A/N: This was written to go along with a RotK spoiler pic of Frodo, but I also tried to stay within canon, so it should be safe for those avoiding movie spoilers.

Warning: *Yes* this is rather dark.. It's Cirith Ungol we're talking about, after all! So be warned there's h/ but no /c.



_Prey_

A rough glove grasped a fistful of dirty curls and yanked back, cruelly uprooting some hair and exposing the grimy face of the half-conscious creature. He felt every blow of their abuse, each of his nerves on fire and throbbing in agony. This last motion intensified the excruciating pain into a white-hot flare of anguish as the wound again cracked open, seeping its unnatural ichor onto his crusted skin and into his hair. The torment finally drove him back into that dark corner of escape where those sharp knives, gleaming eyes, and leering faces could no longer reach him, and he sagged with the relief of it.

"Oh, no ye don'," snarled the owner of the hand still grasping the creature's head, holding it still as the drink was poured into the slack mouth. He recognized the acrid liquid as it brought him back groaning; his throat closed against the foul intrusion and he choked, much of the liquor instead streaming over his chin, trailing across his cheek, and a bit even trickling into his ear. He gagged on the remainder as he tried to draw a gasping breath and coughed as some went into his lungs.

The next thing he was aware of was a stinging backhanded slap -for what he did not know- which made his cheek go numb and mixed the coppery taste of his blood with that of the bitter brew. He weakly moved his bound hands up to shield his face, only to have them abruptly jerked back down by the rope threaded through his bonds for that very purpose, and he bit back a cry as his shoulder protested the dislocating movement. He longed to lash out, escape from his captors, but he could not. The gaping void within him relentlessly sapped all strength from his limbs, restraining him just as effectively as the thick ropes chafing his wrists and ankles. 'I have failed... It is gone...' All he could do was despair. He had doomed the world to darkness and shadow.

The 'questioning' dragged on and on, though very few questions were asked; most of the time was devoted to threats and detailed descriptions of gruesome tortures, all of which were in store for him, if their gleeful words to be believed. His head was spinning, every part of his body ached, and he grew cold as his skin absorbed the damp chill of the floor he'd been dumped upon. All the world narrowed to a red glow in which there were so many gloating faces, leering eyes, knives brandished forth and trailed across his skin for emphasis, and that burning drink forced upon him whenever he tried to take refuge in the dark corner of his mind. He was trapped, imprisoned there at their mercy.

Finally they grew weary of their play and abandoned him, though not before kicking him again for good measure and dumping him along one wall atop a heap of rancid rags. Once he heard the trapdoor slam shut, he relaxed and closed his eyes in relief.

But soon he realized that not all torments came from without. His mind swirled dizzily with self-accusations and crushing guilt even as his very being screamed for that which had been taken from him. He curled into a small huddle upon the rags, both for warmth and in a futile attempt to halt the emotions striking him from every side. Overwhelmed, he again retreated into that one corner he could still call his own, his self, and mercifully there was nothing to bar him from that semblance of peace.

Falling into darkness, he moaned hoarsely, "Sam... help me..."