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Mellonin slept through the night, but Ravion woke several times. Low conversations, slight movements, and every sneeze or cough jarred him wide awake. Each time he hoped Mellonin had awakened, and then each time he told himself that it was better that she had not, but had slept.
He missed Aeron. And he missed Aeron's wild little sister. Wryly he wondered how Gwyllion and this wild woman would have gotten along. Saethryd, as Aedegard called her, prowled around the fire, her clawlike hands pushing back her tangles of hair, speaking reluctantly and only with the Rohirrim.
By the moon, the night was not far along. He was tired enough, but if he let himself sleep deeply, he might miss something, some sign or word from Mellonin. He wondered what he had missed since he saw her last.
She stirred, and he rose to his knees and studied her face in the moonlight. The gash that crossed her hairline had begun to heal, and so had the lump behind it. The three welts had proven superficial, though ugly. The strange elf-woman's voice had not returned, at least, not to his own mind. He glanced around, and suddenly wondered if the voice had been talking to others.
Sleep, he told himself. You need it, and you've done all you can.
He half wished, even as angry as he felt, that someone would come and talk to him. Aeron would have. But Aeron was not here. The others seemed to be keeping their distance, and speaking in low voices.
He drew the blankets around Mellonin, tucking them in slightly. Then he lay back down, shifting uncomfortably on the hard floor, and rearranged his pack to make a better pillow.
Little Gwyllion, he thought, how I wish I could avenge your death. But with all the grief that the black elf has caused, perhaps a quick death would be too cheap a price for him to pay.
He shook his head, and thought of Mellonin. One thing at a time, he thought. Let tomorrow dawn, and then we will see.
The night crawled past, one breath at a time.
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