[Envinyatar]

There was something in the evasive way the Smith spoke that grated on Orëmir. He sat his glass of wine to one side, untouched. To drink of it, he felt, would give some sign of camaraderie between him and the Smith. And he was not sure he wanted that bond, tenuous as it might be, between them.

Or perhaps the old fellow had become a dotard of some sort, as men who had lived a great span of years were often wont to do. Perhaps his mind lived only in the past . . . was fixed on it and those who moved within the history of his frail mind.

But he thought not. The Smith’s hands still held steady to the tasks at hand. And it was the way he artfully turned the questions back to the subject of his own interest . . . as a skilful smith would do with a piece of work he wished to capture in the metals turning on his anvil and twisting in his fire.

And what of Maglor? Weary as he might have been after the ages long thirst for the silmarils, still did he not follow his brother into one last folly? Did he not take the oath and call upon himself the Everlasting Dark?

Hemmed in by the surrounding rock, by the darkness in the caverns beyond this chamber, Orëmir felt a certain unease settle in upon him. He turned to Endamir, staying his brother’s arm as it lifted the wine to his lips.

‘Do not drink, brother mine. Stay your hand! The Smith has other things on his mind than helping us to find our friends.’ He shifted his glance to the Smith for a moment and then away as quickly. 'There are other ways in which he seems to want to direct our thoughts . . . paths of his own . . . ways in which he seems to want to instruct us. His talk is too diverting for our own needs.' Orëmir narrowed his eyes. 'I want to find our other two companions and leave this grace-forsaken scrap of land, this haunted remnant of old glories and defeats.'

His eyes looked about noting a few old pieces of wood stacked near the far wall of the chamber. ‘Let us make our farewells and thank-you’s to him for his hospitality . . . and be on our way.’