“I’m… sorry, hiril. I don’t understand,” Ithilwe says as he looks to her with eyes lost in confusion and grief. “You did not die. You are in front of me here, alive, breathing.”
Her eyes break away from the stars above to look at him - and she sighs. “Some part of me died. Something is not right.”
Is that the price I must pay? What inside of me died when I left them in the Morgul Vale? Why did I not die at all? I returned, O Varda, and for what? I return and am hailed as a hero. A hero, and a soldier, and a sacrifice. A martyr. But I am selfish. They do not know it, but I am selfish. My cause is not wholly selfless. Their cause is not my own, not in entirety, though we share it. Now what must I do?
Must I live as I died, in selfless abandon? Am I now bound to an unspoken oath whispered in the hearts of those who follow me? Why is this not my redemption? Why is this not my rebirth? Why do they look to me for salvation, for absolution? I could not even save Amathlan. I could not even save myself. I have only learned what to fear. Myself. And those who have lived with me.
I have learned to fear those who grow old in war where men die young.
