I'll Come Back, When You Call Me.

Frodo Silvertongue · 11-28-2011, 05:28 PM

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:3 wc; 612

He had certainly not passed out before hearing the reassuring words of the fey that stood over him. As Frodo lay in what could be passed as a sort of coma-like state, he could hear little whispers of voices but nothing more. However, he’d heard Jace telling him not to fear just before he passed out, and he did just that. The way she spoke seemed ludicrously different to what he’d been used to, but the amount of accents and voices he’d over the past few months had certainly become somewhat of a common thing to hear, and Frodo had been constantly listening to different ways of tongue. The sharp eared boy could detect both slang and long words now, and identify them into an understanding language of his own, inside the comforting walls of his head. He'd decided that the two - female - voices he could hear, however incoherently, were most definitely "well spoken", or "finely educated".

The man was far from peaceful looking despite being in a deep, trance sort of sleep. His eyes were shut but his face wasn’t calm, it looked thick with pain, and like butter spread over too much bread it was taut and bony, lost was the childish and bouncy bonniness, and the round, wide muzzle that looked so sweet. The youth looked less like a child than he’d ever been, and much more of a grown man. His fingers twitched ever so slightly as he was picked up gently, but nothing more than that did he stir.

Strider was intense and snorting like a truly wild beast, his hooves scraping the earth in befuddlement and a pure tension. He wanted nothing more than to whip his boy away from the fiends where he could care for Frodo, but despite this urge he was confident he knew not of medicine that wouldn’t help those not of his kin. Sure, Frodo was like kin to him, but as a horse Strider knew that the only “medicines” he knew of was those that would help a fellow horse that was feeling unwell, or a foal that was weak. And these were simply different grasses or leaves. Grasses, or leaves, would not help Frodo know. He needed help from his own kind, and the white stallion could only stand there, distraught and beaten, and fierce. But not attacking. He followed as soon as Jace picked up Frodo, and would continue following until he knew Frodo was safe, and they could be together again.

It was when Frodo was strewn upon the wolf’s shoulder for more than a minute, that he started twitching a little more, and he opened bleary eyes to the ground, and a confused expression landed on his face. He stay still, noting he was being carried, and despite being warned before hand that death wasn’t to come to him, he couldn’t help but think of it being death himself carrying him off into the unknown. He stared at the muddy floor, his brain still quite jumbled and full of useless ramblings. Hate to tell ya, squire, but hope that you’re gone from here soonish, before they get their teeth into you. Trust me, young man, you do not want to stay for dinner. who was he talking to? Himself, probably. It was all sort of unclear to the small, lightweight man. The curly furred male gave another twitch, and then blacked out again. And he probably wouldn’t wake up again, at least, not until he was at the cabin; if Jace managed to get him there, and serve her intentions purposefully, of course.

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