[Undómë]

She had not allowed herself to cry for him. There had been so much to get done and others to see to that she had tucked him away in a corner of her mind . . . for later . . .

And even now as she stood near the burning bier the tears did not come. This past day was a time so jaggedly out of context that his death did not seem real to her. But she knew when it would hit her . . .

Back in the low hilly country where they set their goats out to pasture . . . that’s when the sadness would o’erwhelm her. Against the sky and hills of home a figure would be missing; no more to be seen with his wide grin and his low easy voice moving his flock about, keeping them safe . . . she would not hear the tinkle of the little bells that sang out sweetly from the end of his staff as he walked along . . .

In the small black hole inside her where he had disappeared, she dammed up her tears, and when she was safe again at home he would cry for him.

Meghan’s hand reached beneath her cloak to fetch out her little wooden flute. No song came to her that she might play for him. The music, too, it seemed was dammed up with her tears. Instead, she threw the flute up to where he lay. Caught in the wavering heat from the fire, it shimmered for a moment as it fell upon his still form.

She gathered her cloak about her, shivering as she did so; though the heat of the flames echoed in the redness of her cheeks.