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The shadows in the room seemed to shift as the three presences entered the room. Lómwë had fallen silent, so silent he seemed a shadow himself. Endamir narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the different forms. Two sentries . . . the ones the seneschal had sent out . . . and there between them a slip of a man. So this was the Diviner. Endamir could not recall having met or even seen him in times past.
He stopped a distance away from Endamir. In the dim light it was near impossible to see the expression in his hooded eyes. But as the frail figure turned slightly to the side, speaking in whispers to the wavering form of Idrahil, Endamir could almost see a peevish frown slide across his features. Still there was naught to do but ask, cajole, entreat; whatever it might take to assure that Lindir would not die.
Endamir made a gesture with his hand, calling the attention of the others to his presence. ‘My Lord,’ he began, speaking to the pooling shadows which clung about the Diviner like some thick and layered cloak. ‘Lómwë,’ he said, motioning toward where the other Elf stood, ‘and I, Endamir, have come seeking aid which only you can provide.’ He paused for a moment. ‘We hope that you will give some further hope to us before our companion loses his way and is called to the Halls of Námo.’ His voice grew rough with emotion. ‘We . . . no, I, especially, had thought that he would travel the Straight Road with me . . .’ He did not finish the thought that he wanted to surround himself with his companions of old in an effort to lessen the pain that his brother would not sail with them.
The Diviner had given no indication of whether he would help or no. Endamir plunged onward, giving a brief explanation of how they had come to the island and what had happened since their arrival. He spoke of his brother’s attempts at keeping Lindir whole, telling what little he knew of the elixir Orëmir had given the stricken Elf.
‘Is there something you might do . . .’
His question broke off, his vision of the dark room tunneling down to a pinpoint.
From behind his eyes, it seemed, a grassy, flowered vista opened up. Bright; familiar in a way . . . and disconcerting, as familiar smells, and sights, and feelings flooded in. It was his Mother’s garden. And she was there.
‘By the One! She is so beautiful. How is it that I never noticed?’ he heard his brother say.
And there in the distance he saw two young boys, one with his arm about the other’s shoulders, a little swan ship held in his other . . . he could feel the warmth of his twin’s shoulders as his arm rested there.
Endamir frowned as a familiar figure hailed the two boys. Lindir! How could that be. A ways from Lindir the voice of his grown-up brother called out, warning the Elf away from interfering in the memory . . .
‘Orëmir!’ his voice rang out in the now sunless room. He shook his head in a futile effort to call his brother from those dreaming paths. ‘Orëmir,’ he called out in a softer and more desperate plea.
Endamir turned his stricken gaze back to where the Diviner and the others stood. ‘My brother,’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘He is drifting away; I cannot find him. I fear he has followed Lindir . . . and both are now lost . . .’
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