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It is a warg—an emaciated one at that.
Great. Just great.
It is still lingering back in the denser part of the fog, but I swear, it can sense my weakening—not just physically but also in my resolve.
No one is going to find me.
So why do I bother collecting loose rocks to throw at the Warg to dissuade it? Maybe it is the Durin blood flowing through my veins—people have said that stubbornness runs in the family. Personally I cannot argue with that statement.
I will not be able to keep this up for much longer. The Warg is becoming less and less affected by the small rocks bouncing off its head. It is learning that they are not fatal, at least not at the rate that they are traveling through the air. It is a pitiful attempt at hurling rocks is all that I can muster. My aim is getting sloppy and my aim is always perfect. That, I think, is what hurts my pride the most. More so than the fact that I am immobile, weak, and weeping like an infant.
Not to mention it hurts to perform the action.
I am dying—I have come to accept that fact. Whether I die alone, succumbing to my injuries or at the mercy of the Warg my fate is the same.
Stay back! Ah! A complete miss.
Oh! it hurts… hurts so much! Why can I not just pass out?! Anything to escape this agony, this… this torture! The epicenter of the pain might be my back but every single nerve feels as if it is on fire—an icy pain snaking out to every limb, every appendage… everywhere! And there is no escaping it. Well, there is one way…
Giving up.
Before the fall I would never have believed that those two words would ever pass through my mind. But… it just… hurts… so much.
The Warg approaches.
I cannot throw another rock.
I cannot.
I… I am sorry.
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