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REFLECTIONS IN THE DARK -- CHAPTER TWO
"Pieces"
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He shaded his eyes from the blinding light and suddenly his body was doused with some kind of sticky substance…water? …But it was not clear like he would have expected. Why would he have expected that? What kind of water was he used to? Clear and blue…a river…He sputtered and choked as he coughed and rubbing his eyes. There was a creature in the doorway, holding an empty bucket.
It was humanoid, but seemed oddly pinched…its skin leathery and greenish and its eyes bulging from his forehead. He wore grimy, brown clothing, and in one hand he held a long stick with three leather straps on the end of it. Snaga dropped the bucket and advanced on the halfling, yanking his hair back.
"Where is it?" Snaga growled, "Where is the Precious?"
The prisoner let out a whimper of protest, and forced his eyes open, he didn't know what the orc was talking about. "Please..." he begged. "Please I don't know…" his throat was so dry and now he was colder than before…the water stinging his skin. He wrapped his arms around himself and huddled against the wall his mind whirling.
"You know. Filthy hobbit knows. Snaga will find the precious. And yes, you tell!" he flung the hobbit away and the prisoner hit the wall groaning…and curling up into a heap on the floor. "Where?" he snapped the stick in the air and it cracked menacingly.
The hobbit cringed. "I d-don't have It." he whimpered. "I d-don't k-know w-what y-y-you're talking about…" his teeth began to chatter as he looked up at his tormentor.
Shagrat was in the door before Snaga could do anything else, "Think you can get ahead of us, Snaga?" Shagrat grabbed the stick out of Snaga's hand. The bigger orc shoved the other towards the open door. "Think you get the Ring first?"
"Snaga wouldn't do that, Captain. Yes, he came to give the prisoner some water. But hobbit tried to escape." Snaga hopped back to his feet and backed out of the door.
"Don't forget it. MY tower. Not yours." Shagrat growled angrily, "Out of my site!" he looked back at the halfling. "You." he stepped forward. "You talk. Tell us where it is, and no more pain. Or you can stay in here till you die, little rat."
"Please…" the hobbit begged hoarsely, "Please, I don't know…I don't understand what you w-want…" All the hobbit understood was the pain in his small body. He tried to look for pity in a being that did not know the meaning of the word.
Shagrat gave a frustrated growl and stormed out of the prison cell, locking and bolting the heavy oak door…. And the hobbit was once again alone in the dark.
He stayed where he was for a long while, huddled against the wall with his arms wrapped around his knees in a little ball. He wracked his brain trying to figure out what it was that his captors wanted. They were looking for something they called 'The Precious'…and for some reason…it nagged in the depths of his memory. He closed his eyes…trying to remember as he rocked back and forth…shivering.
He had to turn to lie on his side for his bottom was sore and bleeding again. He had nothing to clean it…or to stop the flow of blood. Eventually it would dry and scab if he left it to the open air. He tried focusing, but his body refused to let him. As time passed he slowly began to remember.
The first image that came to him was the face of a man…how could he ever forget it? The man's face that he remembered was weather-beaten and rugged, a tiny beard on the end of his chin. His hair was dark brown and hung straight and almost in a wild fashion. His eyes were dark and kind and he was holding the halfling in his arms. "Frodo…hold on…" It was dark around them then too…and his shoulder was aching terribly.
The man would have tucked a blanket around him…would have slowly begun to clean each wound in a painstaking manner. His touch was gentle and calming and Frodo wished that he were there. What he wouldn't give for one of the man's foul tasting remedies right now.
The prisoner's eyes snapped open…his name…he remembered his name…it was Frodo…he was a hobbit…from the Shire. But he couldn't recollect anything else yet…the pieces were all still so muddled. His eyelids sagged back down…it was so much easier to go back to that image…. And to go back to being cared for. It was almost making him forget where he was.
A cool cloth was dabbed against his fevered brow, and he murmured vaguely. The man encouraged him to open his eyes, but Frodo felt that it was safer to stay in the realm of half-sleep. There was something around his neck back then too…that was not there now. Something very heavy…it felt so good to be in the arms of someone who cared about him.
Anything was better than where he was now. Images floated in his mind, voices and scenes from times and places that he didn't understand. He shifted uncomfortably because he would soon have to relieve himself. He couldn't keep it in any longer no matter how much it hurt.
Tears of pain streamed down his cheeks as he squatted near a corner of the cell…and proceeded. Since he moved to the far corner of the room, he discovered something. His discovery would prove to be a blessing as he found an old holey blanket stuffed underneath a pile of wood in nearby. It must have once been a bed. He tore off a corner of the blanket and dabbed it in a puddle on the floor from the water that had been tossed on him before. Using the course material he cleaned himself as best he could…but he could feel more warm blood.
Frodo shivered, and wrapped the dirty, musty blanket around him and found a clean corner to huddle in. His mind was moving quickly now; scattered images flew about as they attempted to sort themselves.
"There Frodo, have a bit of this, I think you'll like it." The man's voice filtered through once again. A small bowl of mashed potatoes was presented to the hobbit that was lying in the grass, wrapped in blankets. He had been cold then too…but it was a different kind of cold.
"I'm not hungry." The weary hobbit looked away, his eyes glistening with tears.
"You must eat, Frodo." the man did not take no for an answer and brought a spoonful to Frodo's lips.
It was only the insistence in the kind voice of the Ranger that got the Hobbit to eat finally…and only a little bit of the warm mashed potatoes.
If the man were here now with him…Frodo vowed that he would finish the whole bowl. He wished he could remember the man's name.
* * *
TBC
REFLECTIONS IN THE DARK -- CHAPTER TWO
"Pieces"
----------------------------------------------------------------
He shaded his eyes from the blinding light and suddenly his body was doused with some kind of sticky substance…water? …But it was not clear like he would have expected. Why would he have expected that? What kind of water was he used to? Clear and blue…a river…He sputtered and choked as he coughed and rubbing his eyes. There was a creature in the doorway, holding an empty bucket.
It was humanoid, but seemed oddly pinched…its skin leathery and greenish and its eyes bulging from his forehead. He wore grimy, brown clothing, and in one hand he held a long stick with three leather straps on the end of it. Snaga dropped the bucket and advanced on the halfling, yanking his hair back.
"Where is it?" Snaga growled, "Where is the Precious?"
The prisoner let out a whimper of protest, and forced his eyes open, he didn't know what the orc was talking about. "Please..." he begged. "Please I don't know…" his throat was so dry and now he was colder than before…the water stinging his skin. He wrapped his arms around himself and huddled against the wall his mind whirling.
"You know. Filthy hobbit knows. Snaga will find the precious. And yes, you tell!" he flung the hobbit away and the prisoner hit the wall groaning…and curling up into a heap on the floor. "Where?" he snapped the stick in the air and it cracked menacingly.
The hobbit cringed. "I d-don't have It." he whimpered. "I d-don't k-know w-what y-y-you're talking about…" his teeth began to chatter as he looked up at his tormentor.
Shagrat was in the door before Snaga could do anything else, "Think you can get ahead of us, Snaga?" Shagrat grabbed the stick out of Snaga's hand. The bigger orc shoved the other towards the open door. "Think you get the Ring first?"
"Snaga wouldn't do that, Captain. Yes, he came to give the prisoner some water. But hobbit tried to escape." Snaga hopped back to his feet and backed out of the door.
"Don't forget it. MY tower. Not yours." Shagrat growled angrily, "Out of my site!" he looked back at the halfling. "You." he stepped forward. "You talk. Tell us where it is, and no more pain. Or you can stay in here till you die, little rat."
"Please…" the hobbit begged hoarsely, "Please, I don't know…I don't understand what you w-want…" All the hobbit understood was the pain in his small body. He tried to look for pity in a being that did not know the meaning of the word.
Shagrat gave a frustrated growl and stormed out of the prison cell, locking and bolting the heavy oak door…. And the hobbit was once again alone in the dark.
He stayed where he was for a long while, huddled against the wall with his arms wrapped around his knees in a little ball. He wracked his brain trying to figure out what it was that his captors wanted. They were looking for something they called 'The Precious'…and for some reason…it nagged in the depths of his memory. He closed his eyes…trying to remember as he rocked back and forth…shivering.
He had to turn to lie on his side for his bottom was sore and bleeding again. He had nothing to clean it…or to stop the flow of blood. Eventually it would dry and scab if he left it to the open air. He tried focusing, but his body refused to let him. As time passed he slowly began to remember.
The first image that came to him was the face of a man…how could he ever forget it? The man's face that he remembered was weather-beaten and rugged, a tiny beard on the end of his chin. His hair was dark brown and hung straight and almost in a wild fashion. His eyes were dark and kind and he was holding the halfling in his arms. "Frodo…hold on…" It was dark around them then too…and his shoulder was aching terribly.
The man would have tucked a blanket around him…would have slowly begun to clean each wound in a painstaking manner. His touch was gentle and calming and Frodo wished that he were there. What he wouldn't give for one of the man's foul tasting remedies right now.
The prisoner's eyes snapped open…his name…he remembered his name…it was Frodo…he was a hobbit…from the Shire. But he couldn't recollect anything else yet…the pieces were all still so muddled. His eyelids sagged back down…it was so much easier to go back to that image…. And to go back to being cared for. It was almost making him forget where he was.
A cool cloth was dabbed against his fevered brow, and he murmured vaguely. The man encouraged him to open his eyes, but Frodo felt that it was safer to stay in the realm of half-sleep. There was something around his neck back then too…that was not there now. Something very heavy…it felt so good to be in the arms of someone who cared about him.
Anything was better than where he was now. Images floated in his mind, voices and scenes from times and places that he didn't understand. He shifted uncomfortably because he would soon have to relieve himself. He couldn't keep it in any longer no matter how much it hurt.
Tears of pain streamed down his cheeks as he squatted near a corner of the cell…and proceeded. Since he moved to the far corner of the room, he discovered something. His discovery would prove to be a blessing as he found an old holey blanket stuffed underneath a pile of wood in nearby. It must have once been a bed. He tore off a corner of the blanket and dabbed it in a puddle on the floor from the water that had been tossed on him before. Using the course material he cleaned himself as best he could…but he could feel more warm blood.
Frodo shivered, and wrapped the dirty, musty blanket around him and found a clean corner to huddle in. His mind was moving quickly now; scattered images flew about as they attempted to sort themselves.
"There Frodo, have a bit of this, I think you'll like it." The man's voice filtered through once again. A small bowl of mashed potatoes was presented to the hobbit that was lying in the grass, wrapped in blankets. He had been cold then too…but it was a different kind of cold.
"I'm not hungry." The weary hobbit looked away, his eyes glistening with tears.
"You must eat, Frodo." the man did not take no for an answer and brought a spoonful to Frodo's lips.
It was only the insistence in the kind voice of the Ranger that got the Hobbit to eat finally…and only a little bit of the warm mashed potatoes.
If the man were here now with him…Frodo vowed that he would finish the whole bowl. He wished he could remember the man's name.
* * *
TBC