[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"I pray you, sir, is it your will to make me a stale amongst these mates?" Her first words rang sharply through the moonlight, and no one could hear them. Those still alive of the village slept soundly, as though drugged, and Kath was by no means the calmest nor happiest she had ever been. Her father, long dead, oft bore the brunt of her midnight anger, and she blamed his spirit for every misdeed, and every upset, and every part of her life that went wrong, because it was easier to be cruel than to be kind. And she knew that, kind man as he had been, he would understand her need for somebody to blame, and his label of father seemed so convenient...

She glared at nothing and continued her monologue, speaking her frustration with those around her to the silently listening walls. She had a feeling, one of deepest concern, that she would meet her father once again in far too soon a time. Her only comfort was that she could explain to him then how he had become so useful to her. Until such a time, she would continue to talk to herself, and call it to him. She asked him of her death.

"Why," she began, "and I trust I may go to-night, may I not? What, shall I be appointed hours; as though, belike I knew not what to take and what to leave, ha?"

It was not until then that she knew. She would not suffer an uncertain death at the hands of an unknown enemy. She would not be tamed so easily. Her words, so thoughtless now held new meaning.

When the village found her at dawn, it was with an empty jar from the apothecary, and she smelled strongly of drink. She had known well what to take, and she had left them. And in her ready hand they found a note:

My mind hath been as big as one of yours,
My heart as great, my reason haply more,
To bandy word for word and frown for frown;
But now I see our lances are but straws,
Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,
That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.