[Ransom]

Volkmar’s dreams were of strong wine and good food. He dreamed that he was back in the open fields in front of Bag Ends, watching and eating as the hobbits danced. But somehow, the hobbits were dancing on their hands while twirling sticks with their toes. However, his mind was only concerned with the food in front of him. A great chunk of beef, a large loaf of bread, and a bottle of ancient wine sat on a picnic cloth in front of him. Around him were old friends, though the Ranger couldn’t remember who they were. They conversed for some time about the weather, the moon, even the quality of the hobbit’s dancing. Volkmar began to notice something strange. Each ‘friend’ looked like they had been long dead. One lacked half of his head; the other tried to pick up a piece of bread with his missing arm. All turned to watch him, reaching out to embrace him in their cold grip.

Guthden must have been startled by the old ranger as he shot straight upright with a shout. He was sweating, his dark hair matted against his head. Slowly, the body slid back into a lying position. Volkmar woke just as his head hit the ground and promptly bolted back up. He tore off his blankets and reached toward the metal brace that covered his left leg. The Ranger had taken most of the armor plating off when he went to bed, simply sleeping in his chain mail. However, the left leg still stayed in the brace, for one couldn’t know what the future held.

He unbuckled the clasps with immense speed, finally yanking it open and feeling the warm flesh of his scarred leg with both hands. Get a grip, you old fool. You’ll get everyone killed. Volkmar heeded this thought and sank back down onto his bed sheet, panting slightly. He felt his body cool as he lay on his back and stared at the stars.