[Mithadan]

Mithadan rested on his bunk with his foot propped up on a pillow. He had bound it tightly with cloth, but the pain had not subsided. Nor had the pain in his soul. Angara was right. He could not accompany Pio into the West. But how could he ask her to choose the lot of Man and die, passing beyond the circles of Arda, never to see Valinor again?

It was her decision, he knew, but how could he ask her to choose to die? And the other choices grieved him as well; to let her go or stay with her until he departed, leaving her in sorrow for the life of Arda. He sighed. Yet love her he did and to let her go was not worthy of consideration.

He had loved her for a long time, he knew, perhaps even before her death in Gondolin. But that dark day had driven any hint of his emotions away lest he fall into a pit of despair. Then, beyond hope, she had returned, as had his feelings and they had gnawed at him since. He had not intended to allow her to know of his love. He had not dreamed that she would love him in return. But he had and she did and he could not deny that which he had declared openly. It was her decision.

A knock came at the cabin door. He heard a voice but could not quite identify its owner. He lifted himself from the bunk and nearly collapsed to the floor. Gritting his teeth, he righted himself and shambled slowly to the door. When he reached it, whoever had been there had gone.