Another horrible delay! I am about ready to shoot myself! However, it is not my fault... this time. My computer broke down entirely, and my other one doesn't have internet access. It got fixed last week, but my parents pretty much forbade me from writing anything, for I had to study for the all-important finals. But now summer's here, and I shall be updating at least twice a week! So let us rejoice! I'm also going to start writing some short drabbles and poetry. (I already have I sonnet written... about the ever-adorable Frodo and Sam.) So now... back to The Mind's Entanglement!!!
Laurajslr- I am ever so sorry for not reviewing your fic, but I just read all of the chapters I missed and it was fabulous! My heart practically stopped beating when I thought Strider was going to gulp kill Sam! I will post a review as soon as you come out with your next chapter, so fear not! As for Sam, (not to be giving anything away) he's going to have a lot of things going on to dwell on, but he will still have time for a great deal of guilt. This chapter is kind of a slow filler, but after this, we will be getting to the good stuff (i.e. the angst...)
ElegantArrow- awww... you poor thing... colds are evil! (Although my sympathy is very much wasted, seeing as you must be very much better by now ( )
FrodoBaggins- don't be silly... Of course you want to keep on reading! Will the ending be happy? Well, that depends upon your definition of happy... If you don't keep on reading, though, the question will forever haunt your mind... Not only shall you read, but you shall review as well! Wow, and I feel bad... I have made you wait such a very long time. But you are going to keep on reading... right???
Sami- puppy-dog face tsk, tsk. I am ashamed of you! Sam is quite strong, and certainly not an insult to you! Why, you should be honored to share the name of Samwise the Stouthearted. In my fic, Frodo is the one who is an insult to all who bear his name (and luckily there aren't very many of those...) Perhaps Sam's judgment is clouded by the love he has for his master, but you can hardly blame him. Besides, in the coming chapters you are going to be far too busy feeling sorry for poor Sammie to be angry at him. And I have a feeling that you are going to like Merry, if I ever get to him. He seems to share your convictions as far as treating Frodo with little or no mercy (and I must say, I can hardly blame you for this opinion. It's just that I love my Frodokins to much to share in this sentiment.)
Forever Young- if you have sadistic curiosity, (which is not outside the realm of possibility) it is no worse than mine. Besides, you make me happy, for you are a fellow Frodo Sympathizer! Good for you... you make me proud. (And I'm sorry, but I must ask: are you named for the film in which sweet BabyElijah appeared with Mel Gibson? If indeed you are, my respect for you has been doubled.)
AuraMaiden- I too am a Sam and Frodo fan, and that is exactly why I love to torture them so. They are so fascinating when put into angst-filled situations—and the pair of them (Sam especially) are always at their best when put in situations which test their strength and goodness (although, as of now, they are not faring very well. But I assure you, they will both give a valiant fight before the end. What end?--- read and find out!
Skye12- hehe. This probably sounds weird, but the fact that you are reviewing my fic is (sadly, yes) the closest I have ever come to meeting a celebrity, solely because you are my favorite writer on ff.net (but, assuredly, you shall one day be a best-selling author, so then my absolute elation when you reviewed will not seem quite as bizarre.) And don't feel bad about neglecting your work, for, as I have repeatedly demonstrated, I am the Queen of Neglect. How many weeks (months) has it been since I updated? I dare not think...
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Chapter 7: The Dark Tower
Despair clenched Sam's fiercely pounding heart, and his breath came in great heaves, as he desperately sought for air through his constricted throat. He kicked his legs; beat the air with furious power, but it was for naught. Samwise was vaguely aware of the talon of the fell beast burying itself in his stomach, but more aware was he of the hot blood coursing through his veins than of the stuff pouring forth from his wound. Every nerve in his body blazed, alight with fury and panic, and yet he felt no pain, save that in his chest, which came as a result of his gasping, frenzied breaths, which he could not control.
For the first time in his life, he felt truly panicked, in an unrestrainable, mad way. Sam had felt dread, oh yes. But dread was like the tide; its coming was inevitable, and yet it was slow and calm, and ever Sam had managed to keep it at bay, push it from his mind. But this panic came as a wave; sudden and violent. For the moment, at least, Sam had let go of what purpose he had ascribed to his life. "Protect Mr. Frodo." That had been the one rule to which he could always adhere, the aphorism that had kept him on the right path. The one time he strayed from this regimen, in the shadows of Shelob's Lair, it had nearly resulted in disaster. But what did he have to live for now? With his master gone what barrier lain between him and madness? Everything that he had ever believed in, loved, or adhered to had been twisted by some bestial will, until he had nothing by which he could keep from slipping into an abyss in which love and hate and good and evil were all clouded from his perception by the ever-present shadow on his soul.
But to Samwise, the darkness offered comfort and solace, if only for a moment. His mind drifted slowly into shadow, and he knew no more.
The sounding of brazen trumpets awoke Sam from his merciful obscurity. The hobbit found himself being dragged roughly to his feet by hands, if such they could be called, as cold as ice, spreading their steely chill though the arms which they gripped tightly. His eyes flew open in shock; their hold felt like a thousand crystals of ice piercing his flesh, and twisting so that he would writhe in overwhelming agony. Before Sam could recover from his initial trepidation, he was being dragged unceremoniously to what appeared to be a great throne at the end of a long hall, where sat a dark figure, cloaked in shadow. Samwise was gasping in pain, but acutely aware of the drumming of tens of thousands of feet pounding behind him. An army of orcs, he knew it was, although he could not see them. However, when they reached the threshold, the orcs halted as he himself was dragged in roughly.
The doors closed behind him with a heavy clang that shook the foundations of the shadowy hall. There was now no light, save an unearthly glow that seemed to come from nowhere and illuminate nothing. The entire room, it seemed to Sam, was filled with layers of shadow upon shadow. Some places were more incandescent than others, and yet they were not of light, just another form of shadow in the unfathomable gloom.
Samwise felt his very will to exist be stole away by the pure terror that now occupied his heart. He sought to escape the cold, piercing grip of the Nazgul to the darkest corner of his mind, which still held more luminosity than the chamber of darkness to which he was imprisoned. But he was too afraid, too aware, to accept his fate and calmly drift away on the ocean of obscurity waiting for him ere he faded from the world.
The figure seated upon the high throne was Frodo; Sam had realized that fact ever since he had lain his eyes upon the shadowy form cloaked in a veil of darkness. But now he could see him in painful detail. There was his face, ever beautiful in terms of line and form, but now twisted with a ghostly evil that was indiscernible, and yet ever-present. And yet, Sam noted, his eyes shone with more radiance than anything else in the space. They smoldered softly; no stain lain on them and no evil will sullied them.
When Sam blinked, however, the moment was gone beyond recall, lost in the empty spanning of Past. The last of Frodo's self had been lost with it, or it had been lost long ago, and the soft light that had shown forth was merely another shadow; a cheat created by the hope that had become Sam's bane.
The Nazgul released Sam, and he fell to his knees. His body was for the moment frozen, not any longer from their icy grip, but from his own relief. He drew shuddering breaths as he tried to push the memory of his anguish out of his mind. Funny it was, really, that Frodo's goodness could slip beyond recall so easily, but that the evil of the enemy lingered for so long, plaguing his every thought and breath.
"Samwise," spoke Frodo in a voice so familiar that it pained Sam, making his chest ache dully with the weight of memory thrust upon it. His voice shook with emotion, but hidden just behind Sam's reach, latent under the dolefulness of his speech, was a dark threat, ready to emerge if called upon. "I didn't mean for it to be like this. I didn't mean to use force to persuade you, I swear it to you, Sam! I only... I only wanted you at my side, because I need you! Please believe me, Sam! Everything went so wrong!
"You murdered Pippin," said Sam in a steely voice, echoing through the darkened chamber, ringing with more conviction than had ever swelled from his heart before. Gone was shy little Sam of the Shire, whose devotion to his master had been his strongest attribute, not his bane. In his place stood Samwise the Brave, whose spirit was indomitable and potent. In his heart, he wept for his lost master from the sweet days in the Shire, but no tear blazed in his eye, or would ever again for many a day and through many a trial. For once, no doubting voice answered when he told himself that the figure before him was not his master, but indeed Frodo's murder. "You murdered Mr. Frodo. If you need me, then you shall not have me. Everything you want, I shall deny it to you... never will I aid you. You aren't the master who loves me, so I do not doubt that you will hurt me. But you have already thrown the worst blow you could, by taking my master from me. Nothing you do to me now will ever compare... nothing! You could still prove me wrong, of course. If you want me at your side, rid yourself of that accursed ring!"
"You fail to see the advantages that come with possessing the ring. Perhaps you need to see a demonstration of its power to appreciate what a great asset it is. Let us see... to begin with, I control all of Sauron's former slaves. It was I who saved the ungrateful Gandalf and his company from certain death by ordering the orcs to retreat."
"A lot of good your admirable deed did poor Mr. Pippin," said Sam, uncharacteristically bitter.
Frodo smiled in an unpleasant manner. "You were always a bit slow, Sam. Perhaps you do not comprehend." He suddenly grabbed Sam by the neck, yanking him forward so that their faces were mere inches from each other. Sam could not bear to look into his master's eyes, alight with a bestial fire, so he clenched his eyes shut and turned his face aside as Frodo spat, "I will show you. All of these slaves are mine to command, and you shall soon join them in their thralldom. There is one lackey of mine who I would like you to be acquainted with. He specializes in the art of... persuasion."
As Frodo spoke these words, Sam turned to him, his brown eyes wide in disbelief. This wasn't his master nearly strangling him, he knew, he knew, but no matter how much his mind accepted it, his heart still ached at the thought of his Mr. Frodo, the gentlest and kindest hobbit in the Shire, tormenting him in such a brutal manner.
Footsteps sounded from some passage hidden from Sam's sight. But the echoing of those feet filled him with a deep dread that he could neither explain nor fathom. He knew, or felt, that every time a step fell, it was counting down until he faced his final doom.
And then there stood before him a man of kingly stature, with swarthy skin, and hair the color of night, and eyes like smoldering ash. Not arrayed in armor was he now, but Sam sensed that he was often decked in the garments of war, mostly because he was still wearing one device he used most in battle. About his commanding figure was wrapped a shroud of Fear, so potent and real that it could be seen, looming over him like a shadow. And yet, Sam was disturbingly reminded of Aragorn. Not in appearance, but in his stately bearing, and the depths of wisdom pooled in those dark eyes.
"This is the Mouth of Sauron. However, as you may have noted by now, Sauron is gone. So I give unto him a new name, a true name, not but a title. He is Castellan, and soon the Lord of Isengard. He is, as well, my chief general, although you will know him only as your tormentor, for I believe that you shall be far too busy to give heed to any of his other positions," spoke Frodo ruefully.
The Mouth of Sauron, or Castellan, smiled widely, and washed away any thought that he might be akin to Aragorn in Sam's mind. It was a cold, hard, smile, showing no teeth, and it looked to Sam more like a grimace. "I look forward to being better acquainted with thee, Samwise Gamgee of the Shire. If it please thee, I shall show thee to thy room."
Behind his back Castellan tied Sam's hands, and about his neck he strung a thick rope. Samwise looked up beseechingly at Frodo with wide brown eyes, but his master heeded to him not. Castellan, in his rough hands, took the rope and then began to march down the long passage from whence he came, taking strides that poor Sam could not hope to match. Thus, he ran, and oft stumbled, resulting in his being dragged and nearly throttled before he could regain his footing. And so he was thoroughly exhausted when they reached the chamber in which he would live out the rest of his days in misery, and would have been glad to have halted if only they had stopped in a room more pleasant.
The walls of the chamber were adorned with terrible things, all with cruel metal spikes or other objects of wicked design, the purpose of which poor Sam could easily guess at. The room itself was dark and musty, the air stuffy and dank, carrying a stench that made Samwise think of gruesome things. The floor was splattered with blood here and there, but it seemed that this particular chamber had not been used in a long while.
Frodo now arrived at the doorway. As he surveyed the room, for a moment it seemed that he was horrified, but the fit past as suddenly as it had come, and he looked thoroughly satisfied. "We will leave you now, so you can get yourself settled. And when we return, in a couple of hours, I will make you beg to serve me!"
With a swish of his cloak, Frodo left the room, Castellan at his heels. The heavy metal door shut behind them with a resonating thud, and Sam was left alone in the dark, to contemplate the evil fate that awaited him, ere Frodo's return.
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Well... what did you think? I was reading over the first chapters, which I wrote in December, and I realized that this story has taken me such a damn long time that my writing style has changed a lot For the better or the worse, do you think?
If you were wondering where I got the name Castellan, I'll tell you, because it probably seems a little random. In my school, we had to do this project where we had to create our own civilization. Well I, being myself, got a little carried away. I made up an entire royal lineage (from which I got my name... Nymredil was the name of the first queen) and part of a language. I only made the words for things that were important to their culture. Castellan meant "war lord." I figured it would be really weird to have him called The Mouth of Sauron when Sauron is supposedly dead, so I chose this to be his name.
Chapter 8 is devoted to Merry finding out about Pippin's death, and then in chapter 9, apart from a little not-too-gruesome-Sam-torture, we are going to find out some more details about Frodo's supposed defeat of the Dark Lord.
Speaking of not-to-gruesome-Sam-torture, I am looking for methods by which I could accomplish this. I desperately want to keep the PG-13 rating, but it is going to be difficult. I am searching for ways to hurt poor Sammie without making it too graphic. I recall, one time, my psychotic English teacher was talking about something called Japanese water torture, which involved dripping water on somebody until they go mad. (I admit, I didn't really understand it.) But is that just too weird?-- for it struck me as just that. In other words... help me!
Thank you in advance!
-- Nymredil
PS: If anyone knows how to embolden and italicize the text, I would be very much obliged.
