[Firefoot]

It all had happened so quickly. Lindir’s assurance that he had not, in fact, turned to the side of the smith, Malris and Tasa’s arrival, the smith’s rampage… Lómwë barely had time to collect his thoughts and react. He was not entirely sure he wanted to react. He felt numb, numb and shamed. Yes, there was hope, there was always hope, but he had despaired. He had assumed that he was the only one who still cared and remembered and that they would never find Malris and Tasa… or that they would find them, as it turned out. He had assumed there was no good left on the island and despaired.

He had given into many things in his life before: passion, grief, pain, apathy, even fear, but never despair. Always before, he had had hope, whether of something specific or vague, it mattered not. Always before, there had been hope shining at the end of the journey like a star however dim. Not then. At that moment, he had given into despair, and he reproached himself bitterly for it. To despair was the part of one weaker than he had ever thought himself. So noble you are, holding onto what was right and good, yet lacking faith in those very things!

Even in light of their current victory over the smith, such as it was, Lómwë only felt defeated.