Ferethor found himself outside the inn, staring at the star-speckled Northern sky. The sky, in all it's transperancy, seemed blurred. Why? Then he realised that he must be crying. Abashed, he dashed his tears away.
"Why am I crying?" Ferethor asked the glimmering silmaril of Earendil, greatest of the twinkling jewels of Varda Elbereth. "Guilt? Bitter memories? Yet I had no choice."
He impulsively headed to the stable, where his horse Apple was saddled and ready to ride. Then, a thought striked him like an arrow. "Why should I flee ever from my past and my momories? All man must find their way through the cold halls of Mandos and sail away one day. Should I deny my better judgement, ever running to no purpose?"
Ferethor turned back into the inn. Jostled men looked angrily at him, but it was the least of his concerns.
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