"I am weary, and full of grief, and afraid. But I have a deed to do, or to attempt, before I too am slain." --Frodo, The Two Towers
Frodo walked as swiftly as he could to the great exterior walls of Minas Tirith: the smooth and still unbroken expanse of glittering black stone, erected by some wizardry none now living knew. The wind was fierce here; it caught his cloak and nearly pulled it from his shoulders. There were soldiers, but they paid him little mind; he was a familiar sight, though usually Sam was with him.
The thought of Sam brought a stab of pain. Perhaps he is right, and I am being foolish. I should not write of it, think of it, or speak of it.
He thought of the passage he had written last night, and discovered that he could not wish that he had not written it. Is the only choice before me that of denying the War and myself with it, or becoming morbidly obsessed with it, to the exclusion of all else? I do not accept that. There is a grim satisfaction in setting the details down for my own eyes.
The wind gusted, and he took a step back from its force. Despite the sun's warmth, there was a bite in it, which made him think of cold mountains, and the icy waters of Kheled-zarum. He took a deep breath, and the wind gusted again, driving relentlessly through his clothing, lifting his hair from his head. He held his arms out to it, uncaring of the soldiers watching, and his sleeves belled out, while a stray eddy swirled around his ankles, flapping his breeches. No part of him was untouched by the wind, and as his clothing settled back into place, it felt cool and stiff, as if he'd stripped off all the old garments and put on new. He felt cleansed, and now the question he had posed sounded ridiculous: a child's plaint against the unfairness of the world. I will not accept that. Some wounds do not heal. But some do, and I will not find my way by refusing to acknowledge the task before me.
When he returned to the house, it was empty. He sat down next to the hearth and waited. He did not wait long. Sam came through the door, his hair disheveled and cheeks pink from the wind. He stopped dead in the doorway when he saw Frodo, and his cheeks turned pinker yet. "Mr. Frodo— " he began.
Frodo interrupted him. "Sam, I apologize for my skittishness and bad temper. Will you excuse me?"
"Sir, it's not for you to be apologizing to me," Sam said.
"But I do, nonetheless, and would be much relieved in my mind if you would."
"Well, I do then," Sam said. "But only if you'll forgive me for questioning what you do. I've no right to, and that's a fact."
"You have more than earned the right to say whatever you wish to me, Sam, dear friend," Frodo said. "But let us speak no more of it for now." That was all, and they walked down to luncheon together as if nothing had changed. But something had, and Frodo's heart was heavy with it. If Sam could not understand why he was driven to try to make sense of his experiences in this way, what chance was there that any other hobbit would?
The next day, he took up his pen in the quiet of the house. Sam looked unhappy, but said nothing. A shock of pain arced across the back of his hand as he dipped the quill. That will never do. He was determined to finish the Tower today and have done with it. He flexed his hand several times until the spasm eased, and closed his eyes to summon his strength. A word, a thought and he could see himself, lying in the Tower of Cirith Ungol. Don't think, just write. Just write.
The Red ChamberAfter being thrown into the uppermost chamber, I lapsed briefly into unconsciousness. I clearly remember the dream I had: a disguised version of the truth I could not face.
In my dream, I wander alone through the darkened corridors of Bag End. The window at the end of the hall is shattered and I step carefully to avoid cutting my feet. I come to my room and cry out in dismay. It is been torn apart; the headboard broken, and the mattress slashed. Feathers cover everything like a white shroud. My precious desk, treasured gift from Bilbo, is cloven in two, as from an axe blow, and the papers shredded. Burned books are in the fireplace. I am not outraged or angry, but filled with grief.
As I stand amidst the destruction, a gleam catches my eye. The mirror has been removed from the headboard and thrown against the wall. The pieces left in the frame reflect a splintered image of the floor and wall. I crouch down, and look into it. I reach out to the broken frame, and see my hand reflected. But it isn't my hand… The mirror hand is tanned brown and strong with calluses on the fingers. I know this hand, have seen and touched it more times than I can count. The mirror hand is holding a golden ring. I stare at it with hopelessness and despair. The scene breaks up; the splintering fragments spin me around. And I awaken.
Consciousness returned with agonizing slowness. It was dark, and I did not know where I was. Something was before my eyes but I could not make out what it was, the vague rectangular shapes making no sense to my befuddled head. After a time, I gave it up and lapsed back into thick sleep.
The harsh squeal of un-oiled hinges awakened me again. Motion to my left. the clunk of pottery striking boards, and then a hard slam. I tried to turn my head and sharp stabbing pain radiated down my neck and across my shoulders. I froze and stared up into the darkness, looking for anything familiar, but there was nothing.
My eyes slowly began to differentiate shapes from the dimness. The rectangular shapes I had earlier seen resolved themselves into the blocks of a stone wall. Hard boards were under my body. I considered these things for a long while, my mind slow and hazy, each thought taking an eternity to form.
I gradually perceived more of the space around me. I was lying in some sort of circular chamber. A red lamp hung from the high ceiling, casting a faint bloody glow. I took a deep breath and the muscles of my shoulders and sides clenched into tightly drawn bands of agony. I turned onto my back, and froze, breathing shallowly, waiting for the pain to ease. When it finally did, I massaged my shoulders with one hand. Why do I hurt so? And where am I? I felt tentatively around my neck, locating a swelling on the lower left side. The briefest touch sent a burning, tingling pain along my neck. My stomach turned uneasily. What has happened?
I had been ill. The sour taste in my mouth, the lingering nausea in my stomach, and these horrible cramping pains in my shoulders and sides were familiar to me, though it had been a long while since I was foolish enough to imbibe strong spirits to such excess.
I sat up, suppressing a groan at the painful spasms in my shoulders and ribs. I was naked. The effort of sitting broke out a sweat on my forehead.Grit from the floor ground into my legs and buttocks, producing a light stinging pain. I tried brushing it off, and found lines of welts and cuts hidden under the dirt. I traced them with one finger, disbelieving. Whip marks? How could that be? I shook my head to clear it, and the room began swooping lazily about me, receding and approaching and spinning, making me clutch the wall desperately, gasping.
When my head finally cleared, I looked around me. A large pottery bowl was sitting by a trapdoor, filled with water. Beside it were a withered apple and a hard rind of bread. I drank the water greedily. I was so thirsty that it tasted like the finest well water from the Shire. My stomach cramped fiercely, and I breathed deeply, until my insides decided to accept the water. The bread and apple are good, and the minutia of eating occupies me so that I did not have to think. It was enough to be able to eat and drink without retching.
When I finished and looked around, I noticed a narrow window slit in one wall. Immediately, I was filled with the desire to see outside, longing for a familiar view. I was in prison, clearly enough, but why? I pulled myself up and stumbled a step, unable to suppress a cry at the pull of abused muscles. I must see. My shoulders and sides were agony, each breath a stabbing pain. My vision splintered, and I clutched the wall, fighting to remain conscious. Is there any part of me that does not hurt? I inched along the perimeter of the wall. I had nearly reached the window when the trapdoor was thrown back. An orc climbed into the room.
"What are you doing?" it growled. Its speech was rough but recognizable. "Taking a bleedin' stroll? Get back over there and lie quiet-like!" It pointed to the rough pallet.
I was terrified. Every horrible story I had heard about orcs leapt into my mind. What had I done? How had this happened? How did quiet Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo, wake up and find himself in the foul claws of orcs?
The orc came closer until I smelt the stench of his body. "I said, move!" he snarled, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the pallet. I cast a longing glance at the window-slit. To see…
A sound like rocks grinding together startles me, and I realized the orc was laughing. It—no, I could see the genitalia beneath the rough loincloth, he gave my arm a shake. "Want to look out the winder, do you, rat? Want a look at the countryside?" He lifted me to the rough wall. And I saw…
Utter devastation. Ashy plains that were blackened and dry. No life, nothing green. Ahead was a mountain. It stood alone, belching fumes and poisons into the air. I swept my eyes around desperately looking for something, anything familiar. In the distance stood a tiny black tower. My eyes were drawn to it, and my heart pounded fiercely. It was horrible, though I could not say why. A fractured vision surfaced in my mind, from a dream, perhaps? A blackened hand, missing a finger, which held a golden ring.
Cold fear washed over me, and I felt as if something had reached out, seeking, seeking… I turned away and closed my eyes, trembling violently. The orc made that grinding noise again, and gave me a rough shake, like a child scolding a kitten. His grip shifted and the swelling on my neck erupted into agony, and I screamed. It hurts, let go, please no…
Startled, he dropped me onto the floor. Tears trickled down my face, and another orc-head appeared at the trap.
"What the flippin' 'ell are you doing to it?" it roared. "You trying to get us all strung up by our guts?"
The orc standing over me turned away. "I was just showing the rat the nice view," he said sulkily.
"Garn! Let it alone and get back down here!" the other snarled.
It disappeared, and the one standing seized my arm and dragged me back to the pallet. Just when I thought he would leave, he turned back and kicked me hard in the stomach. I shrank into a tiny ball, flopping soundlessly. I couldn't draw a single breath, and I saw his mouth stretched wide in an ugly grin. No breath. Elbereth, help me… He savored my pain like a fine wine, licking his black lips. I can't breathe… He loped over to the trap, and climbed down. The bolt snicked coldly into place.
My lungs finally expanded with a whistling gasp that awakened new cramps in my shoulders and sides. My neck throbbed still, though the worst had eased when he dropped me. Renewed nausea made me choke. I took a deep breath but it was no use. The blow to my stomach started me retching again, and the little I'd eaten and drunk came back up, and more still, until I wanted to die, anything to stop the misery. When the spasms eased, I kept still, breathing shallowly, and trying to suppress sobs. Tears trickled down my face until one of the rags was wet with them. I was so weary. I closed my eyes, but the darkness behind my lids pulsed with red terror, and I jerked them open, certain the orc was upon me again. But the chamber was empty. I tried reaching into my memories. What had happened? Why this emptiness in my memory?
Sam and I, standing side-by-side. A light, glimmering, soft, that illuminates a nightmarish horror. Bilbo's sword, Sting, spider's bane. And I doubted Bilbo sometimes when he spoke of the spiders in Mirkwood! How much worse are the spiders of Mordor… Mordor!
My eyes flew open and everything suddenly made terrible sense. The Ring! My hand touched only bare skin at my neck. The Ring, where is the Ring? It was not there.
Stunned and disbelieving, my hand kept searching, patting my throat, and checking the back of my neck. I found the abrasion the weight of its chain had started on my neck, but not the Ring. Another dream-like image filled my mind. A sturdy hobbit-hand, tanned and calloused, holding a ring. I pushed the image away with a surge of revulsion. An imaginary vision, nothing more. Nothing more!
I realized the significance of my nakedness. I was captured, stripped, searched and the Ring found. With the thought came dim images of a courtyard, an orc with a whip. The Ring must have been found immediately, since I had no memories of the finding. I remembered the cruel laughter and jokes as the orcs searched my body. I looked at my thighs, and saw streaks of blood caked with dirt, all the confirmation I needed. I scrubbed my thighs with a rag, as if I could wipe away the past hours along with my blood, shuddering convulsively. The claws, the horrible claws!
I had failed. All my fears, all my struggles, and what had I accomplished? Naught but to deliever the Ring to Sauron. Boromir was right. I was a fool. I had brought Sam to his death with my dependence. I should not even think of Sam. Not think how I had repaid his caring and love. I must not think of Sam! I felt as if I teetered on the edge of an abyss, and shrank onto the pallet in despair.
Orc-voices echoed below, yelling hoarsely in their foul language. I fancied I could distinguish the voices of my guards. Weapons and armor clamored, interspersed with calls and curses. A horn blew. I pressed my ear to the bare boards, listening. It did not sound like an exercise. Below the higher pitched tones of striking metal were the dull thuds of weapons biting into flesh and bone, cries of pain.
Did they fight over the Ring? The battle sounds moved away from me, and I began to hear cries coming from the courtyard outside the window, as well. Perhaps the curse of thieves had struck them, greed and mistrust. So might robbers fall out, and violently slaughter each other over their ill-gotten gains. It was a chill thought that they quarreled over my plunder and spoils. Perhaps a certain golden Ring influenced them. No orc could stand against Sauron, but did they realize that? Or perhaps the Ring used one coldly to return to its true Master. He would take it with no more effort than swatting a fly. And then…long years of torment for myself and the unlucky orc, for as long as our minds could stand it.
After a final violent crescendo, the tower fell silent. I drank the small amount of water remaining in my bowl, and tried to rest. The silence was worse than the sounds of fighting. Was everyone dead?
I didn't feel as if the Ring had been claimed, and something inside whispered that I would know. Perhaps one of the orcs was a loyalist and escaped to Sauron with it. If they were all dead or gone, then I would die of thirst. It would not be too painful. I wonder how long it will take? I was thirsty again already, my tongue and throat dry and parched.
Some time later, I heard voices once again, jerking me from my doze. The orcs were not all dead. Would they bother keeping me alive? I thought not. I could not imagine this turn of events had been according to the wishes of the Dark Lord. Why leave me here to talk? One of them would probably come to cut my throat.
How much worse could it be than the stab-wound I had taken before? I felt along my throat pensively, where the big pulse throbbed. How close I was to death, and yet my body struggled on, lungs gasping, heart beating.
There was nothing to do but wait. And that was when I heard singing. Like a fever dream, the sweet voice slipped into my head, Sam singing in the garden. I joined in, my raspy voice straining. No matter if it is a fever dream. It would be a mercy to die singing.
The trap was thrown back again. The orc was back with a whip. I raised my arm to protect my face, and there was a cry and Sam was the orc. Sam was there, and he had saved me. And the Ring.
/TBC