Mithadan emerged from Secret Way and stopped, sinking to his knees at the head of the pass. Silently he sent out a call for Golden Angara, as he watched Tuor, Idril, and their followers recede down the mountain. The hysterical thought came to him that if the party had not survived, he probably would have popped out of existence. He wondered what that would be like.
A winged presence appeared from the sky, so far away and dark that at first he thought it was Thorondor, come to guard the retreat. It could not be Angara, because even at such a distance her skin would have caught the rays of the rising sun. As the figure drew closer, Mith quailed, turning frantically to call a warning down the mountain to the retreating Elves. "But the books say there were no flying dragons," he thought wildly, "not yet."
And yet, there it was, black and silver, flying with a fixed focus straight towards the heir of Eärendil. But even as he watched the figure shrank and dwindled, until all that was left was a small black and white jackdaw, and even this disappeared as it landed at his feet, leaving just a small woman crumbled on the stones, crying at his feet.
And so this is how Angara found them. Two lonely figures huddled together on the mountain. Mithadan looked up into the glowing eyes of the golden dragon, who asked, quietly as Death, "I cannot hear Piosenniel. Where is she?"
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