"But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow, even darkness must pass, and new day will come, and when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you..."
Frodo hears the orc climbing up the ladder once more, cracking the whip against the air. With each sharp crack, with each heavy step, Frodo's misery comes closer and closer.
His whole body cringes with fear, straining at the ropes that bind him, but even that small motion tears at the burning whip scars that cover his back and shoulders. Frodo can't help crying out.
"Stop your squeaking, you dunghill rat!" snarls the orc. Frodo is in too much pain and terror to say anything. He closes his eyes, knowing and dreading what would come next, what had come next for days now. The orc grips the whip tightly, mercilessly, raises it, and lets it fly.
"Frodo can already feel the blood starting to seep out from the scars, old scars that haven't healed breaking open, creating new ones. Another anguished cry escapes him, and he struggles harder against the torture, trying in vain to get away from the nightmarish agony, but revealing his pain only encourages the orc's whip to bite even more fiercely.
Finally, after countless lashes, Frodo lies still. Stroke after stroke after stroke from the whip has done its evil job. Out of the corner of his eye, Frodo can see it being raised again, to smite again his already unbearable wounds.
But Frodo doesn't move. Frodo can't move. The whip thrashes him harder than ever, but he doesn't feel it anymore. The pain clouds his sight. Light is fading.
Thoughts dimly run through his mind: Why did I come here? It's useless now. They've taken the Ring. Smeagol's gone, betrayed us. Have they killed Sam? If not, at any rate they've killed me.
No answers appear. Frodo's ready now to give up, to let the whip end the suffering and pain it had caused. To die.
Life and death to poor Frodo are blended together in a sort of horrible dream. And in that dream, every flash of the whip is a bolt of lightning, and in between the flashes, the thunder is the searing pain, while the stormy, deadly darkness is closing in on every side.
And, though the lightning finally ceases, Frodo can still feel the striking of the thunder, until at last the darkness clutches him, pulling him slowly away.
And through the darkness, someone is rushing anxiously toward Frodo; freeing him, cutting his bonds, speaking kind words to him, softly calling his name, gently touching his wounds. The person isn't truly healing, isn't truly stopping the pain, but to Frodo this touch, this voice, this care, are worth the many long hours he'd suffered without it.
Opening his eyes, Frodo sees the darkness retreating, and that the light is still there, still shining, welcoming him from death's doorstep back to life. He knows, somehow, that the terrible whip won't be returning. He can finally rest, really rest, without fear of the next day's torment.
Looking up, Frodo sees the only one who could possibly have done this for him, one he certainly did not expect, but one whom he is overjoyed to see again. It seems too good to be true, but for the moment, it is.
"Oh, Sam…"
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