Scene Two: The Awakening
Things do not change. We change.
Henry David Thoreau
His eyelids opened, but not quite all the way, as though they were not prepared for what they might see. And of course, they were in no way ready to glimpse the truth of what reality had bitterly thrown out before him. His eyes were much wiser than he was, and they fell closed only a moment after witnessing the hazy air of a small room around him.
He was not dead. This much he could comprehend. In fact, he was lying in bed; he realized a moment before sleep claimed him once more.
Hours later, he waged war against his eyes, battling them for freedom of vision. Cold hands were on him as he wildly wondered where he was, why he was there, what had happened. Fever came to ally his eyes and he drowned in molten feeling.
He had terrible dreams—he was lost again in darkness, bitterness eating at his heart. Something was wrong. Something was so deeply wrong that he could not fathom it or its consequences in the heart of his delirium. He saw his love, but he did not have the strength to hold her. It terrified him. He ran.
He ran far, fast, without falling. He saw too much and yet not enough at all. He was desperate and without care. He did not understand, but something in the very back of his mind whispered that it would be better not to.
Fever broke, sweat cooled, softer sleep overtook him. He was soothed gently in the hands of some mystic, of some ancient powers of spirit that cradled him and whispered that everything would be fine, and he was certain he was being called away to the Halls of Mandos.
When the time came to do battle with his eyes once more, he found that they surrendered to his obvious prowess and wisdom in the face of bitterness. They opened, and he saw sunlight streaming in through a window.
A young girl, perhaps thirteen, was grinding something sweet-smelling in a mortar and pestle over in the corner next to the opening of sun. She heard him stir and looked up through masses of red hair.
"Oh! My lord, you waken," she exclaimed in a hushed voice, putting down her concoction and hurriedly standing up to come to his bedside.
He opened his mouth, and words dragged themselves from his throat.
"Where…am I?"
"At Edoras, milord, an eored…found you…." she answered, her face darkening.
Something did not feel right. There was a great emotion in her eyes, a feeling he was not used to seeing being directed at him.
Pity. Sympathy.
"Are you…a fighting man, my lord?" she asked, her voice almost trembling.
"I am called Strider, and am a ranger from the northern lands." His voice was coming easier now to accompany the ragged racing of his heart.
"Then…oh…I am sorry," she whispered, staring down at the bed.
He looked to the left side of him. He couldn't quite move his foot, it was most likely broken, but his knee felt all right. He went through the muscles of the left side until he discovered he could not move the fingers of his left hand. He could not move them at all. There were no bandages on the hand, no signs of brokenness. Nothing.
He shoved the panic away.
When he turned his head to the other side, the young girl quickly turned her head away as she heard the strangled cry from his throat.
His right arm was gone.