Footsore

(Story is 300 words exactly)

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His lungs burned. It was difficult to take in air, given the weight of the armor that encased him like a small, fierce beetle. He knew his companions fared no better. Risking the chance that, perhaps, on this wide open, sunlit plain, there would be no orc archers about, Gimli son of Gloin pulled off his helmet and smoothed back his sweat soaked hair, jogging to keep up all the while. Would they never catch up to the foul creatures?


Finally, Aragorn called a halt. “Just a short rest,” he declared. Aragorn pulled his legs in towards him and pulled off his worn boots. Gimli’s sharp eyes found that the boots were wearing thin; Aragorn must have been suffering at every step. He would survive. His nickname was Strider, after all.

Gimli decided to follow the man’s lead. He hadn’t noticed before, for his feet seemed numb and as heavy as rocks as he ran, but now exposed to the air his feet were as tender and sore as the man’s. The two footsore warriors shared a glance, then looked up at the elf, who sighed and then followed suit. Gimli began to chuckle when he saw Legolas’ feet – as red and swollen as their own. “So much for light over blade and leaf, master elf.”

“And farewell to the notion that Dwarves are as hardy as the mountains.” Legolas replied, tongue-in-cheek.

“I should have called a break earlier, you must be mad with exhaustion to be trading banter so lightheartedly.” Said the Ranger with a raised brow.

“And the mighty Strider would have had no need for such a pause, surely?”

A loud bark of laughter rang out, “So twigs do know how to jest!” The Dwarf chortled.

“Only when mad with exhaustion, master Stump.”