Delioron had decided to leave.
Once his mind had been made up he felt both relieved and guilty, like a child being sent home before the school day has ended. Nothing had been solved, his assignment was not accomplished, but he could still avoid the trap and get away from this wretched ruin with his life. Amon Hen would not become his tombstone. The long winter was finally over for him.
Parthadan would not be happy, but he should have known better. Parthadan should have understood that Delioron could not sit in the ruins of Amon Hen through the winter without being noticed. And now the one thing that Parthadan had wanted to avoid had happened. King Théoden would send a delegation to talk to Denethor about the presence of Gondorian spies in Rohan. It would be a diplomatic embarrassment for the Steward. Denethor would be furious. The relations between Gondor and Rohan would suffer a dent. Denethor would rain fire and brimstone upon Parthadan.
But that was not Delioron’s problem. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that sullying the relations between Gondor and Rohan had been the whole point to begin with. There was no Thráin. Târikbên would never return to Amon Hen. The dwarf Kimrin and the poor peasant girl Mildrith had been slain by orcs sent here from Mordor to make sure Rohan would notice Delioron’s presence.
Two dead, just to accomplish that. And Delioron would undoubtedly share their fate if he lingered in the ruins. It was time to leave, time to return to Gondor and face Parthadan’s displeasure. It would be amusing at least. And then he would go back to his estate in the Cape of Belfalas to live in retirement and solitude for the rest of his years. He would never again have to do anything, never again take any more risks, and time would pass, years upon years until he would slowly grow an old, lonely, bitter man. Eventually he would die, be buried in an unremarkable grave and forgotten.
Delioron was picking up his meager belongings and packing up his packs atop the summit of Amon Hen when something caught his attention. Some movement on the corner of his eye. He stretched up and walked over to the banister with a view of Nen Hithoel. And there it was, finally – the thing he had been waiting for. A small black dot on the back of the lake. A rowing boat.
The boat was still too far for him to see how many passengers were on board. Delioron touched the banister. It felt cold.
”Damn it!” he said.
He stared at the black dot on the lake, slowly moving towards him. Why had they killed Mildrith? Why had Kimrin from Zigil-jâbal come here? What was Zigil-jâbal’s part in this game? And who was Thráin?
Egelferth was right. It was murder, not a game. Mildrith and Kimrin had been alive and now they were dead. He felt like he owed them something so that their painful, pointless deaths had not been completely without purpose.
Delioron turned and walked over to his bags. He reached for his sword and sheathed it. There was no need to pretend anymore.
He had not wanted to see Tarîkbên anymore. The long period of inactivity and isolation had tormented him. In the end he had only wanted to go back home. But if he turned his back now, if he did not finish his part in the play, poor Mildrith would have died for nothing.
He strode purposefully down the stairs to the courtyard. On his way to the crumbling gateway he suddenly stopped. There was someone standing there, a slender figure clad in dark green traveling cloak.
”You!” said a woman’s voice – low, amazed and soft.
Delioron could not believe his eyes. He said nothing. He felt like someone had punched him in the gut. He could not move a muscle.
Then the woman came closer and stopped right in front of him. He could feel her breath on his face like that time in Imloth Melui two years ago when they had first met and fallen in love. Her breath smelled sweet on his face. It was like the breath of a newborn baby, without a hint of corruption. She stared at him for a long time and he was afraid of her. He was afraid she might reach out and touch him.
Finally he managed to utter her name out loud: ”Radawen!”
The woman he had never expected to see again.
