Warning: This chapter contains violence and disturbing imagery. If this will bother you, continue with Chapter 5. Thanks.
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Frodo woke with a throbbing in his head and screaming agony at his neck. Rough hands rolled him over, scuffing his knees and elbows on the hard floor. The movement was too much; Frodo retched. He had nothing inside him to bring up, but his body strained anyway, shutting off his breath and sending spikes of pain through his skull with every spasm.
Animal-like grunts and savage mutters surrounded him. He felt a flask shoved between his teeth, nicking his upper lip as it was thrust roughly in. Fiery liquid filled his mouth. Frodo gagged, tried to expel the vile brew, then gulped as the reflex to swallow overcame his revulsion. Heat poured into him, burning unwholesomely. He was thrown to the ground, his head cracking against stone. He lay there gasping, his impulse to vomit fighting with the heaving of his lungs, yearning for air.
Rough hands seized him—scaly skinned, trimmed with claws. He couldn't have stopped them if he'd tried, yet he was so weak and disoriented he hardly could mount even a token resistance. Hands tore away his pack and cloak, the brooch of Lothlórien scratching his throat as the catch burst open. More hands rolled him onto his back, ripping at buttons and fastenings. Filled with sudden dread, Frodo seized the hairy wrist tearing open his collar—they must not see it! A vicious blow smacked Frodo to the floor again. Whiteness flashed behind his eyes. He felt himself spinning as if from a great height, whilst far below him, hands twisted and turned his body, moving him as they pleased until he was left bare and shivering on the stone floor, for all the wretched heat in his belly.
As the dizziness subsided, he grew aware of a commotion in the room. Someone was yelling—growling, actually, although there were words in the message that Frodo was too bewildered to make out. He could sense the mob all around him, their booted feet and hairy legs like tree trunks, giving off heat and stench; long arms dangling near their knees, their dank breath as they panted falling over him in foul waves that made his troubled gorge rise.
"Orders!" bellowed the big one near his head. Or so it sounded; the accent was foul and twisted. The brute was arguing with his fellows; now and then, a word came clear: stripped, game, filth, fun. At length, one of the band seized Frodo's legs and wrenched them open. A thick finger thrust into his body, so brutally precipitate that Frodo screamed. He writhed and kicked, but his flailing limbs were quickly captured and held. The finger prodded deeper, so Frodo thought he might split, then withdrew as abruptly as it had entered. Coarse fingers next encircled his sac. Frodo jumped, though still immobilized in the grip of his captors. His tormentor squeezed the base of his sac so tightly that all of Frodo's muscles tensed in agony.
Whether it was the surge of panic, or the bitter brew clearing his head, or perhaps his ear adjusting to the uncouth accent of his captors, Frodo began to understand what they were saying.
"I tell ye, he's for Lugbúrz!" shouted the big one near his head.
Another voice interjected, cold and harsh. "Safe and intact. Those are my orders."
"The orders said 'stripped'," came a guttural voice from Frodo's hips; it must be the orc who was squeezing him. "You want to tell the Higher Ups you neglected to look at what he's got in his pockets?"
"We have what we need." The sneering menace in the cold voice was even more frightening than the fingers imprisoning Frodo's bits.
A sharp claw tickled the taut skin of Frodo's sac, so he jumped. "Just a little slice," growled the deep voice, and a strand of slobber dribbled over Frodo's thigh. "We'll pop the goolies in the box with the rest, safe and ready for Lugbúrz."
"Gerroff!" snarled the big one.
The sound of a blow coincided with a shocking yank on his privates as the grasping orc fell away. Frodo's limbs were jerked or pulled painfully as the other orcs let go of him, either from being kicked loose or voluntarily to join in the fray. Frodo curled tightly in on himself, shaking and nauseated, nursing the painful throbbing between his legs. He wondered if he'd been damaged there beyond undoing—then closed his eyes in despair. Whatever happened next, it would not be any form of healing. Quite the opposite. His life before him would be one series of torture after another, each more hideous than the last, until he found himself as twisted and broken as his betrayer and one-time guide.
Beyond that, he couldn't think. Lugbúrz. The very sound of the name unnerved him. What could this be, but the place that housed the horrific presence that he had felt beating upon him ever since he had crested the Emyn Muil, more deadly even than the icy bite of a Ringwraith's venomous blade? He huddled in a ball, willing himself not to whimper from terror.
A full-fledged row had broken out in the room. Small as he tried to make himself, Frodo could not entirely escape the occasional kick or crushing footstep of the quarreling parties. At length the commotion died down, as most of the snarling pack were pushed and cuffed outside. A heavy door shut with a slam; iron-bound, from the sound of it. No, out of this place he would never escape, of that Frodo was certain. He wished he had greater courage to face the ordeal before him, but his teeth chattered and he shook in every limb.
"Yer lads will be for the Pits," growled the cold voice, "if they go disregarding orders this way."
"Nar, your lads are as bad," grunted the big, loud one. "Worse. I saw them eyeing the swag. You'd best keep a sharp watch on 'em."
"The swag stays with me," sneered the first orc. "So if anyone needs watching, it will be you, Gorbag"
The big orc spat. "Then put down your precious box, and get to work. We've the matter of those cut cords to clear up."
Frodo jumped as a metal box crashed to ground in a corner of the room. He tucked his limbs closer into himself, his heart racing as the booted feet drew near.
A clawed hand dragged up his head by the hair. Frodo kept his eyes shut tightly—the only escape he could manage.
"All right, rat." By the voice, it was the big one, Gorbag. "Where's your friend?"
Frodo's heart gave a great leap. In an instant, his outlook changed from complete despair to vague hope. The orc's question could only mean that Sam was not taken; he was not at this moment a fellow prisoner of the Orcs, stripped and beaten as Frodo was, or dead by some evildoer's hand. Sam had escaped. Frodo's heart wanted to sing.
A leathery palm slapped his face. Only the size of the hank of hair in the orc's grip kept Frodo's hair from being pulled out by the roots.
"By Gar, you'll tell me!" roared his interrogator, his foul breath choking Frodo. "You'll tell me everything you know, or you'll find yourself writhing at the end o' my spit. There's plenty we can do to the likes of you that won't spoil you for Lugbúrz." He shook Frodo hard enough to rattle his brains. "Now, where's the other one?"
Frodo, striving to remain conscious, gasped, "There was no one else."
A cool, slimy tongue licked up the side of his face. It took Frodo a moment to realize what it was, then he reacted wildly, fighting to pull away. A little farther off, the cold voice cackled at the sport.
"Sweet meat," growled the orc holding him. "I can see why Shelob fancied ye. No matter; you'll be for the pot in the end, one way or another. No prisoner comes out of Lugbúrz." The brute seized him round the throat, shutting off his breath. "Now tell me, where's your friend?"
Frodo's mind fled back to his words at the Dead Marshes. Samwise Gamgee, my dear hobbit—indeed, Sam my dearest hobbit, friend of friends—
Frodo opened his eyes. Gorbag's moist, oversized nostrils were flared, his matter-blotted eyes sunken deep into his lumpy skull. Two great teeth jutted from his lower jaw, like fangs. Frodo looked into the evil face. As clearly as he could manage, he said, "I was alone."
"Garn!" The orc dashed him to the floor, then kicked him in the chest for good measure. "You lying filth!" he roared.
"We know there was another," said the cold voice, as Frodo gasped and his head rang.
"Someone cut Her Ladyship's cords," bellowed Gorbag into Frodo's ear. "Sliced her webs off you, and stuck a pin in her guts, to boot!"
Clawed fingers twined in his hair, lifted Frodo's head. Though Frodo again closed his eyes, the sneering Orc continued in his face, "The joke is, after he cut you free, he left you lying, in plain sight of us all. All we had to do was pick you up."
Frodo's thoughts whirled. He knew he shouldn't trust the Orc's words; he would twist the truth to his own advantage. Yet Frodo didn't know how to interpret what the villain was telling him. Clearly, Frodo had been captured by the orcs, and Sam had not. Clearly, something about the way he'd been found had raised their suspicions. If Sam had meant to abandon him, why would he do it in a way that would alert his enemies? But if Sam didn't mean to leave him, why would Frodo have been left in the open, ready for anyone to find? None of it made any sense.
"He had no more use for you, I'll warrant, once you'd got him past Her Ladyship," scoffed the wicked voice in his face. "Was that your role—a dainty for Her Ladyship, and a distraction for us while he made good his escape? A regular Elvish trick he pulled, this so-called friend of yours. What friend worth the name would leave you as bait, to save his own skin?"
Frodo's confusion battled with dismay. Was it really as the orc said? Had Sam, indeed, deserted him for whatever reason? "No," he whispered.
His questioner slammed him against the wall; Frodo found himself dangling half his height again from the floor, held up only by the calloused hand that gripped him viciously round the throat.
"Who is he?" snarled the Orc, his glittering, blood-shot eyes even crueler than his companion's. "Where was he going? What was his mission?"
Frodo clasped the scratchy wrists, fighting for breath. He choked out, as well as he could, "There was no one but me."
The orc tossed him to the floor in disgust. Frodo curled up on himself again, cradling bruised limbs. Samwise Gamgee, friend of friends— Frodo found he was sobbing, though he hadn't moisture enough for tears.
"He left you for us to play with," growled the big one. "Seems to me you might want to pay him for his kindness. Tell us where he's hiding, and we'll go easy on you."
The futility of his situation came crashing down on him. Frodo hugged himself tighter into a ball. Hot tears pricked his eyes. "There was no one else," he whispered to the gritty floor. "No one." Frodo trembled, feeling the truth of the words in his soul: "I'm alone."