Chapter Two: Dangerous Hope
The bird left him. But the bird didn't belong to him, just as he didn't belong to the awful Men that kept him, so he was content to see he him fly away free. Little envy lay on his heart, but he wondered what it would be like to fly: to be able to fly away into the sunlight and never look back.
He leaned back against the wall and waited. This was as common as breathing now. His Captors would go into a bar or store and come back out with a cylinder filled with a bitter amber liquid. They would snicker as one of them poured it down his throat.
It always burned. And he always passed out after they gave it to him. When he awoke he felt raw and used, and the trees' whispers were no more. His sight would seem blurred and his hearing hindered.
A few hours after he woke, he could always hear the trees again but he'd have to strain to even make out the loud sounds they made. Gradually his hearing and sight became clear again, and his heart would ache until he could barely stand the pain.
But Death never took him. The potion was always burning at his throat before it had the chance. This heart still ached but it always seemed like less of an ache after the vile potion. He never liked it when the ache went away; it always made him feel empty and funny.
He wasn't sure how he could miss an ache, but he always did when it went away. Longing for his heart to ache seemed odd but like the only thing to do.
They came out laughing now and shoving at each other. Brutal hands grasped at his face and his nose was held until his mouth opened. The liquid fire burnt its way to his stomach and suddenly everything was fuzzy.
~*~*~
The week and a half had passed quickly. Bree was within sight and Aragorn had assured his Hobbit companions that they would reach it by the noon meal. Needless to say the Hobbits were pleased with this proclamation.
Aragorn's keen eyes swept the road. One or two bands of people lingered here and there but no one stood in front of the gate. The journey had been free of strife, and Aragorn was enjoying the company. He traveled alone far too often.
Sam and Frodo were making light banter and the Man found himself content to just listen to them. Perhaps he'd have to look into permanent traveling companions.
~*~*~
Cold. It was so cold.
He shivered violently and tried to wrap his arms around his chest. The chains prevented any such action and he shivered again.
"Wazurk!" One of the Captor's called nudging the shivering creature.
"What is it?" Wazurk grumbled.
He couldn't stop shaking. So cold.
So cold.
"…something wrong with…stupid bartender must have changed…ingredients…"
Cold. Cold. Cold.
"…me to do…it?"
Trembles rocked him harder; frost seemed to be eating at his lungs. His head felt like a giant block of ice. Not even his fingers would obey his command, they felt bent and gnarled and seemed like they would never be released from the contortion.
"…him up…"
He couldn't remember ever feeling cold like this. Cold never affected him except right after they gave him the amber liquid. But now he was certain he was a block of ice. If only he could move…
"…back to town!"
"He'll die other wise. You don't want that do you?"
"Nay. Nay. You're right."
"Wake the others. I'm starting back."
His frozen body was yanked harshly up but his feet wouldn't hold him and he crashed back to the dirt with a loud thud.
"Get up!"
He just shivered. Something he hadn't felt in a long time moved across his mind and into his breast.
Hope.
Perhaps Death had finally come for him.
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