He lay back with a reluctant sigh. He was no better than that guard of Gondor who had visited the inn in need of healing a while back. He had been scornful and unsympathetic as he had watched Pio heal the man’s wounds, and now he was in the same situation. He was weak. The thought plagued him, and no sleep came to him. The drink he had been given lessened the pain of his arm, and now he felt strangely numb, but it did not however take away the sting of defeat. His mind could not rest while he carried the burden of weakness. He was weary and needed sleep. Darkness seemed to swirl before his eyes, and finally, sleep came. But it was not the friend he had known before. In his sleep lay troubles of the past, and nightmares of lies and treachery, anger rekindled by newfound hatred.
Hours passed, and Erdaminéon slept fitfully. He was cast into a world where he walked in shadow. There was nothing. Nothing. There never would be. And nothing made sense. He woke, covered with cold sweat. The drink had worn off, and there was a stabbing pain from his arm. He sat up painfully, and looked about the dark room. He could hear voices from the Common Room, happy voices. Voices that did not know of the dark things that lurked outside the Shire. Or of the dark things that lurked almost on their own doorsteps. His cloak was gone, as was his tunic. He began to search franticly, oblivious of his pain, for his sword and bow. His bow he saw nowhere, in fact he didn’t seem to recall having it when he’d entered the inn. Nor when he’d ridden his horse back to the Shire. He knew he had worn his sword beneath his cloak though. He would never have left the precious blade, regardless of what dangers he had to face for it. He felt fear close in on him again. He closed his eyes and sat in the dark, the throbbing pain a mere irritation now. There was no light to see by, and he couldn’t continue his search in the dark. He sat to wait for Pio’s return.
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