[piosenniel]

What a horrid thing to take upon oneself! Rôg’s stomach lurched at the vision of a mother needing to kill her child to save her. Poor mother! And worse yet the lingering memory of it in the child. It was a decision he could barely fathom.

The girl began to speak again of other dreams, or one dream, really…of bears. He looked closely at her, estimating her age. Her child’s features were just giving way to hints of the woman she would become. With a soft intake of breath the fact hit him…it was her changing time. And these symptoms she was having, this ‘illness’…he had seen it before. On that excursion into the southlands with Aiwendil.

The mother…her daughter, here…they were maenwaith!

Now he bit back the anger that came with this realization. That two of his people had been caught by the vile hands of Shadow. That one had had to die. Filthy Orcs! Had it been possible at that moment, he would have gone back in time and slashed them and burned them…everyone! A shadow of that terrible anger rippled briefly o’er his features; his hands clenched and then uncurled themselves, the fingers aching with a murderous desire.

And just as quickly he pulled back from that ill-thought impulse, cooling the fire that coursed in his veins. Not now! Wait, wait! he told himself; reminding himself, too, that the well-being of the living took precedence over those who had passed beyond the circles of this place.

Rôg leaned forward, touching the back of his palm to Azhar’s face. His expression lightened consciously and he nodded his head slightly at her. ‘Those are good dreams! The ones of bears. They are strong creatures. Patient and wise in their own ways. And mothers, you know, they are very much like bears. Their cubs are the whole world to them; they will do what they must to protect them.’

He wrinkled his brow, drawing up his mouth in a moue of indecision. ‘I can help you, I think, with this “illness” of yours. My clan has some small knowledge of these problems you are having. And you’re right…what you said earlier…about the fight between your body and your head…’ He leaned back and looked her over thoroughly. ‘I can help you with that, I think. Not now though,’ he said his gaze drifting about the campsite. ‘We would need some time together, undisturbed.’ He smiled reassuringly at her. ‘Can you wait, then? I’m certain you will feel better, little one?’ he asked using the term he would use with children of his own clan.

Of a sudden, the hairs prickled at the back of his neck. And a certain familiar scent tickled at his nose. ‘Oh my! We surely have no time now, Azhar,’ he said, raising his eyes to the skyward. His gaze swept round to the thin line of horizon behind him. ‘Can you feel it? A windstorm is coming.’ He stood up and helped her to her feet. ‘Give a word of warning to the others, Azhar.’

Rôg waved to the solitary figure he saw trudging toward the camp – Aiwendil. Leaving the girl to be about the things he’d asked of her, he walked quickly toward the old fellow. A brief, hushed conference between the two men took place, with much nodding of heads on both sides.

Aiwendil took leave of the younger man and made haste toward Lindir. For his part, Rôg moved quickly away from the camp, heading toward a small rocky outcropping in the near distance and the welcoming cover of the scrubby growth of trees that clung to it.