[Firefoot]

Lómwë sat at the fire with a quiet detachment from the group, absently sipping the tea that Orëmir had made. He watched the others passively, only half-listening to the conversations going on. He was not, however, so deep in thought as he had been the previous night; rather, his thoughts seemed to drift aimlessly from one thing to another. It was something about this place. It was affecting all of them, he could see; not, perhaps, as profoundly – or perhaps visibly was the better word – as Malris, but affected nonetheless. He had gotten little rest during the night and had seen how this place and its memories affected even the dreams of his comrades. And when he had finally drifted off to sleep, his own dreams had made sleep little more restful than waking. Not that they had been definitive dreams – more of images, or sensations, of areas he dared not go in waking. No, the night had not been restful.

Presently, he stirred restlessly on his log. He desired that they should do what they came for and be done with it. No more of this sitting around a fire and dwelling upon it. Tuning in once more to the others, he realized that Lindir was stating very much the same opinion.

Standing, he seconded Lindir’s thoughts. “Yes, let us go now. I think we have found what little refreshment that we may in this early morning, and I grow tired of waiting. The time has come, and putting off the job does not make it easier.”

Shouldering his pack, Lómwë faced the high fortress of Himring. Little love do I bear the place, yet ever my heart draws me back. Yet I wonder what my heart bids me seek there…