[Mithadan]

Nardol rode slumped upon Rustal as if he had been grievously wounded. The preceding night had taken its toll. Many were the nights that he had dreamed of Gilwen's departure, of the attack upon his friends which had driven his wife and son into the West or of the nameless dread of the pits of Angband. But never had such dreams been so vivid. He had felt Gilwen's hand slipping out of his own and the pit of grief that he had fallen into as he stood on the docks of the Grey Havens watching her ship pass into the shadows as the sun set. And what fit had taken him so that he had revealed these innermost thoughts to the girl? He could not bear the thought of her listening, her face full of pity even unto the moment when he had turned away, even then angry at himself.

Silently, he cursed Elrond for having persuaded him to join his path to that of Mithrandir. Lost in these thoughts, he did not notice Bethberry coming up beside him. She had to repeat her query twice before he responded. "Does your wound pain you?" she asked.

Half lost in his reverie still, he whispered, "Yes, they all do."