[piosenniel]

Aiwendil

Aiwendil was in a peevish mood. Blast this ill-starred sojourn here! His mind wandered back to the Lady’s gardens . . . sometimes the colors and scents came through clearly from that time. But this time no comfort was to be found. Only the sandy dust of the camp clogging his nostrils and the tiredness of this old body as he leaned on Rôg’s arm. ‘And what Fates have sought to throw Mithadan in my path?’ he thought to himself. The man had almost let the cat out of the bag as to his real identity.

Lost in his grumblings, he almost missed the whispered questions from his companion. He held back the waspish answer that sought to tumble from his tongue – If you hadn’t been thrown in my path, young man, I would never have come here; never made some other promise I didn’t mean to and probably will fail in as well . . . He sighed, instead, a long sound that came from the depths of him. Rôg’s eyes were on him, anxious to be of help. But Aiwendil could think of nothing to say.

Never at a loss for words, Rôg pushed on . . . He is as chattery as some of the birds he turns into! Aiwendil thought. But then his companion’s words penetrated his low mood, startling him that Rôg would ask such questions . . . that he would care to ask about such things. And not only were there questions but the promise of a certain return had now factored in to his thinking. Aiwendil had been aware on a certain level that at one point Rôg’s intent had been to reconnect with his clan, leaving the problems of Aiwendil and of the Eagle clan to resolve themselves .

The image of the skittish meara came back to him and he saw the aloof creature take a step closer in his mind.

I must be careful here. . .

‘Let us return to our tent,’ he offered. ‘My throat is dry and these are large questions that you’ve asked. The answers will be longer, I fear, than you might wish to hear.’