uncaged and unchained

He had never thought that, after nearly six complete weeks of silence and three weeks in the clutches of the Draig-Luth, he would be reunited with his companions. Yet they came and saw him in the tangle of bodies locked behind iron bars. Now he stood in the camp, cloak draped over his shoulders as the cold wind nipped at his broken skin.

Blood pumped in his ears, louder than the rush and bustle of the busy camp. Yet Lastor's voice, emerging from the haze of his memories, was louder still: "Now listen closely, child. For hundreds of years, hunters have captured birds from Ithilien to sing in the halls of lords all throughout Gondor. Poets have venerated the lilt of the lark; singers have ever tried to mimic it. Yet the naturalists of Minas Tirith have long noted that the lark sings only in captivity."

He had been a child then, albeit with cleverness surpassing his years. "Hir Lastor," he had asked, "What has that to do with you or me?"