[piosenniel]

Rôg

‘I promise to do what you say,' said Miri with great reluctance. 'But I think I can help.' A considering look slid quickly over her face, replaced by one of apparent acquiescence. 'For now I will serve the melons that my mother sent for our guest.’

Offering his help, Rôg gathered two of the small melons into his hands and motioned for Miri to bring the other one. Withdrawing to the other side of the tent, they set about cutting the sweet melons into thin crescents and arranging them on two small silvered platters. Miri did not want to miss a word of the conversation. Picking up one of the platters carefully, she rose to to cross the room and begin passing the slices to Aiwendil’s guests.

A tug on her breeches turned her round to see Rôg shaking his head at her. ‘Sit down,’ he whispered, ‘until the man, Mithadan, has had a chance to answer your friend, Rama.’ He tilted his chin toward the captain who had furrowed his brow as if considering well how he might describe his maenwaith friend. Miri sat down with a small sigh, mollified only by the fact that if she kept very quiet she would be able to hear everything that the dinner guests said.

Rôg smiled fondly at her, seeing the look of unabashed curiosity on her face. She would bear watching, though, he thought, when the woman, Rama, decided to go on her search for those eagles Aiwendil had spoken of. I should let the old man know that Miri may try to follow. She’s a clever child, and may stow away in one of her new found forms. He inched a little closer to where Miri sat on the floor mat. To be honest, he was curious himself, what sort of maenwaith had made friends with a man of the north.

There was an air of expectant silence as the small group of diners spooned up the last few bites of their meal, waiting for the man from Gondor to speak . . .