Lying on the cold unpadded floor of his stone cell, Leareth drifts.

This is a fine moment. He is not, right now, being tortured. (He's in pain, but he nearly always is, and the dull ache of bruises and poorly-healed broken bones is very tolerable compared to actual torture.)

This is not especially predictive of any future moments, and he can't trust the input of his senses, so he mostly doesn't pay much attention. He can't trust his mind, and so he doesn't try to make predictions, or understand any of what's happening around him. Sometimes it takes effort to stay disengaged, to stomp over and over on the reflexive loop to orient, but right now nothing is happening and he can just...drift. Sauron isn't taunting him. Even the orcs are apparently bored of him– correction, stomp on that inference, he doesn't and can't know what determines anyone else's actions. But this is about as good as moments get. 

And then abruptly, a different thing is happening. This isn't surprising. Nothing is surprising because nothing is predictive of anything else and surprise doesn't help. Leareth isn't really trying to follow what happened, but he seems to be lying on...grass. Outside. There are stars. They're not real stars, or if they are he would have no way of knowing one way or another, and it doesn't matter. He tries very hard not to have any emotions about it. 

A night gardener near Renown Hospital in Reno, Nevada, will shortly find an emaciated man with matted hair, covered in bruises, apparently-unresponsive on the lawn. It's a cold night and he's already shivering.