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[Arvedui III]

There were times when the physical sensation of it almost stopped.

But for the most part, the pain was constant, soreness rubbing coarsely with newfound hunger pangs. Sometimes, rain would seep in through the crack in the cave that was his only window into the outside world, but for the rest of the time there was no respite, no relief from knowing endless pain and hunger and thirst. In the brief periods when he was able enough to walk, he found, much to his dismay, that he was completely sealed into his rocky prison. It was all he could do to stay lucid, let alone fend off the panic that keep washing over him every time he woke. The blessed times during the beginning of his confinement when he could lie in absolute, mindless lethargy were over. Now he had many hours to mull over his fate.

Most of the time he found himself wondering about his captors. Who were they? What were they? There was no chance in all Arda that they were the dwarves. An exploratory probe of his back proved that only a man or an elf could strike the blows he barely remembered. Blurred images, like something out of a nightmare, flashed before him in moments of terror, but were gone as soon as they had come, leaving him with nothing but a fresh sense of dread. He had learned to live with it, shrug it off, because all the screaming and crying he had done during the beginning had availed him nothing. He could only console himself in that, so far, nothing had happened to him. Perhaps nothing ever would. Maybe, just maybe, he would just be left here to linger and die.

He knew he must be in a bad way when he was comforting himself with thoughts of starvation.

However, he awoke one day, if indeed he could still judge time by days, to a most peculiar smell. The dank, musky sent of the cave and his own waste had become familiar, but somehow this waking period was different. He peered around, sniffing something quite intangible, yet he knew it was there. He turned over from the corner that had become his sleeping place, blinked, and blinked again. He wasn’t quite sure if he could trust his eyes, if he hadn’t finally gone mad. Because, before him lay the most beautiful platter crammed with steaming broths, frothing mugs and colorful, shining fruit. He crouched low, instinctively mistrustful of the bounty which had appeared innocently out of nowhere.

Perhaps it is a last, glorious fantasy. One final happy thought that manifests itself before dying men.

He moved toward the plate, sniffing the wonderful smells that were now filling the cave, and suddenly, painfully aware his stomach had never felt emptier, convulsing in protest. It was probably poisoned, probably would cause acute agony ere the life left him. He touched a large orange fruit, withdrawing his hand quickly. The thing was cool to the touch and certainly seemed real enough. He grasped it, feeling the wonderful weight of it in his hand. Resolve falling away, he brought it within inches of his mouth, but did not bite. The fear of what this food might contain pervaded through him, and he began to shake. Better to die sooner than later. He closed his eyes tightly as if facing a row of archers, and took a bite.

It was, perhaps, the most magnificent moment in his entire life. The juice was sweet and shiver ran down his spine at the wonderful taste. Before he knew it, he was crunching into anything he could get his hands on, sparing no crumb for the cave floor. For the first time in, well, a long time he felt genuinely happy and at peace. If he was going to die, he decided, he was going to die well fed.