Hand Of Sorrow

Frodo Silvertongue · 12-16-2011, 06:56 PM

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Word Count ::885 your writing is just beautiful!! <33 *cries*

Gingerly he trudged on, an aching in his heart that even so held its very own mustering strength. For within the walls of pain that was his body there was a distant feeling, an urge to prove himself and to keep on going. He refused to be shown up like that again. Refused to. The young man had seen much of pain in his second year, and now it was nearing to his birthday he felt as if it had been a whole year wasted. Not completely wasted; for sure he had made a couple of good choices in his life. But despite that, he’d made very many bad. For the first time in his life, his thoughts were flooding on the negative side of things instead of the positive. Frodo had always been a cup-half-full kinda guy but this had turned to be quite the opposite. He’d spent all his childhood hours pretending, pretending he was off somewhere else, on an adventure of some sort. Whether it was fighting as a heroic knight or playing the villain, the alternate universe seemed better to his reality. And how he wished he could go back there now. How he wished the tables could have turned in his favour. Sure, Frodo liked his life in AniWaya, but the man was beyond lonely. He longed for his family again; siblings, mother…father. Yes, even his father who had been so cruel to him on his last days there. It was just the anger though. Surely his father still loved him.

The man blatantly refused to be helped further by X’yrin. He was a man now. A man. Not a snivelling little child, not someone to be looked after. All though he did need looking after at this moment, however stubborn he was to believe it. Hunched over and defeated, he skulled after X’yrin, mimicking the pace of a blind mouse. His lopes were feeble and his limbs were like lead, picking them up one after the other felt harder than it had ever done before. The old wounds on his back had been reopened. Where he’d been whipped as a cabin-boy, back on the days where he’d worked on the ships, Frodo had been struck repeatedly on the back if he put so much as a wobbly foot out of place. The long, gaunt strips of pink on his back had only just started to heal, and now it seemed they’d never heal. Frodo was almost certain there’d be scars there. How embarrassing. How terrible it would for him to have to carry the scars for the rest of his life.

The wolf repeatedly cursed himself over and over again, calling himself the foulest things under the earth. Frodo had always seemed a fair man of little anger, his temper held safely within the soft caverns of his gentle mind, but now all this built up collection of extremities was splitting out of his maw easily. Like an earthquake waiting to happen for years. After finishing his cursing of himself, he went on to curse Inferni, and then the pirates, and eventually his parents. He had loved his mother but she’d been too weak, to mild, too meek to stand up to his father as Frodo was cast out. Even though it was his father that had gave the order, he still blamed his mother equally as much for the life it had cost him. It was because of them he’d had to start afresh, in this terrifying new world where he was the stranger and they were the inhabitants. Being beat up back there had been the last straw, and the short male would be changed forever. Perhaps it was a good thing he’d been kicked and beaten out until every bit of strength faded away, because there was thing for sure; he’d learnt a great deal from the experience.

When he finally fell silent, Frodo felt better. Empty now of feeling, he was just numb as she gestured for him to lie beneath the roots. He sat in the corner of the sloped pit, hunching against the wall, his face fair like a child’s but foul at the same time. I will repay you for taking me from hell, when I can. his voice had more meaning than usual, but it was filled with spite, so the lack of accent and the more matured tone meant nothing. It was emotionless when usually it was lit up with colour and melody. Grating his fingers through the earth, Frodo wondered about Makhesthai. The poor little kid. Dead. The man spat, his intense green eyes fading a grim sort of grey. Everything good in this world had to be taken. His emotions and pain dulled for the time being, the man slowed down his breathing by thrusting both hands against his chest and telling himself to be calm. Once a fluent and avid talker his tongue now felt obese and heavy in his mouth, and he found himself lost for words. Staring up at X’yrin, his saviour two times round, Frodo contorted his face into a makeshift smile that only turned into a grimace. Usually smiling came so easily to him. Frodo was not himself.

Image courtesy of Scott Hudson **; Table by the Mentors!

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