[piosenniel]

Rôg

‘I must remember not to ride on his shoulders all that much in these smaller forms.’ Rôg dug his little spiny feet into the fabric of Aiwendil’s robe as the old fellow shrugged his shoulders. He was beginning to feel a bit queasy as the waves of robe rose and fell.

There was a sudden drop in altitude as the old man bent down to retrieve something from the floor. Looking for a good place to hop off, Rog’s eyes took in the low sheet of flame that crept along the grass mat. Hundreds of tiny flames flickered across his multi-imaged vision, running like a small destructive river toward the ill woman’s bed. The cricket froze in place for a moment, his only thought to escape.

With a dizzying lurch the old man had now gotten to his feet and yelling out something in a strangled voice. The others in the room, brows now furrowed in confusion, looked at him in and uncomprehending manner, the warning lost on them. They don’t speak any Elvish tongues! Rôg shouted in a small chittery voice. The words were lost on Aiwendil who grabbed a nearby broom and began beating at the flames . . . to no avail. The greedy fire leapt onto the long, dry straw with a whoosh, sending smoke and little licks of hungry flame flying out to devour whatever they landed on. Shouts of alarm and the loud tumult of bodies moving in a disordered way through the growing smoke filled the tent.

With a leap born of fear, Rôg jumped in the direction of the head of the pallet where Ayar lay, her eyes wide at the scene in the tent. Assuming his mannish form he knelt near her and leaned in close to speak quietly in her own dialect. ‘Have no fear, Meldakhar,’ he assured her as best he might in his shaky voice. He pulled the thin sheet over her nose and mouth to hold out what smoke it would; then thrusting his arms beneath her frail body, he cradled her close against him and pushed out through the loose fabric at the rear of the tent. ‘Close your eyes. There will be fresh, sweet air soon,’ he murmured as if to a small child, reassuring himself as much as her.

There were shouts and the sound of feet running. Rôg had taken only a few steps away from the tent with his burden when a chorus of raised voices called out for him to stop. The angry men swirled about him, ringing him in, clubs and lances bristling . . .