And the Part of Herbert Will be Played by... Saruman!

It was well into the morning when Glorfindel woke us up, gave us a sip of pick-me-up booze or something, and herded us all back on the road. Maybe it wasn't an energy drink from the local convenience store, but it kept us going for miles and miles.

You go non-stop on a sugar high for too long, though, and you're bound to crash sooner or later. Right about when the sun was going down, it hit us like a ton of bricks. Well, me and the Hobbits mostly. Strider was like Stamina Man, just missing the cape and spandex. Glor-no-fun-del seemed to forget every few minutes that we weren't super duper Elves with godlike constitutions, but when it wasn't just Frodo looking ready to hurl, he finally 'graced' us with a break.

Assuming a spooning position with Frodo, I bundled us up in a blanket and tried to still my mind enough for sleep, humming quietly in his ear to settle him and ease the shivering a bit. I had no confidence that the night would pass Orc-free, but maybe I could get a bit of shut-eye before the floor show started.

If I thought my brain had exhausted its store of embarrassing scenes, I was sadly mistaken.

Ûnran fidgeted nervously in an alcove similar to where he was bathed before. He'd been stripped for this, and wasn't comfortable at all. Perhaps because of the assault, he glowered at the smaller Orcs bustling about, tending one newborn Uruk after another. If they passed too close to his niche, he growled at them, curling his lip and baring his teeth. None came within reach of his claws.

A few minutes passed, then the White One entered, followed by the Pitmaster looking smug and superior in the Master's wake. Ûnran hadn't seen the White One for weeks, and hastily assumed what he hoped was the proper submissive posture, lowering his head and staring at his clawed feet. He saw the pristine white robes swish to a halt directly in front of him, but dared not look up.

His choice was made for him, however, as long, spindly fingers gripped his chin and forced him to do so. The White One's keen eyes scrutinized him coldly, tilting his head first to one side, then the other, staring intently into the Uruk's yellow eyes.

"Open your mouth," he commanded, and Ûnran obeyed without thinking. The Master's cold fingers delved inside and felt his teeth, his tongue... The Uruk was completely baffled by this examination.

Removing his fingers from Ûnran's mouth with a grimace of disgust, the White One wiped them on a cloth supplied by the smirking Pitmaster behind him.

"Impressive," the White One said in a voice that inspired no sense of accomplishment or pride in Ûnran. "What of his tolerances? Can he bear sunlight?"

"Don't know 'bout that, Master," the Pitmaster replied thoughtfully, stroking his rough chin. "Ain't been up top yet, see. But the female what whelped'im ain't dropped one yet that don't bear it. Stands to reason he would, don't it?"

The White One gave the Orc a withering look, as if even the most logical conclusion was suddenly suspect considering the source. "I will want him tested as soon as may be. You say he is intelligent?"

"Smart enough, I suppose," the Pitmaster shrugged. "Takin' to his lessons quick. Got all his limbs, you see." The Orc cackled loudly.

"Indeed," the Master said humorlessly. "He will serve, assuming he is capable. We shall soon see..."

Ûnran leaped backwards and hit the wall with great force when he felt those cold fingers touch his privates. Breath quickening in instant fear, he raised his claws and stepped forward with a roar, prepared to do battle. The Pitmaster needed no urging from their Master in addressing this unthinkable transgression. Pushing the Uruk back, he roughly flattened Ûnran against the wall with a hand squeezing his throat.

"That is your Master, stupid whelp," the Orc hissed in Ûnran's ear. "You don't say nothin', you don't do nothin' if he wants to touch you, understand? He owns every inch of you. He wants to grab your cock, you let'im. He wants to yank it til it spews, you let'im." Stepping back, the Orc smirked at Ûnran's shocked face. "You ain't no use if you don't make enough. So let him see what you got."

The White One nodded curtly to the Pitmaster, and once more took hold of Ûnran. The Uruk stood rigid, fists clenching impotently at his sides, eyes fixed on a point well beyond what was being done to him. He'd never even touched himself. He had no idea what was happening to his body, why this should feel pleasant and repellent at the same time. His eyes flicked to his Master's uncertainly, only to be struck violently in the face by the Pitmaster.

"Yuh don' look at the Master when he's at it!" the Orc snarled. "Ain't gonna be long, yuh worthless cur. Don't take but a minute to bring you lot around." Snorting and cackling at his own private joke, the Pitmaster folded his arms over his chest and leered.

My body shot into a sitting position like I was a catapult set loose. I almost collapsed with relief when I realized I was back in... wherever the hell Glorfindel let us drop like sacks of sweaty, half-dead potatoes. Checking to make sure Frodo still slept, I hastily rose and padded quietly to our packs.

The waterskin I dug up had ice cold water in it, but I didn't care. I knew I wasn't washing off actual filth from my hands and face, but good god that was far and away the most disgusting thing I'd ever witnessed. I kept violently shuddering as snippets flashed up, until I was shaking like a dog with distemper. What I wouldn't give for a steaming hot bath right now, because I felt dirty just from watching it, let alone having to admit it was my own head having a sadistic field day with me.

I couldn't get the image of Ûnran's stricken face out of my mind. Of him being told he had no rights to his own body. I supposed that answered the question of just how repulsive could Saruman be. Maybe he didn't look like he was getting his jollies either, but the fact remained that he molested a three-week-old. Granted, a three-week-old that could probably kick his ass in a fair fight, but nonetheless...

Wincing, I shook my head. No. It was not real. I was obviously taking cast members and assigning them particular roles based on my fears and... stuff... Damn, if only I'd actually cracked open the text book for that psych class instead of copying off my smart roommate...

"Is something amiss?"

I nearly jumped out of my shorts and straight up a tree. Clutching my heart, I rounded on that infuriating Elf and scowled as meanly as I could. "Don't do that! Announce yourself, next time! Jesus!"

"Apologies," he said sincerely, bowing. "You seem anxious. Is it your dreams?"

Stiffening, I looked wide-eyed at him. "Uh... whattayou know about my dreams?"

"Only what Aragorn has told," he replied mildly. "Your fears and uncertainties seem manifested into... an Orc." Tiny creases appeared around his nose, like he was fighting valiantly not to look outwardly revolted and only partially succeeding.

Nodding, I sank to the ground and hugged my knees. Glorfindel nearly floated down across from me. Damn, Elves were so graceful it was sickening.

"It's... uh... pretty scary," I ventured. "I feel like there's this whole other world in my head. I can't see it any other time, except when I can't not see it, you know?"

"When you are helpless," he offered. "There is much in this world that you do not understand, and such unfamiliarity can be frightening. Perhaps when we reach Rivendell, and threats are held at bay for a time, your... Orc... will fade."

Why didn't that assessment fill me with relief? Likely because I didn't believe it for a second. But I nodded dutifully and went back to Frodo. Settling in once more, I sighed with resignation and closed my eyes.

I thought I was still asleep when I woke up walking. Apparently, Rivendell was about as far away from Bree as New York was from L.A. Felt like it, anyway. My new boots had lost their shine, and a hell of a lot of sole. I'd worn all my new clothes at least twice, and was now so damn dirty and sweaty I gave up digging hopelessly in my pack for clean ones that I knew weren't there. Everyone was pretty dejected-looking, not to mention filthy. Oh man, we stunk. Grown men who hadn't washed in weeks, and a woman who was within a day or so of having an even stinkier visitation from her monthly guest...

Joined by an Elf who looked like he'd just stepped out of a full-service spa. Fucker.

I wasn't particularly attentive, as usual, when we entered this narrow defile with very high reddish rock walls, but I sure perked up when our own footsteps echoed so much we thought we had an army following us. Not to mention the fact that the cliffs channeled a piercing cold wind between them that bit down through every layer of clothes, and several striations of grime. I shook so much, had I been a car, my transmission would have fallen out.

It all happened so fast, once we were clear of the defile. Down below us, about a mile away, was the river Strider had been aiming for over the past several days. I was about to praise god on my knees because a) river means bath, and b) this river means we're almost to Rivendell. Then the wind at our backs picked up and literally shrieked out of the defile.

"Fly!" Glorfindel suddenly yelled. "The enemy is upon us!"

Without questioning 'which enemy' or 'how close is upon, exactly' or any of a million questions that ran through my mind in a jumble, I took off down the slope, three Hobbits and an hysterical pony at a dead run around me. The Elf's horse outpaced us quickly, with Frodo clinging for dear life to its back. I glanced behind us to see Strider and Glorfindel bringing up the rear... and behind them, five Black Riders.

I was utterly transfixed for a moment, distracted enough by the terrifying sight not to be looking where I was going. I literally hit a wall of horseflesh and bounced back on my ass. Frodo had stopped, and turned back toward the threat!

"Shit, Frodo, move!" I screamed, grabbing the horse's reins and yanking its head around.

"Ride on!" the Elf cried. He followed this unheeded command with a stream of Elfin... Elfish... whatever... and his horse turned tail, ignoring its stupid-ass rider and sprinting for the river. I gave the horse a slap on the rump for good measure.

Then I was running flat out, as if I had the Ring in my pocket. On either side of me, those gigantic, night-black horses of the Nazgûl rode snorting and steaming by. I was only surrounded for a few seconds, then they were past. A scream like I'd never heard before came from them, sort of like a bird of prey in the desert or something, only magnified and almost... intelligent-sounding. Off to our left, another pack of them came out of hiding, trying to cut across the distance and head Frodo off before he reached the river.

It was about at that point that my legs gave out completely, pitching me face down in the churned-up turf. It was utterly hopeless, I knew. Frodo wouldn't make it, he'd be dead before he got there, it was all my fault for invading this world and upsetting the balance, everyone was going to die because I was useless, and I was so sorry, so very sorry... I lay there and cried like a baby.

For about two seconds, then Strider was there, yanking me up by the back of my shirt, and I was running again. Glorfindel's horse was too far ahead for us to make it out clearly, and the Black Riders were just dark smudges as well, but still we ran like we could make a damn bit of difference.

The Nazgûl acted like cats with a new mouse to play with. When we reached the river, a few of them had started to cross slowly, as if drawing out the terror of their presence. Frodo sat on the white horse on the opposite bank.

"Swiftly now, build a fire!" Glorfindel ordered, gathering up twigs, dried grasses, anything he could find in a nearby hollow. We all pitched in, though Sam looked to me like he was torn between obeying the Elf and rushing to his master's defense. Thank goodness for intensive Boy Scout training or whatever Strider had in his background, because he had a flame going in a heartbeat. Lighting the ends of several thick pieces of wood, he directed us to the riverbank.

There was a roar as the river reared up like a pissed off cat and came rushing in a remarkably deep wave down on the Riders. I didn't know what the hell was going through my mind, but it wasn't self-preservation as I ran at the Nazgûl from behind with a stick on fire. I even hooted and hollered to spook the horses. The combined stress of their buddies getting drowned along with a torch-waving mob behind them convinced the horses on the shore that flight was more attractive at the moment than fight. The lot of them leaped into the flood waters in spite of the best efforts of their Riders, and were swept away.

Every bit like a big monster that has had its snack and retreated for a well-deserved nap, the river receded back to a benign trickle. I sank to the ground.

Strider and the Hobbits ran across to where Frodo had slipped off the horse's back and sprawled on the bank. I tried not to jump a mile when I felt Glorfindel's hand on my shoulder.

"I wonder that you do not think yourself brave," he murmured. "Not many would charge a Ringwraith."

"Meh," I managed. "Everyone else was doing it. Didn't wanna be left out again." Then I fell face down on the ground and died.

Unfortunately, I couldn't just wake up already warm and comfortable in a nice Rivendell bed. No, I was among the poor bastards who still had a few miles to cover with a now completely dead weight Ringbearer. I wished I could be stoic about it, and embrace what I knew to be the truth: he was going to be healed, this whole nightmare would end soon, he'd be a happy smiling Hobbit in no time... Funny how that's easy when you're watching a movie, not so much when it's your friend draped over the back of a horse, pale as a corpse, breath rattling in his chest, feebly muttering incoherent words that sound like prayers...

I could barely see the path ahead, I was crying so much. What a wimpy loser.

About halfway there, a group of Elves showed up and guided us the rest of the way. I stumbled in a fog down the pathways, the adrenaline crash well underway. Too little sleep, probably too little food, high stress, then that last mad dash to the ford... If I never woke up again, I wouldn't really be all that upset about it.

When we reached what they referred to as the Last Homely House (it was beautiful; why they'd call it 'homely' was beyond me), I cried even harder, but with relief this time. There was going to be a bath in there, I was sure of it. Frodo was spirited away almost immediately by very grim and worried Elves, and we were escorted to rooms that had been prepared for us.

And the mattress was just right. Sweet! Good old Tom must have phoned ahead.

I decided I really liked Elves when I saw the tub in my room. It was one of those deep, claw footed affairs, and the water was steaming. Aaaaaahhhhhh...

Maybe I didn't turn the water black by washing in it, but it sure wasn't pure by the time I was finished. You certainly wouldn't want to drink it. I lay back in it for so long I got all puckery, but who gave a crap? It literally took me five thorough scrubbings to get my hair back to its normal shade of light brown. And for the first time since arriving in Middle Earth, I had a mirror.

Good... god. I must have lost twenty pounds. Looking at my naked reflection, I turned from side to side and just... wow. I wasn't exactly a supermodel back home, but I wasn't a total chub, either. Yeah, I could stand to lose a few, but who couldn't, right? Not in McDonald's and Twinkies Land. Where I didn't exactly have a Rubinesque form, I did have... what, love handles? Is that the right word? Well, them handles was gone. Ain't nobody gettin' a grip on me. But the most surprising of all was where I lost the pounds. Not just in the waist and hips, mind you. I probably went down a cup size on top of it. What a relief, let me tell you. Those Ds went down to a more modest and manageable C at least. It was like having a medicine ball unstrapped from your neck. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but honestly. Heavy breasts are no fun to haul around. Maybe now they wouldn't drag the ground when I reached my fifties.

My face had undergone some changes, too. I'd always had a sort of squarish face, but now my cheeks were a bit sunken in, showing actual cheekbones. Wow. Didn't know I had those. I suppose I had a cute little nose; certainly not something I'd beg daddy for a birthday surgery to correct. I actually knew girls who spent their sweet 16s wearing the suddenly fashionable inch-thick gauze mask. Idiots.

Sighing, I finally quit admiring my svelte new body and got dressed. Those wonderful hosts of ours provided a god damned dress, even though my regular, albeit really stinky attire should have provided the necessary clues as to my preferences. Fine. Whatever. Gratitude... let's pretend we have some, shall we?

I wanted to go to sleep, really wanted to just close my eyes and drift away, but being in frickin' Rivendell was too exciting to let go of until morning. Plus, if I was awake, I wouldn't see orcs getting raped, molested, or bathed, right? Sure, I felt safe and secure in this place, and likely that would be reflected in my dreams. I'd probably seen the last of Ûnran for awhile. It was probably okay to go to sleep again.

Nope. Not really convinced. So I wandered the halls, getting hopelessly lost and having a grand time of it.

Almost nobody was up and about, out of our little group of travelers, anyway. I caught a glimpse of Glorfindel talking to an old man with a big hat... holy crap! That must be Gandalf! Hot diggety dog! I rushed up and barely caught up to them before they disappeared through a doorway out onto a broad porch.

"Gandalf, am I glad to see you!" I cried, grabbing the wizard's sleeve. He raised his bushy eyebrows and looked startled.

"Mithrandir, this is the woman I told you of," Glorfindel supplied. "Tanith Walker."

"Ah!" Gandalf said, and smiled at me. "The one who dreams. I have heard much about you in the last few hours, Miss Walker. Come. If you are not weary, I would hear your tale."

As expected, once we got settled in a quiet corner of the porch with only the night sounds of crickets and chuckling streams to be heard, I wiped the smile right off his face with the descriptions of my dreams. I held nothing back for the wizard; if he was going to have any insights, I didn't want a single drop of information missing from his calculations. And yeah, it was disgusting, and I kept shuddering with revulsion every few seconds on the last couple of dreams, but I stuck it out, and before long he knew what I knew.

Oh, and yes, I did tell him where I came from. Might as well be completely honest right out of the gate. Oddly enough, that wasn't as distressing to him as the dreams.

"This is most... unusual," he murmured, and began filling his pipe. As he tamped the little bowl, I fretted. "These are Saruman's creations, you say?"

"Yes," I replied with a firm nod.

"Interesting that you know what they look like, not having ever laid eyes upon their true forms," he mused. "For your descriptions are quite accurate."

Thank you, Mr. Jackson. You hit the mark and supplied me with 100% correctly designed nightmares. "So... you saw some of them? While you were in Orthanc?"

"Not by my choice, I assure you," he commented. "They were more often than not small figures glimpsed at work from my perch atop the tower. But Saruman oft came to me, attempting to persuade me to bend, and ever in his company was one of his Uruk-hai, a malevolent being that snarled as often as he breathed, and he stank of filth and cruel intent. He was most unlovely to look upon, even worse to endure his presence. I pity you the visions you have suffered, but I wonder if they are without purpose."

Puffing his pipe for a moment, he continued, "It would seem that your visions are specific. You say it is always the same Orc? There are never any others?"

"Well, apart from... you know, supporting cast, I guess," I said with a shrug. "Yes, it's always the same one."

The wizard nodded as if satisfied. "Aragorn's assessment is likely true, that these visions are conjurings of your own mind, and not a view into the real Isengard. I confess I do not want to imagine my old friend... capable of such deeds as you describe. As to the other concern, I am certain no care was taken in concealing the whereabouts or existence of the One Ring throughout your journey. We may at least rest assured that a like view into your activities is not shared by one of Saruman's servants, or they would have found you before Glorfindel did."

"But... am I seeing a real Orc?" I didn't want to say it out loud, but I was thinking, A real Orc that's been abused so badly, apparently in the same way all his friends have been abused, it's no damn wonder they're pissy little bastards.

Gandalf sighed and shook his head. "I do not know the answer. We must hope there is never an opportunity to find out, for I do not believe a meeting with these creatures would end well.

"But come now, you are asleep on your feet, regardless of your attempts to fool me." Smiling, he stood and led me back into the halls, then down the various corridors to my room. I was, indeed, thoroughly exhausted. Bidding the wizard good night, I staggered into my room and collapsed on the bed. Oh man, that was absolutely the softest, most incredibly comfortable mat-...

Ûnran followed the Pitmaster through winding corridors that angled downward, spiraling ever deeper beneath the valley floor high above. He had the unsettling sensation of the depth of rock and earth over his head, the weight of it pressing down, smothering all of them. He drew in great breaths of the stale air to keep from panicking.

"Yuh better not fuck it up, whelp," the Pitmaster snarled over his shoulder. "Got my whip here, and I ain't afraid to lay it across your backside if Master gives me the nod. Many's the Orc up there who'd kill to be in your place."

Not knowing what to say to that, for he still had no clear idea what duty he was being called upon to perform, Ûnran remained silent.

Eventually, the corridors straightened and the descent ended. One last long hall, rough hewn and lined with uneven stonework, ended in a large chamber. It wasn't as wide as the training grounds; more on the order of one of the rooms in the barracks that could house twenty or thirty Uruk-hai with only minor disputes over floor space for sleeping. Ûnran blinked in confusion. There were six tables in the room, each with a person strapped down upon it. The tables were shaped so that the person's legs were apart. Five of the bound ones were being... tended by Uruk-hai.

He had no idea what he was seeing, and just stared in bafflement. The ones on the tables had pale skin, and were shaped a little differently than the Orcs. Before he could ponder their differences, the Pitmaster had a hold of his arm and was shoving him toward the table without an Uruk.

Tilting his head to the side, he stared at the figure before him. Sighing with exasperation, the Orc jerked his arm.

"That there's a whiteskin. A female," the Pitmaster explained. "Master wants yuh for breedin', so here you go. Start breedin'."

"What... am I to do?"

The Orc cuffed the back of his head sharply. "Fuck her, you pushdug sod! Do I gotta show yuh or somethin'?"

"What is the problem here?"

Ûnran froze at the sound of his Master's voice.

"Stupid whelp don't know what to do, Master," the Orc replied.

"Demonstrate, then."

"Aye, Master." With a delighted cackle, the Pitmaster unlaced his breeches. "Stupid whelp," he muttered. "Have to show'im how to piss, next."

Ûnran wasn't watching the Pitmaster's demonstration. It was the female's face that captured his attention. She was staring at the ceiling with eyes that had long since lost all hope. Her face and body were scarred, likely from the clawed hands of other Uruk-hai that had bred with her. The pale flesh of her belly bore three long, vertical scars. Her legs were strapped down; she could not prevent what was being done to her. Her arms were also bound to the table, preventing even the most feeble of protestations. But her mouth was not covered; had she possessed even a spark of fighting spirit, there was nothing keeping her from voicing it. Nothing except the utter absence of it.

"Enough," the White One snapped, and the Pitmaster reluctantly retreated. Ûnran felt his Master's eyes on him. "I trust you need no urging. This is pleasing, so I have been told. Proceed."

The Uruk looked once more at the woman. Her lips were moving, yet no sound came out. Tears fell down her cheeks.

"No," he snarled, baring his teeth. The White One's brows arched with surprise.

"No?" He stared into Ûnran's eyes for several moments before the Uruk broke and looked away. "Pitmaster, remind him of his duty."

The first bite of the lash across the middle of his back came as a surprise. It tore through the thin fabric of his tunic easily, as if barbs were embedded in the leather. The Uruk stiffened and sucked in a breath through clenched teeth.

"Hurts, don' it?" the Orc smirked. "What'd I tell you, eh? Marks on the back ain't what you want. No sign of pride, that. What it says is, 'I'm a filthy pushdug and I pissed off my Master.'" Again the whip whistled through the air. "What else I tell yuh, huh? That cock ain't yours; it's Master's, and if he wants you usin' it to make more Uruk-hai, you better damn well put it in whatever cunt he tells you to, understand?"

The third strike had Ûnran leaning on his hands on the table, staring down at the scarred belly of the female and heaving air into his lungs so he wouldn't bellow in pain.

"Pull it out, or I'll have your drawers off and put a few stripes back there," the Pitmaster threatened. "Won't be sittin' for a week."

With shaking hands, Ûnran fumbled with the laces of his breeches.

I came out of the dream with one of those full body jerking sensations, like when you have falling dreams and snap awake. It took several attempts to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat. A wave hit me, and I curled up on my side in a fetal position, and cried so hard my throat hurt.