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Old 09-21-2006, 02:16 PM   #196
piosenniel
Desultory Dwimmerlaik
 
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‘She has gentle hands, doesn’t she?’ Rôg nodded toward Athwen, as he watched the healer speaking with her husband. Easing himself down to the ground where the girl was resting, Rôg gave Azhar a quick smile.

‘Feeling any better, little one?’ he asked reaching out to place his palm against her brow. The girl looked flushed and exhausted, barely able to keep her eyes open, but too uneasy in these unfamiliar surroundings to let herself fall asleep.

‘Still a little hot, but Athwen, I’m sure, will soon have that under control.’ He crossed his legs beneath him and adjusted his cloak about his slight form. ‘You were very brave, you know, to hold out until we could come to see you and your friend to safety.’ He reached out to adjust the cloak covering the girl’s form. ‘You are safe, here, now, you know.’ He pointed to where Aiwendil stood. ‘See that old fellow there? He’s a good hand with that walking stick of his. Has a lot of tricks up those big old sleeves of his. Gotten himself . . . and me . . . out of a lot of jams.’ He rolled up the sleeve of his tunic and flexed his modest bicep. ‘And then, of course, there’s me,’ he said, grinning. ‘But seriously, you are safe for the while, at least enough, to sleep a little as Athwen advised.

Rôg unclasped his cloak and rolled it into a loose bundle. Motioning for Azhar to raise her head a little, he placed it where she could use it as a pillow. ‘You know, my father used to sit by my bed when I couldn’t sleep and tell me stories, mostly about things he’d done as a boy or sometimes stories his own papi had told him.’ He inched a little closer and spoke in a low voice.

‘This is a real story, told to me by a man I met a few years ago, down south. It was a journey I took with the old man there.’ He lifted his chin to where Aiwendil was. ‘An interesting journey with interesting folk.’ He chuckled at the memory. ‘There was an Elf and her husband, a ship’s captain. A young woman, her name was Ráma. And a little girl who came to be my friend. Her name was Miri . . . And there were, of course, some very, very bad people . . .’ Rôg shook his head. ‘But here I am already getting off track.’ He glanced down to where Azhar lay, her eyes, half closing already, fixed on his face.

‘This is the story the man Baran told to me; the one of why he’d come south from his home by the Great River that runs by the Misty Mountains in the far north. He was looking for someone, an old friend from his childhood. An orphaned girl who’d come to live with his people . . . he’d met her when he was only a child and she was already grown.’ He paused for a moment and gave a soft sigh.

‘Oh, but I forget myself again. You’ll want to know her name, of course. A pretty name, and one that fit her perfectly. She was called “Bird” . . .’

As the story wove on, Rôg’s voice dropped to an even softer pitch. His words rolled out in a sing-songy way, the pitch of his voice rising and falling like little stream does flowing softly over its rocky bed. The lids of Azhar’s eyes surrendered, her lashes fluttering quietly down. He spoke on, watching as her breathing slowed; resting his hand lightly on her thin shoulder, he noted her muscles were relaxed. Beneath her lids, her eyes moved, as if seeing things in dreams.

‘. . . And so that is how Baran met her at last. And me, too. Met Bird, that is.’ He lifted his hand off her shoulder, and let his thumb rub along the edge of his jaw. ‘Of, course, I didn’t get to the part where we barely escaped the Elders . . . Bird and I . . . they wanted us to be wed.’

He laughed quietly. ‘Bird, of course, had other ideas . . .’

A soft snore issued from the girl's still form.'Well, I guess I must be as good a story teller as my father . . . at least in putting my listeners to sleep,' he murmured to himself.

Last edited by piosenniel; 09-21-2006 at 03:55 PM.
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