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Author's note: I own no right to The Lord of the Rings or any other of Tolkien's work, blah blah blah. If you've ever read a fanfict before you know what goes here.
Otherwise, enjoy and please review!
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The Prince and the Wizard
Cold steel rested against his naked back. Thick leather straps cut into his upper and lower arms, his legs and ankles, his chest and stomach, his throat and across his temples. He kept his eyes closed and his breathing slow and shallow. The smell of metal and smoke, fire and dirt and things he couldn't begin to identify filled his nostrils. Soon the heat came to his sense, hot and stifling as if he were in the middle of an oven, but still, the steel beneath him was cool. He could feel sweat running along his body. He had not a scrap of clothing on, not even his shoes, and with every new breath, he felt the bruises and scrapes that he had acquired… somewhere…
What was he doing in this strange inferno, strapped down to a steel table that never grew warm, despite the heat? Cautiously, his eyes began to flutter open. He could only see nightmares of flickering shadows and shapes. Impressions of hulking figures as they shambled across his vision, many with heavy burdens and all moving so fast… He closed his eyes once again, willing this nightmare to end.
A deep breath only brought the same hellish smells and tastes to his senses. His lungs screamed for fresh air and it seemed that he could almost feel the straps tightening from the sweat that seemed to pour from him and be dried just as quickly by the maddening heat.
Now, he began to listen. He heard hammers and the roar of fire. Something came crashing down, seemingly uncomfortable close. Harsh mutterings, the grunts and growls of wild animals filled with sinister intent came to him in the darkness behind his eyes.
"You've awaken my young hero, have you not?" came a low, smooth, masculine voice.
Slowly, he opened his eyes and waited for the dizzying blackness to fade. In its place, stood a tall, lean man dressed all in white. His hair and beard nearly touched his ankles and seemed the color of snow.
He tried to speak, but he could get no air past his parched lips to form into sound. Even his tongue was burnt and dry. A nauseating wave of thirst came upon him and it was all he could do to choke back the bile that arose in his throat.
"No, no, don't try to speak my dear Prince, my helpless hero. I am Saruman. I know all about you, who you are, your past, your fate; the quest you have undertaken. I see everything that occurs on Middle Earth and I have seen the power that you wield and will have it for mine own."
Thomas closed his eyes once again. He heard the soft rustling of fabric over the clamor of the forge as Saruman turned and walked away from him.
Prince? Hero? Saruman? Middle Earth?
Then it all came back crashing back to him. His home in California, the ring he had found and slipped on his finger. The forest of impossibly old trees he had found himself in and the beautiful woman who had found him. No, not a woman; an elf. An elfin princess to be exact, the glorious princess Arwen. Her beautiful, shining face stood firm in his memory. Her smile eased the pain that had seeped into his legs and arms and gave him strength and courage that one day; he might see her beloved face again.
And for himself, who was he? Not Thomas, no. He was Thomasthal. Son of the King of Mirkwood. The ring on his finger, was it still there? He rubbed the middle finger of his right hand against his ring finger and felt the smooth coolness of the ring. Like the table, it had gained no warmth from this place.
A rustle of clothing announce the return of Saruman and something more. The leaden tread of heavy footsteps at his heels and the fowl stench that accompanied him alerted him to the presence of others. Two of them, he knew that they were goblins by the weight of their steps. Nasty, hellish, man-eating goblins. Cold and heartless, caring for nothing but their own hides. His attempt to suppress a shiver failed him, but he held onto the ring by clenching his hands into fists. He would not give up so easily.
Saruman spoke in the harsh, guttural language of the goblins. The words seemed to pierce into Thomasthal's brain with an evil darkness that made him groan. His words sent them scurrying about the chamber. He could hear the soft metallic ring of metal on metal and the scuffling of their footsteps as they hurried to obey. Saruman came within his vision once again and he forced his eyes open to gaze defiantly at him.
"Now," Saruman commanded in a low tone, "you will surrender your ring, to me."
A blinding white light of pain spread through out his entire body as the goblins went to their tasks. Every muscle in his body screamed for release as his limbs attempted to thrash wildly despite the restraints upon them. His eyes were now fully opened and he watched in terror as the wicked gleam of a twisted bladed laid into his flesh as the goblin cut the outline of his muscles along his chest and abdomen. He opened his mouth in a gasp of agony only to have a grime covered cloth pressed into it so that he would not bite off his own tongue.
"I'll not have you die on me, my Prince Thomasthal. No, for as long as the ring is in your possession if you die so will the power of your ring be forever lost and will have it for mine own." Soruman glared at him as he watched the goblins at their work.
~***~***~***~
Many hours later, Thomasthal, barely conscious and trembling uncontrollably from head to toe, lay in a pool of his own blood. Much of it had congealed over the hours, but the pool was still warm and sticky against his flesh making a slick backing where he had once felt cool steel. His entire body was a mass of ripped flesh and pain. It took him several minutes to realize that the goblins had stopped their torture. His vision was a blurred, stained red from the bloody hair that had drifted into his eyes and the rivets that flowed down his face.
He thought he heard the soft rustle of clothing once again and the murmuring of a man's voice mingled with the grunting of something else, he wasn't sure. He couldn't think past anything save the pain.
"You haven't turned him yet!?" roared a furious Saruman, "Then I will take matters into my own hands."
Saruman grabbed one of the blood stained, twisted knives from the table it had been laid upon and walked to the table where Thomasthal lay, too weary to even keep his gaze upon him. Walking over to the right side of the table, Sarumon neatly sliced through the ring finger of his right hand and removed the ring of power from the bloody stub.
"He is of no use to me now, the ring is mine. Kill him." He said turning the glistening band over and over in his hand.
Taking a fold of his sleeve to wipe away a crimson droplet of blood, he placed the ring upon his own finger and left the chamber to the sounds of the goblins happily gorging themselves on human flesh and the muffled screams of Thomasthal.
Then End.
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Disclaimer: Now, I hate Mary Sues and Gary Stews as much as the next person, (unless of course the next person happens to like Mary Sues and the likes) but I do have to say, that if you're going to bloody well ruin a wonderful piece of literature and all, then you should at least have the decency to kill you character in a horrifyingly nasty way; if only in repentance for what you have done to the work of someone much more brilliant than you. Hope you enjoyed.