[Child of the 7th Age]

Despite her initial exhaustion, Nitir awoke with a start in the middle of the night. As she lay on her back and looked at the stars, her mind roamed from one topic to the next. At least, they had reached the place where they were doomed to stay and toil. No more trudging forward to an unknown destination.

Nitir still felt empty and distant. It was almost as if she had hidden herself so that others could not see or touch her. She had spoken to few people in the past two days, and had tried not to think about the memory of Piosenniel. But, however much she tried to hide, she still could not exorcise the haunting image of a small lad being speared by a guard's scimiter.

Other than this painful scene, Nitir's strongest recollection of the night before was when the group made its way into the camp. She felt as though they had cut through an actual curtain, perhaps one made of strange materials known only to the forces of the night. When she questioned Maura about this sensation, he shook his head to agree. "Yes, I also felt it. Just as in some Elvish communities, especially those lying within the depths of a forest or an island, there is a mysterious boundary. On one side runs the time and world of man, while, within the curtain itself, time and even distance may operate quite differently."

Nitir tried asking him if time within ran faster or slower, but he did not know.

Most of the Orcs seemed to be sleeping soundly. Last night, there had been much noise and confusion as they had brought out barrels of mead and ale stored in the camp as well as a carcass of something that looked and smelled suspiciously like carrion waste. They had proceeded to get roaring drunk. A few junior guards were excluded from the fun, and told to keep watch over the prisoners. But even these few had managed a hidden draught or two, and now sat looking at the sleeping hobbits with dazed eyes.

Yet, no prisoner was making any attempt to escape. By keeping the family groups together and constantly threatening violence to the children, Morogoth had stumbled upon a perfect way to keep the hobbits from resisting. If smaller numbers of adult hobbits had been dragged off into servitude, Nitir had no doubt they would have tried to escape. But, with a large community fearing retribution on the heads of those least able to understand or defend themselves, there seemed little hope of breaking through the trap.

Nitir sighed, and, since she couldn't sleep anyway, decided to go through her things, to see exactly which of her supplies she had managed to salvage from the rough hands of the guards. She was disappointed to note that many of her small tools had been seized as well as the two daggers and bow. But she still had the flint hidden in her belt and the point from one broken arrow. She reached down further into her belt and came up with the packet of seeds which the Elf had given to her. This, at least, should be entrusted to Zira who was a healer skilled in herbal remedies. Nitir had a vague memory of how this stuff could be boiled and used, either as steam for a patient to breath or as dressing for a wound. She also had a very vague sense that she really shouldn't be using kingsfoil in this time or place, and that this had something to do with her friend Mithadan. However, as Mithadan wasn't here to stop her, she decided to give the seeds to Zira for her to tend and raise.

Nitir poked her nose down into the packet, and was surprised to discover that there were actually two things contained inside. The bundle of Kingsfoil seeds she already knew about, but there was a second packet of seeds, quite large in size, and with it she could see a note. The note was carefully written out in handwriting that semed very familiar to her. It was the handwriting of her dead friend Piosenniel. Nitir stared at the letter, reluctant to read it or even to pick it up. She finally decided to tuck it away inside her belt until she got up the courage to look at it later. She lay down and made another attempt to sleep. She could still hear the distant keeling of the grieving mother.

[ August 12, 2002: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]