Isulril caught her breath. She ran for so long that it was impossible to determine how much time it took or where she was. She had little thought of anything other than how wretched she had been to tell the man of her feelings, how she had single-handedly ruined their friendship. Words were her weapons, and she wielded them to her own disadvantage. She told him that he had no heart, no feelings.
No one would believe her when she said that she loved without wanting anything in return. Perhaps it was because of her past. Truly one such as she could not love without wanting some kind of remuneration in return, some kind of physical token. But she had cared so little about such things, even when she sought fame and a more comfortable lifestyle.
And now, though she had lived in Minas Tirith in the past, she had no idea where she was. The dark cloaked her, and the black of her silk dress kept her one with the night. She pulled her shawl closer around her. The air was chill for her, as early spring air was apt to be. The street was silent, seemingly bereft of people. It worried her. She had run in the opposite direction of the Thirsty Seer, where she had been staying, and now she felt a small sense of panic well up within her.
She thought of the man, how he had stood in a rather stoic position by the fire, where she had sat when he found her. How he had told her to leave, had finally released her, allowed her to run away as she always did, as she always wanted to do.
The diary. She must have dropped it. The thought made her feel sick. She did not remember when she dropped it, but it mattered little now. There was no need to think about such things. Someone in the Halls of Lore had undoubtedly found it. Perhaps they would return it to her. It did not matter now.
She looked around. The night was cloudy, and the stars overcast. She had hoped to at least see the moon, but it was overshadowed, a new moon. She thought she heard a sound, and hid behind a column, sinking to her knees. The sound was not repeated. Her skirts pooling about her on the stone of the street, she finally allowed herself to crack, to break, and silently wept with the occasional sob.
She remembered when she had lived on the streets of Minas Tirith. Even in silken finery that no longer hugged the curves of her body, this was familiar. It would only be fitting to stay here until she could pull herself together and return to the Thirsty Seer.
"I am sorry," she croaked, though there was no one to listen.
