[Firefoot]

How could he watch his friends in trouble so passively? He ought to be worried, really worried; he ought to want to do something to help. But he felt no anxiety for Orëmir descending the cliff, no fear for Endamir lying so suddenly unconscious at the bottom, and no connection with Lindir struggling to his feet. The only people he could bring himself to care about were those long dead.

The shout from below broke into his consciousness. “Lómwë! Bring us up! Quickly!” His body moved instinctively toward the rope and he strained against the rope mechanically, slowly drawing the basket upwards. Once it reached the top, however, he withdrew once more, not even greeting Orëmir or helping him with Endamir. He stared out blankly at the sea, realizing that, with the setting sun at his back, this was the very direction his home had been. So different now – so different. No more rolling hills or forests or plains – just water as far as the eye could see. All of it lay sunken in the waters at an unknown depth: utterly unreachable. He could not reach the old places, could not lay his heart at rest in any tangible way. Not like Malris, not like the others. They could go and see the places dearest to them, if they so desired. But not Lómwë – he could only drift, searching for what wasn’t there.

That hurt the most. He had come here hoping to find not only peace but also in some strange way hoping to find the past itself, something that no longer existed. But the knowledge that he could not fulfill these desires – or needs - only increased the longing.

And if peace could be found, he would not find it here. This place tore his heart and mind apart, not mended them. It would be better, he thought, if this place had been buried beneath the Sea with the rest of the land. Maybe it would have been better if they had not come to this place at all. An irrelevant issue, now.

“It is time to go,” he murmured to himself, and a light breeze carried his words out to the Sea. “Yes, time to go.”