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Old 06-30-2004, 06:15 AM   #237
Ealasaide
Shadow of Tyrn Gorthad
 
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"I have not seen him in an age and more," Mithadan answered Airefalas' question with a chuckle. "But yes. This is... Aiwendil. You recall Mithrandir, Airefalas? Aiwendil is..."

Airefalas raised an eyebrow as the old man cut Mithadan off rather loudly and put an abrupt end to what Airefalas had thought so far to be a rather friendly conversation. He watched as Radagast-Aiwendil, whatever his name was, suggested to Mithadan that they continue their conversation later in private and walked away.

"Hmm. More secrets," he thought to himself, but said nothing as the old man and his younger friend disappeared among the tents of the encampment. While Airefalas had never met Mithrandir, the name was quite familiar to him, as it was to all people of Minas Tirith. Airefalas had only been a boy of ten or eleven at the time of the war, already a midshipman on the Bluefin and caught up in the perilous business of wartime shipping, dodging corsairs, and fighting Sauron's minions on the water whenever they were unable to evade them, but he knew very well what role Mithrandir had played in determining the fate of Gondor, and, indeed, all of Middle Earth. Mithrandir had been one of the istar. Did Mithadan mean to imply that this old fellow was an istar as well? He looked again in the direction in which the old man had gone.

"No, I guess we won't be going anywhere anytime soon," he added aloud as one of the guards again raised his sword, implying that the Gondorians were not to consider following the other two visitors. Turning, he went back inside the tent, where he was soon joined by Mithadan. He gestured to the fresh slice in Mithadan's shirt.

"Well, now we've each had a shirt destroyed courtesy of our new friends," he said casually, more for the benefit of the listening guards than from an abiding interest in his and Mithadan's laundry situation. Even so, he still regretted the loss of the shirt Ráma had shredded with her claws when she had turned into the cat back in Umbar. "I don't know about you, but I've only got one shirt left after this one. If they keep it up, in a matter of days, we'll both be running about half-naked."

Mithadan laughed. "Frankly, I think we've got bigger problems than ripped shirts. It seems we've stepped out of the frying pan right into the boiling cauldron."

Airefalas nodded ruefully. "It does look that way. I've never been guarded so much for my own protection in all my life." He walked over to the table where the food had been laid out and, closing his hand around the hilt of Ráma's dagger, wrenched it free of the both the table and the wooden plate. The cheese that the knife had pinned to the plate, however, came with it. The guards, seeing him reach for the cheese, apparently decided that their charges were settling back into the food and idle talk of confinement and retreated outside. Airefalas turned and waved the knife, cheese and all, thoughtfully at Mithadan.

"That old fellow just now," he said in Quenyan. "Were you about to say he is an istar? Like Mithrandir?"

Mithadan nodded. "Yes," he answered, speaking in Quenyan as well. "I can't imagine what he's doing here, but it's a tremendous stroke of luck that he should turn up."

"Hmm." Still carrying both Ráma's knife and the cheese, Airefalas went to stand near the open tent flap. "That's good, his being a friend of yours and all, but I don't much like the sound of what he had to say about the poisoning and how they will be looking for someone to blame."

"Neither do I," rejoined Mithadan. "It seems we have arrived at a very bad time. I'm hoping that Rad-, er, Aiwendil will be able to tell us more of what is happening at dinner."

"Do you suppose he knows anything about all of this other business that Ráma spoke of?"

"You mean the maenwaith city that Wyrma intends to build? I don't know."

"Actually, I was thinking more of the threat to Gondor." Airefalas stepped out of the way as a young maenwaith woman entered the tent carrying a bowl covered with a damp cloth. He watched idly as she placed the bowl on the table and set about tidying up. Like many of the tribal women they had seen around the camp, she was very pretty, small and slight, with thick, black hair that tumbled down her back in a cascade of loose waves. Her movements were quick and graceful as she went about her work, reminding Airefalas of the silvery snail darters he was used to seeing in the shallows of the river deltas. Realizing that he was mentally likening this lovely young woman to a fish, Airefalas colored slightly and looked away.

"Ehm..." he stammered, returning his attention to Mithadan. "Do you think it's possible that Minas Tirith could really be attacked by dragons?"

Before Mithadan had a chance to respond, the young woman, having caught sight of the knife and cheese in Airefalas' hand, approached him and, with a polite movement that was something between curtsy and a bow, pointed to the cheese. Not knowing what else to do, Airefalas handed it to her, knife and all. She carried both items over to the table and set them down, extracting the knife from the cheese wheel with a decisive movement. Then, she took a long look at the knife and turned around, holding it up for Airefalas to see, saying something about Ráma in her tribal dialect.

To Airefalas, it sounded like, yatta-yatta-yatta Ráma yatta? Guessing at what she was saying, he shook his head, answering her in Westron. "No, that belongs to Ráma. Not mine."

Not understanding, the girl gave him a lengthy stare with her very dark eyes, then tucked the knife into her belt. Turning back to the table, she said something else about Ráma in her tribal tongue. Then she picked up a fresh knife and cut a few slices of cheese from the wheel that Airefalas had been holding and handed them to him. He took them and thanked her, but as soon as her back was turned, he shot Mithadan a puzzled look.

“I guess she thought you wanted some cheese,” suggested Mithadan, falling back into Westron.

“I guess so,” answered Airefalas, giving the cheese in his hand a second glance. He really didn’t want it, but now felt duty-bound to eat at least part of it. “But back to the dragons. You know more about these people than I do. Do you think that this Wyrma can really transform herself into a dragon? And, if she can, do you think she can marshal the kind of power she would need to actually threaten Minas Tirith?”

Mithadan's Post:

A memory arose in Mithadan's mind at Airefalas' words. It was a scene which had haunted his dreams for years. He was trugding wearily along a road which ran towards mountains that soared up before him. The smell of smoke and sulphurous odors polluted the air. He looked back over his shoulder and saw a great city. Its walls and towers had been made of white stone, but now they were blackened and burning. Dark forms writhed before the walls in a ghastly dance as smoke and steam poured from the ruined city. He shuddered and turned away, following a line of Elves along the road.

A winged presence appeared from the sky, so far away and dark that at first he thought it was Thorondor, come to guard the retreat. It could not be Angara, because even at such a distance her skin would have caught the rays of the rising sun. As the figure drew closer, Mithadan quailed, turning frantically to call a warning down the mountain to the retreating Elves. "But the books say there were no flying dragons," he thought wildly, "not yet."

And yet, there it was, black and silver, flying with a fixed focus straight towards the descendant of Eärendil. But even as he watched the figure shrank and dwindled, until all that was left was a small black and white jackdaw, and even this disappeared as it landed at his feet, leaving just a small woman crumbled on the stones, crying at his feet.

And so this is how Angara, the golden dragon, found them. Two lonely figures huddled together on the mountain. Mithadan looked up into the glowing eyes of the dragon, who asked, quietly as Death, "I cannot hear Piosenniel. Where is she?"

"Dead..." whispered Mithadan. Then he shook his head and smiled grimly at Airefalas' confused expression. Yet he could still hear the rushing wings of the black and silver dragon in his mind. "I'm sorry," he said to his friend. "My thoughts were heavy for a moment." He straightened his back before continuing. "Yes, I am afraid that I do not doubt Wyrma's ability to take the form of a dragon. And yes, she would be a very great threat to Minas Anor. For this reason alone, even if there were no other reasons, we should lend our aid to Rama's people, little though our help may be...."

Last edited by Ealasaide; 07-01-2004 at 06:55 PM.
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