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Lómwë trailed the group into the gatehouse, not really part of the action. He was, on one hand, rather ashamed that he had been so wrapped up in himself so as not to notice Lindir’s weakened state. Even though Lindir had tried to hide it, shouldn’t his problems have been obvious? Yet, Lómwë also found himself feeling selfish irritation at Lindir for collapsing as he had. The rest of them (and by this, Lómwë primarily meant himself) suffered in silence, not burdening others with their troubles; each of them had enough of those on their own.
And while he did not care much over the issue of the Dragon-helm, he thought that if Lindir did have to bring it, shouldn’t he at least have enough strength to bear it? Then he was berating himself again; Lindir needed such help as they could give. After all, Lindir was, or had been (Lómwë wasn’t sure), his friend, and wasn’t aid but a trifling thing to give?
Then there was Malris, so ready to show open concern for Lindir so immediately after his heavy berating. Lómwë had seen the remorse in Malris’ face and guessed that it was not just for Lindir’s sake that Malris desired Lindir’s health. Regretting harsh words, was he? Yet how quickly the edge of concern had fled in light of the prospect to go into the gatehouse. Observing closely, Lómwë had observed the now-familiar almost-mad light spring into Malris’ eyes. Lómwë figured that Malris probably would have brought them in here regardless.
Morgoth ever delights in the divisions of his enemies. Lómwë had heard such long ago and saw the application now for what it was – but he didn’t feel any differently. He felt as if the voices in his head were laughing at him.
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