Mike groaned as his body landed heavily on the springy grass. He received a face full of mud and grass and the morning dew as his glasses bounced away, innocently unharmed. It was the first time in his life he had ever hated an object. He felt a giant headache coming on, and that was on top of the one he had already been nursing. He lifted a hand to his sticky, bloody chestnut hair and felt for a bump. Oh, that was going to be a nice one. He groaned again and turned onto his back, closing his eyes. To be quite honest, closing his eyes didn't do much. They were practically swollen shut either way.

He heard another groan, one that was becoming familiar. "David? I assume you're alive."

"Quite unfortunate, really." David answered dryly. "I suppose this isn't heaven."

"No, because if it was heaven, we'd be surrounded by beautiful blonde women and we'd be drinking beer. Wait, no, that's you." He gave a weak chuckle. "Its times like these, when you're almost dead, where you wish you were back with your family, eh?" Mike turned his head to wipe off some of the blood with the cool grass. He started to shiver from the drastic temperature change, and huddled closer to David instinctually. Keep his dignity or die by way of painful pneumonia. Oh, life's hard decisions.

David did the same and nodded. "Yep." He looked around as best he could. "So, Mike, tell me about your daughter." It was part of his training; keep your companion awake. He was still a soldier, beaten up or no, and he was determined to get them out of this alive.

"Alex… is great. She's fourteen, in algebra, almost in high school. She loves volleyball and was on varsity this year. I was so proud of her. She also likes shopping and she adores jewelry. Uh… she hates the guy her mom's dating, and I'm about ready to kick that guy's ass." Mike admitted. "Well, Alex is really a good girl, I miss her a lot. Uh, she's about five foot, four inches, she loves pepperoni pizza and neapolitian ice cream…" Mike's voice was lost from shivering. They both were shaking so much that it appeared they were convulsing.

"Hey, Mike, stay with me, man, we gotta get back to Iraq and make sure you get back to that daughter of yours." David forced his body to obey his will, if only for a moment. He surrendered to his body's needs and shivered, getting closer to Mike. It was full noon, and yet both men were shivering as if it was in the middle of the winter.

"So… D-David… tell me 'bout your… w-w-wife." Mike's shivers jarred his broken arm and he rolled over onto his broken ribs. He cried out in pain, moisture clawing at his throat, on the verge of tears. And real men didn't cry!

"She's beautiful and awesome. She's a total brunette bombshell. She's from Ar-arkansas, but she m-m-moved to New York when we got married. And is today Wednesday?" He asked suddenly.

"Y-yeah."

"DAMN IT!" David yelled as best he could in his frightful anger. Mike knew that the man was furiously cursing the Iraqi insurgents as he launched into a string of Spanish words.

"Why?"

"According to the doctors, m-my daughter i-is being b-b-born." He furiously forced out the words.

Michael was almost terrified of David in that moment. He was shivering, yes, but he looked fit to get up and start pacing and swearing viciously in Spanish underneath his breath. He was a powerful man and all of his muscles, when not shuddering in the cold, were tense from the pain of not being there for his wife. Mike would have possibly clapped the man on his shoulder or given some words of comfort when loud neighs in the distance caught their attention.

"What the hell?" The journalist asked aloud, his teeth chattering.

Two men stood over them, their faces bearded and their eyes were filled with concern and mistrust. They started to speak to each other in their own language, one looking rather reluctant for them to even stop and stare at the strangers. Mike blinked, barely conscious. The cold was permeating his mind and lulled him to sleep, but he refused to give in. He didn't want to enter a sleep he might never wake up from. He had to find his way back to Iraq from… wherever they were… and back to Alex.

"H-help us." David's voice was shaking as the cold started to affect him deeply.

They looked confused at the obviously foreign tongue. One of the men, taller and broader than the other, pulled his cloak off and covered David with it, lifting him up with the strength of an ox. The smaller man, obviously a few years the other's junior, did the same to Mike and followed the older man. Mike cried out as pressure was put onto his broken ribs and his broken arm was jostled.

"Mike, where the hell are they taking us? And what language are they speaking?" David asked, his shivers slowly as the man's body warmth sunk into his bones.

"No idea." Mike whispered between his cries of pain. "Ow!" He cried out as the man carrying him gave him to another. His head swam and he barely caught a glimpse of the man who carried him before he was rendered unconscious.

ooo

Michael Evans came back to consciousness hours after that. He was wrapped in warm animal skins and he was in a tent of tan material. It was not yet evening, for he could still see light leaking in through the tent flap. He found he could not move his arm that had been broken, for it was in a splint and tightly bound, but if he moved the other, he found his ribs were bound and he could breathe easily again. He thanked whatever god/being was listening that his lungs hadn't been punctured. His head wound was also bound and there was something smelly and sticky on his tongue. He tried to register the taste and by the sterile taste, he assumed it was medicine. He blinked his swollen eyes. Where the hell am I? He thought.

The man who had first carried him entered the room and Mike took that moment to study him. At heart, Mike was a writer, fascinated by the inner workings of the human mind and heart, and a firm believer in that one could learn a lot about a person by observing them when they didn't know you were looking. This man did not have the look of a soldier as David and Adam and the others did. He looked more like the men Mike had gotten to know through his journalism; a man of the heart and of intellect, rather than of war. The journalist would have drawn more inferences, but the man had noticed that he was awake.

He said something in the strange, other language, and Mike blinked. What was this guy playing at? He assumed it was Russian or something. Maybe this was the Iraqi's new form of torture- placing a prisoner in an unknown location and amongst people who didn't speak the same language, aiming to break them. He shook it off and shook his head in confusion.

"Halbarad." The man said clearly, pointing to himself.

Mike was struck with a feeling. It was the sensation you had heard the name before, from some past source. He blinked, realizing that the man had introduced himself. "Michael." He replied as loudly and clearly as he could manage.

Halbarad, if that was indeed his name, made motions, as if he was eating, and then laid down a plate of something that smelled like meat and then left. Mike slowly eased himself up and looked down at it. Now, he did not assume himself to be a picky eater. He would eat anything, from Thai to sloppy Joes, but that was just insulting his finer tastes. It looked half-cooked, and if he wasn't mistaken, it was fish with the eyeballs still intact. He looked away, but his stomach protested. He hadn't eaten anything save the bread and molding carbohydrates wasn't enough sustenance. He reached for the awkward wooden fork and fought to sever a piece from the rest. When he managed to, he quickly picked it up with his fingers, finding the fork too hard to use, and put it into his mouth. To a man as hungry as he, it wasn't too bad, but it made him wince and swallow quickly. And it left a nasty aftertaste. He did, however, finish about half of it until his stomach was sated.

He was only thankful that he was left alone, in case Halbarad was the cook. Mike didn't want to hurt his feelings, especially after Halbarad had saved his and David's life. Speaking of which, where was the Hispanic? Mike panicked. What if David had died? Unlikely, yes, but it was still possible. He couldn't be left alone in this crazy place!

Mike carefully laid down again, raising a hand to gently massage his swollen eyelids. A fierce headache was raging through his skull. He tried to relax and imagine himself somewhere else as he had in the prison to ease his pain, but as he opened his eyes once more, he again tried to rationalize why he was suddenly in an entirely new world that he had no way of reasoning as to how he came there. Of course, there was the silver tunnel thing, but that did not merit thinking about.

Maybe he was crazy.

That actually made sense.

Funny, Mike thought, if I were crazy, you'd think I wouldn't be in so much pain. His thoughts were wry and dry, and he was reminded of David. At least, if he were crazy, David wouldn't be dead in his mind. Always a plus.

A larger man entered the tent, a small bottle in his hand. Mike took the quick second he had to study this man as well. He walked with power and authority. He looked great, as if he was born to lead, no matter how corny that sounded. Mike saw something in the man's eyes, something sacred and tangible, but it disappeared as the man registered that he was awake.

"Strider." Apparently, Halbarad had informed him on the language block.

"Michael." He introduced himself again.

Strider knelt down by Mike's side and the journalist was a bit confused and fearful, but he sat up obediently, trusting childishly that this man meant him no harm. He had, however, been helped and doctored and fed. Most captors didn't do that to their prisoners. His ribs were unbound and Mike gasped from the pain. Strider looked at him with sympathy and poured a thick substance from the bottle onto his hands, and spread the substance over Mike's ribcage. It was like glue, but it relieved him of pain and seemed to help with his overall state. It was the smell of it. It made his entire being feel lighter. Strider rebound his ribs and checked Mike's head.

Strider pointed to it and then made a face of pain. Mike blinked, and then nodded. Okay, so this sign/body language thing was going pretty well. The stranger did the same to his head wound and then pulled a small vial from his pocket and made a motion that Mike was to drink it. He looked distastefully at it. He had no idea what was in there, but when Strider gave him a stern look, he was quick to obey. He got the silent warning; he didn't want to get this guy mad.

Mike felt relief come onto him as he drank the concoction. He made a decision; these guys weren't that bad. Maybe they could help him. He liked that idea and started to scheme as to how he could get over the language barrier. He had always been good with languages…

ooo

Strider left the injured man's tent as Halbarad was exiting the other one. "How is he?" The Ranger asked as they went to the fire that was in the middle of the Ranger camp.

"In pain and half-conscious." Halbarad reported. "He spoke in two languages when he first woke up. One was the same that My-kul," He pronounced the man's name as best he could. "Had used and the other I was unfamiliar with. I know it was not elvish, at least not the form I am familiar with. Perhaps they are from Harad? Day-veed did have the look of a Haradrim." He suggested.

"I know not." Strider admitted. He was stumped. He had never come upon two men speaking the language they spoke. "Where shall we head?" He changed the subject smoothly.

"The men wish for rest, so shall we brave the Gap of Rohan or head for Bree?" Halbarad, in turn, questioned his chief.

"Nay, I think we should head to a human village near Rivendell. The men can rest there and I can consult Lord Elrond on this matter." Strider decided.

"Do you think it wise, Strider?" Halbarad asked. "They might be spies."

"Indeed, its possible. But we can inquire about them, and Lord Elrond can help us. He has heard of a great many things. We can get a map of Arda and ask them to point out where they dwell." The chief of the Dunedain sighed. "I would not endanger the men if the two were not so injured."

Halbarad nodded. "And what could have injured them, if they were servants of the Enemy and none of our scouts had reported fighting anything strange in such strange garb."

"Indeed."

"So, we head for Rivendell?"

"Yes." Strider confirmed and then took out his pipe and lit it. It was going to be a long night.