Step step step step step step step
The miles stretched on and the feeling of distance was diminished to a numb blur of step step step step
No rest came, no end to the weariness and the numb movement of legs. The world condensed painfully to the grass below, the tracks, the jar of step step step step pounding jolts of pain like glass shards into their shins. Step step step step
No end. They would run and run. Legolas had counted the steps for a time, but as the numbers stretched on he gave in to the oblivion of infinity. The end could not come. There was no end. They ran because they would always be running until they fell from exhaustion. Legolas wondered whether exhaustion could touch him.
Short legs could not carry the steps quickly, and Gimli lagged, but did not notice or care. The fact of step step step step superceded pride, loss, fear, even vision. Armor was hot in the sun over the plains. Step step step step step step step
Breath. Breath. Breath. They came in harshly through the ranger's throat, rasping both past the dryness and the sick spittle in his mouth. The rhythm of the steps was the rhythm of the breath, and both were ceaseless. He had never before given in. How far had he run? How many leagues?
Breath step step step step breath step step step step breath
Exhaustion was slowly filling these three on their sojourn across the plains, and the thought of the end was far from their minds. Condensed worlds surrounded each of them, and they ran in these microcosms of rhythm and dryness and heat and blinding pain because they had a mission. Running. Step step breath step step step breath step step
The plains stretched on.
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Have you ever run three miles? Have you ever run thirty? Try to imagine running those miles at the same speed you'd use to run your fourteen-second 100 meters. I wonder if Tolkien had any idea what it meant to run for leagues.