I'll Come Back, When You Call Me.

Frodo Silvertongue · 12-10-2011, 11:50 AM

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The rest of his journey towards the cabin was in sleep and silence. He uttered not a word prior to the mumbled, crazy sentence he had emitted before, yet even so, in sleep he was reckless. The relentless man thought of redeeming and revenge. Redemption was a tricky subject and not one he’d really thought about before, but still it was there, lurking in his contorted mind. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t Frodo. His eyes were sealed shut but he could see figures of black moving above him, he could see ravens picking at carcasses and other literately impossible scenes, the detail in them rough but the main aspects as true as reality. There wasn’t really any ominous birds and beasts dancing around him. He just thought there was. X’yrin was right in thinking that, for the moment, he was simply quite deranged, however it was nothing permanent and the illusions and hallucinations just came from fatigue and dehydration. If nursed back to health properly- which to be fair, would only last a day if his saviour went about it the correct way, Frodo would be back to normal. Or at least, as normal as one could be in his circumstances. What was normal, anyway? To be average height, average looks, average personality? Frodo had never been any of those things. He'd always been abnormal. That was, if normal was actually a word. It shouldn't be a word, thought Frodo. There was nothing the same, or the norm. Everything was different, and was able to change.

When he was carried into the cabin, it seemed dark in contrast to the outside world. He could feel the change through damp lids as they entered. Frodo was tossed onto the bed quite gently, but the contact of his skinny, frail body was painful against the object. The horse Strider simply waited outside of the cabin, knowing it would be a stupid idea to go in, and thought about what would happen after Frodo pulled through. The wolf lay still on the bed, unmoving for quite a while until snapping his pale eye lids open, the intense green eyes of his swirling pools of melancholy. Those eyes of his… they were something. So much emotion in the soft, kind orbs. Anyone trained socially would be able to read him like a book. Frodo didn’t mind. He was open enough anyway. He held no secrets, nothing special secret wise any way. Of course, he had things he didn’t want to share, but if really probed into doing so, he would spill out his heart without being held back. The wild boy shook and drew back against one corner of the bed, with what strength he had left. Frodo was weak, so weak.

Through numb lips and constantly blinking eyes he addressed the two wolves. Perhaps there was once a time it was thought impossible to address someone with eyes. Not in Frodo’s case. They spoke and told a story just as much as his muzzle. Strider? he croaked, his voice a melodic calypso that wove it’s way in and out of walls. Of course he would ask for his horse. Not some water, or food, or just rest, seeing as it seemed the lady’s were kind enough to bend to his whim. He thought only of the horse. M…m-my horse… ? Holy ghost, he alright? he trailed off, his eyes flitting quickly between the wolves and then the cabin. He was unused to most luperci customs, but a cabin was similar to the gypsy, wooden caravans he’d been born and raised in. But Frodo was still unsure of the building, despite being quite familiar with it’s structure.

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