The Missing Link Chapter 3: Captive

by Dec 8, 2011Stories

Back in the forests, our hobbit friend is dragging himself into the forest. He takes notice of the flora that surrounds him. It seemed so pretty if you were to look at it. Snow dripped down from the leaves onto his face and it looked so refreshing. The winds danced around him. The trees looked like giants. It all seemed so peaceful if you were to look at it. But if you were to experience it…well, that’s another story.

The hobbit trudged through a dense forest. It was so difficult to move. Slush from the leaves above falls onto his head and a mess of strawberry blonde hair fell over his eyes. This caused him to have to wipe it out of his face every few seconds. The winds sent a chill through his tiny frozen body and consumed him in cold. The towering trees let little light through the massive branches. It was the most horrible thing you could imagine for him, but he suffered through it. The cold sent chills through him making his arm sting as if there was a cave troll squeezing it. It was a war that raged in silence.

The Hobbit wondered if it would ever get any warmer.

He constantly stumbled over scattered bark and twigs which left him no redemption. The walk would have been a breeze for any ranger. An elf could move quite comfortably over several with one step of the foot. But this was no ranger. And him mistaken for an elf would be a mistake made only by the blind or mad. It was a laughable thought. A smirk crawled over his face. It was the first time he had smiled since he woke up in a field countless miles ago.

“Tall and elegant? Me?” The Hobbit grinned. Then he began to laugh. Without his full attention on the debris, the hobbit tripped again over the sticks that lay in his path, and fell flat on his face.

A flash of pain went up his frail body, and he screamed in agony. The bone was crushed into splinters and a piece of it stuck out of his arm. He thought he was going to have a fit. Then he closed his eyes. The Hobbit lay still for a few seconds then breathed in and out very slowly.

The Hobbit tore a bit of cloth off his shirt and put it in his mouth to bite down on. It was better than biting his tongue off in an attempt to push his bone back in his body. Bracing himself carefully, he prepared to repair his arm with what little medical knowledge he remembered. Suddenly, he felt a chill over his neck. It was steel. There was a wet substance on it and it was not snow. He could smell the blood. Fresh blood.

“What is this?” cried an Elvish voice behind him. The Hobbit said silent thanks that he had remembered Sindaran.

“It looks like a child. It’s a human isn’t it?” said another.

“No, look at it’s feet!” Said the creature with a knife to his throat. The hobbit presumed it to be human. “Could it be?”

“You fool! Hobbits live many a mile from here!” a strong female voice snapped.

“No, I think you are the fool of present Miss Lardath.” a voice echoed. This next voice was vaguely familiar as if he knew him in a past life. The Hobbit felt his head be picked up and faced toward the elf so it could get a better look at him. The elf was the most fascinating thing The Hobbit could remember seeing. This creature’s skin was a pure white and he wore pure white clothing. The only color visible was a bit of blue in his eye. However, the most obscure thing about his eyes was the centers. Instead of the black dot in the center was a white one. It gave the illusion of the walking dead, cold, and frozen with fright. The elf’s eyes slowly widened with fear and he hesitated for a second.

“Someone get me a rag or…something!” A hand held out a handkerchief which he snatched immediately. The elf rubbed some of the muck off The Hobbit’s face. “It’s him. Get him up.” The elf commanded. As he rose slowly, The Hobbit risked a quick glance around. He noticed that the elves could barely be seen against the snow. The one human that had the knife against his throat was covered in powder so as to blend in with the elves. The Hobbit grimaced in pain as he struggled to move his arm.

“His arm! It’s bleeding, sir!” said one elf as he tried to lift The Hobbit up.

“Then attend to it.” he said as he walked away. “Oh, that reminds me.” He turned around. “Hand me your sword.” He stepped closer to the Hobbit and caught the sword in one easy motion. The Hobbit watched in terror as the elegant blade glinted in the light of the sun. Then, suddenly the terror disappeared. He remembered nothing; what’s left to live for? His exhausted head dropped in apathy. With hands raised high over his head the tall elf summoned up just the right amount of force.

“I know who you are.” he whispered. “Do you?” Then, as quick as it began, a whirl of steel brought down on a very tired head.

Once again, The Hobbit was swimming through the dizzy world of pain until the darkness approached. There was nothing but smoky, black, numbing darkness.


“Poor thing.” Said Lardath wrapping the Hobbit in a white blanket. She stroked his face gently and lifted him up in her thin arms as white as bone. “The dear looks as if he’s done nothing but collapse since he woke.” A snowy hand rest on her shoulder. Lardath turned away.

“Hobbits are not strong creatures, Lardath,” he said. “They were never made for the cold. They are summer creatures. Most never leave the Shire, and the few that do are but fools. As for this one I don’t believe there ever was a fool as great as he. Let us continue. The sun will rise soon.” Gliding through the moonlight, a band of elves moved back to their fortress with one more in their party then they came out with. Their icy skin looked akin to the snow as if their hands were ice; without blood nor warmth. They blended in with the pure white snow and could only be seen by Lardath’s ebony hair.


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