The
goblin is dying. One of Legolas's elegant arrows has pierced its gut,
and the wound tore further in its vain effort to save its...sister?
Friend? Lover? Either way its bony grey fingers clutch helplessly at
the wound's lips, as if, should the scraps of ragged flesh align, it
might be whole again.
It? He, she, they...when did the rest of the Fellowship get to him, in this brief harried November, to make him think this poor soul it?
It...they, he, it's hard to tell on so gaunt and wiry an armoured figure, the dying goblin...his lips move, soundlessly, as he lies face-up on the stone and his tribesman's corpse. The dead goblin's body is cloven near in half. He remembers that cut. She'd been trying to get to Merry with the wicked little knife now glittering beside her hand.
Stones scrape under his boots as he kneel beside them. He doesn't mind; no sense in startling the dying, he thinks, taking up the knife. Firelight bleeds from its edges. It's very sharp.
It? He, she, they...when did the rest of the Fellowship get to him, in this brief harried November, to make him think this poor soul it?
It...they, he, it's hard to tell on so gaunt and wiry an armoured figure, the dying goblin...his lips move, soundlessly, as he lies face-up on the stone and his tribesman's corpse. The dead goblin's body is cloven near in half. He remembers that cut. She'd been trying to get to Merry with the wicked little knife now glittering beside her hand.
Stones scrape under his boots as he kneel beside them. He doesn't mind; no sense in startling the dying, he thinks, taking up the knife. Firelight bleeds from its edges. It's very sharp.
