Running
The second night that they've been running after the Uruk-hai.
It's the deepest part of the night. So dark, he thinks he'll never
see the sun again. So cold, that every movement sends ice shards
through his bones. He can barely manage to put one foot in front of
the other, but he must or the hobbits will die.
Die. Like the son of Gondor's steward.
And that's when he feels it, a clenching in his gut that threatens to
stop his breath. Moisture prickles his eyes and, just for a moment,
he falters. Just for a moment, he slows his pace. In his mind's eye
he sees green eyes crinkling with too rare humour, sparking in
passion. Fading in death.
He presses a fist into one eye, then the other, stopping tears that
have not yet fallen, that must not fall. He cannot afford to feel
now, to let emotion best him.
Instead, he thinks of the strength of the one who is lost, the one
who wore these vambraces before him. He concentrates on the feel of
the leather at his wrists, the last concrete reminder of the man who
is no longer at his side.
He banishes thoughts of words whispered, of promises made that can
never be kept. Sends them to a hidden place where he can visit them
later. Where he can cherish them when other lives do not depend on
him. When he can think about the one life he could not save, the one
life above all others he would have saved.
He draws the darkness of night about him like a protective cloak and
takes a deep breath that almost, but not quite catches in his throat.
by P.R. Zed
he second night is when it hits him worst.
