew when Thranduil was in this kind of mood it was best to remain silent and out of his line of sight.  He calmly folded his hands together in front of his stomach and waited.

          Thranduil paced back and forth in front of the sealed well, dark blue robes swirling out behind him like an angry sea.  His face was a dark cloud threatening violent storms and lightening.  His blue eyes were hard, yet fearful; fearful of what he had unwittingly unleashed from the depths of this hellhole, all because of his thoughtless greed.

          The Elven King turned once again upon Ganduil, his eyes piercing and demanding.  “Seal off this passageway.  I want no one else to know of this.”  He shuddered involuntarily.  “Or, what happened here.”

          The minister nodded his understanding.  It would be difficult enough to explain the deaths of the Elven guards, but at least they were warriors; warriors died.  The others, however, were a different matter.

          “What of them?” he asked quietly, gesturing to the three Dale Men cowering and whimpering along the far wall.  Their eyes were wild, yet unseeing and they clawed at the stone walls as if trying to dig their way through with their bare hands.  They did not appear to be aware of their surroundings, nor what they were doing.  Mindlessly, they scraped and scratched at the stones in front of their faces, lips quivering with nonsensical murmurings.

          The king’s gaze had followed Ganduil’s pointing hand toward the humans he had employed to do the digging.  Now he turned away from the sight of their broken, tortured souls.

          “There is no hope for them,” he murmured, suddenly lost in his own thoughts and unmindful of Ganduil’s presence within the room.  “How was I to know?  It was only myth – legends told to frighten the young ones.  No one believed they were real.”

          “Majesty?” Ganduil questioned, but the Elf Lord did not hear his spoken words, listening instead to some desperate murmurings within his own mind.  “Thranduil,” he pressed, touching the king’s sleeve.

          “What!?” Thranduil jerked at the elder Elf’s hand upon his arm.  “Oh, yes, take them to the lower dungeons.”  He paused, looking again upon the simpering, pitiful creatures that had once been robust men.  “Isar will tend to them.”

          “But, sire,” Ganduil protested.  “They are humans.  What if someone should ask questions?”  He spread his arms out to his sides, as he, too, began to pace.  “What if they have kin who wish to know of their whereabouts?”

          Thranduil barked out a short, ragged laugh.  “There will be no questions asked.  They are Dale Men.”  He glanced at his friend and adviser.  “I made sure to enlist only men who had no family alive and who would be less than eager to remain in the towns where last they traveled.”   He shook his head slightly.  “No, Ganduil.  There will be no one seeking these poor creatures.”

          Ganduil turned his gaze from the witless men and looked imploringly at his king.  “Is there nothing that can be done for them, sire?”

          The Elf Lord lowered saddened eyes and shook his head.  “I’m afraid not.  Whatever they looked upon has taken away their minds as surely as it took the lives of my guards yesterday eve.”  He brought his slender, bejeweled hands up to his face and covered his eyes as if to blot out the sight of the Elven warriors lying dead upon the stones, blood flowing from their eyes, ears, lips, as if their very brains had exploded within their skulls.   His shoulders shook as the heavy burden of what he had unleashed upon the earth came over him.

          “Was it only yesterday?” he whispered.  When Ganduil made no reply, the king raised his head and glanced back at his minister.  “What about the time rifts?”

          Ganduil looked uncomfortable and lowered his gaze from the king’s stare.  Finally, he spoke.  “Worse, majesty.”  His arm swept the room about them.  “At first the occurrence was only felt within this room.  Now it appears to have moved outward into the palace…perhaps as far as the woods beyond.  The phases and shifts seem to be lasting for longer periods of time, but they are unpredictable.”

          “My subjects?” inquired Thranduil, his voice toneless and crestfallen.

          “They are beginning to speak of “wraiths” and “dark dreams”, sire,” Ganduil replied.  “But I believe we can reassure them that it is nothing to fear, if…”

          “Nothing to fear!”  Thranduil roared.  “Are you mad, Ganduil?  Do you not know what we have done?”

          Ganduil made to speak, but wisely held his counsel.  He could not reason with the king now when he was still too riddled with guilt.  Later, when they were alone and away from this hideous place; perhaps then they could determine what to do to salvage this dire state of affairs before it was indeed too late for all of them.

////////////////////////////// 

//All our yesterdays…//

          “What is it we’re supposed to be looking for anyway?” groused Owyn.

          “Keep quiet and keep diggin’,” answered Roryn as he shouldered another shovel of loose stones into a trough beside him.  “’e’s payin’ us enough to keep our mouths shut.”

          Owyn leaned upon his shovel and swiped at the sweat on his brow.  “I don’t mind the diggin’, but I do mind not knowin’ what I’m diggin’ for.”  He picked up his shovel and began working once more.  “How will I know when I’ve found it?”

          At that moment his shovel slammed into something hard, causing a loud clanking sound to resonate within the chamber.  Owyn and Roryn looked at each other and grinned. 

          “I think ye jest found it, me boy!” Roryn laughed, slapping the other man upon the shoulder.  “Hurry, get Culir.”

          As Owyn scrambled back out of the chamber and down the passage, Roryn started to clear away the debris from the exposed metal chunk lying embedded within the floor of the cavern.  By the time the others returned, he had cleared away the dirt and rock from the top of the hidden find and determined that it was a solid piece of iron, circular in shape, and at least several inches thick.  Markings of indeterminate origin and quite unreadable to Roryn covered every inch of space upon the metal plate’s surface.

          Culir marched into the chamber, Owyn and two Elven guards in tow, and immediately headed for the strange circle upon the floor.  Roryn glanced up at his fellow laborer.  “Is this what we’ve been searchin’ for?”

          The large brown-haired mason knelt down beside the iron ring and ran his calloused hand along the edges, searching for a catch or locking mechanism.  Finding none, he moved his palm over the top of the iron circle, brushing his hand along the deeply etched markings.  The metal was cold to his touch and eventually he had to withdraw his hand from its icy exterior.

          “Well?” prodded Roryn.

          Culir shook his head.  “Don’t know.  The King didn’t rightly say what it was he was lookin’ t’ find down here.”

          The two Elven warriors pushed their way through the Dale Men and looked down at the iron circle.  Tinondel knelt down beside the well cap and ran a slender finger across the carved symbols.  He looked up at his companion.

          “Toltho i Âr si!” he ordered.  “Amin darthuva sí*.”

          The younger warrior nodded curtly and spun about, heading out of the chamber and down the corridor at a trot.  Tinondel stood and looked at the Dale Men with ill-concealed disdain.

          “Do not touch anything.  I have summoned King Thranduil.”  He gestured for the men to move away from the iron circle upon the floor.  “Wait there.”

          As the three men moved away and leaned back against the chamber walls, muttering angry slurs that they thought the Elf could not hear, Tinondel stood silently before the well, his face an impassive mask, and held his lance at the ready.  He did not have long to wait.  King Thranduil had been making his way down through the tunnels to observe the day’s proceedings when the Elven guard met him in one of the lower tunnels.  Together they entered the chamber a short time later and the Elven King marched directly to the well.

          Thranduil looked over his shoulder and saw his privy minister and chief steward entering the doorway and he waved the Elf forward.  “Ganduil!  Quickly.  Look at this.”

          The elder Elf leaned forward to better see.  “What is it, my lord?” he inquired.

          The king clasped the steward’s wrist and drew the Elf down beside him as he knelt before the well.  His lowered voice was meant for the minister’s ear alone.  “It is something the Dwarf Lords never wished to be found,” he murmured.  “Therefore, it must contain something beyond price.”

          Ganduil glanced again upon the black, lusterless metal ring before him.  He was suddenly overcome with a feeling of fear and dread.  He tried to pull back away from the king’s grasp.  “I…I don’t know, sire.”  He slowly extracted his wrist from Thranduil’s clutches.  “Perhaps we should try to decipher this script before we do anything rash.”

          “Nonsense!” Thranduil replied.  “It is merely a Dwarven curse, meant to scare off those who would try to steal their treasures.”  He rose to his feet and laughed at his steward’s unease.  “I have no fear of Dwarvish histrionics.”

          Ganduil looked to the Dale Men waiting patiently beside the stone corridor then back to his king.  “Very well, sire,” he nodded.  “You there,” he gestured toward the men.  “Get this lid off.”

          The men pushed away from the wall and again hoisted their shovels.  They proceeded to remove the dirt and rock around the edges of the iron plate and in no time the well rim was unearthed and plainly visible amid the stone rubble.  So, too, were the great iron spikes welded to a heavy iron collar completely encircling the plating and embedded into the stone flooring of the chamber.  Culir glanced up at the Elf Lord with a frown.

          “We’ll not be gettin’ that off with shovels,” he stated.

          King Thranduil turned to his steward.  “Get them whatever they need to get that well open.  Summon me when it is done.”

          “Yes, majesty,” Ganduil bowed.

          His command given, the Elven king spun about with a flurry of silken robes and departed, leaving the others to their tasks.  Ganduil motioned toward the Elven guards.  “Get the metal smiths.  And be sure no one else is allowed to enter the outer passages.  Do it quickly.”

          Tinondel slapped his forearm across his chest in salute and then hastened to do the steward’s bidding.  Mioriand swiftly moved to the chamber entrance to guard the opening against unwanted intruders.  Ganduil glanced at the Dale Men who were now standing idly beside the well.

          “You are to speak of this to no one.  Is that clear?”

          The men nodded, eying each other as they did so.  Excited thoughts of untold treasure coursed through each man’s avaricious mind.  They grinned at one another as if reaching an unspoken agreement as to the distribution of the spoils; Elven King or nay, they would get their share.

          They had not long to wait before one of the king’s armorers entered the small room, followed by Tinondel.  The Elf wasted no time speaking but moved directly to the iron disk sunk into the cavern floor.    He pulled out a hammer and chisel from a pouch about his waist and positioning the chisel along one of the spikes, began smashing his hammer down against the spike’s edge where it met the encircling ring.  Sparks flew as metal struck metal, but the spikes remained unbroken.

          The armorer leaned back away from the iron cover and rubbed thoughtfully at his chin, trying to determine his next approach to opening this vent.  After a time, he brought his head down to better examine the spikes close up and he could see the barest space between the band encircling the well and the well itself.  He positioned his chisel within this small crevice and began hammering away at the metal.  Before too long the band snapped away from the ring spike, and one small portion of the covering lid was free.  The metal smith made his way around the well separating the rings in this manner until the last of the rings, although still embedded into the stone flooring, were loosened from the band and the lid was freed.

          When his job was complete, the armorer arose and bowed to Ganduil.  The steward gestured for him to depart and the smith did so with eager haste.   After making certain that he was gone, Ganduil then turned to the Dale Men.

          “Do not open the well until I return with the king.”

          The three men casually nodded and Ganduil hurried through the chamber doorway.  “Tinondel, Mioriand,” he called as he left.  “Guard the entrance.  Let no one pass until I return with the king.”

          The Elven soldiers nodded and moved to block the chamber’s entrance.  Facing forward into the passage with their backs to the well and the Dale Men standing within the chamber, the two Elven warriors did not see the men carefully and silently lift the iron cover off the well’s base.  The last thing any of them heard was the howling.

*Fetch the King now! I will wait here.