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Endamir stood up from where he’d been stooped over, gathering some old dried branches from the ground. They’d snapped off in the storm, it seemed, and though they were wet on the surface, the water had not penetrated to the dry core. He arched his back, working the kinks out of it. Seeing Lómwë a short ways away he smiled, noting the other Elf was looking his way. ‘I have to admit the only bending and stooping I’ve done in the last . . . oh, many, many, many years . . . is to pick up a stray quill should it fall to the floor. And even then, there is a young fellow assigned to be my assistant. Does most of the bending and stooping.’ He looked down at the load of firewood he had cradled in his arms. ‘Does most of the carrying, too . . . manuscripts and books and such. But I’m rather babbling, aren’t I?’
The two walked to a little clearing they’d found not far from the shore and dropped their wood. Both knelt down and Endamir handed Lómwë the pieces of firewood, watching him as he built the fire. Once the flames had caught, the two enjoyed the feel of the heat for a few moments, then Endamir stood up saying perhaps they should find some fresh water and set it boiling. As they walked toward where Lómwë remembered a little stream had run, Endamir made some general conversation, talking about Imladris and the library there and his work. ‘What about you, Lómwë? I had heard you were in Lothlorien. If you don’t mind my asking, did you go there directly after our group went their separate ways, or was your journey there as circuitous as mine and my brother’s? And what did you do there . . .?’
He bit back the words . . . ‘to drive back the demons’ and left the question hanging.
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