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Old 08-28-2006, 12:35 PM   #146
Folwren
Messenger of Hope
 
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Join Date: Jun 2005
Location: In a tiny, insignificant little town in one of the many States.
Posts: 5,228
Folwren is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.Folwren is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.
Kwell sat in the darkness of the pit, his head bowed, his back bent, and his hands still bound behind him. The forever half dimness of his prison had an hour ago given way to the nearly complete blackness of night. As the shadows advanced and the light retreated, the dread that had been held at bay all day long bounded forward like some animal on its prey. Whatever hope Kwell had entertained fled with the sunlight. What was there now to hope for after all?

Azhar still lay in unconsciousness. Not once that day had she risen or responded to Kwell as he moved about and tried to speak to her. Once or twice she had caused his hopes to sour when she began to speak, but he soon realized that the words were unconnected with anything and were insane. After that, each time she spoke or cried out, Kwell shuddered with terror and drew away.

Now, as the darkness seeped in from every wall, Kwell sat on his knees in the farthest corner from his companion, his back to the cold, damp stone. It had been a long time since Azhar had last made any sound or movement. Silence ruled over Kwell and his surroundings. He could hear nothing. Nothing at all. The stillness and blackness seemed complete. Was this how it felt to be dead? Was he dead? The void around him was untouchable and beyond knowledge. To his unseeing eyes, everything grew out of proportion until he was a tiny speck in a sea of darkness.

But then a man spoke above. Two men. They walked towards the mouth of the pit, to return to the guard duty they had neglected, Kwell assumed. Not that it was necessary. Kwell was too hungry to want to move and try to escape. But more than that, they brought a torch with them and the light restored to their proper size the things around him, although the shadows flickered and danced in strange ways on the floor of his prison.

They had not only come to guard them, Kwell realized in a minute. The grate was being lifted away and moved. Slowly, he raised himself up onto his knees and watched as one of the men eased himself into the pit. The torch was handed down after him. For a moment, he stood with it lifted above his head as he looked around the pit. He paused a moment in his survey as his eyes lit upon Azhar and then he continued.

“That you, boy?” he barked suddenly. The light half fell on Kwell. The lad moved forward a few feet. “Good. Here. I’ve brought you something to eat. Guess Imak forgot earlier,” he added, a gruff chuckle finding its way out of his throat. He tossed onto the ground something that Kwell couldn’t make out from where he was. “You still tied up?”

“Hand and foot,” Kwell responded dryly.

The man stepped over to him without a word, drawing his knife. He cut the ropes around his wrists, none too carefully, and turned away. Kwell gingerly touched his raw wrists and nursed the new cut the brute had just inflicted. He dully watched the man handing up the torch and preparing to leave.

“Wait!” he called suddenly. He crawled forward quickly, towards the man who was just about to climb out of the pit. Kwell’s eyes flicked from his face to Azhar and back again. Should he tell the man that Azhar had collapsed early that morning, and hadn’t moved since? Or would that only stir doubts in their mind and make them decide she should be gotten rid of. They may not wait for her to get better, he realized. “Never mind,” he muttered after a pause. He’d made up his mind not to tell him. They wouldn’t help, whatever they did. “Go on.”

The man lifted an eyebrow, shrugged, and pulled himself out of the pit. The grate fell back in place. Kwell felt relieved when they didn’t take the torch away and a little bit of light was allowed to enter into the pit. Quickly, he ate the food that they had spared him: old, rancid meat and some sort of dried weed, he assumed.

When he had finished, he picked up Azhar’s portion and pulled himself over to her side. There, he carefully placed the food to one side and then shifted himself to her head. He gently moved her, positioning her onto her back, with her pale face upward.

“Wake up,” he whispered. “Please wake up.” He pushed the damp locks of black hair away from her face and forehead. “If you die and leave me here alone, then I don’t see how I can hope anymore. Azhar. . .” He bit his lip against hot, blistering tears. He hated not doing anything. Now that his hands were free there should be something he could do. He looked around and then thought of the little stream of water. It was just a couple feet behind him. He turned slightly and leaned across towards it and scooped up some of the cold water. He rinsed his hands and drank deeply from it before trying then to take some of it to Azhar.

Most of the water that he scooped up ran out through his fingers before he reached her face. With what little he could manage to transfer to her, he gently bathed her face and her hands and moistened her dry and cracked lips for several minutes, trying to cool her and to rouse her. He didn’t know what else to do, and when that tactic brought no results, he sat back on his feet and folded his hands in his lap to think and to wait, and maybe to give up.
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