Niquësúru threw the door open, expecting to see his bloodied elf friend in the corner. But Nalláma wasn't there. Panicked, he sought out the nearest orc.
"Where is Umbarto?!" His voice was thunderous, and the creature was instantly terrified of the half-Maia in front of him.
"My lord..." he replied in a shuddering voice, "we moved him out of Mordor so that they wouldn't find him if they raided the place." Niquësúru's hand shot out, the black dagger in clutched in his fingers slicing the orc's head clean off.
That was when it sunk it.
Nalláma was gone. For the first time, in his life, he was alone, even with Caranaelen beside him, as she did not know him at all.
He wept there in the corridor, black blade covered in black blood clattering to the floor, hands tangled in his hair.
And for the first time in his existence, there was no comforting hand on his shoulder to guide him through his tears.