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The battle had raged on below as Orëmir sat on the grassy sward above, his brother cradled in his arms. Endamir’s mind was in turmoil as the Diviner and the Seneschal fought. She had not withdrawn from him when Idrahil had attacked, but had closed one icy claw of her mind around his own and battered at his spirit. He could feel Orëmir’s attempts to reach him, but feared were he to make that connection with his brother, then the Diviner might draw him, too, into her grasp.
The pain, the release, of the Diviner’s fëa as the Seneschal drove his spectral blade into her was . . . in a way . . . exquisite. And he felt himself carried along in the wake of her passing; his spirit drawn toward the blesséd light of Aman. Orëmir’s presence grew small, faded . . . as his own fëa raced westward.
Just at the edges of his consciousness he could hear Orëmir’s voice . . .
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