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Orëmir . . . The name rang familiarly in Endamir’s mind for the shortest of moments. Less than a breath it niggled at his thoughts, just out of reach. The foggy shadows reached up and swallowed it leaving only the hollow name eddying in his mind.
‘Orëmir,’ he said, tasting the sound of it on his tongue. Must be the name of the one that fell to my blade. Look how his henchman now takes up the cry.
Endamir turned his attention now to Lómwë, the one who had cried out. ‘Don’t talk to him like that!’ he rasped as the Elf accused the Smith of vile things. He slapped him hard on the cheek with the flat of his blade.
‘Will not do orc-work! Who are you to call the Master an orc, you base fool?! He will lift you up; give your paltry little life a glorious purpose.’
He brought up the tip of his blade, touching it lightly to the side of Lómwë’s neck. The fetters had not yet tightened about the Elf’s arms he noted. Narrowing his eyes he gave Lómwë a dismissive look. Deep in his eyes, barely veiled, though, burned a lust to clean away this base piece of chaff from the workshop; to spill his blood on the stones.
‘Go on, now. You know you want to draw your weapon and have at me; kill me even. Go on, why don’t you?’ he asked smugly. ‘You and your foul tongue are naught but forge fodder anyway . . .’
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