Author's Note: Thanks again to all of you that have taken time to review!
Chapter 8 The Pretense Ends
Sam was feeling much better these days. The poultice Moraker had been using on his wounded arm had drawn out much of the infection and his fever was gone. He was still somewhat weak and seem to be experiencing an odd sense of loss. He supposed it had to do with the destruction of the Ring and separation from Mr. Frodo. He hoped the empty feeling would lessen as time went on and when he was finally reunited with his beloved master.
He spent most of his days puttering around the small room. Moraker had not allowed him to go elsewhere in his mountain domain. He claimed that Sam would get lost in the labyrinth of caverns and there were unpleasant creatures lurking in some of the remote areas. Remembering his run-in with the giant spider in the pass of Cirith Ungol, Sam was not inclined to doubt him. Still, he was bored and the small space was beginning to make him feel rather claustrophobic. He yearned for blue skies and green, growing things. He was also lonely. The strange wizard spent less and less time with Sam, and the Hobbit was somewhat disturbed to find the door to the chamber was locked when Moraker was elsewhere.
"Now, Samwise," he scolded himself upon making this troubling discovery, "He probably just keeps it locked to keep them evil creatures out!" Still, a small seed of doubt was beginning to grow. There was something about Moraker that made Sam increasingly uneasy as time went on. Sometimes he felt as if the wizard was studying him as a predator does its prey. Sam tried to shrug this off as his own overactive imagination, but it was becoming more and more difficult. Then, one day, he came to the unhappy realization that Hobbit sense was not something to be ignored.
A few weeks before, Moraker had informed Sam that he had found someone willing to take a message to Minas Tirith and Sam was anxiously awaiting some sort of news that it had been received. He had visions of Gandalf flying in on one of Mr. Bilbo's giant eagles and rescuing him. He daydreamed about his reunion with Frodo, Merry and Pippin and how happy he would be. He was in the midst of such happy musings when he heard the door of his chamber open. Blinking, he looked up to see Moraker standing very still in the doorway. In one hand, he held a small piece of parchment, in the other, a dead bird. He stared at Sam with such alarming intensity that Sam felt a thrill of fear run down his back. He watched apprehensively as the wizard slowly stepped into the room, radiating a aura of malevolence that Sam had not felt before.
"Well, Master Gamgee," said the wizard, his cold voice full of menace, "It seems as if it is time for all pretenses to end." Sam just stared at him, confused and with a growing sense of alarm. "I have here a note from my messenger. He has made contact with your three friends, just as you requested and is escorting them here." He smirked as he watched Sam's eyes light up with hope. "Do not get too excited about this, halfling," said the Mouth of Sauron contemptuously. "They do not come to rescue you, they come to join you in death!"
Sam was dumbfounded. He simply stared at this man in complete bewilderment. Why was he saying these things? "I.I don't understand! Who are you? I thought the Istari helped people!" stuttered Sam.
The man laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "You little fool," he sneered. "I am not one of those accursed Istari. I am the Mouth of Sauron, the Lieutenant of Barad-dur! I was Lord Sauron's right-hand and was to be given Isengard as my reward." He studied Sam for a moment, then grabbed the terrified Hobbit by the arm. "Come with me." he snapped and pulled Sam after him through the door and into the dark passageway beyond.
The Mouth of Sauron wrenched a sputtering torch from the wall sconce and strode along the dark, damp passages of his mountain stronghold. Sam had to run to keep from being dragged and was panting hard. It seemed to the shaken Hobbit that they traveled for miles before finally stopping before a massive wooden door, studded with iron. The Mouth of Sauron looked down at Sam, his mouth bared in a feral grin. "This is my playroom, Master Halfling," he announced, a touch of excitement in his voice. "You and I will spend many hours here. And when your friends arrive, so shall they."
The Mouth of Sauron pulled open the heavy door and flung Sam in through the doorway before him. Sam went sprawling on the cold, stone floor, crying out in surprise. As he slowly looked up to appraise his situation, he felt his blood run cold. This was no "playroom", but a chamber of horrors. The dungeon was relatively well lit with numerous torches on each wall and a brightly glowing brazier in the center. Along the far back wall, he could see several small, dark cells, their heavy bars keeping their victims in, but allowing them to observe the torments of others. The room was full of instruments of torture. A gentle Hobbit such as Sam would have little knowledge of such things, but it took no imagination to understand the pain and mutilation these abhorrent contraptions could inflict. Along the walls were whips and other tools of punishment. Sam looked down at the floor beneath him, dark splotches stained the grey rock. Sam shuddered. He had no doubt what had created those.
Sam was roughly hauled to his feet. He stood trembling, still trying to make sense of all this. The Mouth of Sauron had Sam's collar clenched firmly in his hand, nearly choking the wretched Hobbit. The tall man seemed to be searching the chamber for something. Finally, he strode over towards one of the walls where rusted shackles hung limply, the black metal mottled with rust-colored patches like some repellant fungus. This particular set was usually reserved for the village children the Black Wizard used in his obscene rituals needed to prolong his unnaturally long life. They would work perfectly for this halfling.
Sam cried out in pain as the man brutally thrust the Hobbit's hands into the rough metal cuffs, clamping them so tightly, the shackles drew blood. The Mouth of Sauron smiled mercilessly. Sam stood facing the wall, his arms held above his head. He was afraid if he moved, the pain from the shackles would intensify. He looked over his shoulder, and watched full of dread as his captor stood by the collection of whips and cudgels. A cold sweat broke out on Sam's face as he observed the man pull down a small, metal tipped whip and look sideways at the white-faced Hobbit, a sadistic smile forming on his thin lips.
Fingering the whip, he slowly strolled towards where Sam stood violently trembling. He stopped a few feet away, surveying his victim. "Well, Master Samwise," he said, the deadly calm of his voice terrified Sam even more than if the man had screamed at him. "I do not wish to kill you. At least, not yet, but I think you might enjoy a preview of some of our activities prior to your friends' arrival. Then, you can enjoy watching them enjoy my hospitality, all thanks to you!" Sam closed his eyes with a sob. It was true. He had told this monster everything and now his friends were going to pay the price for his gullibility. He had only a moment to think on this when with a yelp of surprise and pain, he felt his shirt ripped from his body. He knew what was coming, and tried to steel himself for the first bite of the lash, but when it came, the white-hot pain was far worse than he could have possibly imagined.
Each strike of the whip was worse than the last and soon Sam could feel warm blood trickling down his back. His throat was hoarse with his screams of agony. Finally, as he skirted the boundaries of unconsciousness, he again thought of his dear friends and what awaited them here in this hell. His last thought as blackness took him was the heartfelt belief that things would have been much better for everyone if he had died alone on the ravaged slopes of Mt. Doom.
Chapter 8 The Pretense Ends
Sam was feeling much better these days. The poultice Moraker had been using on his wounded arm had drawn out much of the infection and his fever was gone. He was still somewhat weak and seem to be experiencing an odd sense of loss. He supposed it had to do with the destruction of the Ring and separation from Mr. Frodo. He hoped the empty feeling would lessen as time went on and when he was finally reunited with his beloved master.
He spent most of his days puttering around the small room. Moraker had not allowed him to go elsewhere in his mountain domain. He claimed that Sam would get lost in the labyrinth of caverns and there were unpleasant creatures lurking in some of the remote areas. Remembering his run-in with the giant spider in the pass of Cirith Ungol, Sam was not inclined to doubt him. Still, he was bored and the small space was beginning to make him feel rather claustrophobic. He yearned for blue skies and green, growing things. He was also lonely. The strange wizard spent less and less time with Sam, and the Hobbit was somewhat disturbed to find the door to the chamber was locked when Moraker was elsewhere.
"Now, Samwise," he scolded himself upon making this troubling discovery, "He probably just keeps it locked to keep them evil creatures out!" Still, a small seed of doubt was beginning to grow. There was something about Moraker that made Sam increasingly uneasy as time went on. Sometimes he felt as if the wizard was studying him as a predator does its prey. Sam tried to shrug this off as his own overactive imagination, but it was becoming more and more difficult. Then, one day, he came to the unhappy realization that Hobbit sense was not something to be ignored.
A few weeks before, Moraker had informed Sam that he had found someone willing to take a message to Minas Tirith and Sam was anxiously awaiting some sort of news that it had been received. He had visions of Gandalf flying in on one of Mr. Bilbo's giant eagles and rescuing him. He daydreamed about his reunion with Frodo, Merry and Pippin and how happy he would be. He was in the midst of such happy musings when he heard the door of his chamber open. Blinking, he looked up to see Moraker standing very still in the doorway. In one hand, he held a small piece of parchment, in the other, a dead bird. He stared at Sam with such alarming intensity that Sam felt a thrill of fear run down his back. He watched apprehensively as the wizard slowly stepped into the room, radiating a aura of malevolence that Sam had not felt before.
"Well, Master Gamgee," said the wizard, his cold voice full of menace, "It seems as if it is time for all pretenses to end." Sam just stared at him, confused and with a growing sense of alarm. "I have here a note from my messenger. He has made contact with your three friends, just as you requested and is escorting them here." He smirked as he watched Sam's eyes light up with hope. "Do not get too excited about this, halfling," said the Mouth of Sauron contemptuously. "They do not come to rescue you, they come to join you in death!"
Sam was dumbfounded. He simply stared at this man in complete bewilderment. Why was he saying these things? "I.I don't understand! Who are you? I thought the Istari helped people!" stuttered Sam.
The man laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "You little fool," he sneered. "I am not one of those accursed Istari. I am the Mouth of Sauron, the Lieutenant of Barad-dur! I was Lord Sauron's right-hand and was to be given Isengard as my reward." He studied Sam for a moment, then grabbed the terrified Hobbit by the arm. "Come with me." he snapped and pulled Sam after him through the door and into the dark passageway beyond.
The Mouth of Sauron wrenched a sputtering torch from the wall sconce and strode along the dark, damp passages of his mountain stronghold. Sam had to run to keep from being dragged and was panting hard. It seemed to the shaken Hobbit that they traveled for miles before finally stopping before a massive wooden door, studded with iron. The Mouth of Sauron looked down at Sam, his mouth bared in a feral grin. "This is my playroom, Master Halfling," he announced, a touch of excitement in his voice. "You and I will spend many hours here. And when your friends arrive, so shall they."
The Mouth of Sauron pulled open the heavy door and flung Sam in through the doorway before him. Sam went sprawling on the cold, stone floor, crying out in surprise. As he slowly looked up to appraise his situation, he felt his blood run cold. This was no "playroom", but a chamber of horrors. The dungeon was relatively well lit with numerous torches on each wall and a brightly glowing brazier in the center. Along the far back wall, he could see several small, dark cells, their heavy bars keeping their victims in, but allowing them to observe the torments of others. The room was full of instruments of torture. A gentle Hobbit such as Sam would have little knowledge of such things, but it took no imagination to understand the pain and mutilation these abhorrent contraptions could inflict. Along the walls were whips and other tools of punishment. Sam looked down at the floor beneath him, dark splotches stained the grey rock. Sam shuddered. He had no doubt what had created those.
Sam was roughly hauled to his feet. He stood trembling, still trying to make sense of all this. The Mouth of Sauron had Sam's collar clenched firmly in his hand, nearly choking the wretched Hobbit. The tall man seemed to be searching the chamber for something. Finally, he strode over towards one of the walls where rusted shackles hung limply, the black metal mottled with rust-colored patches like some repellant fungus. This particular set was usually reserved for the village children the Black Wizard used in his obscene rituals needed to prolong his unnaturally long life. They would work perfectly for this halfling.
Sam cried out in pain as the man brutally thrust the Hobbit's hands into the rough metal cuffs, clamping them so tightly, the shackles drew blood. The Mouth of Sauron smiled mercilessly. Sam stood facing the wall, his arms held above his head. He was afraid if he moved, the pain from the shackles would intensify. He looked over his shoulder, and watched full of dread as his captor stood by the collection of whips and cudgels. A cold sweat broke out on Sam's face as he observed the man pull down a small, metal tipped whip and look sideways at the white-faced Hobbit, a sadistic smile forming on his thin lips.
Fingering the whip, he slowly strolled towards where Sam stood violently trembling. He stopped a few feet away, surveying his victim. "Well, Master Samwise," he said, the deadly calm of his voice terrified Sam even more than if the man had screamed at him. "I do not wish to kill you. At least, not yet, but I think you might enjoy a preview of some of our activities prior to your friends' arrival. Then, you can enjoy watching them enjoy my hospitality, all thanks to you!" Sam closed his eyes with a sob. It was true. He had told this monster everything and now his friends were going to pay the price for his gullibility. He had only a moment to think on this when with a yelp of surprise and pain, he felt his shirt ripped from his body. He knew what was coming, and tried to steel himself for the first bite of the lash, but when it came, the white-hot pain was far worse than he could have possibly imagined.
Each strike of the whip was worse than the last and soon Sam could feel warm blood trickling down his back. His throat was hoarse with his screams of agony. Finally, as he skirted the boundaries of unconsciousness, he again thought of his dear friends and what awaited them here in this hell. His last thought as blackness took him was the heartfelt belief that things would have been much better for everyone if he had died alone on the ravaged slopes of Mt. Doom.