I am trying to put this off as much as I can.
I know that Baradar is not happy with the idea of me leaving, and even less so that I insist on taking this journey alone. It saddens me that my inevitable departure will cause him even the slightest measure of unhappiness. He has been so good to me, so kind, gentle, understanding and generous. He has become very dear to me since our initial meeting in the ruins and it pains me to leave him but I know that this is something I must do, just as I know that I will one day return.
I am delaying my departure as much as I can.
Baradar is away at the moment and I promised him that I would say goodbye before going. I cannot and will not break that promise. I wonder if he is delaying his return in order to keep me here that bit longer. Somehow, that idea makes me smile. I am not ready for this, I know that. I am not ready to leave yet, I am not strong enough. The delay he affords gives me that bit more time to prepare myself, to be ready.
I must go soon.
I love it here, I really do. It is quiet and peaceful, jolly, sheltered and safe. I love being here, I love living with Baradar. Each day that passes, however, reveals to me that bit more of how hollow this all is. The safety is meaningless when I feel that I have no meaning myself. I am no-one, I am nothing, I am in a state of transition between who I was and who I will become and this middleground is without purpose, or so it seems to me.
I cannot stay.
The bright greens turn to greys. The jolly ribbons on the trees slowly lose their colours, turning to faded rags before my eyes. The laughter of the hobbits is muted to my ears. I see the joy all around me, but I cannot feel it. It is like looking through bubbled glass; everything is there, but it is distorted, unreal. Something is missing: in me, I suspect. Whatever it is, I must find it but it cannot be found here.
It is nearly time.
My few belongings are packed. All the things I will need are placed into a small sack ready to be tied to the saddle of Arantha. I find it somehow laughable that there is so little left behind to show that I was ever here; a dress I will not need on this journey, an inkpot and the books loaned to me by Daigan. My entire life, it seems, can be packed away into a single saddlebag. I wonder if that is sad or not.
All that remains is to say goodbye, although I have not yet decided if I should send letters to the others to inform them of my plans. Will they worry? Will they come looking if they know? I do not want any of them to do either of those things. Will they even know that I am gone? They visit so infrequently and I do not expect any of them to come by here for a long while. Perhaps I will have returned by the time they come to see me again.
