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Six pupils the voice promised me… restore him to li... where is the mystic woman now… The smith’s words rattled in Lómwë’s ears. The Diviner! He was, or had been, in league with her! How had he not seen it before? His glance shot now to Lindir. Lómwë prayed that he would not have some kind of relapse now – it would be just what he needed…
But now the smith was in the back room; surely now if any would be the time to escape! He needed help. He needed to find Malris and Tasa. Disdainfully he tossed down the hammer that had forced its way into his grip. It landed on the stone floor with a clatter. He spotted his sword across the room and tried to take a heavy step towards it – and found that he had moved marginally, but in the opposite direction – towards the smith’s worktable. He tried again with the same result, and this time he found the hammer back in his hand.
How many more times will I curse this island and our coming here before we leave?
Noticing Lómwë’s struggles, Endamir said, “The Master’s will will not be undermined. There is work to be done!” As he spoke, Lómwë’s hand automatically lifted to the place between his jawbone where Endamir’s sword had touched. When his hand came away it was wet with blood: not his own, but Orëmir’s. He clenched his fist tightly, suddenly feeling a deep, shuddering loss – both for Orëmir and for Endamir.
“I do not know you anymore,” he muttered, his voice sounding dead. No longer did he try to persuade Endamir, only convince himself. “His blood is on your hands; you have committed a baser evil than those you came seeking reconciliation for.” And Endamir did not even care. Could he not see?
There was no hope. No hope.
Now in despair, not disdain, he lifted the hammer high over his head and slammed it down on the wooden table as hard as he could. The sound of the blow resounded in the room as he automatically dropped the hammer in pain as the force of the strike reverberated up his hand and arm. The following silence seemed to throb with his mantra: No hope. No hope.
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