[piosenniel]

6 Cermië, and waking on 7 Cermië, the day before the party

Were it not for the serious expressions on the Hobbits’ faces, it would have looked like a comedy routine from some rustic group of traveling players at the local Inn. The Elf was tall, and the fact that she had gone limp in her fevered state made her a long, large dead weight for them to manage.

Cami and Gilly grabbed her under the shoulders, while Bilbo and Amaranthas with Gammer Bolger took the legs. Holly, wide-eyed at the spectacle, held the door open for the rescuers.

‘Put her there in the bedroom on the left,’ directed Amaranthas, as they cleared the threshold. They wrangled her through the narrow door way, head first and with a mighty effort, shoved her on the bed.

Pio’s face was flushed, her brow hot, when Gammer Bolger put her fingers to it, and beaded with sweat. Her lids were closed and her eyes moved restlessly beneath them. An occasional moan escaped her lips from time to time, accompanied by a grimace.

Amaranthas set Gilly to boiling some water as she and Gammer inspected the offending leg wound.

The old dragon trained her sharp, beady black eyes on Cami, who stood at the side of the bed holding her friend’s hand. ‘Now just how does Miz Pio come to have such a nasty gash on her leg, Miz Cami? What’s been going on down at the Inn that this should have happened?’

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The stars picked out their old comforting patterns against the darkness of the night sky. Wilwarin to her right, and above her the Netted Stars.

To her left, a looked for beacon, shone Eärendil, hanging bright above the horizon.

’Well, now, what are you doing here, Elf?’ the deep voice asked, a hint of amusement playing at the edges of the question.

It was a cold wind that pushed her short curls back from her face. Pio lifted her arms to run her fingers through her cropped hair, her brow furrowing at the length of it. Her neck was bare and the coolness of the air as it rushed by felt welcome.

She had been so hot, she remembered. And painful,too. Her hand dropped down to rub the firm muscle on the top of her thigh. Her leg was whole, no pain, no stiffness.

Leggings, she was wearing leggings, and her soft leather shirt, unlaced as usual, at the throat. Across her chest, her leather baldric. Her knives arranged just so, two more secreted in the tops of her knee high, soft leather boots. At her left hip, her blade.

‘Where are we bound, Old One?’ she asked, her heart beating quickly at the ribbon of silver, the familiar river that ran through the land below them.

A full moon hung fat in the darkness, throwing its soft light on the lands below. The shadow of the great beast rippled over Nan Tathren, a great winged ship bearing its rider over the plains below and across the Andram.

‘Go west, keeping the Teiglin on your right,’ she commanded. And she heard the snort at this demand. ‘I would see it, if you please. The Rainy Stair.’

‘It pleases me, Elf, that you remember to be polite. This is a service I do for you, no slavish task.’

Still, they turned, and Amon Rudh flew by beneath them as they veered northward once again and came to the Celebros as it entered the Teiglin. Even in moonlight it was beautiful, the silvered water as it descended from the highlands of Brethil into the ravines of the greater river and fell in a series of waterfalls. Fine mist filled the air above it as the waters plunged down the ravines, throwing spray into the air.

‘Look!’ she cried, urging her companion down through the cool, watery haze. ‘Dimrost, the Rainy Stair.’ The fine spray broke the soft moonlight into bright gems that caught on her clothing and in the tangles of her hair as they passed through it. She laughed, a silvery laugh, that fell through the mist and was borne up again on the river’s spray.

‘Now north,’ she pleaded, the desire growing in her to see the Fountain in the King’s Square once again.

Beyond the border of great pines that bounded Brethil they flew and rising up, passed over the tips of the Crissaegrim. Pio gasped as they dropped beneath the thin cover of clouds at the crown of the mountains and their small shadow winged its way across the Vale of Tumladen.

‘Ondolindë!’ She strained forward, leaning down alongside the neck of her companion. ‘Take me down. Let me walk there once again . . .’

Her words trailed off, and the land below grew thin and wavered beneath her. She fell, plunging headlong into darkness as the great beast beneath her turned transparent and its form no longer held.

‘Not this time, Elf,’ came the once familiar voice, fading to a whisper, dispersed on the air. Another, more commanding voice, rang firm behind it. ‘Wake from your dreamings, Firstborn.’

‘Wake up, Piosenniel. It is a new day. Your son and daughter call for you.'

7 Cermië

Early morning threw a pale bar of sunlight across the coverlet. Pio, her eyes barely opened, struggled up, thinking to see the golden-eyed visage of her old friend perched close on the bed beside her. Instead, her hand touched the tousled brown curls of Cami, whose head lay heavily on the edge of the bed where she had fallen asleep as she knelt by her friend’s side.

Pio propped herself up on her elbows and called softly to the Hobbit.

‘Cami, wake up! Where has Angara got to . . .?’

[ May 29, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]