It was then he realized. Aeotha was drifting away, litttle by slow. Pulling away from their group of three and drifting toward the place where fond remembrances and comforting words would be spoken today. He could not bear to look upon her, knowing how she'd loved Eibhear - perhaps more than Etain and Ilúvatar combined - any more than he could bear to look at Flaithriaoh then, the son Ilúvatar had sworn to protect from the worst of this fight. And yet somehow he knew that Flaithriaoh was not a child. Would not be protected. An oathbreaker? He could not bear to look upon this fine field or the grieving widow any longer.
He was stuck here, just as the rest of them were.
"I don't drink," he lied.
Aeotha's voice was washing over him as a siren's call might, but it was not the voice he wanted to hear just then. That voice had no name and belonged to no place. It was the goddess he wanted, to comfort him as she never had before. To make him believe this was all worth something. She did not speak from Aeotha's lips. She did not speak at all.
And he saw at last it was not Aeotha or Flaithriaoh drifting away, but himself.
He did not pause to see where he was going. Only his feet were carrying him toward a patch of green, somewhere that he could fall, and fail to rise again.