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‘Come, friends!’ Orëmir shouted, breaking from the frozen tableaux. His hand clasped Endamir’s arm and hauled him, blinking, from his place. The wind which had blown away the Orcish spirits had died down, leaving only a few swirls of dust and small debris to settle to the ground. Both brothers rubbed at their eyes, wiping away the dust which had filmed them.
‘Let’s get inside the gate,’ he went on. ‘Perhaps the fortress will give us some defense against those foul spirits.’ He bade Endamir go ahead and saw his brother clap Lómwë on the shoulder and nod toward the gate. Malris looked to be alright, and Orëmir was sure he would see to Tasa.
Lindir seemed the worst beset of all the companions. His sword hung limply now in his grasp, and he looked in a disconcerted manner toward the gate and then back toward where the helm he’d held now lay. ‘Leave it, Lindir,’ Orëmir said, coming to stand near him. ‘Let us go into the fortress, now. There are naught but us here who can carry the helm. It will be safe . . . safer than we are at the moment, especially if those creatures return.’
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