[Firefoot]

When Malris had called them to arms, Lómwë had jumped up to follow: not by conscious choice, but by old habit reawakened. His sword Coruthel had seemed to leap into his hand of its own accord. A drumming thudding in his ears seemed to dull his senses for a moment.

As they met the Orc spirits in battle, Lómwë came to himself again. His sword felt like a dead weight, unwieldy and uncomfortable in his hand. It slashed through the air, through the unhoused spirits without causing apparent harm. Two, now three, of the pale figures with their pale swords surrounded him. Once one of their blades made contact with his skin, beneath his eye. The cut stung, though it quickly healed, and Lómwë hardly noticed. Only in appearance was this a physical battle.

For their most effective weapons were mental rather than physical. Lómwë could feel his already weakened mental barriers crumbling under their barrage, and he remembered Endamir’s words: “We are in danger, I sense, we who carry those deep wounds that have not healed,” and knew them to be true. I think I know who you are, taunted one of the spirits. Didn’t do such a good job of protecting your own family, did you?

Get… out… Lómwë struggled to force the Orkish assaults out of his mind. He could feel their stinging attacks, more potent and more tolling than any physical injury. He swung his sword viciously, his physical attacks as a metaphor for his mental defense. No… more… Maintaining this tenuous compromise was sapping what small reserves of strength he had; he could feel himself slipping as a black chasm seemed to threaten to swallow him.

So it is you cajoled a second Orc. Had a young son, didn’t you? And a wife? She put up a fight, but she broke hard, like you’re breaking now –

Lómwë dug deep inside of himself and found a last push born of rage, effectively shutting the spirits out. Then, abruptly and just in time, came the needed reprieve…