[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl looked at the bedraggled boy in front of him. Truly this was not what the hobbit had envisioned when he had set out, but for some reason he had imagined these children would be similar to those he had seen about Minas Tirith, well tended to. But these poor souls looked forgotten; left to grow up on their own, or not grow up at all, as looked the case here. Carl cleared his throat as his eyes rested on the girl. Clearly she was unwell. She hadn’t moved since he arrived, but for all the world looked a lifeless array of skin and bones tucked away in the corner of this unwholesome pit.

Not finding the words he wanted, and perceiving that the boy didn’t know quite what to make of him, Carl ran his hand through his hair as he thought, pushing his dark and dripping locks off his forehead. His eyes returned to the boy. “My name’s Carl,” he whispered, deciding he would get no where without trying to set the youth at ease. “You’ve never set eyes on a hobbit before have you? Well never mind that. We're not a bad lot, but I suppose you’ll just have to take my word for now. At anyrate, we’ve come to get you both out of here.”

The boy’s gaze narrowed, “We? Who sent you...more hobbits?” he questioned with an incredulous edge to his barely heard words. And why not? Carl thought feeling a touch indignant, but it was very short lived. He soon realized that he must not look a terribly convincing hero with his short stature, and that soaking wet, certainly not an impressive specimen to anyone taught to regard strength as the key measure of value.

“Well, not exactly,” he explained, apologetically. “We’re a mixed bag you see…a dwarf and elf, a lady and few men like yourself…very capable. We were sent to help you and the others who’d escaped, but your group had moved on before we arrived at the caves south of here. Been trailing you ever since.”

Suddenly Carl stiffened, turning his head at the nearby splash and light sputtering he could hear over the hurly burly of the camp above them. But catching sight of Vrór hidden among the shadows, his axe glinting briefly in a sudden burst of light, he relaxed. Shifting his eyes upward to the grate, the hobbit could see fireworks through its bars, and a pale beam of moonlight that fell in a dim circle to the floor. Moving noiselessly toward the relative safety of the shadows, he spoke with the dwarf, and felt his heart sink a notch as he learned that Dorran and Lindir, the guardians of the tunnel, had already been beset.

“Still, I think you are right, we’d best go back the way we came,” he agreed. “But the young Miss is a worry. She hasn’t stirred the least bit, and frankly, I don’t know if she can.”

At the dwarf's suggestion, Carl left Vrór to guard the way in, and swiftly walked toward the figure sprawled on the floor, the boy following him closely all the while. While asking their names, the hobbit knelt brushing the tangle of black curls from the girl’s face. Laying a calloused hand on her gaunt cheek, he frowned. “She’s as warm as a kettle!” he said looking first to Vrór and then to the boy, and wishing he had thought to bring another blanket to carry her in. The boy shifted his weight from foot to foot as he watched over Carl shoulder, whispering their names distractedly. “Azhar! Azhar!” the hobbit said as he tried to wake the feverish child.

“I have done that,” the boy said. “It doesn’t help. She has been that way for hours.”

And how were they to get her though the water! The thought shot through Carl 's mind. She definitely needed Athwen’s ministering, and as soon as possible. “Kwell, I think we are going to need your help getting her out of here. Do you think you are up for it?”