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Strangely, Lómwë found himself trusting the displaced fëar. What reason there was for it, he could not say, but while he felt slightly dubious about this Diviner, he believed the spirits themselves were acting in good faith.
Nevertheless, he was glad that they were gone for now, leaving just the six of them in the gatehouse. Seeing the food being brought out, he recalled suddenly the small share of forgotten lembas in his pack. He dug some out and passed it around. “Here,” he said. “Everyone take some; it will do us all good.” After a few moments, he said, “The Diviner, I do not remember, and Seneschal only vaguely. I did not know him well, though he had a stout and loyal heart in life. Though,” he added wryly, but not without sorrow, “it seems that the traits of the living do not always remain… after…” He lapsed into silence, whether because he could not find words or cared not to speak them, he was not sure.
He felt himself distancing himself from the group, isolating himself from them. He was concerned with his own problems, and could bring himself to care only a little for theirs – take Lindir. Lómwë wanted him to get help – he clearly needed it, and badly, but somehow Lómwë could not seem to mind overly much about the outcome. He had done little to help since arriving here on top of the hill and did not know why. What’s wrong with you, anyway, not caring about these, your old friends? half of him wondered. The other half despondently did not respond.
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