Title: More Than Mithril

Author Pen-name: Arwen Baggins

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything relating to the Lord of the Rings in this story, which would include virtually everything.

***************************************************

“We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms.”

“Not for ourselves, but we can give Frodo a chance.”

                                                            - Return of the King, teaser trailer

Chapter One: A Fool’s Hope

Setting: North Ithilien; March 16, 1419, Shire-reckoning

            The leaders of Middle-earth had finally come to a consensus.  War must be declared upon Mordor, if for no other purpose than to draw the Eye away from Orodruin, if the Ring-bearer were to fulfill his request.  So that is what they had set out to do just that and were now riding towards Doom, in a last-ditch effort to aid the imperiled Ring-bearer.

            Gandalf rode upon Shadowfax, alongside Aragorn, allowing his mind to stray for once from the present and to the past – to Frodo.  He had told Pippin back in Minas Tirith that there was no hope for Frodo, only a fool’s hope.  Yet Denethor had called him the “Grey Fool” to his face, and he somehow did not resent the Man for it.  For indeed to a Man of war like Denethor, sending two small Hobbits into the land of poison that was just coming into view would surely be seen as folly.  Yet Denethor’s own pride and corruption at the hand of Sauron – for indeed he had been corrupted through a palantír – forbade him from seeing the true circumstances surrounding the decision that had been made at the Council of Elrond, no more than a few short months ago.  Though for all that had happened it may well have been many years.

            The Council of Elrond!  Gandalf sighed.  That brought back more memories than he cared to think about.  He remembered arguing with Elrond about the fate of the Ring the day before the Council.  He had first begun to fear that Frodo’s troubles were not over upon hearing the Elf-lord speak of the Hobbit’s resilience to the Thing’s evil with such admiration.  All throughout the lonely nights, sitting by Frodo’s bedside with Bilbo and Samwise, he had berated himself constantly for not having found another Ring-bearer.  But when Frodo had recovered his hopes had soared until he had seen it: the Light.  The Light that had seemed to radiate from his body, seemed to fill it as though there was nothing else inside of him.  Gandalf didn’t claim to understand everything regarding all of the Enemy’s weapons – the Morgul blades least of all.  But when he had seen Frodo glowing he had known – right then and there – that he would never be the same again.  The accursed blade had been removed from his shoulder, and yet the effects of it somehow still lingered.  By Frodo’s own words the feeling in his left arm had been returning – a sign of the poison’s diminishing, and yet Gandalf could still see that some effect of the poison still lingered.  Why it left such an impact of Light, and not one of encompassing Darkness, Gandalf did not even pretend to fully understand.  But one thing was for sure: it would never go away. 

            At that point, he had wanted to take Frodo, grab Shadowfax from the stables and return the Hobbit to the Shire – where he rightfully belonged- as quickly as possible.  But it was not to be.  Elrond had insisted that Frodo rest and regain his strength.  He had further argued that Frodo must be present at the Council to present his story, to answer any questions that may be brought up.  Every piece of information he could give them – and he certainly would be able to give them the most after his recent ordeal – would be of a great service in helping them rid Middle-earth of the accursed Ring. But no one, none of all the Wise in Middle-earth could have foreseen Frodo standing up in front of the world leaders, volunteering to do that which made warriors of the “Big Folk” tremble with fear.  But that was what had happened – and nothing could change it now.

            The fact that the past was inalterable could not be denied, but why would he even want to change it?  Surely the life and well-being of one Hobbit, no matter how innocent and loving, could not be placed above that of all Middle-earth!  If going back, knowing - as Elrond seemed to have – that Frodo was the only one capable of accomplishing that task, would he change what had happened that fateful afternoon of October 25, 3018?  Nay, he would not.  Much as he might want to, he would have to do all over again what he knew was right for Middle-earth.  And that was for Frodo to bear the Ring.  But then again, if he could go back – not that it was even an option – but if it was, how could he take the responsibility into his own hands?  It was Frodo’s life, Frodo’s decision.  No one else could make it for him.  And it was in this knowledge that Gandalf found himself able to release some of the guilt that he had been harboring for Frodo’s and Samwise’s current predicament.  Hhe had asked them merely to see the Ring to the safety of Rivendell, and that they had done.  Having accomplished that task alone was enough to earn them the respect of the Elves.  No one had forced them to extend their commitment to the War against Sauron.  Indeed none had even thought of such a thing until they themselves had volunteered to do the unthinkable.

            To destroy the One in the Fire of Doom was an impossible task for one to accomplish by oneself.  With the Ring so close to Mordor, the weight of it would no doubt be heavy on Frodo’s heart and mind, and the thought of the torment his young friend must be going through was so great that it felt like a physical pain in his chest.

            The only comfort that he could find was in the fact that Frodo had Sam.  Nothing could separate those two – as Elrond himself had said even before the Council – and if they had each other, then their hope would not die.  And as long as they had hope – they had a chance of survival, however slim it might be.

Hai: I hope my review reply helped answer your question.

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything relating to the Lord of the Rings in this story.  About what I said in my last disclaimer. I have just come to realize that I will NOT be writing everything based on the chapter: the Black Gate Opens.  It will encompass the information found in several other chapters.  But that still doesn’t change the fact that it all really belongs to the brilliant Tolkien.

*********************************

“Of what [mithril from Moria] they brought to light the Orcs have gathered nearly all, and given it in tribute to Sauron, who covets it.”

              - Fellowship of the Ring, A Journey in the Dark

Chapter Two: the Mouth of Sauron

Setting: Mordor, Barad-dur, March 16, 1419, Shire-reckoning

            Barad-dur, the tallest structure in Middle-earth, erected thousands of years ago (and only recently rebuilt after ancient destruction), was a symbol of terror and torture to the Free Peoples of Middle-earth.  But to him, Sauron’s Mouth -the voice of His thoughts - it was the finest palace ever built, and the top of the Tower, where Sauron’s Eye was transfixed between the upper-most pinnacles, was more majestic than any glittering throne of Men.  What place could be more proper, than one that allowed the Lord of the Rings to keep a constant-watch over his domain?

            But on days such as this, he wished that perhaps Sauron’s throne were slightly closer to the ground.  He had been ascending the guarded staircase that circled around the structure for hours, and his feet had begun to ache once more.  Not that he would say anything of it – it was a matter of small consequence when one had such great news to give to his Lord.  It was certainly not the best news – for the One Ring had not yet been recovered, but that momentous event was not far off.

            He remembered with perfect clarity how that wretched creature Gollum had been tortured in the very rooms  he had just left.  The Hobbit-like being had showed extraordinary resilience to their most excruciating torture methods, but they had finally broken him. He remembered the creatures pitiful cries for mercy as he admitted at last the name of Shire and Baggins.  How he had recited the whole tale of finding the One along the Banks of the Great River several hundred years ago, and how the thief: Baggins, had stolen it from him by cheating in a game of Riddles!  Riddles!  The thought of his Lord’s prized creation being sold and traded as a piece of junk made him fume with fury so that he almost felt as though pure anger raged in his heart like a uncontrollable flame.  How dare they!? 

           He had managed to cool down upon realizing that Hobbits were small, retarded creatures who knew nothing of value. He had wanted to keep the pathetic thing to torture for his folly and disloyalty to Sauron, but his Lord, in his mercy had released the disgusting thing – and even allowed the creature Gollum to believe that the escape had been accomplished through his own intelligence.  Folly idea, that!  He had no intelligence.  He had referred to the Ring as his own Precious – never mind to whom it truly belonged! – and had gone to do the Lord’s bidding: to lead it to Mordor, and thus back to Sauron’s finger where it truly belonged. This of course had not been the creature's intent.  He had merely wanted to see Baggins (who had stolen his "Precious") tortured as he had been.  The fact that such a capture would ultimatly lead the Lord to His Precious, apparently had not occured to the disgusting piece of filth at the time, and so much the better, for otherwise he would not have agreed to such an arrangement, not in this Age at any rate.

            The Mouth had harboured serious doubt in the matter of the creature's return, whether it would even happen at all.  But he appeared to have underestimated his Lord's intelligence (very dangerous thing to do, that) for it had been no more than one year in the calandars of Men and had now become apparent that his Lord’s mercy had not gone un-rewarded.  Earlier that day they had found him, not the Gollum creature, but another creature.  He had at first appeared to be Elvish, his fair complexion and bright blue eyes that shone with an innocence that had been forgotten in Mordor, if indeed it had ever been known at all.  It had been not himself, but one of the Orc captains, Shagrat, had pointed out otherwise.  It was far too small to be an Elf, besides that it had large, furry feet.  No, he had said, it must be a Hobbit.   A Hobbit!  his hopes had swelled at that time: that was the name that the Gollum-creature had given to the one called Baggins – who had taken possession of the Ring!  Could it be that after all these years his master would regain what had been forcibly taken from him by Narsil, the sword of King Elendil?  Upon checking the unconscious victim, he had been disappointed to find nothing of value.  His Elvish cloak was hideous, and oh yes - there had also been that Dwarf-coat: the mithril one.  Shagrat had tried to hide it from him, upon exiting the Tower, be he had seen and seized it.  Who did he think he was to go taking the treasure which rightfully belonged to their mutual Lord. Everyone knew that to Sauron only the One Ring was worth more than mithril. And as for Shagrat, he had no business claiming that fabulous coat - he was nothing more than slave, the captain of an army bound to die in the service of Mordor, while the Mouth himself would be spared from such a painful ending.  He shuddered as he climbed the last steps up to the Eye.

            Unfortunately he noted that he had not all good news to give.  Shagrat had reported evidence of another prowler, an Elf no doubt, who had left the Hobbit for dead after Shelob’s attack.  It was undoubtedly the Elf who carried the One Ring, and he shuddered to think of the poor Orcs who had to fight one of the ‘Fair Folk’ as they were so often called.  Though why they were called that he could not guess.  There was nothing fair about them, really, except perhaps their physical appearance.  But what spoiled their beauty was the Light that shone from them.  Such Light only served to blind the servants of the Lord of the Rings.  It was a destructive light and one that none of Mordor wished to face.  Oh well, such was the fate designed for the Orc-slaves. He of course would never be doomed to such a fate.  After all, without him, who would there be to relay the Lord’s messages and commands.  And surely after Lord Sauron regained physical form he would not forget the servant who had aided in his Lord’s noble cause – to force all lower life-forms than himself into submission – more than anyone else.  No, he would probably be honored, given lordship over that wicked Saruman who was so bend on capturing the Ring for his own personal gain.  So he was sure it would happen that he would live a life of privilege while the rotting Orcs went out to the battle field to fight for their Lord.  Their fate could not be altered, and even if it could, he would never do it.  Better that they be slaughtered than himself.  But besides the news of the wretched Elf penetrating the Lair of Shelob, was the matter of the Hobbit.

            It was not hard to guess what had brought the little thing so far from home: he obviously knew about the Ring and wanted to ruin his master’s chance of dominion by destroying it on his own accord.  The Mouth felt an uncharacteristic urge to laugh at such folly.  He guessed well enough who’s idea it had been.  It had been Mithrandir’s obviously.  All knew that he wasted his time with the Little Folk away in the North, and for that reason among others he had been dubbed ‘the Grey Fool’.  Well he had certainly proved himself worthy of such a title! Unfortunately, the Hobbit was not a Baggins: not the one that was so sought after that the Nine themselves had been sent to dispose of him.  He smiled to himself at the memory of the Witch King’s humiliation at having to admit failure – how the miserable wretch had somehow fought off the Morgul poison.  He hated to admit it – and he never would admit it to any other than himself – but that fact alone made him feel some respect for the pitiful excuse of a Ring-bearer.  He could use every ounce of his strength to fight Lord Sauron’s will, and he might succeed (which he had) but not for much longer.  No one could stand against the might of Sauron forever.  But all of that put aside did not change the present fact that this Hobbit, however was not him.  Mithrandir had apparently been enough of a fool to drag more than one of the miserable things into his laughably-ridiculous plans.  No this one was not a – the – Baggins, that they had sought after for many months, but a Brandybuck: Frodo Brandybuck, he had admitted after a series of whip-lashes had torn apart his small back.  Ah well, such was the way things were in the world.  So there had been an Elf and two Hobbits: this Brandybuck and the much-desired Baggins. 

            Contemplating these things as he ascended the last steps up to the pinnacle of the Tower, the Mouth of Sauron took a deep breath as he prepared to relay this news (both good and bad) to his master: the Lord of the Rings.  

~To Be Continued~

A/N: Oh come on, people!  Do you really need to be told that?  What author would be cruel enough to stop the story entirely right now?  No, “Arwen Baggins” is not the answer!  I just stopped this chapter... not the story as a whole.

You all know that I love reviews, so please make my day and press that lonely button at the bottom.  Please!  Yes, that’s it, good job!

 Hai and Shireling: Thank you once again for reviewing, and it was my pleasure to give you the so-far story outline (though on 2-19-04 I finally decided to delete it, so as not to spoil the suprise for future readers) and I will be the first to admit that that was the closest I have ever gotten to actually planning a story out!  Hope you enjoy this!  And when you're done reading, please read my author's note, I think you'll find it interesting.

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything relating to the Lord of the Rings in this story, which would be everything.  It all belongs to the brilliant JRR Tolkien. 

Author's Note:  The "words" of Sauron have been denoted with an asterisk at either end since he can't exactly speak.  You will also notice that in the book the Mouth of Sauron speaks using Old English and I'm assuming that Sauron would do likewise, so I have tried to represent that in this chapter.  However, I will be the fist to admit that Old English is not my strong point.

************************

“[The Mouth of Sauron] knew much of the mind of Sauron and was more cruel than any Orc.”

               - Return of the King, the Black Gate Opens

Chapter Three: Sauron the Great

Setting: Mordor, Barad-dur; March 16, 1419, Shire-reckoning

          The Mouth could feel the heat of the Eye long before its gaze was focused upon him.  He immediately humbled himself before Sauron the Great on bended knee.  “My Lord, I have news of good-tidings that Thou shall be pleased to know.”

          *Indeed that much need not be said!* the Voice echoed inside his head.  Sauron as of yet had no physical mouth of his own, but being the Lord that he was, had no need of such an insignificant feature.  His Lord could communicate perfectly with only the use of his brilliant mind.  *Pray tell, what is this news that thou art so eager to share?  It concerns the Ring, of that much I am certain.*

          “You are correct, as always, my Lord!  The Ring has not yet been found, but as of three days ago, a Hobbit was attacked by Her Ladyship, just beyond the Tunnel of Cirith Ungol.”

          *And my Ring?  Was It found on his body?*

          “Nay, my Lord, It was not.  But these were.”  He then unrolled the small parcel that he had carried under his arm, concealed by a piece of a ragged cloak found upon a dead orc who had been previously slain upon the Road.  There laid out in plain view before the Eye was a small sword – really nothing more than an elegant knife, a hideous grey cloak fastened with a broach wrought from a leaf of the Elf-country along the Andúin.  But these were of little importance when measured up against that which laid beside them.  Mithril!  The most beautiful mithril shirt that Sauron’s Eye had ever beheld, but his joy was taken away upon realizing that it would be too small for him to wear once he regained physical form.  But still, it would be a worthy trophy to display… if for no other reason than to present it as tangible proof that all which the great kings of Men now possessed would soon be at his disposal.  But that had not yet become a reality and He reluctantly turned His gaze from the mithriland back to the hideous face of his Mouth as he considered what he had just heard.

          The Eye seemed to grow in size and come nearer to him, as though it had become “dismounted” from between the Tower Pinnacles.  Such a thing was not possible as far as the Mouth knew, but with Sauron the Great, one must never assume too much.  This, though, had happened before, it was Sauron’s seeking gaze, the one which always seemed to question the motives of his Mouth.  “Then it was not Baggins?”

          “No, my Lord,” the Mouth answered, lowering his eyes.  There were few who could meet the gaze of the Eye, and even fewer who could do so when delivering less than adequate news, the Mouth was not one of those few.  “Thy prisoner later confessed to being one Frodo Brandybuck.  He was found virtually unharmed, save for the Lady Shelob’s bite upon his neck.”

          *He was alive?  The Lady hath never left victims alive.  Explain thyself!*

          “My Lord, there appear to have been at least two others in her passage.  We know this because the prisoner’s bounds were found cut at his side, and his sword was found laid upon his chest in a ceremonious fashion, as well as a staff bearing the mark of Minas Tirith.  It is believed, sire, that the bonds were cut by either Baggins or possibly an Elf.  This being the case, neither can be very far away.  I have sent Shagrat and his lads to seek them out.  They will be under Thy command ere long, and surely one of them carries Thy Ring.  It is also believed, sire, that the Lady left her first prisoner bound and poisoned while she sought out his companions and that the Orc-slaves found him during her brief absence.”

          *What of the Elf?  Has he been seen by any or is he merely a figment of their frightened imaginations?*

          “No, my Lord he has not been seen.”

          *Then how doest thou knowest that one among the Eldar hath entered my realm without my knowledge, I find this very hard to believe!  Doest thou not as well?*

          The Mouth swallowed.  His Lord’s past comment was the closest thing that he had ever received to a dangerous scolding.  He had after all, insulted his Lord’s intelligence and omnipotence whether such an unacceptable action had been intended or not.  Enemies of Sauron had often been on the receiving end of the Lord’s wrath after giving such cheek to one so powerful - few of whom ever lived to tell of it – but he had never been counted among those unfortunate few.  “I meant no disrespect to Thee, my Lord.  But the Lady’s webs were penetrated in such a way that Shagrat believed could only be accomplished by an Elf.”

          *And what, pray tell, does Shagrat know of such matters of importance?*

          “Very little, I would presume, my Lord”  The Mouth dropped his gaze once more, trying to hide the fact that his body was trembling.  He had no reason to believe that his Lord would harm him, but if he were to be suspected of a lie then anything was feasible, and at the moment he had no way to prove many of his claims.  Though he voiced them nonetheless for fear that the Lord would later learn of such facts from outside sources and come to the belief that his trusted Mouth had deceived him by with-holding such valuable information.  No, that could not be allowed.  Better for Sauron to discover it to be merely a misunderstanding than for Him to discover the truth by other means.  If the latter were to happen then all hope of having lordship over that traitorous wizard Saruman would be crushed in an instant.  “Assuming that Shagrat be not mistaken, what dost Thou propose be done in regards to the spies?”  He should have stopped right there, but he could not restrain such thoughts as were rising unbidden and unchecked into his malicious mind.  “I find it hard to believe that one traveling with such companions could know so little as the prisoner claims.  Perhaps he would at least know which of his companions is the Ring-bearer.  The desired information could certainly be beaten out of him in due time, though such a beating would have to wait until he regains consciousness.  It would be a great misfortune indeed if the wretched thing were unable to feel the pain.”  He began to sweat profusely as the Eye grew and seemingly loomed ever closer to the subject of its scrutiny.  He mentally cursed himself, for he who well knew the mind of his Lord also should have known better than to assume that such details had gone unnoticed by such an omnipotent personage as He.

          *So it would,* Saruon agreed with a dangerous edge upon his voice.  And the Mouth found himself licking his lips at the thought of bringing the whip upon the little Shire-rat’s back himself, and he found himself to be especially relieved that his Lord did not seem displeased that he had overstepped his bounds.  His Lord seemed at the moment too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice such details – if that was even possible.  The privileged task of torturing him who had aided the hated Ring-bearer had at first belonged to the Orcs, who it seemed were horribly ill-trained in the art of torture and interrogation.  That was best left to the master of the art, namely himself, who had had many millennia to practice such a foul and satisfying craft.  *That privilege shall be thine soon enough, but not yet.* The Mouth found it hard to conceal his disappointment at his Lord’s words, and in the end failed miserably at doing so.  His Lord let out a cruel laugh, which vibrated inside his head so loud that he gave considerable and serious thought to what he believed to be the inevitable pain of a cracking skull.  Cracking skull…?  Now there was an idea!  *No, my Mouth,* Sauron’s voice returned, leaving only a ‘splitting’ headache in its wake.  *I have other plans for the prisoner, but you shall have your way with him in due time.  I have long kept the boarders of this small land under a constant watch and I shall tell thee that which I have seen.  Men, many Men on the march, ready to make war!  I have no doubt that my armies shall be victorious, and that this victory could be obtained with great ease, but is that even necessary?  Nay, it is not,* Sauron the Great answered before his Mouth could begin to provide the expected answer. *Among the company is Mithrandir.  I can only assume that it is his folly that brought the Shireling to my realm and thus into my custody.*

          “My thoughts exactly, my Lord,” the Mouth agreed out of turn, as though his opinion actually mattered.  He immediately recognized his cheek and felt his face burning with embarrassment as the Eye turned away from the mountainous boarder and straight down upon him once again.

          *Thus being,* Sauron continued, without the need to voice his disappointment at such an inexcusable interruption, *the guilt must be heavy on his heart for the condition of one of his miserable friends.  This though may work well to my advantage.  He may just be willing to pay a high price for the creature’s return.*

          “Return, my Lord?” the Mouth gasped.  Surely the Great Lord of Mordor would not give mercy to two of the despised creatures, particularly this one!  The other one, the Gollum-creature, had been captured in some distant land and apparently had not known the nature of his ‘Precious’ and could be excused only for lack of common-sense.  But not this Brandybuck!  He had no doubt known what the Ring was, for why else would one so small dare to venture so far from his homeland and to enemy territory of all places?  “But surely the creature must be taught a lesson!  After all he’s done, he surly must be tortured into submission for defying Your greatness and not the least for with-holding the one true desire of Your Majesty’s heart!”

          *Thou must not believe that such thoughts have escaped my mind!!* Sauron thundered, causing yet another of his infamous headaches, and the Mouth inaudibly muttered some foul words he had heard from the Orcs in their own hideous language.  What they meant he did not rightly know, but the sounded foul enough to be fitting for the occasion.  Yes, Brandybuck would get a sound thrashing for these headaches alone.  For if the little rat had not had the cheek to cross into the Lord’s territory, then he would not be up here, humiliating himself and hurting his poor head! Either not noticing, or not simply not caring to notice the pain of his servant, Sauron continued to form his malicious plans – something he never ceased to do.  *When I have regained what is mine I shall rule all of Middle-earth.  At that appointed time, the prisoner and all of his kind shall pay for his wickedness.  But for the present, he might actually prove to be a valuable asset.  When Mithrandir arrives, thou shall go to meet with him in person.  Present before him the sword, Dwarf-coat and Elf-cloak that were found on the prisoner and tell him that the price of the prisoner’s ransom shall include all of the lands west beyond the Great River.  If he demands to see the prisoner prior to acquiescing, then present him you may.  But he must be fit for presentation, properly clothed and fed.  We can not have him so beaten that he is barely alive!  Gandalf, fool though he may be, would never pay any price – least of all one so high – for a dying prisoner.  Once I have the land of the Halflings within my dominion, then I shall give him back over to thee and thou mayst do with him as thou pleases – for he has foolishly released his name and that shall thus make him all the easier to locate within his homeland.  The only provision I will make as to his custody at that time is that he is not to be killed under the strain of your torture.  I want him to long feel the pain of his wickedness.  I want his pain to be second only to the accursed Ring-bearer who shall in due time be stricken once again with the blade of the Witch-king, and this time shall succumb to the inevitable.  But as for this Brandybuck, you must have him ready for a journey to the Gate by the first red light of day!  Until then, you may torture the prisoner as best suites my purpose.  But take care not to harm him overmuch.  If he is so broken that even Gandalf the Fool has the brains to see he is of no use, then I shall have the Orcs use thee as the test subject of their next torture machine!*

          “Yes, my Lord!  What of the Elf and the other Hobbit, my Lord?” the Mouth ventured to ask, bowing low before the Eye, desperate to change the subject – not that his Lord likely had anything left to say regarding the issue. 

          *Double the watch around the Lady’s passage!  We’ll find them!  The Elf may have ventured far already, but if he is taking care of his pathetic companion then he is likely still within the vicinity. He slipped past our nets once, that alone is unacceptable, and many an Orc-head will role!  But I now have many riding to the Gate and cannot recall them for a search. Those given watch over the Lady’s passage shall all be killed for their lack of attention on-duty, but only when they have mended their error.  I want those prisoners as well!  Alive and unspoiled!*

          “Yes, my Lord,” the Mouth bowed low once more.  He re-wrapped the sword, coat and cloak, tucked them under his arm and proceeded to descended the Tower stairs. He suddenly felt very lucky indeed for possessing the fastest horse in Mordor, for he could hardly wait to discover how thick a head a creature so small could possibly possess.

~To Be Continued~

Well, what do you think? Let me know.  I know it’s not one of my better chapters and I promise you’ll be seeing Frodo in all of his poor misery soon!  I also would like feedback on my use of Old English.  The Mouth uses it in “The Black Gate Opens” and I’m assuming that Sauron would as well.  I will be the first to admit that it is not my strong point.  Any advice on this issue will be taken into consideration when the small details are later revised.

Please check out my prayer request detailed out in the ending authors not of my story "Frodo's Bane and Pippin's Stomach".  If you would like a further update please go to the hyperlink labelled "Oma Update Info" which can be found under my Links on my profile page.

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything relating to the Lord of the Rings in this story, which would be everything.  It all belongs to the brilliant JRR Tolkien.  Every quote from this chapter is taken from the Two Towers,  Choices of Master Samwise.

*********************

“Don’t trust your head, Samwise, it’s not your best part.”

                             - the Two Towers: the Choices of Master Samwise

Chapter Four: Follow your Heart

Setting: the Passage of Cirith Ungol; March 13, 1419, Shire-Reckoning

Pain.  That was the one enemy that he wished to escape, but he could not, it was the first thing of which he became aware and it greeted him like an executioner desperately in need of a life.  It was worse than any broken bone, worse even than the wound inflicted by the morgul-blade, in a way. That pain had been ice-cold, rendering portions of his body numb.  He had considered it to be curse at the time, but now he realized it for the blessing that it was, and desperately wished it to be returned to him. He tried to move, but his body refused to cooperate and the burning pain of his neck was of such intensity that it felt as though a match had been lit beneath his skin leaving him both weak and restless.  He couldn’t move, try though he might; his limbs were heavy as lead and of no more use than dead weight.  He could feel his strength abandoning him in the form of a well-supplied stream of blood, which flowed down his neck and onto the cold-stone floor beneath him. 

What happened? he wondered absently.  He had no recollection of what had occurred but surely something had.  He felt like he was suffocating, smothered in some tight, stringy material, almost as if he had been wrapped with several balls of yarn.  He could barely breathe, and his body gave up trying when his heart skipped a beat as memory came back to him like a sudden flash-flood: the Spider monster!  It had attacked him from behind, and… wrapped him up?  But why…?  Unless…  No!  It couldn’t!  But he couldn’t long deny it.  Sam had shown him why spiders were so useful in the gardens to get rid of the parasitic bugs that destroyed his beautiful flowers.  How they wrapped their prey with their silk, rendering them helpless… before they ATE them.  ATE??  Frodo began to swoon at the thought of being eaten alive, of something savoring parts of his innards as his heart continued to beat, and as air continued to flow agonizingly slow through pierced lungs.  Without a conscious effort he began struggling as adrenaline surged through his body.  But for all of his desperation, he was powerless against the poison that coursed through the veins.  The growing nausea limited his movements and his screams seemed to him hardly more than a hoarse whisper as the poison coaxed his vocal chords into a betraying sleep. 

The poison of the spider’s venom slowly dragged the stubborn and frightened Hobbit down into a pit of dreamless sleep, promising a simple passing.  Come to me, the Darkness whispered. You have no chance of living, but I will give you what peace can be had.  You will sleep through your pain, never to awaken. Though Frodo was loath to admit it, it was a tempting offer.  He had had more than his share of heartache and hardship in his life, and to be spared the pain of what would otherwise surely be a slow and agonizing death would be bittersweet end.  He longed to give into it.  But the stubborn Tookish streak in his blood would not allow him to surrender to such hopelessness so readily.  He had fought for his life so often that now it was almost second-nature.  His mind would not let his body give-in to what it so desired, it was that simple.  The two warring parts of consciousness were not in conflict for very long before a Light seeped through his wrappings and greeted him with its blinding beauty, instilling him with a renewed sense of hope.  But even more welcome than the Light of what Frodo quickly identified as Galadriel’s Phial, were the Elvish words which were shouted in defiance by its bearer.

*“Gilthoniel! A Elbereth!

A Elbereth Gilthoniel

O menel palan-diriel,

Le nallon sí di’nguruthos!

A tiro, nin, Fanuilos”

The voice sounded vaguely familiar, yet alien at the same time.  He could only think that it had to be Sam, his one true companion left along this hopeless quest.  But no, it could not be.  Sam’s Elvish, though greatly improved in Rivendell, and further still in Lothlórien, could not be compared with the fluency of the one who had now come to his aide.  It must have been Legolas, or Aragorn; perhaps they had trailed him through the Wild all of these days and had returned just in time to rescue him.  But it was not so.  His former suspicion was confirmed by his rescuer’s next words, which were bereft of any Elvish influence in either word or tone.  “Now, come, you filth! You’ve hurt my master, you brute, and you’ll pay for it.  We’re going on; but we’ll settle with you first.  Come on, and taste it again!”

            Frodo felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth as far as the thick bindings would allow. He would be all right.  His Sam was here!  Had not Lord Elrond said that nothing could separate them?  And had he not also charged at the Ring-wraiths in his master’s defense?  Of course, he had, and his blessedly stubborn hope and determination would see him through to the end of this fight as well.  That much was already evident from what Frodo imagined to be gurgling screams of pain from his attacker.  It won’t be long now, Frodo thought, and allowed his body to succumb to the poison and embraced the dark and painless existence of unconsciousness that awaited him.  Everything would be fine.  He could sleep off the initial shock and pain of the wound and then he would wake up all the better for his rest, knowing that he would not be eaten in the meantime, now that Sam was here.  His Sam wouldn’t let anything happen to him!

           He let go of all conscious thought and was vaguely aware of a ripping sound as the bounds were cut and not a moment later of Sam’s calloused hand stroking his cheek supplying the comfort that only a dear friend could.  He reveled in the comfort of his dearest friend and self-appointed bodyguard, and at last allowed himself to surrender all control of his body to that blissful thing called sleep. 

                But Sam had no such reassurance as he stroked his master’s cold face, bereft of all warmth, which the poison stole as greedily as a thief raids a well-supplied treasure chest. So thorough and final was the poison that it rapidly stole away any sign of heat, and the burning at the sight of the wound which had so tortured Frodo, existed only within his nerves, leaving his skin pale and cold.  To the untrained eye he would appear lifeless, and so it was this deception that propelled Samwise Gamgee to both retrieve the One Ring and to leave his master’s side.  He stumbled down the cliff-side, weary of the Ring’s incredible weight, tears blinding his eyes as he prepared to honor his duty as the last of the Fellowship.  The appointed Ring-bearer may have been dead, but not all hope was lost.  The Quest would not fail, and if he was the only one left to rid Middle-earth of the accursed Ring, then so be it!  He knew that he would likely die in the attempt, but at least he would die honoring his promise to his beloved master.  He turned around one last time, his heart begging him to return and defend his master’s body against the approaching Orcs, but he would not allow his feet to move.  He could not let his heart and its desires over-shadow his better judgment.  How could he abandon all of Middle-earth – all of the Shire – for the sake of one dead Hobbit, no matter how dear to him?  No, he couldn’t turn back; his master wouldn’t want the whole world to suffer on his behalf.  And thus it was that the rational side won the war over his mind and he determinedly turned southwards toward Orodruin, his decision made and his goal within sight.

~ To Be Continued ~

Author’s Note: Yes, I did break away from my original game-plan.  This way makes it easier for everyone because it eliminates the need for two chapters to have flashbacks of the same scene from different POVs.  In other words, it will save you people a headache.  Right now, I have 2 Frodo chapters coming up (one of which being the promised “Frodo Brandybuck”) and the second one being where Frodo leaves for the Gate, then back to Sam, and the Frodo arrives AT the Gate.  So all told now that equals 8 chapters.

If this gets too confusing then, if the populous deems it necessary, I’ll make a 2^nd version all in real-time without flashbacks.

*A Elbereth Gilthoniel o menel palan-diriel, le nallon
O Elbereth Starkindler from firmanent gazing afar, to thee I cry

sí di-nguruthos! A tiro nin, Fanuilos!
here beneath death-horror! O look towards me, Everwhite!

I can count the number of Elvish words I know on one hand, therefore, Sam’s quote from the book was translated, not by me, but by an anonymous someone who posted their work on www.ardalambion.com

Go to the link labeled "A Elbereth Gilthoniel" (Sindarin) listed under Corpus Texts Analyzed.  I found the link to this site on the StoriesofArda.com Resources.

Hai: Well, it's good to know I still have one interested reader on this site! Thanks for the Review!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"They stripped me of everything; and then two great brutes cam and questioned me - until I thought I should go mad, standing over me, gloating, fingering their knives. I’ll never forget their claws and eyes."

-- The Tower of Cirith Ungol, The Return of the King

Chapter Five: To Tell the Truth

Setting: The Tower of Cirith Ungol, Mordor; March 14, 1419

Good gracious, he was actually going to do it! Try though he might, Frodo found himself unable to move, paralyzed as he was with fear as his shirt was ripped off and his hands bound behind his back.

"No, no! Please! I won’t do it again! Honest!" he pleaded hysterically, all sense of self-control now hopelessly abandoned as he saw his captor reach for a whip on his belt.

"Aye, that you won’t!" a gruff voice answered, throwing the perpetrator to the ground. Frodo braced himself for the inevitable, praying to whoever was listening that it wouldn’t come. Well, the Powers that Be, didn’t seem to be listening as a searing pain ripped across his back, one lash after another. Frodo would have given voice - and lots of it, too - to his pain if the force of the blows had not left him breathless while the blood poured out of his back. He felt the sticky substance mingling with nervous sweat and could only whimper in agony as he silently begged for mercy.

The blows finally ceased and the torturer untied his bonds. He dragged the terrified hobbit to his feet, keeping an excruciating grip on his arm - right where the whip had struck - and ignored the prisoner’s painful grimace as he led him away, towards an opened Gate. He whistled a summons, which was soon answered by three vicious wolves liking their lips in anticipation of a delicious morsel. The only problem was that those six hungry eyes were boring holes into his own.

He wouldn’t! Frodo desperately tried to calm his wild imagination - but it was beyond tame. Not only that, but the thought wasn’t exactly unrealistic. After all, if his captor was willing to beat him within an inch of his life, then who was to say…

"See, lads," the gruff voice prompted, redirecting Frodo’s attention as well. "Next time this young varmit sets foot on my land you can eat him. Now see him off!" He watched the small lad sprint across the field. He cupped his hands around his mouth and, knowing how much Frodo would hate it, yelled: "Get out of here you…BRANDYBUCK ! And stay out!"

Without a second thought, Frodo tore away from the torturer’s relaxed grip and ran like he had never done before: he ran for his life, vaguely hearing the Farmer’s voice in the distance. "Get out of here, you Brandybuck! And stay out!" He had thought that the ponies at the Yule-day races were fast, but in his desperate plight he would have left them all in the dust. His lungs burned and he longed to collapse on the ground and enjoy the sweet air in his midst, but he knew that if he dared it, he would be mauled to death in an instant. So on he ran, adrenaline carrying more weight than his short, bloodied, legs.

His paced did not slacken until after five exhausting miles he saw it. He never thought he would welcome the sight of the place which had taken his parents. But once again, the unexpected happened and - fearing that the time it would take to release Buckleberry’s Ferry from its dock would cost him his life - he willingly embraced to icy waters of the Brandywine and with his last rush of adrenaline, fought the harsh current. Staggering upon the river bank, he gratefully threw himself under the shade of a near-by Oak tree. So it was that he swore on his parents’ graves that he would NEVER cross - nay, would never even go NEAR - Old Maggot’s land ever again. He had once thought that mushrooms were worth anything, but yet again, a once firmly-held belief, was broken in two: NOTHING was worth THAT!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Night fell and when it did Frodo awoke feeling more groggy and hot than he had any right to. It was night time, for goodness sake! He wasn’t supposed to be hot! - or groggy for that matter. He was suddenly glad for the darkness, or else the world surely would have spun itself in nauseating circles. His stubbornness over-ruled his good sense and he attempted to get on his hand and knees and crawl back to Brandy Hall. Surely someone had noticed his absence and worried for him! He had a sudden desire to itch the bloodied scars on his back, and a particularly painful one on his neck, and wondered how his Aunt Essa would react to the sight. He wasn’t sure whether to be terrified or amused at the image that came to mind.

He felt that nothing was amiss until he realized that it was not for lack of strength that he was unable to move his arms, the culprit was rather a physical restraint: felt like rope. No, it couldn’t be! Maggot had removed the ropes so he could run…And wait, why did his neck ache so abominably, even more so than his back? It was there, after all, that had been struck the most. Maggot may have been cruel, but no adult had ever dared to take a whip to a child’s neck! That was unheard of! A dream, he realized. That was all a dream - a memory dream as it were.

But what had happened then? Where was he? He remembered running…just as he had in the dream, and urging Sam to follow him…to where? To the passage that Sméagol had led them to shortly before vanishing. No wonder Sam had been so slow. He hadn’t trusted "the little Stinker" at that moment, nor his master’s good sense (or what was left of it) either. Then something had hit him hard and then… Sam! Yes, that was it! Sam had been there! But where was he now? He had to be near-by. His Sam would never leave him! He needed his Sam, and Sam knew that. Sam was his anchor to sanity, he would have been utterly lost to the Ring if it weren’t…the Ring!

As the Ring grew heavier it had dragged the chain down, causing sores and bleeding around the back of his neck. He had grown used to the ache, but it had never been like *this* before. This pain wasn’t from carrying too much weight, instead it burned relentlessly. It wasn’t only that there was a new pain that alarmed him, but rather the absence of the old one. If the chain that held the Ring wasn’t around his neck then where was it? He immediately came up with a number of reasons: none of them good.

His thoughts were interrupted and his heart stopped as he heard a ruckus from below. Someone sneering and arguing in a foul tongue: their (yes there were two of them now) voices muffled behind a thick wall of metal which was soon penetrated. He tried to calm his ragged breaths, hoping to remain hidden in the dark. Perhaps they were just passing by…But Luck had abandoned him as the voices continued in his direction.

"Well, well, looks like our Little Rat’s awake!"

Their what? He felt a sweaty, callused, and putrid foot make its way to his back and kicked it like one would do to a recent kill.

"Aye, the Rat’s awake all right," the other voice growled as he grabbed Frodo’s arm and dragged him to his feet, sharp claws digging into the Hobbit’s fragile skin.

"Let me go!" Frodo pleaded, much as he had in his dream. "Please!"

The Orc saw the pain in his prisoner’s eyes and sneered. "What? That hurt? The fun ain’t even started, lad! What’re ya doin’ ‘ere?"

"The monster," Frodo answered hesitantly, "It attacked me. I don’t know anything else." It certainly wouldn’t hurt to tell the Orcs what they surely knew already.

"Is that so?" the Orc retorted, bringing his long knife up to the Hobbit’s face.

"Would a little reminder help?" the Orc suggested, leaning towards Frodo, displaying a set of horrifyingly sharp teeth. But his brain barely registered the sight as his nostrils were hit with a horrid stench from the Orc’s breath, so horrible in fact, that the poor hobbit recoiled away, gasping for what fresh air was available in Mordor.

Frodo backed into the corner of the wall. "No!" answered shakily. "I…I was unconscious. I recall nothing."

The second Orc stared at him intently. This being looked strangely familiar. He could remember another being in the dark tower…small and wretched, quivering in fear.

Frodo noticed the quizzical look in the Orcs’ yellow eyes. A dread silence hung about the room as he said nothing, apparently he was the superior for the other Orc said nothing, as though waiting for instructions, like a civilized person would. Strange thought that, before that moment he had not contemplated the thought of Orcs being civilized in any sense of the word.

The lead Orc finally broke the silence with a voice that chilled him to the bone. "Does it even remember what it was doing here,…precious?!"

The Orc leaned foreword, gauging the prisoner’s response, which was quite entertaining, to say the least. His were wide and darting to and fro, avoiding direct contact, while muttering senseless words under his breath.

"You know that little worm, that Gollum, don’t ya, runt? Led ya here, din’t he?"

Frodo shook his head automatically.

"Ya din’t find the Lady’s Webs by yerself did ya now? Only her little sneak knows it."

Trapped! They had used the term "Precious".  They knew Gollum had given the Ring’s location in The Shire. If they found out that Gollum was in Mordor, they would beat him until he relinquished the location of Gollum and the Ring: an important piece of information that he would not have given, even if he had known it. Not for all the mithril in the world would he ever do that! "Sméagol brought me here," he managed at last. That at least was true. "Gollum must have showed him. I don’t know where Gollum is." True again!

"Then I ‘spose you ain’t the Baggins wit the Master’s precious?"

"No," Frodo answered, slowly regaining his confidence. Two could play at this game. Give someone a grain of truth, and they’ll believe your whole speech! "That was Bilbo. But he left The Shire years ago! He disappeared with It." True again.

"An’ where is ‘e now?"

Frodo mutely shook his head. He had lost his poker-face as a youth and hoped that the Orcs weren’t adept at reading Hobbit emotions, since his had a tendency to reveal themselves to others before himself. "I don’t know."

But the Orcs weren’t buying it. They saw the doubt in his eyes and seized the moment. "Yes, ya do. If you ain’t Baggins, then who are ya, anyhow?"

"No, I’m not the Baggins you want. That’s Bilbo. He’s my cousin," Frodo answered, determined to stick to his story. The more he repeated it to himself, the more he would believe it. "But I haven’t seen him in a long time. He could be anywhere." And to think he had once thought that being caught by Farmer Maggot was the worst trouble he could ever get into!

Frodo held his breath. One part of his mind told him to stop shaking. The more confident he appeared, the more likely they would believe him. Then they would…wait, what would they do? If he knew nothing, if they had no use for him…? Frodo gulped his saliva down, making no attempt to control his fear. Was there no way out for him? They had the Ring, surely they must! He had had it when he was attacked and they had him now. Unless Gollum had it, unless he had taken It before the Orcs came. If he told the Orcs what little he did know, he would probably be released back into the tunnel as Spider food. If he didn’t, they would beat him within an inch of his life…or more. He honestly wasn’t sure which idea he preferred more: death, or torture.

He looked the Orcs right in their yellow eyes. "I promise you, I know nothing else."

How stupid does it think we are? the lead Orc thought furiously. He had been torturing prisoners long enough to know fear when he smelt it, and this pitiful creature reeked of it. "Is that so?" he jeered. "Since ya don’t know the bisness, runt. We’ll give ya a secon’ chance!" His claws grabbed hold of the prisoner’s neck, letting loose small streams of blood. He turned to his companion. "Gorbag, take him to the Stretcher!" he ordered, throwing the frail creature to the ground. Stretcher? Do I even want to know?

The other Orc, Gorbag, grunted a reply and sneered at Frodo as he seized an arm.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Frodo had feared walking up the stairs with his hands bound, and, for a moment had contemplated the possibility of asking for his hands to be freed for that small duration of time. Perhaps, then, he might be able to make an escape. But the Orc had apparently seen that trick before, and silenced Frodo’s request with a stinging glare and those ugly teeth before the Hobbit could say a word. Gorbag had his own ideas had unceremoniously dragged the hobbit up several flights of stone stairs.

When the Orc finally opened one of the many doors, he felt as though his eyes would pop out of their sockets at the sight. There in the middle of the room, was an iron contraption. It consisted of a long table with chains hanging down from either side and two bars on either end. But the most curious part was that the table was divided into segments, as though you could adjust the size… What in Middle-earth?

"Impressed, eh, Runt?" the Orc suggested with what could almost be described as a sense of pride, noticing Frodo’s reaction. "Designed it meself! And you’ll even be more impressed when we get goin'!"

Frodo gulped again, saliva trickling down his parched throat as he was dragged towards the infernal machine.

~*~ To Be Continued ~*~

Don't flame me! He's in the Torture chamber, isn't he? The "Frodo Brandybuck" chapter is next I PROMISE! 

I meant to put it in here, but this was such a good stopping point, besides, I've hit Writer's Block and I thought it was extremely mean to leave you people hanging for three whole months!

YOU KNOW THE DRILL! DON’T FORGET TO LEAVE A REVIEW!

Author’s Note: * glances at clock * 3 AM? Gee wiz, I’m going to bed. I’ve already replied to my wonderful reviews so I don’t think I’ll do that again. My eyes are too tired. Goodnight, or good morning. Oh whatever! * grabs teddy bear and pillows * Adios!

Oh one more thing. I thought of putting one of those graphic warnings up for this chapter, but decided against it since there is no nudity or anything sexual in nature, which those warnings usually imply, but there is torture in the following pages. Lots of torture because, after all, Frodo is an Orc prisoner! You can’t very well forget that.

 Okay, now I’m really going to bed!

 **************************************

 “Only [a day]? It seems weeks…I fell into darkness and foul dreams and woke and found that waking was worse.”

 -  Frodo to Sam in The Return of the King, The Tower of Cirith Ungol.

 Chapter Six: Frodo Brandybuck

Setting: The Tower of Cirith Ungol, Mordor; March 14, 1419 (Immediately following Ch.5: To Tell the Truth)*

Frodo found his feet glued to the ground, his eyes fixed on the enormous room around him. But it was not amazement that reflected in his panicked eyes, but rather bewilderment and horror, mixed in with a growing dread.  The room was dark, save for a small glimmer of red light from the Mountain’s Fire. Along the wall was a small fireplace and gathered around it were not the flowers and pictures such as had been present at every home he had ever visited, but rather several large barrels and iron contraptions, whose purpose he did not wish to guess. His knees began to shake and his face lost all color. His mind, though, was in the worst shape because there was nothing in it. He made no attempt to hide the vibration in his knees as he was led towards the principle piece of machinery within the center of the room.

Before Frodo even knew what was happening, he found himself lying face down on the steel platform as his wrists and ankles were chained down tightly.

"Now, runt, you will talk!" Gorbag ordered, leaning close to Frodo's face.  The poor hobbit recoiled at one look of his face, those horrible yellow eyes and the breath that stank of blood and the decayed flesh stuck between his sharp, jagged teeth.  But what Frodo cared about the most was staying alive and he was surprised he didn’t suffocate to death with his nose so close to that mouth. It felt like he was slowly dying of suffocation.

"I already told you," Frodo whimpered, coughing as he eyed the knife and whip at the Orc's belt, before quickly turning away.  “I know nothing." He coughed again, which was a very uncomfortable - and quite frankly dangerous - thing to do while lying on your chest.

The Orc merely shook his shaggy head of dreadlocks.  "I think not.  None of your kind has ever come here before, save one. And he was captured. Yer the first one to come on his own mind. Yer here for a reason, runt, and the sooner you tell us, the quicker you'll die!"

Frodo just mentally rolled his eyes at that.  Orcs were unbelievably stupid.  Telling a prisoner they were bound to die was the last way to acquire information.  The mere prospect of acquiring freedom should be used as an incentive: not outright denial of it.

"If not," the Orc continued relentlessly, "you'll wish were weren't never born."

Which means I'll wish I was born, which makes no sense at all, Frodo silently amended, although the implications were undeniable.

"I need only three questions answered: Who are you?  How did you get here?  And what in the name of Lord Sauron are you doing here?"

"How many times must I tell you?" Frodo snarled with all the indignation he could muster.  "I'm in the tower because the Spider stung me and your subordinates found me!" He had been about to say "Your people or men" or something to that effect, but somehow those words didn't quite fit.

"Wrong answer, brat!" the Orc snarled as his fingers went to one of the levers and cranked it: hard.

Frodo wasn't sure what he had been expecting.  But what he got was not it.  No one ever expected to feel an arm being pulled from its socket.  The pain struck so suddenly that Frodo wasn't sure when he started screaming.  All that he was aware of was a burning pain and shrill scream, which sounded too surreal to be his own. Frodo did not want to loose all self-control in front of total strangers. But an interrogation room was not one full of protocol or common etiquette. And as far as Frodo was concerned, the world had disappeared only to be replaced by an insurmountable agony. Normally he would never had dared to cry or show any sign of what may be perceived as a “weakness” in the presence of strangers, but he had no concern for imagery or impressions anymore and made no attempt to stop the flow of tears that ran unceasingly down his cheeks.

When Frodo finally lost his voice, the Orc reversed the handle and the pressure subsided immediately, though it never truly left. 

The leering Orc leaned over the small hobbit, barring his teeth. "Had enough, runt?"  But Frodo, still gasping for breath, just lay with his face pressed to the cold steel, unable to move, staring at the small puddle of tears that had collected on the ground, which continued to grow exponentially. His mind was so consumed with the pain that he did not hear the door latch, nor take any heed to the new comer's voice until he heard something of interest to his well being.

"What art thou doing, Gorbag?  Thou canst have the thing mangled and disfigured overmuch."

Frodo was fairly certain that the Orc, Gorbag, (apparently the things actually had names) would have finished with him as a useless sack of disjointed bones. He didn't know who it was that had just saved him, and at the moment he didn't care. Were it not for the chains holding him back, he would have hugged him in an instant. But as it was, a huge yet exhausted smile crossed his face as he sighed in relief and went limp on the platform.

The new comer apparently saw this, or at least noticed that the prisoner seemed more at ease, having gone limp on the platform as opposed to being tense from head to foot, and decided to put things to rights. Frodo heard a whip crack behind him and guessed what was coming next.  "You'll talk to me, you dung hill rat!"

Frodo felt a gritty hand on the back of his neck and winced as sharp claws penetrated his precious skin. But the pointy ends of his talons didn't pierce the epidermis lightly on the surface, but rather dug down inside, blood streaming down the sides. Frodo whimpered as they were pushed down towards the throat and he would have screamed had his diaphragm not been pinned to the surface, making every breath painful. 

"That hurt?" his torturer/rescuer taunted. “I have not even started, runt!  Thou dost not know the true meaning of “pain” as of yet. Now, I shall ask thee once more: What is thy name, and what art thou doing within the realm of my master, the Great Lord Sauron?”

“Got lost,” Frodo whispered, not daring to look his captor in the eye. That was the sign of a liar under normal circumstances.  But Frodo didn’t consider that to be the case here, not wanting to face someone who had nearly ripped your arm off was not exactly a suspicious sign by any means. “I was lost. Smeagol was my guide, not a very good one obviously. It was dark in the tunnel and I lost him.” He shook his head sadly, tears spilling at the memory of him and Sam roaming aimlessly about the tunnel, looking for that little stinker.  “Then the Spider came.”

“Aye, then thou art seeking this Smeagol to aid thee in finding the way home. Is that correct, runt?”

Frodo nodded miserably, wondering how he would get through this “session” in one piece without betraying any of his friends.  Betrayal was, of course, out of the question, but that didn’t mean that staying alive had to be as well.  Frodo knew that he was a terrible liar and for that reason would always be the first one to admit it, which was why he had told a story so close to the truth. It was about as close as he would ever be allowed to get and he hoped it might be enough to satisfy them. He thought perhaps he was going to get away with it, but that was just too good to be true.  An all-too-familiar sting raced across his back and then another and another.

“I think not,” a cold, cruel voice whispered in his ear.  “A lonely little hobbit, wandering away from home, away from the Shire, who happens to climb the Winding Stair and into Lord Sauron’s realm in attempt to get home? Even a blind man wouldst know whence he had entered Mordor. This is no innocent mishap, runt.”

Frodo recoiled at the mention of his home.  Though he said nothing other than “Don’t call me ‘runt’!” which was mumbled at a volume that he perceived as barely a whisper and therefore unable to be heard.  But he was mistaken.

“If thou wouldst prefer a different name, then perhaps thou shalt reveal his true identity so that it may be used accordingly.”

Here it comes, Frodo thought, bracing himself for the blow that never came. Instead he heard the grinding of metal and never had a chance to brace himself as the upper torso piece was moved downward, pulling at his neck muscles. His first instinct was to scream but all that came out was a high pitch squeal of alarm. He was certain the torturer would have released him at that, for how could he be expected to answer if he could scarcely breathe?  But this inhumane thing was taking his time, never minding as it idly ticked by..

The Mouth of Sauron watched the pitiful thing gasp for breath. To call it “pitiful was truly a gross understatement. Just a couple of notches tightened and he was already hanging onto one last breath. The Mouth let out a frustrated sigh and drew back the lever one notch. He wanted to kill the creature, but this little one could be extremely valuable and he would never hear the end of it if he ruined one of his master’s pawns. Or, more precisely, he might hear the end of it too soon. Best that he save the best for last in this case. Prisoners were not killed without the Lord’s prior consent, which was almost always given.

Glancing over at the prisoner again, the Mouth realized that he had tested the creature’s limits. He reluctantly rolled the lever back and soon all that was to be heard in the Tower Room was that of harsh breathing and frightened sobs.

Frodo lay on the machine, saliva dripping from his mouth as the tension in his burning neck muscles slowly eased. “Stop it, please!” he wailed, unable to stop the tears. He moved his arm automatically to massage his neck, but the rattling of the chain stopped his hand a few inches short of its target.

“Ready to talk, runt?”

Frodo nodded. “My name,” he began, gulping on his saliva to cool off the burning in his throat, “is Frodo Brandybuck.”

The Mouth nodded; at last he was getting somewhere. On the one hand it was a relief to be making progress and yet disappointing that he had snapped so easily. His fun would not last much longer if this held out.

“Now, Frodo, what art thou doing here? Surely thou must have suspected being led astray whence thou crossed over these mountains.”

With the threat of having his body ripped limb from limb, Frodo began telling his not-so-tall tale, one which he had rehearsed to himself several times in the Dead Marshes when he had first begun to fear capture upon noticing the sores and twisted bones in Gollum’s hands. Of course then he had thought it all pointless because any twisted story would be no good if they had caught him with the Ring, but they hadn’t.  Or so it seemed. If they had it, they would be gloating over him right now, rather than trying to torture the information out of him. For once, he was glad he had taken that necessary precaution. He began with a small, shaky voice, not at all the confident mannerism he had been hoping to maintain.  He only hoped he could tell it without the lie being evident in his eyes.

“I left the Shire when I head about the Black Riders coming. I had been given Bilbo’s home before he left. He disappeared from the Shire – literally – and then handed the Ring off to one of his Baggins relatives. When I heard about the Black Riders I went away with Baggins. He was at my house that night and I was going to help him move the next day, to a cottage he bought in Buckland. When we got there, he told us about the Ring and he planned to go to Rivendell – using some of the old maps Bilbo had given him -where he and the Ring would be safe. I thought I was in danger as well. So two of my kin and myself went with him. We stopped in Bree for the night, where we found a Ranger. He told us he knew some shortcuts between there and Rivendell so we let him tag along. A few days out of Bree we camped at Amon Sul where the Black Riders found us and tried to kill Baggins.  He was healed when we made it to Rivendell.  Then there was a Council and it was decided that he would still be the Ring-bearer while it was being taken South and he would keep it until it was given over to Denethor who could use It’s power against It’s master. Well, if Baggins was going then we weren’t going to be left behind.  Everything went smoothly until not too long ago. We were traveling along the River and one afternoon our camp was attacked by Orc-creatures with a White Hand painted on their faces. I got separated from them in the chaos and after a few days of wandering around lost, I found Smeagol who offered to show me a way to Minas Tirith and avoid the Southern troops going to the Gate. I had been led to believe that we were taking a passage through the mountains, the long way around to Minas Tirith. I didn’t know it was a trap until I had crossed through the tunnel and by then it was too late. Smeagol had run off and I was as good as dead and then you found me. Or someone did at any rate.” He did not add that he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Given the present situation, he would rather be in the Spider’s belly where he could not possibly betray his friends or the Quest.

The Mouth looked at him doubtfully, as he turned his back to the prisoner and searched for another torture mechanism. In the meantime, he allowed the creature to believe that he had been fooled.  Over by the fire, on the far end of the room there were several metal rods.  In this case the smallest of the collection would have to do since it was half the size of the subject in question. He set the small rod over the fire and as he did so, he began contemplating the tale that Brandybuck had presented before him.

The creature had been so stubborn and resistant at first that he was rather surprised that he spilled the story out so quickly. And, yet, it all fit. The Witch King had reported that Baggins had left the day before their arrival and he had indeed if he had been staying with the Brandybuck at the Old Baggins’ residence and there had been a report of a breaking-in at a small cottage where Baggins had supposedly been staying for a few nights. Frodo Brandybuck had confirmed the presence of four hobbits in Bree and that they had taken up with a Ranger, who had been seen in the company of the Hobbits on Amon Sul and they had lost sight of them for sometime afterwards after they took refuge in the valley of Imladris.  But Gollum (the one who also admitted to the name of Smeagol) had been told to bring Hobbits here and apparently he had done that. He had trailed them for sometime and then offered to “help” the first Hobbit he found unguarded, assuming that it was the Ring-bearer. But, yet, there were some pieces that did not fit. He had said nothing contradictory, but his story still left out several details. It did not account for another person who may have broken his bonds. Nor did it explain how a Ranger out of the Wild knew the location of the Elven Valley, which was supposed to be impossible to find.  He took the rod out of the fire and examined its red-hot tip. A twisted smile worked its way around his face. Perfect!

 “Thou are certain that there is nothing more thou hast to say in answer to my question?” the Mouth inquired, turning back to the prisoner who had turned his face to the wall. How he missed the old method of bloody beatings until they got the answers. He couldn’t wait until he was allowed to throw caution the wind and beat this brat within an inch of his life as often as he pleased. The wretched creature had no idea how fortunate he was right now.

Frodo nodded. The Mouth’s face twisted into an evil smirk.  “Wrong answer, little Frodo!” he mocked as he broughtthe burning stick upon the lad’s back and held it there. Frodo immediately and impulsively tried to break away, but this only resulted in the hot metal dragging across and digging into his back.  The Mouth hadn’t realized how many screams such a tiny set of lungs could contain until then.

Frodo no longer cared how pathetic he looked. He just squirmed and writhed on the steel pallet.  He did just about anything he could think of to escape the burning sensation that buried itself deep within his muscles. That of course included next to nothing, but he could not be expected to simply lay there like a dead thing either. It was a thing unheard of.

Running short on patience with the prisoner’s weakness, the Mouth clamped his hand over Frodo’s small face, stifling both screams and breath.  Frodo tried to squirm out of reach and away from the suffocating hand, but the claws dug into the skin behind his ears.

“Listen, young hobbit, and listen well.” The Mouth was surprised that he could be heard over Frodo’s frantic breathing and panicked squeals.  Not that anyone could blame him. Either the Mouth’s eyes deceived him or the prisoner’s face now had a bluish hue to it. “Thou hast told me, that thee walked into Bree and just happened upon a Ranger out of the Wild, who just happened to know the location of the secret Elven valley. Thou art concealing a matter or importance from me, Brandybuck and thou shalt not have a single minute of air until thou revealeth thy secret to me. Besides that, thou art not alone. Thy bonds were cut whence thou art found. Someone cut them and it was no Orc.  Thou might not be able to see it in here, lad. But there are 2 barrels in the corner. One hath hot rocks from the Mountain, the other contains small spiders. Now there are many kinds of spiders here, some poisonous to your kind and some not.” He cupped Frodo’s head in his hands and twisted his burning, aching neck so they were looking eye-to-eye. As his eyes had been focused on the ground until then, this was first good look Frodo had of his torturer.

He wasn’t quite sure what he had expecting, as he had long since given up predicting what was around the next bend in mind of Sauron’s servants. The sight before him really should not have surprised him at all, but for some reason it did.  His skin was dark and barely distinguishable from the ashes that caked it in several layers. He could scarcely identify the color of his skin, covered as it was in not only ashes, but burns as well. They were unlike the whelts he felt upon his own back, but care rather from being in such close proximity to the Eye and the heat that radiated from the Mountain’s fire. His lips also had not passed unscathed. It was amazing that he could speak with them at all, chapped and bleeding as they were. His robes, though, were another matter entirely.  They were purely black (no surprise there), but what did surprise him was the beauty of them and the workmanship was exceptional. He would have to be a fool not to see that much at any rate.  He had not realized that such a thing was available within these premises. But on second thought, he had probably taken them from a conquered Gondorian, except that there were no bloodstains or tears.

And his eyes, which had been forcibly locked with his own, were almost hollow, as if all personal emotion and memory had been stripped away.  Save perhaps one thing. Frodo had been expecting something akin to hot anger burning within those small pupils, but instead what he found was hatred. It wasn’t aimed at one person, thing or event in particular as far as he could see.  Rather it was pure hatred at the world, at anything aimed at ruining what he had worked so hard to achieve, though what that was Frodo couldn’t quite imagine. His teeth were barred in an ugly scowl, which could almost be identified as frustration.  Frodo could not see what he had to be frustrated about since his poor prisoner was readily supplying answers to the questions.  He considered the thought that perhaps the scowl was the only expression his face knew.  Indeed the crease lines seemed almost to be etched into his skin.  The thought of that would have driven his heart to pity the poor soul that could not longer smile. That, though, did not apply to the person who had willingly, mercilessly, and even gleefully, cranked the machine and brought burning rods upon his back.  No, he would not pity the creature who had chosen such a life.  All he found in his burdened heart was disgust. He would never understand how someone with such pain in his eyes could inflict such torture upon another.  It was nigh unbelievable, but he could not long deny the truth that stood not half a foot from his face.

"We have never let them loose on one of thy kind before and canst not know which ones would be fatal to thee.  If thou wishes to remain ignorant to that, then thou wilt tell me the whole truth.  If thou are not honest, if I don't trust what thou sayest, thou shalt be of no use to me, and I shall thoroughly enjoy watching thee die!  And even if their venom isn't fatal, there are many spiders that enjoy sucking a victim's blood dry!" With that, he released the Hobbit’s head, practically throwing it aside in disgust. It took every ounce of self-control that he possessed not to bang the little head against the steel bed.

"So, we shall start again.  Who is this Ranger thou took up with? Hm?"

“He didn’t say,” Frodo answered after a moment’s hesitation, shivering at the though of those nasty little things crawling in his eyes and mouth and under his arms and under his clothes, sucking his blood no less. “Just said he was called Strider. Didn’t want to give his proper name to strangers apparently.”  He knew that he was toeing the line here. This wasn’t what his rescuer-turned-torturer wanted to hear.  He wanted to be told the man’s proper name and lineage. But if he continued to play this game carefully, he could keep the spiders in their bucket without revealing everything. In any case, his torturer could travel all the way back to Bree if he so desired and that would be all he ever got out of the locals. No one there knew Strider’s proper name and likely none would have understood its importance anyway.  “We took up with him because he guessed our purpose.  One of my kin made a grave error. He was doing a stupid dance on a tabletop and slipped and the Ring went to his finger. He vanished and Strider saw it. Strider had heard the tale of Isildur’s Bane and correctly guessed what we were up to as there aren’t many things that can cause a person to disappear without a trace. He cornered us in our own room and swore to protect us if we would allow him to be our guide. Neither of us knew how to escape the Black Riders in the street so in him we saw our only chance to escape. When we got to Rivendell, he was called “Estel” and “Dunadan”. I don’t know which one was his proper name. After learning that he had three names, I did not question him further. I would not have been able to remember them all anyway. He must have had connections with the Elves in the past, but I didn’t ask. It wasn’t any of my business anyway.”  Frodo knew almost immediately that he probably should not have said that, but it was really no matter.  The name Sauron was looking for was “Aragorn”.  It was likely he would not recognize the name “Estel”. “Dunadan” though might be recognized and even he was quick to admit that “Hope” was an unusual name to give to a child.

“And, how may I ask,” the Mouth continued, choosing to switch questions upon realizing that the Hobbit could not be expected to know a Ranger’s full history, secretive as they appeared to be, “did thou manage to untie thyself? Decided to play a little game of Dead, did thee?”

Frodo shook his head quickly, grimacing with the pain. “How should I know?” Frodo snapped. I had just been poisoned. I could barely keep my eyes open! I don’t know what happened.”

“Oh I think thou knowet full well!” the Mouth jeered with a hideous smile. “Contrary to thy tale, lad, someone was with thee and I want to know who it was!”

 “My friends,” he began as an excuse slowly formulated with in his mind, “one of them must have come looking for me and untied me, to see if I was alive.” Frodo tried to swallow his nervousness, but it was a futile attempt. He somehow had to tell a convincing lie to cover for Sam when he wasn’t sure what had happened or what he had been left with. He had to tell a convincing tale even though he had been nearly unconscious with only a scrap of recollection at best. He could just claim ignorance but in this case they weren’t asking for a detail that he wouldn’t possibly know, but rather a fact as straightforward as the identity of a traveling companion. It didn’t look as though they would accept silence for this question and Frodo had no desire to give them a reason to burn his back again or to pull more muscles.

“So, thy friend managed to track thee through the mountains, is that it, lad?  All the way past the Dead City and up the Winding Stair without ever being seen?"

“Yes. One of my Company was an Elf. I imagine he would be capable of it.” Frodo couldn’t help but to beat himself over the head with that one. But it would be best if they were looking for an Elf, rather than Sam. It would put his gardener at an advantage, if only a temporary one. “In order to escape from an avalanche, our Company was forced through Moria and we managed to attract the attention of some goblins and trolls while we were there. When we finally made it through after several days, we realized the Orcs would be on our trail so we sought haven in the Land of the Elves along the Great River. There we were gifted with cloaks of their own making and an Elven Light, that of Earendil. I could have sworn I saw it through the wrappings before I passed out. And I heard shouting in Elvish. It must have been him.”  Well if the Orcs had mentioned something to his torturer about hearing Elvish voices and a blinding light, then his story would confirm it and it would also explain the Light of Earendil if they found it. They would then surmise that it had been carelessly dropped in the following fight. He honestly had no idea where Legolas was, except that he was not anywhere nearby, therefore their efforts in finding an Elf in the vicinity of the passage would be in vain and all to Sam’s advantage. Of course once they found no sign of an Elf, then he’d be in for the beating of a lifetime, but he managed to convince himself that that was not important as long as he bought Sam all of the time he could.

“And why, may I ask, would an Elf come tracking into Mordor after a pathetic thing like you? You carry something of value perhaps?”

They both knew that he meant the Ring, but Frodo (despite his agony) would not stumble into that trap. “The mithril shirt,” he answered, wondering when and if he would accidentally contradict himself with all of this lying. It was really hard to keep track of at times, especially with the relentless pain that was demanding his attention. “It was given to Baggins in Rivendell as protection from the Black Riders. He lent it to me because I wanted to try it on for a night. I always wondered how he slept with it on.  It just looked so uncomfortable yet he never complained of sleeping with it. It’s his protection and he wanted it back, I assume. They couldn’t risk him coming to Mordor with the Ring so the Elf must have offered to retrieve it.”

"But thou wore it still when we found thee!" He never tired of revealing a prisoner’s stupidity with such clarity.

Frodo gulped and then quickly shrugged as if to undermine the importance of something so significant, but his newly found poker face was hiding a flood of panic.  “He must have been scared off by the Spider when he found me.”  Yes, that horrid thing would scare anyone, surely! They would have nothing to say against that.  “He might have planned to finish taking my wrappings off when he returned, only to find that I had already been removed before then.”

The Mouth nodded, it was a possibility but an unlikely one. Yet, even though he wanted to, he could not expect Frodo to know the answer to that question as the prisoner had been imprisoned and unawares before Shagrat and Gorbag had found him. He had been hoping to catch the creature off guard.  But that had not happened, which had been in Frodo’s favor though the Mouth was loathe to admit it and quickly changed the subjected, which Frodo noted immediately. “Thou art telling me that my master’s Ring is in Minas Tirith?”

Frood gulped. “It’s supposed to be. That’s where everyone went and I don’t have It.”

“Know nothing, indeed!” the Mouth scoffed. Either Hobbits were stupid or they had a reverse sense of vocabulary from the rest of Middle Earth.

“Well I don’t,” Frodo had the nerve to retort. “I don’t know where the Ring and Baggins are and that’s all you care about. I haven’t seen hide or hair of my company for nigh on a week now. I ran out of food a little while ago.  Until then, I had my own pack with a few wafers of Elvish bread and a water bottle. Strider had the rest of the supply. And the Elf may have taken that after he left me. Probably thought I was dead after being attacked by that monster and what use has a dead body for food anyhow?” Frodo knew that most of this last bit of information was pointless as far as value was concerned, but no interrogator with half a brain would question a prisoner who volunteered information, however little it might be.

"Thou hast given me much to report to Lord Sauron, little one.  However if I find thou hast told one lie, or held anything back, thou shall wish that thou were dead!  And let this be a warning!" Frodo braced himself as best he could for the coming pain. He didn’t want another muscle pulled in his arm.  But this time he knew what to expect, and that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.  But apparently this torturer loathed routines, for this time he found yet another means of inflicting pain. He motioned to Gorbag (who appeared to have fallen asleep at his door post possibly due to the excessive conversing and the lack of excessive blood and beatings) to bring over one of the barrels he had seen earlier. The Orc woke up with a groan and obeyed. Then seizing a pair of tongs, the Mouth withdrew several steaming rocks from Gorbag’s barrel.  Frodo could smell the burning ashes that still clung to them from their days on the slopes of the burning Mountain. He didn’t dare think about where those were going.  He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to fall asleep in the few seconds before it came. But he had no such luck. One by one the burning rocks were placed upon his back, tearing a scream from the poor Hobbit’s throat as the heat ate away at his skin

With the door of the Tower Room shut securely behind him, the Mouth smiled wickedly, savoring the music of a prisoner’s scream. Most of the prisoner’s story was true by all accounts. Save, perhaps, for the last bit about the Elf. Evidence of an Elf had been reported surely, that could not be denied. But none had been seen in person and none would dare stray into the Black Land in pursuit of a mail shirt. No, Brandybuck was protecting Baggins for whom the Elf had been searching, that was the only probable scenario.  They had both been lost in the havoc of the Uruk-hai attack on the camp and Gollum had directed both of them there, knowing that one was needed and that this was only good for Spider food.  Gollum had, after all, been instructed to return Baggins the Tower, not just any Hobbit. He would have made certain of his quarry before making the long and treacherous journey back over the mountains that he feared so greatly.  The Little Rat had been caught in a lie and would pay for it before long.  But the poor thing needed a break now, since they could ill afford for him to die before all information had been extracted.

~*~ To Be Continued, Of Course ~*~

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: “If I start a story, I finish a story. No matter how long it takes.” I’m not one to abandon projects, particularly not one as fun as writing fanfiction can be.

For those of you who now think I’m racist because I made the bad guy (the Mouth of Sauron) black, just for the record, I’m not. I have met some wonderful black people, so I’m not trying to make them look bad or anything like that. But the Return of the King, The Black Gate Opens, says that the Mouth of Sauron was from a race called the Black Numenoreans. This was a race, an ethnic group. Not a political group that got the title due to evil actions, though that was eventually what happened. I figured that if they were an ethnic group described at “Black” then it probably had something to do with physical appearance. I could be wrong, I’ll admit, but that interpretation made the most sense to me so that was what I wrote down.

I won’t make any promises about the next update except that I hope to get to it soon.

It may seem obvious that chapter six is set right after chapter five, but not necessarily and certainly not with this story. I hope the settings at the top of each chapter are helping to follow the sequence of this plot, but just to be safe….

For the sake of your sanity, I present my CHAPTER CHART!

Chapter One, A Fool’s Hope: set as the troops are departing for the Black Gate (March 15)

Chapter Two, The Mouth of Sauron and Chapter Three, Sauron the Great: set the next day at Barad-dur.

Chapter Four, Follow your Heart: “flashback” to March 13 when Frodo is attacked.

Chapter Five, To Tell the Truth and Chapter Six, Frodo Brandybuck: set immediately proceeding Frodo’s awakening in Cirith Ungol.

In other words, Chapters 4,5, and 6 are set before the story “began”. I know there are two days (or 2.5 if you like) between when Frodo is questioned (i.e. “tortured”) and when the Mouth arrives at Barad-dur. Let’s just say it’s a long distance between Cirith Ungol and Barad-dur and the Mouth may have had “other duties” to tend to in order to count for that amount of time. Chapter 7 will be placed either during or after the same time frame as chapters 2 and 3. I hope this isn’t too confusing.

So go ahead and raise your hand. Who here thought I would abandon this story? Oh yes and just so you know, chapter 12 of Frodo’s Bane and Pippin’s Stomach is in the making… :)

Just a friendly reminder: As I said in a note at the end of chapter six, chapter seven will take place just after chapter three. In other words, most of this chapter takes place as the Mouth is riding back to Cirith Ungol after having talked with Sauron. I’m going to say that this one is in the late night/early morning of March 16/17 since I don’t know how long it would have taken the Mouth to ride from Barad-dur to Cirith Ungol.

“Only Elves can escape. Away, away out of Middle-earth, far over the Sea. If even that is wide enough to keep the Shadow out.”

- Frodo to Sam, TheTower of Cirith Ungol, the Return of the King

Chapter 7: the Memories of a Lifetime

Setting: Tower of Cirith UngolMarch 17, 1419, Shire-reckoning

The sun shone brightly above on a fine spring day, casting a glaring reflection of a Hobbit face in the water. And right above the boy’s eye there was…something. A fish, yes! The first one of the day! He reached his pudgy little fingers into the water, attempting to snatch the wandering fish. He had always hated catching fish with hooks. It was too bloody and messy and while he never minded a rough game, it was somehow different to think that the blood came from a deadly wound in the mouth and not a small scrape on the knee…even if the “deadly wound” was on dinner and not a friend or a kitty.

“Frodo, are you sure you don’t want a rod?” his dad asked, fetching a small rod as well as a box of worms from behind him.

Frodo shook his head, portraying some of the stubbornness that Drogo blamed on his wife and her brothers. The little rascal certainly didn’t get it from his side of the family. If Primula was concerned about their son’s oddity, she said nothing about it. She merely shook her head and admonished her son to be careful, making sure that the rope tied around the belt loop of his swimming shorts – and the other end around a hook at the stern of the boat – was still in it’s proper place. And it was. Drogo had been beside himself about the idea of taking little Frodo out in the boat, but Primula assured him it would be fine. If Frodo fell overboard, he would be easy enough to retrieve. Not that such a thing could happen if she stayed right behind him as she was now.

Frodo sat, sulking on the side of the boat. No matter how much he tried, he just could not seem to catch a fish! They all swam away as soon as they saw his hand, except one had come close. It had nibbled on his finger for a second, but then slipped off when he tried to bring it up. When he was almost about to admit to defeat, he saw something on the water’s surface. I fish fin! A big one! That one will be perfect! he thought. He could scarcely imagine the pride on his father’s face if he managed to catch that fish! But how? Oh forget this confounded rope! I can swim. So while his parents were talking about something boring as usual, Frodo untied the rope and then jumped over the edge and started swimming towards the gigantic fish. The reaction of his parents coincided with the second they heard the splash that was too loud for a small hand.

“Frodo!” his mother screamed. But it was too late; he had already followed the fish’s fin under water. Whatever he had expected to encounter, what he saw was not it! Fish never hurt anyone. But the teeth on this one, told a different story, as did its red eyes. Frodo had never seen eyes that big. They were about the size of his whole hand, if not larger – and they were red! He had always thought that fish had yellow eyes. But these red ones, well they were more red than any other color, but the pigment also moved around the pupil in a circular motion.

Frodo did nothing but stare at those huge red balls that seemed to pierce his heart more than his eyes, if that was even possible. But soon enough, his mortality caught up with him and he was forced to resurface and began to swim back to the boat, ready to face his mother’s wrath. It took him but a moment to realize that there was no boat to go back to. It was capsized, and the water had turned red…blood red! “Mum! Dad!” he screamed, but it was no use. He took a deep breath and plunged underwater again, hoping that perhaps the blood was from a fish and not…No! He would not think of that. He swam for several minutes, before he noticed a great white ship that had just approached from behind the glaring sunlight. “Help!” he screamed, swimming after it. Several of the passenger Elves, turned around and gaped at the mortal child swimming in the GreatSea, not far from a pack of sharks and an expanding pool of blood.

/After a few moments’ hesitation, they lowered a rope and brought the child onboard. Shaking and cold, Frodo collapsed into the nearest set of arms that would have him. An order was given, presumably to turn the ship around because that was precisely what it did, and they headed back to the WhiteTowers waiting on shore. Frodo attempted to tell them that his parents were still in there. He pointed at the pool of blood, motioning them to go back from the safety of an Elf lady’s arms. “Mum and Dad are in…there…” his voice trailed off as the truth of it began to sink in. If his parents were alive, they would have surfaced immediately. He knew his father had to be…gone. He didn’t really know how to swim very well… He finally gave up and turned his back on the little boat, still wrapped in the arms of a strange Elf. But despite her murmured reassurances that he was safe, he felt further from safety than ever before. He would never be safe again. Even when he was returned to dry ground, he could not shake the feeling that those great, red eyes were watching his every move, coaxing him to join his parents.

Frodo awoke from that dream, shaking and drenched in sweat. No, apparently that was not going to work. After the Mouth of Sauron had left him locked in the Tower Room, he had been hoping to go to sleep for the last time. He was once again learning that the sleeping mind could not be easily tamed, but that dream had by far been the strangest one that he’d had in a long time. Letting out a sigh of pain and frustration, he curled up on the floor once more. He had hoped that when the Mouth had left, he would find some resemblance of peace. Frodo did not know when the Mouth would be back, but all that he could do in the meantime was to lay huddled on the cold stone floor, gasping for breath, trying not to move too much for fear of aggravating the open wounds on his back. He tried to find a comfortable position, but it was to no avail. The continual flow of hot, stale, air on his back made the pain all the more acute. It stung worse than a thousand bee stings. The pain was relentless; it followed him like a predator. If he moved, then the rock and dirt got into his wounds and even if he lay still those same wounds stung and the very thought of moving was nothing short of agony.

Maybe, just maybe if he was a good prisoner, if he just closed his eyes, then it would all go away. He’d die in his sleep, remembering the Shire and his friends and family. At the moment, there was nothing that he wanted more than death, nothing more than to kiss this painful existence good-bye. In the back of his mind, a little voice tried to remind him that there were others depending on him, but Frodo pushed such thoughts aside. Those “others” in the Council of Elrond had been too cowardly to even admit to what needed to be done. They could hardly blame him for having the courage to try it, even if he had been caught. It had been Boromir who had been right all along, there was a sleepless evil that had caught him in its snare and here he was begging for death before the end. He let the tears flow freely from his eyes, hoping that he would be allowed one – last – peaceful night’s rest.

This time he settled back (using his arm as a pillow), trying to bring a pleasant image to mind: the faces of his friends and family, the sound of their laughter. There was nothing more dear to his heart than that. He remembered the day he had taught Pippin how to swim. He could remember that he had spent countless hours in the icy water of the Brandywine, but he couldn’t feel its chill when he first stepped in. He could hear the sound of Merry’s voice encouraging him that a little swim wouldn’t hurt…wouldn’t hurt. Instantly, that memory was replaced by another: that of his mum, telling Dad how romantic it would be to go out for a night on the River. He shook his head, forcing himself to abandon those memories before he could loose his last shreds of sanity to them. He had to have some memory that did not lead to the death of his parents. He knew that he had happy memories of his childhood; he just had to remember them. That was all. It couldn’t be as hard as all of that.

But it was. He turned his mind to Woody End, a place where he had often played with Merry during his rebellious youth at Brandy Hall. But…he couldn’t. He remembered climbing trees, but he couldn’t remember what kinds. He couldn’t remember if the road was brick or dirt. He couldn’t even remember the names of those who lived in the area, either. He could hear Merry’s rambunctious laugh, but he couldn’t picture his youthful face. This was insane! Try as he might, he could not picture Woody End, Brandy Hall, Great Smials, Bag End, the Party Tree, none of it. It was like he was recalling names from stories, names that had very little meaning. But that wasn’t right! They were his memories! His good memories seemed to have disappeared. He couldn’t see the Shire! The names of hobbits, places and things were no more than words in an old tattered dictionary. They had no meaning! Nor could he picture something as mundane as the Hobbiton Mill. How many times he had passed it, he couldn’t say. He knew that he had taken a swim in the Mill Pond on the days when it was broken. But he couldn’t remember the sound of the cranking wheels or the steady flow of the water. All memory of water seemed to have been driven from his mind, even in his dream he hadn’t “felt” the water: not the sting of the salt on his eyes, nor the sudden chill of being submerged.

I’m just tired, Frodo thought. That was it. He was still exhausted, mentally if not physically, from both the spider bite and the beating. No wonder his brain was a little slow today. That was it. All he needed was a nice long nap to refresh his memory. But in the back of his mind and in his heart, he knew what he would never be able to admit to himself. It was the Ring; the Ring had taken hold of his mind and was manipulating it. There was no other rational explanation for why he could so clearly recall the teeth of Farmer Maggot’s dogs, and yet not the face of his dear cousins. Nor was there any reason as to why the eye of the shark so resembled that of the Eye of Sauron which whispered to him in his dreams.

For the time being, Frodo convinced himself that he merely needed a rest and so he took one, not caring whether or not he woke up. But this rest proved to be uneventful and short-lived. He awoke sometime later as his old clothing was thrown on top of him. He rolled over groggily and found himself eye to eye with the Mouth once again. “Get dressed” he ordered. “We’re leaving.” Then as an after-thought, he dropped a small sack and laid down what looked like a water-skin, and then turned his back.

Knowing better than to ask where they were going, Frodo obeyed and put on his shirt and cloak. But he paused as he surveyed an odd-looking garment. It was dirty, tattered and torn, but unless his eyes deceived him, it appeared to be in the shape of a foot. A look at the boots that had been dropped next to him, confirmed his suspicion. They were probably past possessions of an older Man child, judging by the fact that they barely fit…and he didn’t care to reflect on what might have brought a child into Mordor. He hoped that the boots were booty from a raid of an enemy’s empty house, but he doubted that greatly, Orcs would have no care for a child’s clothes. Repressing a sigh of frustration, Frodo applied himself to his socks and boots, though it took some minutes before he managed to get the socks on right-side-out, shoes on the proper feet and the laces securely tied in triple knots.

Frodo had been secretly hoping to have some slim chance of escape if they were to leave the Tower. After all, if they were not leaving then why would the Mouth feel the need to protect his supposedly sensitive feet from the lethal heat of Mordor? Or maybe this was a new torture device? Maybe the socks and boots weren’t for his protection? Maybe it was intended that all of the water in his body would leave through the pores of his feet, they would certainly be sweating enough. Well, I suppose it could be worse. At least the won’t put me on that awful machine again! But his hopes of escape in the near-future were soon smothered. After a moment, the Mouth re-entered with a chain in-hand, or rather, the collar and chain. The collar was iron and fastened around his neck, leaving little room for breathing and a rather short chain was attached to the latch. Somehow he couldn’t help but to compare the device to the collar and leash worn by Farmer Maggot’s dogs. Resigning himself to his fate, he stood up and pocketed the sack which no doubt contained the same sort of stale meat and bread he had been given earlier and kept a firm grip on the water-skin.

The Mouth was rather surprised at the lack of resistance given by the prisoner when he was lowered through the trap door. His surprise for the day was soon topped when the Hobbit walked a head of him and then waited for the last door to be opened. Then as the latch was lifted, he was awarded with a flick of a smile. It was either his imagination or the Hobbit just wanted to be finished off as soon as possible. With the Hobbit out of the door and walking in front with his head held high, the Mouth allowed himself to laugh a little at the creature’s stupidity. The little Hobbit was in for the surprise of his life if he thought he was heading for a quick death before Lord Sauron. Oh yes, this was going to be the most fun he had in a century!

To Be Continued

PS. I know some of you have expressed concerns about the fact that in my version none of the Orcs noticed Frodo’s morgul wound. Well, I have news for you, they didn’t notice it in Tolkien’s book either. The Mouth of Sauron says that the mithril shirt, Numenoreon sword and Elf-cloak are “signs of a conspiracy”. But he never gives any indication that he knows that Frodo was the old Ring-bearer! And you guys thought I had missed an important detail….don’t think so!

Any questions about this chapter? Or better yet, any suggestions for future chapters? Feel free to email them to me at arwenbaggins and I’ll answer them as best I can without giving anything away.

New Chapter Reference Chart:

Chapter Four: Follow Your Heart

Chapter Five: To Tell the Truth

Chapter Six: Frodo Brandybuck

Chapter One: A Fool’s Hope

Chapter Two: the Mouth of Sauron

Chapter Three: Sauron the Great

Chapter Seven: The Memories of a Lifetime