[mark12_30]

Roheryn waited, listening. Whether the wild man knew that he was there, Roheryn did not know. Presently a soft voice called him.

Friend, come. I must hence.

But Roheryn paused; something was not right with the lady. HIs ears flicked.

If you have leechcraft, heal me now. I must leave this house, and go hence.

~*~

Ravion shook his head, and then turned from the others, and strode to Mellonin's bedside. Kneeling there, he took her hand. "Mellonin? What is it?"

To thy task, friend. I am in haste.

"Mellonin..." he whispered, and bent closer. "Mellonin, you cannot travel now. You are hurt. Badly." And I have not tended you, he berated himself. But you must sleep, and I feared waking you, but I will tend you now. I should have done so before this--

Mellonin stirred, but it was not Mellonin's voice that answered, but a voice in his mind, melodious, distant, but closer than his own breathing. Search the wounds, Friend Ravion. Wield thy skill. For with or without thine aid, I shall not remain here.

He reeled inwardly. He had seen this before, however briefly, had he not? "Are you-- Mellonin, is there another? I mean, " he stammered, reddening, "Mellonin, who is with you? Is there-- is it Amroth?" But no, this was clearly a lady. "Are you Nimrodel?" he guessed, hoping for some reason it was she, and then a moment later, "Tell me it is not so." For then Mellonin would belong to--

I am not Nimrodel. I am-- There was a silence, in which Ravion became dimly aware that the company was also gathering around the bed, and the wild woman was watching too. I am her servant. And now, aid me, or let me go.

"I cannot let you go; you are not well."

I am weary, and more hungry than any elf ought to be, came the quiet reply. But the wounds are not grievous. To thy work, or let me rise.

The familiar stab of guilt wrenched through Ravion's soul. You always fear the worst, he ranted inwardly; Did you probe her wounds? No, fool; in her paleness you guessed great loss of blood. Feed the girl.

Drink first, if I may.

He jumped; she was inside his mind still. He did not like it, and then again-- "Mellonin?" He stroked her brow, and then stood, and waved at the others. "Water. Not too cold."

And then bread. Have you no lembas, Friend Ravion?

"Why do you call me that? Just plain bread, I am afraid, Mellonin."

She was barely conscious, and Ravion feared she would choke, but when he held the waterskin to her lips, she drank steadily. "Not too much--"

More.

She drained the waterskin, and while the others refilled it, Ravion fed her bits of bread. It was too dry at first, but when the waterskin returned, he moistened them. She ate steadily despite his protests.

"Mellonin?"

Why do you call me this name?

"Have you stolen her like Amroth stole her brother? But Mellondu came back--"

I stole no one. Mellonin. Light-love. It is a good name. You may call me Mellonin.

I will know her gaze, thought Ravion. She will know me when she awakens. I will know her. I will know her.

Ye know me not, Friend Ravion, replied the voice.

"Then how do you know me?" he growled.

The voice did not answer. Mellonin had eaten several peices of bread, and as she finished the last, her eyelids fluttered. He snatched her hand again. Her lips moved.

"Ravion," she whispered. She struggled to open her glassy eyes, to see, to find him; she was so weak. He bent over her face. She smiled, a thin wan smile, and as she sank into a deep sleep the smile lingered.

The wounds. Probe her wounds. "Liornung, fetch my pack-- I need the herbs. And hot water, and clean cloths." He set to work, seeking out each scrape and gouge and puncture and cut.

None merited a faint and a fall from horseback. The girl was hardly injured; she was simply hungry.

He sat beside her til sleep took him, and then lay down on the floor by her bed.