Dark Side of the Moon

by Hobbsy3

When the peace of the Shire is shattered by a frantic wizard and Darkness falls upon Erebor, the patchwork family of Kili Baggins is thrown into chaos. Sundered by distance and duty, they must each play a part in the war revolving around the Ring that has long dwelt in Bilbo's pocket. But a conspiracy forms in the shadows and the Ring vanishes, putting the whole world at stake. T/M

87. Chapter 87: The Tower of Cirith Ungol

Thank you so much for the lovely reviews for the last chapter. Apologies for the delay in getting this one up – it's been a busy week and it is a long chapter. In any case, I hope that you enjoy it, and please do forgive me any typos that may have snuck their way in.

Chapter Eighty-Seven: The Tower of Cirith Ungol

They were screaming. His parents were screaming, screaming for him, and Bróin could not reach them. He was floundering in a sea of black water, a sea that stretched in every direction and bled into the black of the horizon, and his parents were yet feet away from him, their heads barely above the surface. Bróin threw himself towards them, tried desperately to claw his way through the water, but he drew no nearer to them.

He tried, and tried, but he was not fast enough, and as he reached out the waves crashed down over them, and Marta disappeared beneath the surface.

"Ama!" Bróin screamed, and his voice was the voice of a child. He stretched his hands out towards her, screaming and begging, but she did not reappear. Desperate, he reached for his father, but when Bombur met his eyes with a look of utter hopelessness, and then his head tipped back, and the black waters closed over his face. "No! Ada-"

"Bróin! Help, Bróin, help us!"

Gasping, Bróin turned, and a wave crashed down over his face, buffeting him underwater. He fought back up to the surface and saw Bodin clinging to a great, black log, fighting to stay above the water. But no – it was not a log – it was Bofin, floating on his back. His eyes were open and unseeing, and there was blood streaming out from the stumps of his legs and turning the black waves red. And Bodin was clinging to him, clinging to him and sinking them both.

"Bodin – Bofin!" Bróin choked, pulling himself through the water, but they just seemed to be getting further and further away.

But someone was getting closer to him – Orla was struggling to keep afloat, just a hands' span away from Bróin, but he could not reach her, and she was crying and begging and holding onto Ola's hand, but Ola was floating face down in the water. She was not moving, and Bolin was draped over her back, tears streaking down his face as he reached out and screamed for Bróin.

"Help us, help us, Bróin please! Ple-" A torrent of water poured down Bolin's throat and cut him off, and his hand splashed down into the water.

And his hand landed between two pale, upturned faces staring at the surface, little Bowin and baby Olin, their eyes clouded and open, their little mouths agape in an echo of their last breaths –

And then a great wave crested over his siblings, crashing down in what had to be slow motion, and Bróin howled.

"No, no!"

But the wave crashed down anyway, and thrust him down deep into the darkness, and he felt water flood his lungs. Frantic, he clawed back up, but when his head broke into the air it was to see nothing – nothing but choppy black water stretching out in every direction.

His brothers were gone. His sisters were gone. His parents were gone.

He was alone, alone in an ocean of black water.

Alone – until another voice screamed for him, and his heart stammered to a halt.

"Bróin! Bróin, please!"

It was Nelly, and he could see her, see her, and he could see Frodo and Sam behind her, but they slowly sank beneath the surface, and he screamed, swimming but not moving, desperately trying to reach them, but the water closed over their heads and they were gone, and he sobbed, and stopped trying.

He let the water drag him down, let himself sink down into the dark, let the water crush the air and the life from him. And still he heard screaming, the screaming of his family and his friends and his people, and he sunk further, and his arm and chest began to burn, and he sunk deeper. The water poured down his throat and filled his chest, and the screaming grew louder, and he sank deeper. One by one, voices fell out of the scream until only one remained, one voice screaming in terror and agony, screaming alone.

Frodo.

Bróin gasped a hitched breath and his eyes flew open, but as they focused on the room around him horror crushed down upon him like a wave of black water. He was bound hand and foot with coarse rope, cruelly tight, and his skin was bare against the cold stone of the floor – only his underpants had been left to him. But none of that was what pierced his heart in the moment he opened his eyes. It was not the throbbing pain in his arm and his side, nor the sickness swirling in his stomach, nor even the sight of bloodied orc weapons thrown on the ground mere feet away from his face.

No.

It was that Frodo was still crying out, and now Bróin could see why.

The hobbit had been forced onto his knees, and a great orc was standing behind him, its hand twisted in his hair. It was keeping Frodo's neck back, and holding his bound hands up behind his head to keep him still, while another orc struck him with a thick, leather whip. The bare skin of Frodo's chest was raw and red and bleeding, and as Bróin watched the orc twisted the weapon with a flourish, driving its wooden handle into a large, ugly sting on the hobbit's stomach.

Frodo's scream ripped through Bróin's soul, and the dwarf tugged desperately at his restraints.

"Stop!" he roared, even as fear begged him to whimper. The ropes around that bound him were tighter even than the chains of Saruman, but he had to do something, he had to stop them from hurting Frodo. "Leave him alone!"

The orcs paused, and turned, and their eyes fell on Bróin. "He's awake," snarled one, and Bróin caught sight of Frodo's terrified face. The hobbit shook his head slightly, but then Bróin glanced down, and he felt a wave of horror so intense that he had to be drowning.

Frodo's neck was bare.

The Ring was gone.

The orc with the whip spat at Bróin, but did not bother even to walk across the room to him. "Shut it, runt! You'll get yours when we're done with your master."

Even as fear coursed through him, confusion furrowed Bróin's brow. "Master?"

The orc holding Frodo's hair laughed, clearly mistaking the dwarf's bafflement for begging. "Your master can't help you now, snaga. Can he?" He wrenched Frodo's head back further, eliciting a guttural cry from the hobbit as he was forced to stare into the orc's face. "Not that he'd bother." The orc thrust Frodo's face forward again, and turned his eyes to Bróin. "But you listen to Gorbag, snaga, and you shut it. Another word before your time, and I'll cut out your tongue."

Gorbag gave a laugh like a braying ass. "Look how confused he is, Shagrat! You're changing hands, snaga. We're taking possession of all your master owns, including you – you belong to Mordor now."

Bróin swallowed, and kept his mouth shut. A shiver of fear ran through his heart as the orcs laughed, and turned their backs on him. Snaga – he knew that word. It meant 'slave' in the Black Speech – did they think he was Frodo's slave? But why?

Bile rose in his throat as he remembered that it was also a given name used among orcs – a name that had once belonged to the creature that had broken him before. Snaga had been the name of the piece of filth that had tried to rape Nelly.

To be given that title, that name, made him want to be sick, but the thought of Nelly made it ten times worse.

Was she here? Where was Sam? Where they dead already, where they –

No. No, no, no, they could not be here – if Nelly was at the mercy of orcs again, orcs that did not have orders about keeping her whole, orcs that would –

That would do what Snaga had tried –

With no one there to stop them –

Bróin choked, and then retched, spitting up bile onto the already filthy ground. The orcs ignored him.

"Now, I'll ask one more time," sneered Shagrat, twisting a tighter grip around Frodo's hair. "What were you doing in Cirith Ungol?"

"I… told you..." wheezed Frodo. "Got lost…"

Bróin saw Gorbag draw the whip up high and he squeezed his eyes shut, turning his face away. But he still heard it, the lash of the orc's strike, the strangled cry it drew from Frodo. He wanted to bellow at the orcs until he was blue in the face, to scream and fail and make enough of a nuisance of himself that they would have to stop, but he knew it was useless. They had already failed, and that meant they were good as dead already.

And Bróin was scared.

Very scared.

"Alright then," purred one of the orcs, and Bróin's toes curled up. "Let's try a different line of enquiry…"

The other orc laughed, and Bróin heard the scraping of a heavy bucket across the stone steps. Frodo whimpered, and Bróin opened his eyes in time to see the orc thrust Frodo's head into a bucket of dirty water.

"No!" Bróin cried, straining against his bonds as Frodo thrashed and flailed helplessly, but Shagrat met Bróin's eyes and pushed the hobbit's head deeper underwater, and Gorbag turned with a scowl.

"What did we say?" he growled, striding over to Bróin. Wincing, Bróin curled in on himself, but protecting his stomach did nothing to lessen the pain as the whip lashed across his back. He clenched his teeth and fought against screaming, but as the fourth strike came down a whimper broke free, and by the sixth he was crying out every time it hit his skin. He counted twenty-six lashes before, at last, they stopped, but he might have lost count.

All he knew was that his back was burning, and Frodo had not come up.

Frodo had not come up.

His feet were still kicking and scrambling, but his struggles were weakening, and his body shuddering, and Bróin felt treacherous tears hot on his cheeks as he watched.

And all he could do was watch. He wanted to scream, to wail or plead or beg, but he knew nothing would work. It was utterly hopeless.

Gorbag stalked back over towards Shagrat and kicked Frodo's legs. With a nod, Shagrat dragged Frodo's face from the bucket, and Bróin sighed in relief as the hobbit coughed and spluttered, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Now," purred Shagrat, pulling Frodo's face close to his own. "What were you doing in Cirith Ungol? We know you weren't lost – we know what this means…"

Bróin narrowed his eyes slightly to try and see what it was that the orc dangled before Frodo's face, but when he recognised it his heart sank. It was the small braid that Frodo usually wore hidden beneath his curls against the back of his neck, strung with a bead bearing Bilbo's sigil, another adorned with a rune marking him the son of a lord, and a third – the most dangerous, perhaps – bearing the personal sigil of the King Under the Mountain.

"We have more spies among dwarven scum than you would think – we can read your filthy little beads as well as you can! A lordling, you are, and kin of the wretched thief Bilbo Baggins – yes, we know all about Bilbo Baggins." Shagrat spat as though the name of Bilbo tasted foul in his mouth. "And we know that you are dear to the swine that calls himself King Under the Mountain. A little runt of a lordling with a king's bead wouldn't be wandering around Minas Morgul getting lost. So you tell the truth now, or next time I won't bring you back up."

"Watching!" Frodo gasped, his chest heaving, and tugging at his open wounds. "Just – just watching, sending word – just watching, I swear!"

"Spying?" snarled Shagrat, pushing Frodo's head back towards the bucket. Frodo whimpered, and Bróin had to purse his lips to stop himself from howling.

"Yes," begged the hobbit desperately. "Thorin just, just wanted someone to keep watch, that's all, that's all! We weren't to engage, just, just to watch, to spy. Please, I'm telling the truth, I mean it – no, please-"

Again, Bróin closed his eyes and turned his face away, but he heard the splash, and the muted cries of Frodo beneath the water, and he heard the snickering of the orcs. He held his breath with Frodo, counting the seconds, and his lungs were burning by the time he heard them wrench his cousin out of the water again.

"Who else was with you?" demanded Gorbag, and Bróin's eyes snapped open. "Kings don't send their favourite little play-things out on missions like this with no more than a slave for company!"

"No- wait!" Frodo screamed as he was pushed towards the bucket. Though Bróin could not see his face, he could hear his cousin's ragged breathing, and he knew that Shagrat was holding him above the water. For a moment. "There, there was another, another dwarf, S-Soren, son of Ragan, b-but he was caught by the spider in the tunnels!"

"Then who cut old Shelob's stinger off?" growled Shagrat, and a spark of hope caught in Bróin's heart. If the spider had been struck after he and Frodo fell, it had to have been done by Nelly, or maybe Sam, and if the orcs still thought it a mystery, they might have got away.

"I don't know, I don't know, truly, I don't! It, it might have been Ióni, dwarves don't fall so fast to poison – he may have struck after I fell!"

Bróin blinked, wondering what the old apprentice of Uncle Bifur's had to do with any of this, but then Shagrat and Gorbag looked at him, and a lump grew in his throat that had nothing to do with fear.

Frodo had hidden Bróin's name better than his own.

"Did you?" asked Shagrat, icy disbelief in his voice. "Speak, snaga!"

"I – I struck the spider," he said, desperate to keep any knowledge of Nelly and Sam from their captors. "If I severed its sting I did not notice – it had already struck me twice, my head was clouded…"

The orcs turned away from Bróin again.

"Are you sure there was no one else?" growled Shagrat, and then Frodo was pushed under again, and Bróin let out a whimper of his own. Again, he held his breath, and again he felt ready to burst before they brought Frodo up again. "Are you sure?"

"Certain," Frodo rasped, shivering violently. "I swear, I swear it!"

Shagrat glanced at Gorbag and shrugged, and then he threw Frodo down to the ground. The hobbit spluttered and choked, his entire body jerking and shuddering as he coughed, but the orcs ignored him, and turned to Bróin.

"So, snaga – has your master spoken true? If you tell us of his lies, we shall reward you greatly…"

"He does not lie," said Bróin, shaking his head slightly. "I swear, he tells no lie!"

"How would he know?" choked Frodo, and Bróin glanced at him. The hobbit looked up weakly, and spoke louder. "I am not stupid… I would not trust any secrets to a slave. Interrogate him if you will, but you will learn nothing new."

"Very well," said Gorbag, a slow smile slipping over his face. "In that case, how about a little game? We will give you what you want, snaga – we'll give you a chance at freedom. We'll let you back into old Shelob's lair, let you see how far you'll get. All you need to do is to kill the worm you once called master."

It took Bróin a moment to realise what the orc was saying. He noticed Shagrat stiffen and Frodo close his eyes, and then he understood what Gorbag wanted him to do.

"No," he said, shaking his head and fighting to keep anger in his voice – and hysteria out of it. "No, I can't – I won't! Not, not if you beat me a thousand times, not if you leave me half-dead and put a knife in my hand, I won't! Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!"

"You say that now," said Shagrat softly, strolling towards Bróin with a dark smile. "But you'll have time to consider the offer. You're to be kept alive until word comes from Lugbúrz – but when word does come, it'll be down to the Black Pits with you. There you'll work until the flesh falls from your bones, and your death will come as a mercy. By that time, of course, your precious master's head will've already been delivered to his king. Isn't war beautiful?"

With that, the orc seized Bróin's hair and began to drag him across the floor, and Bróin fought helplessly, kicking and thrashing as best he could.

"Get off! Get off me!"

Shagrat paused, and wrenched Bróin up higher. With a grin, he drove his knife into the spider sting on Bróin's stomach, and pain shrieked violently through the young dwarf's body. Pride had no more power over Bróin, and he screamed, trying frantically to cringe away from the blade as it carved its way up his chest, following the line of his sternum to the base of his collar bone.

"What are you doing?" cried Frodo, his anger poorly hiding the fear ringing in his voice. "He knows nothing, I told you!"

Shagrat pulled his knife away and shook Bróin slightly, before dragging him the final few feet across the room and dropping him onto the floor near Frodo. Biting back whimpers, Bróin forced himself to look down at the gash that now split his chest in two. It was a flesh wound, and not deadly deep, but it hurt, it hurt like the staff of Saruman, and the sting on his stomach was writhing in a screeching pain of its own, and nausea was swelling in his gut.

"Oh, this isn't interrogation," said Gorbag with a grin. "This is just for fun."

And then there was a hand clenching Bróin's hair again, and his face was plunged into a bucket of dirty water.

Ten times, they dunked him.

Ten times, they held him under until his lungs felt like they were ablaze, and his heart felt that it could go no further. Ten times, he saw lights flash before his eyes, and felt his head spin away from all sense of thought.

And on the tenth time, they held him long enough to drown the fight from him. He felt himself fall limp, felt his strength give out altogether, felt his mouth open to draw a gulping breath against his will.

Felt the water flood into his lungs.

Heard the distant sound of Frodo screaming.

And then he was dragged up again, and a pair of strong arms crushed his stomach beneath his ribs, forcing the water back up again. It felt like someone was driving their fist up his throat, and he choked and coughed and retched, and then, once again, he was tossed onto the stone beside Frodo.

Tears were streaking down the hobbit's face, and he was breathing heavily, but his screams had died when Bróin drew breath, and now he made no sound.

"That," said Shagrat smugly, "was a bit of fun. Come, Gorbag. Let's get this stuff to Lugbúrz! We'll be back for you later."

Bróin forced himself to watch the orcs gather up everything they had taken from them, and collect their weapons from the ground. To his surprise, Shagrat and Gorbag did not close trapdoor behind them. For all intents and purposes, it looked unwatched, unguarded, and it scared him. In Isengard, he and Nelly had been bound by chain and iron, but here they were not even tied to the wall. They were only bound hand and foot, and by simple rope at that. Somehow, that made his heart sink deeper. There was so little chance of escape that the enemy were not even guarding against such a possibility.

Of course it won't be possible, if they already have the ring. We've already lost.

"Are you alright?" begged Frodo, his eyes red and voice raw. "Bróin, you-"

"I'm fine," he mumbled, shaking his head and studying his cousin's face. Frodo was paler than a corpse, and his skin was just as mottled, between the dark rings beneath his eyes and the bruises on his forehead. He was shivering, and though his eyes were wide, they were also weary, almost dazed. "I – I'll live, Frodo, are you alright? I know you're hurt – how badly?"

Frodo just shook his head slightly, a tear tracing down his cheek. "I… I'm so sorry, Bróin. I'm so sorry."

Bróin frowned. "Did they strike my head, too? What have you to feel sorry for?"

"I failed," whispered Frodo, his voice small and broken. "The Ring – I thought I could do it, but I was too weak, I failed and, and everything, everything will die, because I-"

"Don't be stupid," Bróin croaked, trying to smile, though tears burnt his eyes and a lump grew in his throat. "It wasn't your fault, Frodo, no more than it was mine. Yes, we, we failed but, we did all we could, we… we tried, we… we are both sorry, but you don't need to be sorry to me."

Fresh tears came to Frodo's eyes. "Well, I am sorry for you, all the same. I'm sorry I said you were a slave – I… they assumed given your clothes and your lack of beads and your… well, your hair. I hoped that if they thought you a slave, they would be less likely to… to…"

"I know what you did. You shouldn't – I'm here to protect you, not the other way 'round, Frodo, you shouldn't've-"

"No," said Frodo, a surprising fierceness in his voice. With a quick glance at the trapdoor, he shuffled the short distance between them across the floor, grabbing Bróin's hands and pressing his forehead to the dwarf's. Though Bróin's hands were half-numb from the ropes, he managed to entangle his fingers with Frodo's, and he felt a fraction of his fear slip away. "No, this… this was never about me, Bróin. This was us – our family. You – if anything, you need protecting more than I do – you're not even an adult, after all. Not even halfway through your tweens…"

Bróin tried to laugh, but it came out more like a sob. He closed his eyes. "Didn't realise my hair was so bad I looked like a slave."

Frodo's fingers tightened around Bróin's, but his voice was weaker when he replied. "It doesn't, really, but it's clear it's been cut. Put that with the lack of jewellery and the clothes of men… I just hoped that they would… but they hurt you anyway."

There was so much pain in Frodo's voice, and so much weariness and guilt, and Bróin could not take it. "They're orcs, Frodo, it's what they do."

For a long moment, there was silence, but then Frodo's fingers tightened around Bróin's once more. "Bróin… will you do something for me?"

"Depends on what it is," said Bróin carefully, opening his eyes. Frodo was staring straight at him, looking hopelessness and resolution wrought in equal measure on his face.

"I am going to ask you to do something, order it, if I have to," he said slowly. "It will seem like the last thing in the world you should do, but I am begging you, Bróin – begging you… if they make you that offer again, I want you to take it."

Bróin's blood ran cold. "What?"

"Shh," said Frodo, blinking tears from his hopeless eyes. "Listen, Bróin, if – if we have truly failed, we have no chance of escape. They will kill me, and they will send Thorin my head. No, look at me, Bróin, they will. And if you don't do something, they will work you to death in the Black Pits, and that – that would be a worse fate than mine. I cannot let that happen, Bróin. So, if the offer comes again, I beg you to take it. You will be quicker, gentler, and I – I would be glad to lay down my life if it means one of us has the chance of escape. I am tired, Bróin, I am so tired, and I – for you to escape… You could get home, you could face the end at Erebor, you could withstand the dark lord to the last-"

"No!" Bróin choked, the moment his voice returned to him. "No, no, I can't, Frodo you're talking madness, no, I-"

"It will be a mercy," pleaded Frodo, even as a tear ran over his nose. "I'm so afraid, and so tired, and I just want it to end. You could make it quick, Bróin, it wouldn't hurt so much-"

"No!" To Bróin's dismay, his words were falling into sobs, breathless, desperate sobs. "No, no, I won't! I can't! I won't, I won't, I won't, you can't make me, you can't, don't ask that of me, please, I can't, I won't, I won't, no, no, no, no-" His voice dissolved into near hysterics, and grief grew ever stronger on Frodo's face.

"Shh, shh, Bróin, breathe!" he begged, tugging his fingers free from Bróin's hand to wipe the tears from the dwarf's cheeks. "Shh, now, I'm sorry, I-"

"Don't," gasped Bróin, shaking his head as fiercely as he could. "Don't ask me that, Frodo, I can't, I won't – I'll tell them my true name and have them deliver my head to Ada alongside yours, I swear it, I'll tell them that before I'd even hurt you, by Durin, Frodo-"

"I do not see the point in both of us dying here, Bróin." Frodo sobbed, and shook his head. "You – you're the one with the chance."

"Would you take it?" Bróin demanded, his voice trembling almost as bad as the rest of him. "Would you kill me, for a chance at getting away through those damned caves – a chance they likely won't even give? You know as well as I do that they would go back on their word – I would be dead before I left Mordor. Would you take that chance, Frodo? Would you kill me?"

Horror welled in Frodo's eyes and he opened his mouth, but with a wince he turned his face away, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter than a whisper, and weaker than a whimper. "No. No, I couldn't do that. I'm sorry, Bróin, I – I'm sorry for asking. I'm sorry, and I'm sorry you're here, and I'm sorry that I failed, and – I'm sorry for everything, Bróin, I'm so, so sorry!"

"I'm sorry, too," mumbled Bróin. When he spoke again, his voice sounded like the voice of a child, even to his own ears. "I – I'm sorry that we're going to die here, Frodo."

He heard a soft whimper, and then felt Frodo's forehead press against his own once more. Swallowing, Bróin reached for the hobbit's hands, taking them tightly.

"Ir-rûzud tanallikhi, id-nûlukh tarazzidi," murmured Frodo, and Bróin squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

"Will they?" he whispered.

Frodo said nothing.

They must have fallen asleep, because a little while later, Bróin woke up. Frodo's eyes were still closed. He did not know how long they had been sleeping – it was always dark outside, and they had no way of telling the passing of time. But his empty stomach ached fiercely, and he was gasping for a sip of clean water. The blood on his back was dry, and tugging painfully at his wounds, but the agony of the open lashes themselves had faded a little, and his hair was dry. So, it was hours, at least, though he could not tell how many. It felt like thousands.

He knew what he should do, and he tried to do it, peering around the room for any potential weapons, any chance of escape, but there was nothing. The room was empty, bare, save for a stone table a few feet away, and the trapdoor in its centre. If there was anything of use on the table, he did not have the strength to reach it. His back stung, and his chest was split open, and his lungs and throat felt like they had been seared and then crushed in the forge, and there was nothing left in him.

He had nothing left.

It was an exhaustion unlike any he had ever imagined, and he let his head fall down against the stone floor. He stared at Frodo, at the raw, red skin around his neck where the Ring had been. The hobbit's face was grey, and even in sleep he looked like he was in pain. For a moment, Bróin considered waiting him, but he doubted the nightmare could be much worse than their reality, so he let Frodo sleep.

He counted five hundred beats of his own frightened heart before Frodo woke up.

"Ah," murmured the hobbit, closing his eyes the moment after he opened them. "We're still here, then?"

"Unfortunately," replied Bróin, staring up at the ceiling. He could not quite match Frodo's almost casual tone, though he had often tried to respond to peril in the same happy-go-lucky manner as the hobbits.

"Bróin?"

"Mm?"

"Look at me."

His stomach clenched, and Bróin prayed that Frodo was not about to ask him the unthinkable again. Taking a deep breath, he looked at Frodo, and found that the hobbit was smiling through tears.

"I love you, cousin," he said, squeezing Bróin's hand. "I am proud of you."

Bróin sniffed, trying to pretend that he was not weeping. "Right back at you, cousin. We could've done a lot worse."

"Well, well, well, isn't that interesting?" sneered a cruel voice, and Bróin's head jerked upright. To his horror, Gorbag was returning up through the trap door, a long, jagged sword in his hand. "Cousin – now that's not a term you use for a slave, is it?"

Horror coursed through Bróin at the thought of what they would do to Frodo for lying, what they might do to him for going along with it, and he scrambled as upright as he could make it. Beside him, Frodo did the same, and their shoulders pressed against each other as the orc stalked closer.

"Old Shagrat's in Lugbúrz by now, and we've already had word back – there's an old warg rider at the gate talking about a transfer. You're wanted there," he said, jabbing the sword towards Frodo. "But as for you, cousin, well… Lugbúrz has no need of more slaves. And as far as they all know, that's all you are. They don't need you, do they?"

"His father is a great lord!" said Frodo quickly. "If, if you tell them that at Lugbúrz you'll be rewarded, I'm sure you will!"

Gorbag grinned. "But that wouldn't be great punishment for your lies, would it? It's no threat to my neck to bleed your dwarf like a stuck pig. I'll tell them one of the boys got to him, and if you say otherwise, little lordling – well, there's no way to prove you ain't lying. I haven't stuck a dwarf in a long time…"

The orc licked his lips and drew closer, and Bróin scrambled backwards, but almost at once he hit the wall. Frodo lost what little colour he had left, throwing himself in front of Bróin.

"Leave him alone!" he shouted, but his voice trembled with fear, and Gorbag gave a sickening laugh.

"To see the look on your face when my sword rips through his guts will give me greater pleasure than you could ever image," he crooned, grabbing Frodo and shoving him back against the wall.

"Don't, don't touch him!" Frodo yelped desperately, trying to throw himself before Bróin again, but Gorbag shoved his boot into the hobbit's chest and pinned him against the wall.

And Bróin let his head drop back against the stone, turning his face towards Frodo. Dying with his eyes on his cousin was better than dying with Gorbag's ugly face burnt into his mind. Even if Frodo looked more anguished than Bróin had ever seen him.

"No!" begged Frodo brokenly. "No, no, don't do this, please, please!"

Bróin took a deep breath. He would die like a dwarf, not cowering, not flinching –

Gorbag drew his sword back –

"No!" howled Frodo, and Bróin's chin rose proudly –

And the blade was thrust forward, and he felt it pierce his stomach, and –

Stop.

Frozen, Bróin glanced down, and saw the tip of the sword sunk but an inch into his gut. The rest of the blade was quivering, but otherwise very still.

A low, death gurgle drew his eyes back up to Gorbag, and he saw the tip of a sword sticking out of the villain's chest, but only for a second, for then it was wrenched back out. With one powerful swing of the sword, Gorbag's head was hewn from his neck and cast across the room, and then his body was shoved away to the other side. His sword clattered down at Bróin's feet.

In his place knelt his killer, with a face as grey as a winter's morning, and eyes burning with the fear and fury of the fiercest flame.

"Sam?" Bróin whimpered, unable to believe his eyes. "Sam?"

"I'm here," breathed Sam, throwing his arms around both Bróin and Frodo and pulling them close. Relief choking him fiercely, Bróin buried his face in Sam's neck, his fingers clutching at the young Gamgee's waistcoat. The hobbit held him tighter. "I'm here, it's alright now. We're going to get you out of here, just you see."

"Sam! What, how-" began Frodo, his voice still trembling, but Sam cut him off.

"I'll explain later, Frodo," he promised, pulling away from them and taking his knife to their bonds. "I promise – but I don't know how much more time Nelly will be able to buy us. We couldn't exactly take on the whole fortress with just two of us, and the orcs haven't decided to go on holiday or bump each other off to make it easier for us, so we best be quick, now."

"It's too late," choked Frodo. "Sam, they took it. They took the Ring!"

"Begging your pardon, Frodo, but they didn't," said Sam, suddenly going a little pink. He glanced at Bróin, and then took a deep breath, turning his eyes back to Frodo. "See, we… we made a mistake and I'm sorry for it, I'm so sorry for it, but… we thought you were dead. We thought we'd lost you, both of you. So we took it. Just for safekeeping, see, till the job can be done…"

With that, he reached into his pocket, and drew out a familiar chain.

The relief that filled Bróin was so great that his insides seemed to melt away entirely, and his head lolled down against his chest.

Thank you, Mahal, he prayed, more fervently than he had ever prayed before. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

"Give it to me," said Frodo slowly, holding out his hand, but Sam hesitated, drawing back a little. Fear and anger rose in Frodo's eyes, and Bróin swallowed. "Sam, give me the ring."

A strange, faraway look passed over Sam's face, an almost wistful look, and his other hand moved towards the ring. "I am not a thief," he said quietly, but his voice was tinged with bitterness, and Bróin's eyes widened. "I did not steal anything!"

"Then prove it!" said Frodo. "Give me the ring. Sam!"

Rage blazed in Sam's eyes, but then he shuddered, and thrust his arm forwards. At once, Frodo snatched the ring from his hand and hung its chain around his neck, breathing out slowly. "You must understand," he murmured, opening his eyes and gripping Sam's arm. "The Ring is my burden. It… it would destroy you, Sam. I can't let that happen."

Sam looked on the verge of tears, but he nodded. "Right you are, Frodo. Come, now, let's get you out of here. Oh, and you'll be wanting this, too!"

He passed Frodo another chain, one that bore a small, mithril shield, and Frodo's eyes filled with tears. He flung himself at Sam, holding him tightly, and Bróin smiled a little.

"Thank you," Frodo whispered, but Sam pushed him away gently.

"Don't go thanking me yet. We've still got to get out of here, and there are orcs everywhere. Here, put these on!" He passed over a couple of elven cloaks. "These ought to keep you a little more camouflaged on the way out, but don't worry about clothes, we have those stashed outside. It's alright now, I promise."

Bróin wrapped the cloak around his shoulders, and shakily rose to his feet. Somehow, the fabric did not catch on the wounds over his back, and its warmth released a small sigh of relief from his lips. The pain made him sway a little on his feet, but stood all the same, and Frodo stood beside him.

"You look awful," murmured Sam, tears sparkling in his eyes as he looked them up at down. "Are – can you walk? Can you climb? If we have to rethink…"

"We can do whatever you need us to do," swore Bróin, and Frodo nodded.

"Let's just go, Sam," he whispered. "With any luck adrenalin shall carry us down, if our legs cannot."

"Right. In that case, let's stop talking and start moving – and keep quiet, now. There're still orcs about." With that, Sam hurried over to the trapdoor, peering down carefully. Then he nodded again, and hopped down out of sight. Frodo glanced at Bróin and they quickly followed. Sam was nowhere to be seen, but then he gave a small hiss, and Bróin and Frodo whirled around.

Sam was standing by a small window, beckoning to them, and they hurried over.

"This is our way out, now," murmured Sam, picking up the end of a length of thin rope. "But the orcs're coming up here faster than I might've hoped. Now, below this here window there's a bit of a blind spot between the watchtowers. It's a long way down, but this is real elven rope here, and I know it'll hold."

Frodo's eyes widened, and he stared out of the window. "Sam, that must be at least two hundred feet!"

"It can't be helped, Frodo," said Sam, worry clear in his eyes. "It's the only way out that won't take us past hundreds of armed orcs. You ought to go first, Frodo, just in case they catch us."

Frodo opened his mouth, but Bróin raised his eyebrows, and the hobbit sighed heavily. He stared at Bróin, and then at Sam, and then he closed his eyes. He could not have more clearly said he did not want to leave them if he had screamed it aloud. "Very well. I'll be quick as I can."

"Aye, that'd be good. If anything goes wrong, rendezvous with Nelly at the entrance to the spider tunnels," said Sam, and he tossed the rope down the side of the tower, tugging at the knot that secured it to a nearby pillar. It did not budge. With a pale smile, Sam turned to Frodo, and helped him onto the windowsill.

It was a good thing that the hobbits had been raised in Erebor, for Frodo was no stranger to abseiling, and wounded and weak as he was, he was soon well on his way down the side of the tower. Sam stared out of the window, watching him descend, but there was not enough space for them to both see comfortably outside, so Bróin just leant against the wall. He could hear the harsh voices of the orcs from all over the tower, but none seemed to be coming nearer – not yet, at least.

"Sam?"

Sam looked up, his face grave, and Bróin smiled as best he could.

"Thank you. For saving me. Another moment-"

Sam flinched, shaking his head slightly. "I thought I was too late," he said, his voice hollow. "I – I heard him threatening you and I climbed as fast as I could, but when I heard Frodo – I thought I'd come too late."

"Well, you weren't," he said seriously. "And I cannot thank you enough."

Sam gave a sad smile of his own, shaking his head slightly. "You're my cousin, Bróin. All the thanks I need is for you to be here, alive and whole."

Trying not to cry, Bróin surged forward, seizing Sam tightly in his arms. He felt the hobbit's arms wrap around him, hold him tight, and for a moment then stood there, but then Sam gasped, and tugged Bróin down.

A few moments later, a large orc strode up the stairs, and Bróin's heart seized. They stayed still as stone, still as they could possibly could, and the orc strode past them, muttering under its breath as it peered out the window opposite them. Sam tugged Bróin's wrist.

"Go!" he signed fiercely. "Now, quick!" Bróin shook his head, but Sam shook his shoulder. "Now, or there won't be time for me to follow. Go, go!"

Desperately, Bróin slipped up and out of the window, but at first, he did not take the rope. Instead, he clung from the windowsill by his fingertips, peering down to make sure that Frodo had reached the bottom. He could just make out the hobbit's tiny figure below him, and he took a deep breath, grabbing onto the rope with his hands and legs.

There was no time to abseil properly – not with Sam's life on the line, so Bróin let himself slip down the rope as quickly as he dared. He could feel it burning his hands, tearing the skin from his palms and his legs, but he did not care, and did not slow until his feet struck the floor. With a gasp, he stumbled away from the rope, staring up at the far-off window.

Sam did not appear.

"Come on," Bróin whispered, and a hand landed on his shoulder. He flinched, but it was only Frodo, pale as death.

"Where's Sam?"

"There was an – oh, no… no!"

Frodo let out a soft cry, and they staggered back, for the figure leaning out of the window was not Sam.

"No, no!" moaned Bróin, and beside him Frodo stood rooted to the spot.

"Sam?" he whispered. "Sam?"

The orc peered down, its gaze fell upon Bróin and Frodo, but then it stiffened, and lurched forwards, out of the window. Even as they leapt backwards, the orc landed at their feet, and its head split open on the ground. There was a small, familiar knife sticking out of its back. Cringing, Bróin looked up, and saw a small, grey figure clambering out the window. It took the rope, and began to run down the side of the tower, and Bróin swallowed.

"Sam," breathed Frodo, and he swayed on the spot. Bróin grabbed his arm, and together they waited until Sam's feet hit the ground. When he saw their pale faces, and the orc at their feet, he gave a sheepish smile.

"Nothing to worry about," he said, wiping his hands on his trousers. "But let's be getting out of here before these dead orcs raise any alarms now, shall we?"

They nodded, stumbling forwards, and Sam quickly put his arm around Frodo's waist, supporting his weight. He glanced at Bróin, but the dwarf shook his head quickly. He did not need carrying, not yet. He was a dwarf. He would endure.

Scurrying through the shadows, they hurried away from the base of the tower, following Sam through a path that wove between rock and crevice, and climbed upwards. Soon, Bróin's breathing grew laborious, and his steps began to fumble. The exhaustion racking through him was growing by the minute, and the adrenalin of their escape was fading.

But Sam had not forgotten him, and he looked over his shoulder often. "Just a little further now," he promised. "Just a little further."

They wound their way up into the mountains, and vaguely Bróin wondered why they were going in the opposite direction to Mount Doom, going back the way that they had come. He did not have the strength to ask, though, not until they arrived an unfamiliar entrance to a very familiar tunnel.

"Sam," worried Bróin. "Sam, the spider, the-"

"It's alright," murmured Sam. "We're not going back in the tunnels, but there's a cave nearby, a tiny little one just back here, and that's where we're going. It's too small to be much use to orcs, and there's no way that big old spider could get in if it tried."

Nevertheless, Bróin's arm and stomach seared at the sight of the tunnels, and he felt nausea rise within him, but he clamped it down and followed Frodo and Sam off of the path, and around a small bend. Sure enough, they came to a small cave, one that had even Sam ducking his head as he led them inside and round a slight bend to where their baggage was stowed. Sam settled Frodo and Bróin down on the floor and then began to bustle about them, first giving them a little lembas and water each, and then tending to their wounds as best he could. He worked on Frodo first – Bróin insisted.

"Where is Nelly?" he asked, and Sam glanced over his shoulder.

"She should be back any minute," he said uncertainly, and Bróin's heart skipped several beats.

"And if she's not?"

"She was making a distraction," said Sam, his voice much shakier than usual. "See, Toothy came back and found us, and we came up with a plan. She dressed up as an orc and rode straight up to the gate, talking about getting the prisoners transferred to Lugbúrz, like we heard the orcs talk about. Now, we didn't think they'd just hand you over without any official signs, so that was why I snuck up the back, see? Nelly was going to curse them all to Mordor and then ride away. It sounded like that's what she did."

Bróin tried to keep his breathing steady. The plan made sense – and the roles made sense. Nelly was a much better liar than Sam, quick on her toes and great at improvising, and if Sam had the ring then he could sneak up unseen, but all Bróin could think about was the whip coming down on his back, and the water pouring down his throat, and the word snaga thrown at him.

And the image of Nelly on the filthy floor of a forsaken cave, her trousers down around her ankles and an orc straddled over her, ready to –

Frodo cried out in fear, and Bróin looked up. At once he cringed back, reaching for a weapon, any weapon, for a warg and a fully armoured orc stood in the entrance to the cave, blocking out the sun.

And then the orc gave a cry, and pulled off its helmet.

And beneath the helmet was a face that Bróin knew better than his own, even though it was currently covered in what looked like soot, or dirt.

Nelly.

"Oh, thank Mahal!" she gasped, falling to her knees and scrambling towards them as Toothy lowered onto his stomach, crawling into the cave with a happy whine. Nelly threw her arms around both Frodo and Bróin much the way Sam had, and then she pulled back and kissed Frodo's forehead. "Are you alright?"

He nodded weakly, offering a small shadow of a smile, and she kissed his forehead once more, before turning to Bróin.

With tears in her eyes, Nelly placed her trembling hands on Bróin's cheeks, studying his face carefully. Her eyes travelled down, widening at the sight of the spider's sting, and the knife wound Shagrat had dragged up his sternum, and the gash where Gorbag's knife had begun to stick him. The wider her eyes grew, the more horror and anger poured into them, and she shook her head slowly.

"Sam?" she whispered, still looking at Bróin. "Did you kill them?"

"Just two," said Sam gravely, and Nelly's jaw clenched.

"I want to go back," she seethed, glaring up at Sam. "I want to kill them all."

In an instant, panic rose within Bróin, and he grabbed her wrist. "No, don't, Nelly that's suicide, don't!"

"Shh, Bro," she murmured, brushing his hair from his forehead as her gaze softened. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

Bróin's fear melted into relief, and as it did, he felt what little strength he had left bleed from him. He tumbled forward into Nelly, and her arms closed tight around him, holding him close. His fingers sank into her hair, and his face pressed into her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice beginning to break as she held him tighter. "I'm so sorry, both of you. We – we thought you were dead. We were idiots and this, all of this – this was our fault. We didn't think things through, and then it was too late – they got you and they hurt you and I am so sorry…"

"It's alright," mumbled Bróin, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. "I'd've been just as much of a mess, if it were you. I wouldn't've remembered Mirkwood either"

"It isn't your fault," added Frodo wearily. "Truly."

Sam and Nelly said nothing, but Sam returned to tending Frodo's wounds, and Nelly rocked Bróin slightly in her arms.

"I thought you were dead," she whimpered, so quietly he was sure that her words were for his ears only. "I'm so glad you're safe, I'm so glad you're safe. I'm so sorry… I love you, Bróin. I love you, so much."

"I love you too," he murmured, closing his eyes tighter.

Nelly sniffed, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, before gently pulling away. There were two clear streaks of pale skin on her cheeks, where her tears had washed away the soot, though as soon as she wiped her cheeks they were smudged over. Catching Bróin's glance, she smiled.

"I can mimic an orc's voice well enough, but I'd stick out like a sore thumb if I was pale as the moon now, wouldn't I?" she said, reaching out for a nearby bag and quickly pouring a little water over her hands. Except no, it was not water – it stank of one of Óin's cleaning ointments. "Now, let's get those wounds of yours cleaned up. Sam's overtaking us."

"Yes, because it is definitely a race," snorted Sam.

Toothy gave another soft whine, and Bróin gave a tired smile, reaching out with his bare toes to scratch the wag's nose. "You came back!"

"Came all the way down to the tower to find us," said Sam proudly, nodding at the warg with significantly more affection than he had ever shown Toothy before.

"And helped wildly with making me look like an orc general, though I'm not sure they quite bought it in the end," said Nelly. "They didn't realise I wasn't an orc, I don't think, but I'm pretty sure they knew I wasn't from Lugbúrz. A couple tried to tail me – that's what took so long in getting back – but Toothy and I took care of them, didn't we?"

"I'm glad he's back," said Frodo, sounding almost as exhausted as Bróin felt. "But there's just one thing…"

"Just one?" asked Nelly, but the soft smile she gave froze on her face at Frodo's next question.

"For now. Where is Sméagol?"

Phew, that was a mammoth chapter! I hope you enjoyed it, and I can't wait to hear what you think.

Hopefully, I should be able to update next Monday as well, but I won't make any promises. Until next time, take care!