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Lómwë could feel the fogginess trying to return to his mind, and having already succumbed once, he knew he would be susceptible to it were he not on his guard. But Lómwë had already conquered the demons of his own mind and was now all the stronger for it; he kept the fogginess at bay, and thus felt the full horror of Endamir’s deed. Now Lómwë wished he had hit Endamir’s head harder.
In his distraction, he had forgotten to watch for the bewitched chains, and saw that one of his ankles had been fettered; even now the chain was snaking up his leg.
“There is work to be done here. Great work! And all under the hand of the Master. Drop your weapons, you disobedient curs. The task is at hand,” said Endamir, seeming to find satisfaction at Orëmir's death and at his and Lindir’s bindings.
“Great work!” Lómwë spat out the words as he still struggled with the relentless chains. “Great work! You call murdering your brother great work! Endamir, you have become a fool. He was your brother, Endamir, your brother!”
“And you!” Lómwë rounded on the smith. “What was your intent in bringing us here? To make us all as mad as yourself – as mad as you have made Endamir, as mad as you almost made me? Is this your great and mighty work?”
But his attacks seemed to fall on deaf ears, and he felt the beginnings of despair as he cried out, “Kill me like you killed Orëmir, but I won’t do your work, however you try to force me. I will not do this Orc-work.”
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