Flying in with the Snow is (winterhawk) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-03-13 21:45:00 |
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Entry tags: | frodo baggins |
The dark of the moon....
Who: Frodo
What: A Forgotten Anniversary
Where: Inside Chetan's head @ the RV
When: March 13th
March 13, 3022
The dark of the moon....
A stab in the dark, an innocence lost.
A drift on the currents, tempest tossed.
Lost and confused, anothers will takes control.
This feeling of pain, overwhelming my soul.
The moon is well hidden, alone in the dark.
Hoping for another's voice, to cause a brief spark.
And winter approaches, it brings a chill bite.
No cure in the future, an end with no respite.
Quietly waiting, listening with tears.
A hope for the future, or the silence of fears.
The sky slowly brightens, and sunshine displays
This journey continues..
...and the night slowly fades.
It started with little or no warning, much like it usually does. The light is the first thing I notice and I find myself seeking a darkened corner in which to sit, most times that means little more than a coverlet in a storage closet. It begins with the sharp pain that comes from even just a single lantern or the glowing of embers in the fireplace and I press my hands to my eyes to block the light as I fight my way down a hall and out into the darkness of the night where there was little light except for the stars. Thank Elbereth, it was a new moon night with just the barest sliver of a crescent outlines a curve.
Shooting down the back of my neck and it screams down my shoulder and on though my arm, sending sharp pains flaring as it contacts each joint in it's way. My shoulder flares up with the first protest of movement. Elbow screeches and grinds my teeth tighter, down a forearm to a wrist contracting into a curl around a hand and onward into the knuckle of a finger bitten so as to distract the rest the hand from following suit.
I sink down to the sand to make the distance less likely of a long fall into one of the barrel cacti. In/out a breath catches as if to block off the queasiness that lies beneath the surface. How many years has it been now, I can no longer remember, let alone know what day it is, for thinking hurts far too much.
My hand scratches and scrambles around my neck in surprise. Why is there a pouch and not m'lady Arwen's glass anymore? Had I given it back to Elrond? I can not remember and the more I try to think the more my head pounds out it frustrations. But perhaps. Even here, where there should be some degree of easement it is found in a pouch that contains leaves from a poplar tree. I fumbled open the pouch and pulled a leaf out and ground it between an ache that was burrowing its way through my head. I cringe at the bitter taste but still held out hope to find some sort of relief.
Even here? It takes me a long moment to gather my thoughts into something more coherent, here?, something as simple as who I am at the moment.
I cannot find a name.
Through the ache of his head Chay slowly chewed the bundle of poplar leaves trying to regain some sort of sanity. Curled in around himself on the cold desert night sand sheltering his eyesight from anything that resembled a glow..no flu or cold had ever taking it's toll on him quite like this had and he could barely think through the pounding mass where once his head existed. Seldom had he felt sick before and even more rare was this bone crunching ache that was affecting his shoulder and arm. Only partial understanding registered when his companion from Middle Earth seemed to be filing the largest complaints. What he would do when the sun finally rose in the morning was beyond his thought at the moment. For now it was just a fight to keep his stomach on an even keel and to find a way to keep his hands from shaking apart.