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I’ve fallen in love. With these people, with this place, and they don’t even know I’m here.

The invitation cannot be denied. I can see my empty chair from here, it’s top edge mimicking the parapet of a castle tower–my tower–and somehow I know what lies below, etched into the rosewood with the skill of a Master Carpenter. Mountains and forests cascade down the chair’s rear, the sites of a hundred solitary hikes. Beckoning me to rest my back against it is a map of Cheled, my home. The thick armrests of favorite books end in waterfalls, where my hands could grip. I manage a smile. Yup. That’s my chair. The Carpenter knows what I hold on to.

Even from where I lean against the cold stone, I saw the table waver and change. The words of love from 1 Corinthians 13 urge me to step forward from the shadows, to throw off the hooded cloak by which I meld into the room’s darkest corner. But no, I am not yet ready.

The wall to my left boasts the glow of embers, surrounded by a hearth of cut stone, with bookcase sentries standing at attention on either side. They’re empty. Still, the effect draws my gaze, and entranced, I study the jigsaw of hearthstones. Wait–I squint–is that writing on the stones? I’d have to get closer to see. Did the man in the cloak notice it?

The leader. The sight of his stately figure, cloaked but not concealed, reminds me of his words. Melkor. War.

They need warriors. The thought alone makes the weariness that clings to my bones start to ache. I shift ever so slightly, and the injuries–new and old–I’ve already sustained in other battles prod me with reminders. The blood, the lonely fight, the wounds from a brother. The exhaustion. How can I be one of them if I am unable to fight? The battle, on all fronts, is indeed fierce, and it feels like I’ve seen more than my fair share. But the Master knows better than I.

I loathe showing weakness, but it’s all I have left. The table is surrounded by perceptive people. If I approach, the dim light of a half-dozen tongues of flame will reveal all.

But I’m so, so tired of being alone.

Maybe, just maybe, if I join these amazing people, I can someday find the strength to fight again. They all look young, strong. Some eyes shine with the innocence of inexperience, many gleam with eagerness. All of them glow with wisdom beyond their years. Even if we will soon be under siege, I’d rather stay. It’s not like anywhere else is safe, either. Here, at last, perhaps I can find a home.

The familiar feel of my heart throbbing in my chest accelerates as I stand straight, then press a sweaty hand against the wall to keep from staggering. I can do this.

My bare feet make no noise as I slip up to my chair. Instead of pulling it out, I put one foot on the seat and step over the arm, gliding into it. Sitting, I pull my knees up against my chest. I huddle in my cloak, my last defense against showing my scars. I’m too weary to speak.

I have nothing to offer. But I’m here. Let the Master do with it what He will.