Taradan’s legs moved automatically, running, stumbling, running, faltering, and running again. How long had he been trying to escape the heat and the crackling of the destructive fire behind him? How had he come to be separated from his comrades by the wall of flames? His head ached with the pounding of his blood and the pain of his wound. He could only vaguely remember fighting, enemies between him and the others, retreating, and then the fire, more powerful and murderous than his human foes. Would this burning forest never come to an end? He could feel his weariness overcome him, yet dread of burning alive filled his mind and kept his weakened body moving with the last strength of his will.
Suddenly realizing that his legs were cold despite the heat of the flames, he looked down with blurred eyes. He was running in water, a stream that widened ahead of him. His mind had not grasped the rescue, but his instinct led him into the middle. He lost his footing on the wet stones, stumbled and fell. The water was deeper than he would have expected, had he been able to think clearly. His weakness and the burden of arms and heavy clothing pulled him downwards. Arms flailing, he sought to find a hold, to grasp something that would save him.
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'Mercy!' cried Gandalf. 'If the giving of information is to be the cure of your inquisitiveness, I shall spend all the rest of my days in answering you. What more do you want to know?' 'The whole history of Middle-earth.. .'
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