A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Three~

When he came to, stars and shadows wheeled madly over his head, a twisted kaleidoscope of the night sky that raced sickeningly before his clouded eyes, making him want to retch. Then the stars shifted, morphed instead to the dim yet obvious flickering of candles, and the shadows became a man's silhouette. That very figure stirred and drew closer.

"Moryo? Can you hear me? Moryo?" Strider's gruff voice sliced like a razor through his muddled head. The stars above him shifted and unified themselves, the shadows clarifying. Caranthir stiffened and jerked back.

"Get away, human, if you know what's good for you," he snarled. When the ranger made no halt, he clawed himself backwards. Strider stepped away, and leaned a nonchalant shoulder against the sturdy walls. In this moment, Caranthir realized he was not in his room.

"Moryo, calm down. You've been out for a couple hours, it's almost dawn."

Caranthir tensed and sat up. "Where did you take me?" he rasped, trying hard to ignore the intense, painful drums sounding in his head. "This isn't the room I bought."

Strider's eyes glinted from beneath a hood. "You were in Room Thirteen."

"And? It came with the best price," he protested. Although it really was worth less than that. Butturbur should've shown me the room before the purchase.

Making to stand, Caranthir hissed a curse and stumbled. Strider sighed. "I'd stay down for a while if I were you. Best not to fall on the hobbits."

"What?" Caranthir jerked up, eyes widening as he took in the shapes of four children, huddled and snoozing on a sofa.

A small smirk played over Strider's face, but his eyes remained grim. "The hobbits I told you about are here as well. They've been hunted, and I am protecting them."

Caranthir groaned and let his feet brush the floor. "What even are hobbits? When I was--" he paused, realizing he couldn't use "alive" or "young" "--I never heard about them in my day." (This still wasn't a good one.)

Strider huffed slightly, giving him a curious stare. "Surprising. Most people from here know--"

"I'm not from here," Caranthir interrupted. One of the hobbits, shorter and more childish-looking than the others, leaped to his feet and frowned.

"We're hobbits," he cried, the shake of his head sending dusty curls astray. "The little people. Surely you know about us."

Strider waved a hand. "Let me assure you, there are many in this world that are ignorant of your existence, Peregrin Took." Then in a smaller, wry voice he muttered, "which isn't exactly a bad thing . . ."

Caranthir coughed. "So you . . . hobbits are essentially a race of short people, halflings?" A thick line creased his brow as he searched his memory for something. What was it the incessant Findaráto had said about humans?

"Moryo, you won't believe this," sounded the lighthearted voice of his cousin. Half-cousin, of course.

Morifinwë gave an irritable sigh, turning with reluctance to face his rather distant relative. "Findo, I already know about the humans and your odd obsession."

Findaráto faltered, arms trailing numbly by his sides like a pair of dismayed ropes. To Moryo's surprise he straightened, resolve hardening his aquamarine eyes. "Yeah, you've 'heard' about them," he insisted. "Has Curufinwë given you his bored rant about the 'wrinkly people?' You know, they only look like that when they get to a certain age."