Meep. I scared myself writing this chapter. Not to mention it took me
forever. . . *ducks projectile cookery*
This fate's gonna have two chapters to it, so I'll respond to reviews at the end of the second one.
THANK YOU SOO MUCH FOR THE WONDERFUL REVIEWSIES! *pets reviews happily* So pretty... *ducks frodo!muse's frying pan*
Chapter 3 ~
Sam's mind had narrowed itself down to two thoughts: "Frodo" and "Survive". His sight had narrowed itself down to the cruel gate blocking his path. His ears were deaf to the world, capable only of hearing a dull, frantic buzzing and an ethereal singing deep in the back of his head. He could feel nothing but a throbbing pain, but whether it was caused by an injury or his own blind panic he didn't know. The sum of what Sam's senses could provide him with at the moment amounted too nothing more than "gate" "in my way" and the constant chant of "Frodo, survive, frodo, survive, frodo, survive..."
Sam flung himself desperately against the door. The very last thing he was aware of was a dull crack resounding through his head, momentarily drowning out the horrible song playing in his ears. So that was what fear really was, all that buzzing and chanting and pain and always the horrible voice, all swirled into one fiery, lidless eye...
************************ "Wake up, little Shireling."
Sam moaned, blinking bleary, swollen eyes. Then the song came back.
"Frodo," he gasped in returned fear, forcing himself back to his feet.
Destiny's Muse stared at him with vicious, animal eyes, as sharp and cold as shattered silver glass.
"No, not now, please, he's in, he's in Barad-dur...!"
Destiny's Muse smiled, but the mist around her was heavy with a promise of pain. Her eyes cracked like a whip as she faded to vapor.
Sam swung a scared and furious fist through the water droplets hanging in the air. His stomach flipped over as they condensed into blood on his hand.
Black blood. Orc blood.
The returning strands of reality weren't the only reason why Sam's world spun.
He was flying, ripping through the poisonous air so fast his eyes stung like acid. Below him, the land of Mordor whizzed past in a blur of black and heat, shadows and smoke. Yet, Sam didn't remember that river, not even on the maps he'd seen of the Black Land. He noted absently that it twisted and turned just like the Brandywine. . .
Only this river was red and black with the blood of the hobbits floating in it.
Sam's thoughts froze. He was little more than dead for several seconds, numb to the point of a comatose state. Suddenly, the land beneath Sam rocketed by so fast, he had to screw his eyes shut or he was sure they would have liquefied to nothing more than tears. If it hadn't been for that sudden jolt, the stupefied hobbit wasn't sure if he'd have ever gotten his heart started again.
With no warning, Sam came to a screaming, backbreaking halt. His feet were slammed into the cracked, unforgiving ground beneath him, so hard his knees buckled and he toppled over.
Sam didn't open his eyes until the cry of a Nazgul overhead startled him into a sitting position. He was breathing so hard he thought his heart might burst.
A terrible, huge dark shape loomed before him, silhouetted by the pulsing glow of Mount Doom behind it. The tower of Barad-dur leered down at Sam, laughing mockingly at him through the cracking screams of the tortured prisoners within.
And suddenly Sam was flying again, shrieks ringing in his ears along with his own, as he was yanked steadily upward, until he reached the very top of the Tower, and a dark, filthy window, decorated with dried blood.
He pitched forward violently, and toppled into the room, scrambling away from the window and the terrifying drop beneath. He lay flat on his back for several seconds, thinking of nothing but forcing himself to breathe.
A whimper of pain caused Sam to whirl around, slipping slightly on the sticky red liquid splattered on the grimy stone floor.
He cringed backward as an impulse when he beheld the sickly orc chained to the opposite wall. It was convulsing violently, and even as Sam watched a rivulet of blood oozed between its lips. A puddle of blood was pooled at its feet.
It had very large feet. And even for an orc, it was very short.
Sam felt like an oliphant had been dropped over his head. Two hopeless, tormented crescents of a sapphire blue screamed silently from under half- closed eyelids.
Frodo gasped another shrill moan and shuddered weakly.
Sam didn't move. He froze, as still as silver.
Frodo's swollen and unmistakably broken wrists had been chained high above his head, so he dangled helplessly, his feel barely touching the ground. His hands were white, blue veins glaring out through waxy skin, clearly deprived of blood. His ears were long and brutally pointed, as if they had been ripped backward and frozen there. Whip lashes coated his being, all dripping a reddish, blackish blood off his back and chest and thighs. An angry welt even was slashed across his face, one of his eyes purple and swollen almost shut. But worst was his face, gaunt and so shadowed by bruises and scars that it had turned the grimy, sickly gray of orcs.
The filthy walls of the tower suddenly rocketed inward, closing in on Sam until he thought he would surely be squashed under the weight of. . . his mind refused to finish the thought. It refused to do much at all.
Sam didn't know how long he lay there, staring in unmuted horror at the broken hobbit before him. He was afraid to move, afraid that at any second, what that beaten little figure represented would leap at him with a snarl, and squeeze the very blood from his heart.
Frodo's eyes rolled, his eyelids fluttering. His breath dragged and finally caught, and he convulsed violently, unable to breathe.
Sam slowly and tremulously rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving Frodo's blackened ones. He edged forward apprehensively, trying to move as little as possible, though why, he was not sure.
Frodo gulped like a fish out of water, before going completely limp, and for all the world, dropping like a corpse.
Sam froze, his outstretched hand quivering. He was afraid to touch the half orc before him. Sam worried that even the slightest jar would snap this creature in half. And he feared the blood. So much blood. . .
It was Frodo's blue lips that finally startled Sam into action. He reached toward his former master and best friend, and gently tilted his head back, rubbing his throat with just as much care.
Frodo spluttered, and a horrible red bubble blossomed from his mouth. It burst, and showered Sam's hand in little red rubies. Sam squeaked and cringed back. His stomach lurched into his mouth, and he was hard pressed not to vomit all over the floor. Though it probably wouldn't have made much difference, the stones were so filthy already.
When Sam finally forced himself to look up again, Frodo was shaking like a leaf, whimpering incoherently and struggling to sink into the solid rock behind him. The site was so heart wrenching, Sam completely forgot his terror and gently stroked Frodo's cheek.
Frodo went as still as a board, his breathing ragged and keening cries shrill. Sam felt the tormented hobbit's body tense, as though bracing itself for a cracking blow.
Sam's tears dripped sluggishly to the floor, where they splattered in a dance of heartbreak.
"Frodo," he called softly, trying his hardest to hide the hoarse and rough edge to his voice, brought on by so long without enough water. "Shhh, Frodo, it's," he couldn't bring himself to say okay, "it's. . . Sam. Your Sam is 'ere. Don't be frightened, love."
Frodo's twisted ears twitched, and Sam felt a liquid dripping pooling between his fingers where they were stroking Frodo's face. Sam saw, with both a thrill sorrow and ironic joy, that they were tears. Frodo wasn't completely lost yet.
The poor little hobbit didn't seem able to help himself any longer. Whether Frodo knew who was comforting him or not, he broke down and collapsed into the soothing hands on his face, sobbing brokenly for everything he'd lost, for all the people he'd let down, and for the life he could never, ever have back.
He cried for never even getting to say goodbye.
And Sam cried with him.
Frodo whimpered softly as he nestled into Sam's hand, snuggling into the warmth like a freezing kitten. He swallowed the burning blood in his mouth, afraid he would frighten his new comforter away by his repulsiveness. He didn't want to be alone again. It was when he was alone that the ghosts came.
Sam wanted nothing more than to snap the dirty chains binding his master in half with his bear hands, and get them both out of this terrifying place, but all the agonized hobbit could do was hug the dying prisoner to his chest. His helplessness was a torture almost as bad as the torments Frodo had been forced to endure.
It was as Sam's mind was being poisoned with the puss bleeding from his many dying hopes, that Frodo murmured hoarsely into his hand, "S-sam?"
So many overwhelming emotions flooding Sam's already horror-numbed mind, he would have fainted then and there if Frodo hadn't sounded so pleading and scared.
"That's right, Frodo. Shhh. . . don't talk. Just be still now."
"Sam," Frodo whimpered softly, completely ignoring Sam's advice about not speaking. "Oh Sam, dear Sam, I'm sorry, so sorry, please, just don't leave me, there were so many. . ." Frodo broke off, shuddering violently and leaning even further into Sam's comforting hand. Sam hushed him softly, resting Frodo's bleeding head on his shoulder and hoisting him up slightly, to take some of the pressure off his broken wrists. Sam wondering in an abstract way if Frodo could understand a word he was saying, considering his sobs and quavering voice.
Whether the former ringbearer could decipher a single word or not, he nestled into Sam's neck, desperate for comfort. He hadn't been comforted in so long, and he was so cold and lonely, and everything hurt so bad.
"I'm sorry, Sam," Frodo mumbled again.
Even under such horrible circumstances, Sam's hobbit curiosity got the better of him. "For what?"
Frodo sobbed again. "For everything, everything's my fault. I didn't want to, Sam! I tried so hard! But it hurt so much, and I was so tired, and I couldn't stand for them to touch me anymore!"
Sam was sincerely regretting his question. He hugged Frodo carefully, avoiding the many welts ripped across his skin and whispering, "That's alright, Mr. Frodo, I don't blame you, shhh, you did nothing wrong."
But Frodo had worked himself into a state, and was beginning to hyperventilate. "No, I did everything wrong Sam, and I'm so sorry, I don't remember it, not a thing, just the pain and blood and the screaming, and when I found out what I'd done I wanted to die Sam, I wanted to die so much I tried to kill myself, and I begged and pleaded so so much, but they just dragged me up here, and locked me up, and made me watch, and I'm certain I went mad then Sam, I screamed so much they had to whip me to make me stop." Frodo gasped frantically for breath, his eyes huge and lit with the wild light of fear and madness, completely deaf to Sam's pleas for him to calm down. All at once Frodo moaned and fell lifelessly, like a puppet when its string are cut.
Sam was silent, for he truly had nothing to say. He just hugged his friend to him and cried. The torture had driven him crazy.
Frodo coughed weakly again, and just managed to choke out, "P-please, let me d-die. L-let me come with you, I can't bear it anymore, I j-just want to sleep. . . so tired. . ." he trailed off softly, the silver blood of his dying soul dripping out his exhausted, pleading and tormented eyes. His terrifyingly haunted blue orbs locked on something across the tower, and he shuddered to the point of nearly thrashing, his tears splashing down his beaten face in torrents.
"Sam . . . so sorry. . ." he whimpered again.
Suddenly Sam was so full of dread, he was certain he was drowning in his own foreboding. Gasping desperately for air, he whirled around in a panic, his eyes ripping around the room like a crazed animal, until they fell on the object propped up against the opposite wall. Sam froze, shocked to a point of unconsciousness.
A corpse was lying there, horribly decomposing and with a face so grotesque it could terrify even the most hardened Uruk. It had obviously been tortured and beaten to death in this very room, judging by the smears of blood across the walls and the horrible, gaping wounds yawning in its flesh. Its face was frozen in the very image of pain and terror, and its eyes were like bottomless chasms of brown, that could suck you in and drag you down with it.
But that wasn't even the worst of it, at least not for the traumatized hobbit that had been chained in its cursed presence for so long. No, the worst dagger this torture could pierce its victim with was its curly blonde hair and woolly hobbit feet.
Sam felt Frodo thrash behind him, writhing under its piercing glare, and heard the orcish hobbit whimper and scream in anguish and a pain beyond any physical. Sam heard the edge of madness to his voice.
And Sam knew what Frodo had been forced to watch.
*TBC*
This fate's gonna have two chapters to it, so I'll respond to reviews at the end of the second one.
THANK YOU SOO MUCH FOR THE WONDERFUL REVIEWSIES! *pets reviews happily* So pretty... *ducks frodo!muse's frying pan*
Chapter 3 ~
Sam's mind had narrowed itself down to two thoughts: "Frodo" and "Survive". His sight had narrowed itself down to the cruel gate blocking his path. His ears were deaf to the world, capable only of hearing a dull, frantic buzzing and an ethereal singing deep in the back of his head. He could feel nothing but a throbbing pain, but whether it was caused by an injury or his own blind panic he didn't know. The sum of what Sam's senses could provide him with at the moment amounted too nothing more than "gate" "in my way" and the constant chant of "Frodo, survive, frodo, survive, frodo, survive..."
Sam flung himself desperately against the door. The very last thing he was aware of was a dull crack resounding through his head, momentarily drowning out the horrible song playing in his ears. So that was what fear really was, all that buzzing and chanting and pain and always the horrible voice, all swirled into one fiery, lidless eye...
************************ "Wake up, little Shireling."
Sam moaned, blinking bleary, swollen eyes. Then the song came back.
"Frodo," he gasped in returned fear, forcing himself back to his feet.
Destiny's Muse stared at him with vicious, animal eyes, as sharp and cold as shattered silver glass.
"No, not now, please, he's in, he's in Barad-dur...!"
Destiny's Muse smiled, but the mist around her was heavy with a promise of pain. Her eyes cracked like a whip as she faded to vapor.
Sam swung a scared and furious fist through the water droplets hanging in the air. His stomach flipped over as they condensed into blood on his hand.
Black blood. Orc blood.
The returning strands of reality weren't the only reason why Sam's world spun.
He was flying, ripping through the poisonous air so fast his eyes stung like acid. Below him, the land of Mordor whizzed past in a blur of black and heat, shadows and smoke. Yet, Sam didn't remember that river, not even on the maps he'd seen of the Black Land. He noted absently that it twisted and turned just like the Brandywine. . .
Only this river was red and black with the blood of the hobbits floating in it.
Sam's thoughts froze. He was little more than dead for several seconds, numb to the point of a comatose state. Suddenly, the land beneath Sam rocketed by so fast, he had to screw his eyes shut or he was sure they would have liquefied to nothing more than tears. If it hadn't been for that sudden jolt, the stupefied hobbit wasn't sure if he'd have ever gotten his heart started again.
With no warning, Sam came to a screaming, backbreaking halt. His feet were slammed into the cracked, unforgiving ground beneath him, so hard his knees buckled and he toppled over.
Sam didn't open his eyes until the cry of a Nazgul overhead startled him into a sitting position. He was breathing so hard he thought his heart might burst.
A terrible, huge dark shape loomed before him, silhouetted by the pulsing glow of Mount Doom behind it. The tower of Barad-dur leered down at Sam, laughing mockingly at him through the cracking screams of the tortured prisoners within.
And suddenly Sam was flying again, shrieks ringing in his ears along with his own, as he was yanked steadily upward, until he reached the very top of the Tower, and a dark, filthy window, decorated with dried blood.
He pitched forward violently, and toppled into the room, scrambling away from the window and the terrifying drop beneath. He lay flat on his back for several seconds, thinking of nothing but forcing himself to breathe.
A whimper of pain caused Sam to whirl around, slipping slightly on the sticky red liquid splattered on the grimy stone floor.
He cringed backward as an impulse when he beheld the sickly orc chained to the opposite wall. It was convulsing violently, and even as Sam watched a rivulet of blood oozed between its lips. A puddle of blood was pooled at its feet.
It had very large feet. And even for an orc, it was very short.
Sam felt like an oliphant had been dropped over his head. Two hopeless, tormented crescents of a sapphire blue screamed silently from under half- closed eyelids.
Frodo gasped another shrill moan and shuddered weakly.
Sam didn't move. He froze, as still as silver.
Frodo's swollen and unmistakably broken wrists had been chained high above his head, so he dangled helplessly, his feel barely touching the ground. His hands were white, blue veins glaring out through waxy skin, clearly deprived of blood. His ears were long and brutally pointed, as if they had been ripped backward and frozen there. Whip lashes coated his being, all dripping a reddish, blackish blood off his back and chest and thighs. An angry welt even was slashed across his face, one of his eyes purple and swollen almost shut. But worst was his face, gaunt and so shadowed by bruises and scars that it had turned the grimy, sickly gray of orcs.
The filthy walls of the tower suddenly rocketed inward, closing in on Sam until he thought he would surely be squashed under the weight of. . . his mind refused to finish the thought. It refused to do much at all.
Sam didn't know how long he lay there, staring in unmuted horror at the broken hobbit before him. He was afraid to move, afraid that at any second, what that beaten little figure represented would leap at him with a snarl, and squeeze the very blood from his heart.
Frodo's eyes rolled, his eyelids fluttering. His breath dragged and finally caught, and he convulsed violently, unable to breathe.
Sam slowly and tremulously rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving Frodo's blackened ones. He edged forward apprehensively, trying to move as little as possible, though why, he was not sure.
Frodo gulped like a fish out of water, before going completely limp, and for all the world, dropping like a corpse.
Sam froze, his outstretched hand quivering. He was afraid to touch the half orc before him. Sam worried that even the slightest jar would snap this creature in half. And he feared the blood. So much blood. . .
It was Frodo's blue lips that finally startled Sam into action. He reached toward his former master and best friend, and gently tilted his head back, rubbing his throat with just as much care.
Frodo spluttered, and a horrible red bubble blossomed from his mouth. It burst, and showered Sam's hand in little red rubies. Sam squeaked and cringed back. His stomach lurched into his mouth, and he was hard pressed not to vomit all over the floor. Though it probably wouldn't have made much difference, the stones were so filthy already.
When Sam finally forced himself to look up again, Frodo was shaking like a leaf, whimpering incoherently and struggling to sink into the solid rock behind him. The site was so heart wrenching, Sam completely forgot his terror and gently stroked Frodo's cheek.
Frodo went as still as a board, his breathing ragged and keening cries shrill. Sam felt the tormented hobbit's body tense, as though bracing itself for a cracking blow.
Sam's tears dripped sluggishly to the floor, where they splattered in a dance of heartbreak.
"Frodo," he called softly, trying his hardest to hide the hoarse and rough edge to his voice, brought on by so long without enough water. "Shhh, Frodo, it's," he couldn't bring himself to say okay, "it's. . . Sam. Your Sam is 'ere. Don't be frightened, love."
Frodo's twisted ears twitched, and Sam felt a liquid dripping pooling between his fingers where they were stroking Frodo's face. Sam saw, with both a thrill sorrow and ironic joy, that they were tears. Frodo wasn't completely lost yet.
The poor little hobbit didn't seem able to help himself any longer. Whether Frodo knew who was comforting him or not, he broke down and collapsed into the soothing hands on his face, sobbing brokenly for everything he'd lost, for all the people he'd let down, and for the life he could never, ever have back.
He cried for never even getting to say goodbye.
And Sam cried with him.
Frodo whimpered softly as he nestled into Sam's hand, snuggling into the warmth like a freezing kitten. He swallowed the burning blood in his mouth, afraid he would frighten his new comforter away by his repulsiveness. He didn't want to be alone again. It was when he was alone that the ghosts came.
Sam wanted nothing more than to snap the dirty chains binding his master in half with his bear hands, and get them both out of this terrifying place, but all the agonized hobbit could do was hug the dying prisoner to his chest. His helplessness was a torture almost as bad as the torments Frodo had been forced to endure.
It was as Sam's mind was being poisoned with the puss bleeding from his many dying hopes, that Frodo murmured hoarsely into his hand, "S-sam?"
So many overwhelming emotions flooding Sam's already horror-numbed mind, he would have fainted then and there if Frodo hadn't sounded so pleading and scared.
"That's right, Frodo. Shhh. . . don't talk. Just be still now."
"Sam," Frodo whimpered softly, completely ignoring Sam's advice about not speaking. "Oh Sam, dear Sam, I'm sorry, so sorry, please, just don't leave me, there were so many. . ." Frodo broke off, shuddering violently and leaning even further into Sam's comforting hand. Sam hushed him softly, resting Frodo's bleeding head on his shoulder and hoisting him up slightly, to take some of the pressure off his broken wrists. Sam wondering in an abstract way if Frodo could understand a word he was saying, considering his sobs and quavering voice.
Whether the former ringbearer could decipher a single word or not, he nestled into Sam's neck, desperate for comfort. He hadn't been comforted in so long, and he was so cold and lonely, and everything hurt so bad.
"I'm sorry, Sam," Frodo mumbled again.
Even under such horrible circumstances, Sam's hobbit curiosity got the better of him. "For what?"
Frodo sobbed again. "For everything, everything's my fault. I didn't want to, Sam! I tried so hard! But it hurt so much, and I was so tired, and I couldn't stand for them to touch me anymore!"
Sam was sincerely regretting his question. He hugged Frodo carefully, avoiding the many welts ripped across his skin and whispering, "That's alright, Mr. Frodo, I don't blame you, shhh, you did nothing wrong."
But Frodo had worked himself into a state, and was beginning to hyperventilate. "No, I did everything wrong Sam, and I'm so sorry, I don't remember it, not a thing, just the pain and blood and the screaming, and when I found out what I'd done I wanted to die Sam, I wanted to die so much I tried to kill myself, and I begged and pleaded so so much, but they just dragged me up here, and locked me up, and made me watch, and I'm certain I went mad then Sam, I screamed so much they had to whip me to make me stop." Frodo gasped frantically for breath, his eyes huge and lit with the wild light of fear and madness, completely deaf to Sam's pleas for him to calm down. All at once Frodo moaned and fell lifelessly, like a puppet when its string are cut.
Sam was silent, for he truly had nothing to say. He just hugged his friend to him and cried. The torture had driven him crazy.
Frodo coughed weakly again, and just managed to choke out, "P-please, let me d-die. L-let me come with you, I can't bear it anymore, I j-just want to sleep. . . so tired. . ." he trailed off softly, the silver blood of his dying soul dripping out his exhausted, pleading and tormented eyes. His terrifyingly haunted blue orbs locked on something across the tower, and he shuddered to the point of nearly thrashing, his tears splashing down his beaten face in torrents.
"Sam . . . so sorry. . ." he whimpered again.
Suddenly Sam was so full of dread, he was certain he was drowning in his own foreboding. Gasping desperately for air, he whirled around in a panic, his eyes ripping around the room like a crazed animal, until they fell on the object propped up against the opposite wall. Sam froze, shocked to a point of unconsciousness.
A corpse was lying there, horribly decomposing and with a face so grotesque it could terrify even the most hardened Uruk. It had obviously been tortured and beaten to death in this very room, judging by the smears of blood across the walls and the horrible, gaping wounds yawning in its flesh. Its face was frozen in the very image of pain and terror, and its eyes were like bottomless chasms of brown, that could suck you in and drag you down with it.
But that wasn't even the worst of it, at least not for the traumatized hobbit that had been chained in its cursed presence for so long. No, the worst dagger this torture could pierce its victim with was its curly blonde hair and woolly hobbit feet.
Sam felt Frodo thrash behind him, writhing under its piercing glare, and heard the orcish hobbit whimper and scream in anguish and a pain beyond any physical. Sam heard the edge of madness to his voice.
And Sam knew what Frodo had been forced to watch.
*TBC*