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Jord staggered into her room, slammed the door behind her, and collapsed just short of her bed, her outstretched hand just brushing the edge of the quilt which hung down near the floor. She was mentally and physically exhausted, lacking the energy even to crawl the rest of the way to her bed. Instead, she lay curled upon the floor, breathing heavily and trying not to let her eyes close, for fear that that horrid prophet's face would appear before them. She wondered if she would ever be able to sleep again, if she would ever be able to approach that awful dimness, so like unto death, without fear.
And so it was that, through the floorboards she heard voices in the hall below.
"The guards are still below with the prisoner. Perhaps they should be questioned." That was Ulfast's mocking voice.
"No doubt you put them up to it." Unmistakably Uldor.
And then...a silence. A faint groan, perhaps?
Then someone spoke.
"Lord, your brother was about to murder you." Jord's mind snapped to attention through the weariness that enshrouded it. Had Ulfast done it? "I have taken his life instead." Who? Was it? Who was speaking? Who had been killed?
A body fell to the floor with an resounding thump, and now Jord wondered: which brother had turned on which? Had her fool, Ulfast, failed - or succeeded? And if he had failed, would she be able to bend Uldor? Anxiety twisted her already bruised mind.
No! I am Morgoth's servant, the claw of his mighty right hand! It is not a matter of if, but how. I WILL accomplish my lord's will.
And silently, she grappled with a steadily growing sense of fear, and of weakness. She felt alone. She felt mortal.
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