A fifteen fic by Iorhael

Category: Horror/Angst

Rated: PG13

Summary: Shelob was not the only one to reside in the dark tunnel. So did the spirits of those taken and eaten by her, orc spirits – and an elf’s, which would not be able to get out as long as Sauron still existed. AU, violence.

~ Prologue ~

The terrain was hard. The slopes were steep and the dark sky looming over them was no help for the last alliance of elves and men to distinguish friend from foe. And the condition was made worse by the fact that they were all helmeted. But there was something different among those races, though, the smell…

“CHARGE!” The elven lord Elrond would not let the spirits of his kin die away. If there was the slightest sign of exhaustion that might allow the swarming orcs to take the advantage, Elrond would briskly step back to his men and yell out words of encouragement. He knew his effort had reached them once he heard replies from them, be it in the form of a yell or a rhythmical tune.

But grim was the chance for the elves and men to come out of this dark, barren land. The dominion of Sauron the Great would have been final if it had not been for Isildur. The son of the King of Gondor, eyes wide in despair, witnessed his father’s body slammed to the rock wall by Sauron himself. The prince took up his father’s sword, Narsil, and with a deafening, pained howl, Isildur swung the weapon as if to ward off the threat before his very eyes.

Without his knowing it, this desperate act had wounded its target, severing the very finger bearing the One Ring and detaching It from Its owner.

The Ring had been secured away from Sauron and now it passed to Isildur.

All he had to do was to destroy It.

* * *

“Secure the area,” ordered Elrond to one of his men. “I have to see to it that Isildur safely passes through the gate to Sammath Naur, where he must cast the Ring into the fiery chasm.”

And the elves and men that had survived the blows of Sauron and his pernicious hands spread out--yet they were stunned for a moment at the sight of Sauron's dead troops. The alliance swiftly covered the area, searching for any signs of living orcs or Easterlings in any corner of the plain, in the dark towers, or down in the tunnels.

But one seemed to be wandering, alone and lost, getting too deep into one of the tunnels. The murky surroundings failed to awaken the elf’s suspicion for they were no different from the outside. His uneasy feelings only began to grow when he put down his bow and leant over the tunnel’s wall a bit with his left hand. Sticky. Sticky was all over his palm, and the elf gasped, stupefied.

Then all of a sudden, a voice invaded his mind.

“Do not be afraid, my little fly.”

The elf took a sharp breath, glaring fruitlessly to the obscurity around him. He could not resist feeling afraid.

“Who are you?” His shout boomed, echoing against the walls.

“It is no use for a prey to know its predator.”

And the voice made a noise meant to be laughter. His blood froze. A prey? He was meant to be a prey?

But a high-pitched screech suddenly coming from behind, interrupting his thoughts.

And everything was too late for him.

TBC Chapter 1 – Frodo and the Orc Spirits

“Gollum?” Frodo’s voice sounded full of doubt – and later on trepidation, as he heard no more of the gangrel creature. Panic crept up on his back and slowly went all the way to his neck with the realization that he was alone. And a sudden gush of chilling wind, confirming the hobbit’s uneasy feeling, brought along a putrid, nauseating smell.

“What smell is this?” Frodo had asked earlier, before entering the cave, when the false, twisted, once river hobbit was still with him.

“It’s orcsess’ filth,” Gollum had answered. The answer alone almost made Frodo retch, not knowing that the real thing was much worse than that.

But Frodo had kept going, bracing and telling himself that he would not be defeated by smell alone. Yet things worsened the deeper Frodo stumbled into the complete darkness of the tunnel. And that was when he had noticed the absence of Gollum.

Frodo stared into the darkness, unseeing, taking each step forward not knowing what awaited him. He cursed silently, realizing now, just how wicked Gollum was. How true Sam had been…

“Oh, Sam!” Frodo cried inside. But it was too late now. He had sent Sam back to the Shire and however heart-broken the gardener might have been, he would do whatever Frodo ordered. It was the only way Sam could show his loyalty to Frodo.

If only Sam knew how desperately Frodo needed him now…if only he had disobeyed.

Frodo flailed his arms and gasped blindly, tentatively feeling the damp walls of the tunnel.

“Hey, little one…”

There was a whisper in the suffocating air. Vague for mortal ears but it was there. Frodo gasped and his eyes shone wildly, looking around.

“Who is that?” His own whisper came out in a strangled voice. But then he did not catch anything anymore and he began to wonder if he had been imagining things.

Resisting his own imagination – if that was it – Frodo resumed his walk.

All of a sudden, feathery touches were running up and down his left arm and slowly circling around the wrist.

Frodo let out a sharp cry and pulled his arm back quickly. This was not his imagination. But despite the clear touch he had felt, Frodo could not see anything--the surrounds were too dark. He reached for his left arm to check it

Suddenly his right arm was grabbed and twisted painfully behind his back.

Frodo bit his lower lips to stop himself from crying out loud. He struggled to release his arm but to no avail. Meanwhile, his body was drenched with sweat, both from fear and his inability to see his attackers. Strangely, he could not even feel their presence.

“Let – me – go! Uuh!” Frodo breathed out, wrestling his arm away. But that only resulted in a more bruising hold. Then he felt – not saw – that it was trying to get a grasp on his other arm, but this time Frodo managed to shove it away, to grab at his sword, which to his amazement, was glowing.

His Sting was glowing with a bright, blue light, signaling to the hobbit that orcs were around him! And judging from the brightness, they were close. Frodo unsheathed it as fast as he could, and with the help of the illuminating sword, he managed a glimpse at his surroundings. And his breath was caught at once.

Orcs were all over him! The hideous-looking creatures, baring their sharp, deformed teeth, surrounded Frodo from every direction. Frodo swung Sting desperately in a firm attempt to uproot them. He moved rather awkwardly as his right arm was still imprisoned by one of them.

But Frodo had just noticed something else. However hard he tried to hack through the orcs, he could not seem to hit even one of them. In fact, Sting just slashed into thin air.

The hobbit froze in his tracks.

That was exactly what he had been doing, hacking into the air. Yet the sneers were still there, mocking at Frodo’s bewilderment, and they made use of it.

One of the orcs slammed at Frodo’s sword-gripping hand, sending Sting far across the tunnel, clamoring against its rocky bed. Frodo followed the dimmed gleaming, dismay and despair clear in those luminous blue orbs. But again, he was too late in anticipating another assault.

The orcs on the other hand had not wasted Frodo’s stunned state. They quickly latched onto the hobbit’s empty left hand and pinned it on the wall. The same treatment followed with Frodo’s right hand.

Frodo, suddenly found himself pushed against the wall with his body lifted up, but he did not surrender easily. He squirmed and bucked and twisted his arms, but in vain.

A bony hand extended and cupped his chin. “She will feast tonight.”

The hollow sound was heard again but this time it was much clearer.

Frodo tried to shake the hand off his face.

“Be still, little one,” snapped his captor. “Your fate has been decided. There is no use for you to struggle. It will be much easier for you if you just give up.”

Frodo could not believe what was happening to him. Here he was, lost in a tunnel and captured by … by … orc spirits? But why just spirits? Why was there not one single living orc around – not that Frodo had expected even that? What had happened to these unloving things? Where was he? And – who is she?

But Frodo would never just give up. He struggled and struggled, twisting his face until the one clutching his chin lost patience. He banged Frodo’s head hard onto the stone wall, making the hobbit see spots dancing before him. He was dazed for a moment but he was grateful the pressure on his chin was removed.

Frodo didn't know if it would help but with a voice as loud as his lungs could produce, he cried out, “HELP!! SAM, HELP ME!”

But there was a price to pay for that transgression. The next thing Frodo knew was a sharp backhand clouting his right cheek and a slap on the left one, and the backhand again, and the slap again, over and over. In the end, Frodo was left panting heavily, a sharp pain throbbing in his head, as he hung there helplessly on the wall. He would have slumped down on the ground had there not been orcs to support him.

“I told you there was none what could change your destiny, maggot” hissed the orc. “It would be much easier if you just give up!”

Frodo looked down, avoiding the gaze from the hated creature. He was still working hard to regulate his breaths and trying to regain his strength.

“What do you want?” Frodo wheezed.

“Oh, just a little favor,” sneered the bone-faced orc. “In just a moment, our mistress, Her Majesty, will turn up. Until that time, I guess we can have a little fun together. “

Frodo stared in horror behind his fluttering eyelashes.

“Who is she?” he asked wearily, his breaths coming in short, ragged spurts. “What will she do to me?”

“Ah, the little one is eager to meet Her Majesty.” The orc lifted his hand to Frodo’s face. Frodo flinched, thinking that he would be slapped again. But the orc just ran his fingers down Frodo’s battered skin. “Will you really enjoy her company more than ours, dear? Ah, but perhaps you will! After all, you will not feel anymore pain after her poison takes you!”

Poison! Frodo’s heart clenched to think of what kind of an ancient beast Her Majesty would be.

“Unlike with us!”

Frodo barely realized what happened then. He was spun around and pressed with his stomach on the wall and his cheek slammed flat. Frodo squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to move his arms but the orcs still held them tightly. Frodo urged his mind not to think of the worst thing that might happen. But what if these things decided to kill him? What would become of the quest? That was all that mattered! The quest!

A loud sound of fabric being ripped sent another jolt to Frodo’s deepest fears. Those filthy orcs had torn apart his cloak! Frodo could not help struggling again. His shaking fingers clawed at the wall but he only got dirt under his nails.

“No, no! Please, let me go!”

But he felt more hands pawing and tearing at the back of the cloak, then the waistcoat, then the shirt. Until all of a sudden…

“Aaaahhh!!!!”

Suddenly Frodo found himself sagging helplessly on the ground. Wondering and trembling, clutching the wall, Frodo started to climb up on his feet. He turned around and frowned at the orcs, bent over and covering their eyes with their limpid hands.

“Elvish! Elvish vesture!”

Frodo caught their muttering, over and over.

“What is this?”

Frodo reached back, feeling the mithril chain mail under his tattered layers of clothing. Oh, he understood. It was the mithril. The orcs were terrified of it. And despite the coldness of the place, Frodo slowly unbuttoned his shirt and vest to reveal more of the glimmering coat. If this could really save him…

“FOOL!”

TBC Chapter 2 – Arthael

“FOOL!”

Although he did not hear it, the admonishment banged in his head and he instinctively covered both ears to ward off its stinging sound. Was this what the orcs called Her Majesty? Frodo knew he should run but his legs did not seem to obey.

“That’s merely a coat! There’s nothing to be afraid of!”

Frodo felt his knees give beneath him but he forced himself to creep sideways. But to where? Everything was very dark. And the harrowing voice was paralyzing him.

“And to you, Frodo Baggins, I give the light of Earendil, our most beloved star.”

No, no. This was definitely not the creature speaking. Frodo almost broke down in tears of relief and longing. The Lady of the Woods, Galadriel. Would he ever meet her again? Would there be any chance at all even to stay alive?

Frodo fished deep into his pocket and retrieved the almost-forgotten treasure, the only thing now that would light the bleakness.

“Aiya Earendil Elenion Ancalima!” cried Frodo, and with that, a bright light bathed the entire cave. The orcs, which were moving toward Frodo ready to capture him again, cowered at once as the light illuminated them. They were even starting to fade.

Frodo turned around, feeling smug, ready to bat away more of his enemies, not realizing who – or what – was standing in front of him now.

It was a spider – a gigantic spider.

“Ahhh!” Frodo screamed, but remembering at once the thing in his hand.

“A Elbereth Gilthoniel!” He thrust the phial upward to the spider’s direction. And it worked. Frodo almost did not believe it. He pushed forward and the spider was forced to back away into the dark

“Earendil!”

This was another voice, not the orcs’ nor the spider’s that was echoing in Frodo’s mind. He froze, looking around.

“Who is that?” he cackled out.

As if from nowhere, a figure appeared and stood right in front of Frodo. The hobbit drew a sharp hiss at the sight of another translucent form. But unlike the ragged and bony shapes of the orcs, this one seemed perfect – and beautiful. The contour of the face, the muscular-build of his body, hidden under armor, and the soft, yielding hair. Everything was flawless. Frodo would have thought he was facing a living being if not for its see-through appearance.

The figure swayed gently.

“Who are you?” It asked with a hollow, shaking voice. “What are you? I’ve never seen a being like you before.”

“I’m a hobbit,” replied Frodo in a no-less shaking voice. “Or a halfling, as big folks usually address my kin. You – are an elf?” Frodo recognized the pointy ears.

“I was an elf. I perished a long, long time ago.” The elf slowly floated nearer to Frodo, brushing one of the hobbit’s ear tips deliberately. “A halfling? Are you half-elf? Our ears are similar and you are wearing an elvish cloak. Though those orcs were mistaken.” He nodded toward Frodo’s chain mail. “That’s dwarvish, a kingly one. Where did you get it?”

But Frodo did not even get a chance to answer for the elf had come up with something else.

“You must be half-elf. Your complexion is as fair and your face as beautiful.”

Frodo blushed at the generous flattery. He opened his mouth to say something in thanks but again he was interrupted.

“What is a halfling or a half-elf doing here?” wondered the elf. “Here in this sticky and filthy place, full of death?”

“First,” Frodo cut him off before he lost another chance to talk. His hands were busy doing up his buttons even though his clothes were in tatters. “I’m a full-grown hobbit, not a half-elf. I can’t explain anything about any resemblance to your people, in the manner of my face. I guess it’s just something in my blood. And my name is Frodo Baggins of the Shire.” Frodo stopped for a moment to take a breath. “As for your question as to why I’m here, I think I’m entitled to ask the same question of you. Why are you here? Or why were you? What brought you here?”

“Arthael. Arthael is my name. I’m from the House of Elrond. But there is no point of discussing my being here. It happened – “

“Elrond!” breathed Frodo in shock. “We also set off from his house. What has happened to you? As far as I know, no one else was with the fellowship, and none save Sam comes with me to Mordor.”

Arthael was as bewildered as Frodo to hear about such things. He inquired what fellowship Frodo meant, who Sam was, and again, the reason why Frodo walked the perilous path to Mordor.

Frodo revealed everything. Everything, even about the Ring. Arthael was a mere spirit. Frodo could not see how he could become a threat to him.

“Sauron’s Ring!” blasted Arthael. “I saw Isildur sever Sauron’s finger and claim the Ring. I thought he had undone It in the fires of Doom. No wonder I’m still trapped here.”

“Isildur?” Frodo tried to recall Gandalf’s story. “You saw Isildur… that – that was three thousand years ago!” In his amazement, Frodo failed to see what that meant to Arthael – how he had suffered these long years, that his spirit could not depart to the Hall of Mandos because the Ring still existed. For as long as It had not been destroyed, the enemies had not been fully defeated. They might even win over the peoples of Middle Earth.

“Yes, Frodo,” replied Arthael dejectedly. “And I’m not proud of that. I saw the future king of Gondor going with Elrond to Sammath Naur but I didn’t know what happened next. But apparently something went amiss. Otherwise you will not be here.”

Frodo bowed his head wearily.

“I know.” He clasped at the Ring. “And I must not fail. For you. For the fellowship. For the Shire. For Middle Earth.”

Frodo could sense that Arthael was smiling.

“You are such a wonder, Frodo Baggins. You have a unique strength that makes it easy to rely on you. Now be swift. Those orcs and the spider can return anytime. Light the phial and use your sword wisely.” Arthael’s words reminded Frodo of Sting and he looked around. It was lying not far from him. Frodo picked it up, then turned to give his farewell and prayers to the elf. But Arthael was nowhere to be seen, although Frodo could still feel his presence.

“I will, my new friend. I will.” And with that Frodo raced to the other end of the tunnel, going even deeper into the darkness.

* * *

Frodo whipped his head around, eyes narrowing to catch any sign of movement. He held the phial high over his head, but there was none. What he saw were the remains of what the spider had fed on and the sharp-edged rocks. Frodo took a moment to breathe and wonder over both Arthael’s fate and his own. What if he was caught and eaten as well? Would he spend the rest of time here? Frodo shuddered at the thought, and again, regretted what he had done to Sam, that he had listened to that traitorous creature, Gollum, and abandoned his only friend.

Frodo stumbled upon a leering skull, almost toppling over it. But he steadied himself quickly. No, whispered Frodo silently, shaking his head. He would not be caught. He could not. There were so many things at stake. Frodo could not afford to lose now.

The hobbit was lost so deeply in his reverie that he failed to notice a stir in the air at both sides and behind him. Not that he would have recognized it had he been more attentive, for there was nothing a mortal’s eyes could see at the moment.

Frodo kept going, trying to avoid the stickiness under his feet, thinking of nothing but a way out of this tunnel, when suddenly…

THWAP!

THWAP!

Twice hard blows struck each of Frodo’s wrists, sending Sting away from his left hand and the phial from his right one. The phial fell far behind Frodo and to his dismay, began to dim. And Sting, which clamored against the wall and plummeted down to his left gave out its blue warning light.

Frodo ignored the pain in his wrists as he gazed, aghast, at the glinting sword. Only one thing screamed in his mind.

“RUN!”

And run he did, regardless of the dark and uneven path he had to face. Panic was overwhelming him. This was a matter of life and death.

Run, run! Run!

But Arthael had been right. The orcs were still waiting, peering through the veil of darkness, patiently awaiting their victim to drop his guard before attacking him. Frodo could never run far enough. The enemies were too many and they stood on guard everywhere.

They let Frodo take a few more steps and then decided to recapture him. It was almost fun to have the helpless one give a little fight.

Frodo felt a hand grab his hair and yank it backward. He was slammed flat on his back, a pained cry escaping his mouth as a searing sensation shot throughout his frame.

He reached his hands out trying to release himself from the gripping steel but instead, other hands caught Frodo’s wrists and pinned them immobile above the hobbit’s head. Frodo writhed in agony.

But all of a sudden, his struggle came to a stand still.

The voice came again.

Into his mind.

“My spirited little one.”

Frodo gasped, and stared helplessly at the dark mouth of the tunnel.

“Ah! No!” He was in despair.

“I will come.” It was the voice again. Don’t you ever learn? Or do you prefer my lovely beasts to tatter the front side of your clothing?”

Frodo felt like he had awakened from a terrible dream, but he began to kick furiously.

“Frodo Baggins!”

Another voice! The hobbit’s jaw went slack, totally nonplussed.

Arthael!

Frodo fought to strain his head, right on time to catch the elf gathering the phial from the ground and tossing it in Frodo’s direction. With a harsh jerk, Frodo snatched himself free from the orcs’ clutches, rose nimbly, and secured the light of Earendil into his clammy hand.

“Go, Frodo! Quick!”

Frodo could not help but turn around to take a quick glance at his savior, Arthael.

“No! Don’t waste any moment! Go!”

And with a loud “A Elbereth Gilthoniel!” once more the phial spread out its majestic fire that led the hobbit away from the dark creatures in the horrifying spider’s lair.

* * *

~ Epilogue ~

Arthael never met the brave young hobbit again, but he would surely hail him to the highest places if he could. Frodo Baggins had released him from the accursed prison of three thousand years. And now he was free, walking into the Hall of Mandos.

Thank you, Frodo.

The End