He could feel that same call now. It had been with him for days now. A gentle, persistent beckoning. A quiet, yet firm voice calling his secret name. The name his mother had given him, and told him never to reveal to anyone. "If someone calls you by this name, you will know your true lord, my sweet son." Over, and over she had told him this. She had rocked him to sleep at night with those words, those and the proper greeting to give his true lord, if ever he was found.
That someone besides his mother actually knew his secret name was what was still keeping him out in the cold. Only three persons in the whole world would ever know it. Your secret name was the source of your being, the center of your life, and what bound you to your clan lord. His mother's clan lord had never even spoken directly to him. Had only looked at him once, the eve he had been thrown into the snow bank outside the keep. How could someone else know that name?
What finally made his decision was the snow. Large soft flakes started to fall through the bare tree branches above him, again. Something deep inside Rod wanted to survive, and knew that he would not if he didn't answer that call, tonight, now. So he gathered up the shreds of his courage and advanced to the door. He managed not to run up the middle of the path, and ended up standing, staring at the door, hoping against all hope that there would be a corner for him inside that huge, warm hall. With the very last of his burst of courage, he knocked on the door.
On the other side of the door, a tall slender man had been waiting for the same number of days as the boy. He set down the volume in his hands and opened the door to greet the child. As he took in the sight of the small shivering form, a sigh of relief escaped from his lips.
"Welcome, sir, to my home. Please come in and warm yourself by the fire."
Rod was nearly overcome by the warmth, both in the greeting and coming through the open door. He struggled to contain his surprise, trying to give a proper answer. His attempt to bow did him in, he fell over in a faint in the snow on the stoop. The weeks he has spent in the wild were exacting their toll.
The Willowstaff Clan Lord, James, rushed out to gather the small boy into his arms and carry him inside. He shouted for his mate, and for supplies to be brought to the small chamber adjacent to his own. There was a fire burning in the hearth and a stack of bed warming stones glowed in its heat. As he set the boy down in the circle of heat cast off by the fire, Jeremy bustles into the room with a basket of hot towels and a trail of helpers carrying blankets, broth, drink and the like. The room is soon crowded with witchlings not willing to leave, but Jeremy sends them off with separate instructions that will allow them to return, one at a time with needed supplies.
Jeremy and his lord ease the tattered, soaked rags off of the shivering, still unconscious child. Blue with the cold and burning with fever, he struggles weakly against it, but firm and gentle hands soothed his fears and soon he was wrapped in clean, warm blankets with a couple of heated rocks carefully wrapped in towels to provide extra warmth. It is a well rehearsed drill. James and Jeremy have done this more times than either of them care to remember. This night would probably be the crucial one in this small child's life. If he survived it, he would most likely recover.
James spent the night holding the barely living child close, trying to will life in to his small form. He fed the boy sips of warm broth and cool water, the unconscious form was greedy for nourishment. He had to get fuel into the child to so he could fight the fever on his own. He held him and rocked him, and called his inner name, pleading with his being to stay.