[piosenniel]

Rôg

The old man was having one of his ‘parting of the mists’ moments as Rôg liked to think of them. They had been few and far between when he had first met Aiwendil – sometimes a certain light would peek through the man’s eyes. Or he would gaze into the distance, a far away look, as if there were something he could see but barely. Something that made his present surroundings dim in comparison. That, at least, was what Rôg surmised when his companion would turn back to him, his face a little sorrowful, his look hazy and muddled.

He had spoken with birds before, too, of that Rôg was sure, and once he had spied him crouched down, his fingers held out to the inquisitive nose of a slim, red fox. The creature’s attention was intent upon Aiwendil’s face, his ears pricked forward as if listening to the murmurings of the man before him. The fox had seemed to nod as the old man stopped speaking, dipping his head in a quick bow, before disappearing into the underbrush with a flick of his silvered tail.

Rôg had not pried into these goings on, only filed them away as part and parcel of his companion’s character. ‘We all have our secrets,’ he reminded himself. ‘And it is no concern of mine, those little things that bring pleasure to him.’

But now, having come south, the old man had become less hazy in his manner, more alert and awake. The curtain of doubt that weighed heavy on his spirit had pulled back for the while, and more of that certain light shone through. He was less hesitant, his words spoken in a firmer manner, the old querulousness less frequent.

Which was all well and good . . . for Aiwendil.

And somewhat for himself, Rôg conceded. A morsel of information about the old man’s ‘people’ had been offered. People with gifts, Aiwendil had said, one of them being the ability to hear and speak with animals. Rôg’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at his companion. Had he missed something? Was this one of the lost ones he had been asked to keep on the lookout for? Was this why he had felt drawn to him and so easy in his company? But, no – the old man had said his people were from across the sea, and Rôg had no memory of that being a place of dispersal. His brow furrowed as Aiwendil spoke on. What other gifts did these people from across the sea have, he wondered, looking at the old man with fresh eyes. So wrapped up in his woolgathering was he, that he barely heard the man make his final statement.

‘I feel that I am being asked--no, we are being asked--to do something about this. But what that might be, I have no idea.’

‘We?’ Rôg squeaked, his mouth gone dry at the inclusive word. He put his hand on his chest, trying to quell the hard pounding that beat against his breast bone. Perhaps Aiwendil meant himself and his people. Yes, that must be it, Rôg reasoned, taking a deep breath. The old man had just now remembered the reason his people had sent him here. And now he was trying to discern how to accomplish it.

The tremulous ‘we’ transformed itself into a drawn out ‘we . . .ell’.

Rôg cleared his throat as Aiwendil gave him a curious look. ‘Well,’ he stated again, this time in a surer tone, ‘I think I can confirm that the places the little ones saw were real enough, though I know nothing about this shadow they spoke of. I must admit it was dark when I left last night, there could have been shadows lurking anywhere. But I did make the . . .,’ he paused, searching for a suitable word, ‘ . . . the chance acquaintance of two outriders last night. Digging a well, they were . . . for when their tribe changed camps.’ He looked to the side for a moment, recalling the awkward time spent in their tent and his rude, though necessary, departure. ‘It did strike me that they seemed quite on edge, and not as gracious as might be expected of desert men.’ ‘Far more guarded and suspicious,’ he murmured as an afterthought.

‘And speaking of tents, I might have seen those, too. And now that I think on it, that was curious also. There was a story-teller, and many families sat about her fire, listening to her old tales. Nothing unusual there. But at the perimeter of the camp, I now recall that there were more guards than is usually seen in an isolated camp, safe beneath the desert stars. And there were guards also that passed through the camp occasionally, nodding to the story-teller as they went.’ Rôg squinted, bringing up the memory of those seated about the fire. ‘They held their children on their laps,’ he recalled, ‘or pulled them close in to lean against them. And as they moved I saw it. When the small flames caught the metals and winked out. They all bore arms of one sort or another.’ He shook his head at the incongruous detail. ‘Weapons, easy to hand . . . there, where they should have felt nothing but safe . . .’