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Old 06-15-2004, 09:58 PM   #224
Child of the 7th Age
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Ráma

Ráma hesitated for a moment as she turned to depart, trying to make sense of what she had learned. Shifting her attention towards the center of camp, she spied a gaping hole on the spot where her family's tent should be. Dead grey ashes decorated the ground along with the charred remains of a few familiar items and a lingering smoky scent.

Zed and Garel, the two young tribesmen who’d initially approached her, had blurted out a tangled tale she found difficult to comprehend. They spoke of two strange maenwaith who had wandered in from the desert a few days before; a large conflagration had immediately followed leaving her mother's tent and the family's belongings in ruins.

More puzzling was Zed's insistence that she wait for Narika before going to see her mother. Zed had assured her that Ayar was resting, but had politely avoided answering any other questions. Zed went on to explain that Ayar was feeling poorly and had been up late into the night. It was best not to disturb her until time for supper. Moreover, Narika and Thorn would shortly arrive in camp once their inspection of the herds was completed. Her questions could wait till then. Ráma had immediately corralled several of the Elders and pressed them for details, but they only exchanged nervous glances, shrugged their shoulders and proceeded to offer her the same advice, speaking with such gentleness that she began to suspect something was seriously wrong.

Retreating to the tent where Mithadan and Airefalas remained, the young woman paced up and down in circles for several minutes, pointedly ignoring her companions. The latter sat at a round table where flagons of juice and a large platter of goat’s cheese and olives had been set out as refreshment for the travellers. Ráma glared back at Mithadan for no apparent reason and hoisted herself onto the far side of the table, with her legs dangling over the edge; she hastily extracted the dagger from her belt and slammed it into one of the slabs of cheese, pinioning it to the wooden plate. She’d had enough of sitting around and waiting for her sister. Springing down, she rushed outside and vowed to search each of the tents until she found the one in which her mother slept.

*****************************

Ayar and Aiwendil

For the past three afternoons, usually at an hour when Thorn and Narika were occupied with other things, Aiwendil had managed to slip quietly out of the tent where he and Rôg were housed, making his way to Ayar’s bedside. His first visit had been at Ayar’s bidding. She had wanted to thank the stranger for his attempt to heal her, an effort that had not been successful but at least had freed her from constant pain.

This simple thanks soon gave way to an extended conversation and a sharing of stories that were surprisingly light hearted. The two had talked and laughed for over an hour, until weariness had compelled Ayar to sink back into her pillow and drift off to sleep. Her last words to the stranger had been a respectful request that he return the following afternoon.

While the guards still kept a pointed eye on every move Rôg made, they looked the other way when the stooped old man wandered aimlessly about the camp. The clan placed great stress on respect to Elders, and this one appeared essentially harmless, so lost in his own reflections that he sometimes failed to reply to those around him. In truth, Aiwendil was grateful for Ayar’s companionship, since Rôg had become more distant, mulling over things he was not yet ready to share.

This particular day, Ayar had been unable to stomach the nourishing broth carefully prepared for her lunch. Despite the pleas of both her daughter and the serving maid, she had stubbornly pushed the bowl aside, something that was happening with increasing regularity. Although Ayar’s dark eyes still gleamed bright, her mind sharp and aware of everything that was happening, her body lay gaunt and listless on the bed. Yet unknown to his captors, Aiwendil had become Ayar’s eyes and ears outside the tent: he had again become adept at shifting into the form of a small insect or desert rat to spy throughout camp and let the clan leader know exactly what was going on. Aiwendil had told Rôg one or two things he thought might be useful to him, but otherwise reserved his discoveries for Ayar.

Ayar was still not sure who or what Aiwendil was. The man often seemed to talk in riddles. But that first afternoon the stranger had let something slip regarding his personal familiarity with the ancient Eagles, those whom the tribe held in great respect. These offhand words, plus the fact that Aiwendil could apparently change into an endless array of forms, had startled and then convinced Ayar that, whoever this stranger might be, he had extraordinary gifts and should be trusted.

That morning at sunrise, Aiwendil had trudged off on foot with his staff in hand and had come back two hours later, with news for Narika that he had found a supplementary watering hole no more than half an hour distant, hidden at the base of a craggy bluff that stood just to their south. The current well had nearly run dry from the clan's effort to combat the tentfire so the news was most welcome. Narika and Thorn had left with the animals and the herders late that morning, carrying along a number of barrels and leather sacks that they intended to fill before returning at supper time. The horses and goats would remain with their keepers near the watering spot for the next few days, until the Elders reached a decision on whether the camp would move.

That afternoon, for the third time, Aiwendil sat in Ayar's tent, offering her fresh water from his own jug that he'd carried back that morning. This time, their talk was more serious, and there was very little laughter, "I have no personal illusions," Ayar had confided to Aiwendil after speaking of her hopes for the clan. "My body grows weaker. My hope is to hold on to see Narika wed and Ráma return. But whether that is possible, I cannot say." The dying woman leaned back against her pillow, staring straight at Aiwendil. "But there is something I would ask you to do for me.....a promise I would ask."

Aiwendil sat bolt upright in his chair and squirmed uncomfortably at the mention of a 'promise', "Fair lady, I would help if I could. But I am not too good at these things." Aiwendil sighed and looked away embarassed. He had certainly not been good with people since his arrival in Middle-earth. And his record on promises was even worse. He could not even remember the promise he had made to Manwë, only the stark fact that whatever it was he had not fulfilled it.

"I am a stubborn desert woman who lies on the edge of death," Ayar pressed again. "I have two daughters who mean everything to me. What I ask is not so great. Narika is sure of what she wants and will have the help of the Elders and the love of Thorn to support and guide her. With Ráma...now, things are different. She is still very young."

"But they are twins!" objected Aiwendil.

"Born at the same time perhaps, but Ráma has no idea who she is or what she wants. Promise me you'll help her." she stopped a moment and stared directly at Aiwendil, After my death, there will be war. I feel it in my bones. Indeed, I will tell my daughters to have messengers ride out into the desert and rouse the other friendly clans to join together and strike a blow against Wyrma's heavy hand. I fear that you and your friend have come upon a boiling cauldron that is about to explode. Ráma will need your help, and perhaps that of your friend as well. "

Aiwendil's eyes widened in disbelief, "But I am an old man. What could I possibly do for a young girl in a time of war?" A feeling akin to panic welled up in the istar's heart.

"You have been here a very long time, and have knowledge of the old ways. Ráma is not like her sister; she may need the knowlege you have. And I know you can listen. When you set your mind to it, you are a good listener. I have even seen you tending the small creatures. You are gentle and patient with them. You may have need of such patience with Ráma." A knowing smile crossed Ayar's lips as she reflected on her daughter.

Aiwendil felt as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice. One step to the left, and he would plunge into a valley of bleak dispair and come crashing onto craggy rocks that were clearly visible below. One step to the right, and he would step off into nothingness, with only air underneath. But even nothingness, he reflected, was preferable to jagged rocks and bleak despair.

"Ayar, I fear you're mistaken in making this request. I know nothing of young women. But I promise this. I will remain here a while and let your daughter know that I am here to help her, if she feels the need."

Ayar sunk back into her blankets with a gracious nod, too tired to add anything more. With a smile, she dismissed her visitor. Aiwendil turned towards the open tent flap and quietly disappeared, all the while wondering how he was ever going to explain this situation to Rôg.

Last edited by Child of the 7th Age; 07-25-2004 at 07:40 AM.
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