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Aiwendil:
Aiwendil shifted expectently from one foot to the other as he heard Rôg describe the desert encampment with its suspicious outriders and ring of armed guards. He had never seen this place before, but Rôg's description touched upon a corner of his mind that had long been buried and forgotten. For the first time in years, the istar was certain of what must be done.
Filled with a longing he did not fully understand, Aiwendil gazed eastward across the ocean of shifting sand wishing that he could take wing like Rôg or the small desert lark he'd met and speedily put the caravan behind him. But he'd had no hint or indication of any of his other skills returning. He'd have to do the best he could with whatever abilities remained. For one moment, he thought of asking Rôg to fly ahead to the camp on his own and warn the desert dwellers. But two things stopped the istar from making such a request. One was the look of concealment he'd glimpsed in his friend's eyes when he'd first spoken of "we". Aiwendil had been trying to convey the idea that both of them were asked to shoulder a burden neither had looked for or expected. But it still wasn't clear how Rôg felt about that or even if he'd understood the message. The other reason for hesitation was his own nascient certainty that it was just as important for him to be in that camp as it was for his young companion.
Eager to end their conversation and be off as soon as possible, Aiwendil interrupted Rôg in mid-sentence with a curt announcement, "I am going there, to the place you have seen. I would prefer we go together. But, if not, I will purchase a camel and set out on my own. The beast could easily carry both of us, or you may wish to travel in some other form....."
Rôg opened his mouth to protest, but the words seemed frozen in his throat. Only this time Aiwendil had physically turned away, once again staring out at the desert. The old man seemed to be talking to himself or addressing someone whom Rôg could not see. There was a moment of muttered gibberish, or perhaps words in a different tongue, and then clear sentences in Westron, spoken with exasperation. "I know there is a task to be done, but what would you have me do? The boy is thick headed. I have explained things as best I can. This won't work. It's no different than before." The conversation seemed to end here.
But underneath, something stirred within Aiwendil's mind as the istar recalled an image from his past. Once, he had spent endless hours with a band of horses belonging to the mighty Oromé. The task had required Aiwendil to show patience of a type that was unusual among the Maiar. He had spoken softly to the skittish mearas and let them understand the feel of a hand so they would not be so frightened when they reached the plains of their new home. Strangely enough, the hesitent scholar reminded Aiwendil of one of these mearas: unwilling to go forward and put a foot on new land, but too proud to turn back.
Aiwendil stepped forward and shrugged his shoulders, "I am sorry, Rôg. Forgive my impatience. I can not expect you to understand or share my feelings. I truly believe we should set out now on our own and leave this caravan. There are people who need our help. But if you do not feel this way, we will wait a bit. Either way, the road will bend around." He looked over at Rôg and smiled gently, lowering his voice, "I do not know what you search for. But, whatever it is, you are far more likely to find it out among these white sands than in the city streets of Umbar."
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