And to the next! Just as a head's up, I've tried very hard not to make anything too graphic, but there's a lot of trauma implied regarding what the prisoners of Mordor have been through. I've always wondered what happened to the slaves of Mordor after the ring was destroyed, but it would not feel right to include some of them without at least alluding to the awful things they have been through. I'll do my best to make sure it's never gratuitous, or more explicit than necessary.
Chapter One Hundred and Six: The Survivors of Lugburz
Breathing heavily, Frodo looked quickly at the only living people remaining before him. They were all prisoners, all chained hand and foot, standing against opposite walls, and those who dared to look up had fixed their horror-struck eyes on Frodo, or on the corpse of the Mouth of Sauron. Most looked down at the ground beneath their feet.
If he was not very much mistaken, they were for the most part men and elves, but he saw several dwarves amongst them too, and as he looked at the group of prisoners on the left hand side, he realised with a start that all twelve of them were women.
And then he remembered what the Mouth of Sauron had said – that the prisoners he had brought with him had come from the farm. The implications of that were too horrible to bear, and Frodo was sure that these women had been through things worse than he could imagine. And the men too, for that matter. He wanted to be sick.
Toothy howled, swaying on his feet, and then his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground, wrenching Frodo back into the moment.
"Toothy!" Bróin called weakly, and the warg whined, struggling to his feet. He turned, holding his front paw up off of the ground, and Frodo saw a great gash across his squat muzzle, oozing with dark red blood. A small knife was still lodged in the skin between his paw-pads, and Frodo's heart lurched. "Oh, Toothy… come here, boy, c'mere…"
With a pitiful whine, Toothy limped towards Bróin, sinking to the ground before him and resting his head in the young dwarf's lap. Slowly, Bróin reached towards the paw, but Toothy growled, tucking it up under his chest.
"Bróin, careful!" warned Sam. "Bofur says not even to touch the wolves when they're wounded, let alone a warg!"
"It's alright," Bróin said, stroking the warg's forehead. "Good boy, good boy. I just need to see your paw now, please Toothy." The young dwarf took the warg's leg and tugged it gently, and Toothy gave a soft howl, but he did not pull away. "Good boy, good boy."
Frodo grasped the hilt of his sword as Bróin reached for the knife, and Toothy gave a high, pained howl, but then with one swift, smooth tug, Bróin pulled the blade free. At once, the warg snatched his paw back, nursing it desperately, but then he paused, and looked up at Bróin. He whined, and licked the dwarf's nose, and Bróin smiled, wiping his sleeve across his face.
"Gross," he croaked. "But good boy. Good boy."
Frodo smiled wryly, but then his eyes travelled to the prisoners, and at once his smile faded. They had barely seemed to react to the violence before them, but the few that were looking up wore looks of utter horror. Most were staring at their feet, cringing away from Frodo and the others, and none made any sign to move at al.
"Mahiglib," Nelly murmured, following his gaze, and Frodo nodded. Council.
He limped along the wall and sank back to the ground beside Bróin, and Sam hurried along behind him to complete their little circle, and they spoke in hushed voices, their eyes darting up every few moments to watch the unmoving prisoners.
"We can't just leave them here," Frodo said at once, and Sam winced. He was clutching his injured shoulder, and looking rather pale.
"I don't want to leave them," he insisted, worry carving deeper into his face by the moment. "Truly, I don't, but we've hardly enough food for a week if it's just the four of us, and we're more than a week away from any chance to restock. And even if that wasn't a problem, they… well, they've been in Mordor a long time, I'd guess – a long time, and we don't know what they'll do without orcs around to control them."
"Sam," Nelly began with a scowl, but he spoke over her, a sorrowful fear in his wide, round eyes.
"Bofur's told me stories, Nelly, stories about folks that've been rescued from orc dungeons, and their minds've become so twisted that they can hardly function without someone telling them what they can or can't do. Some starved almost to death because no one told them they were allowed to eat the food they were given, or passed out from exhaustion because they don't think they're allowed to sleep – and they're the least dangerous! Others become loyal to the orcs, for self-preservation, mind, but they can't snap out of it, even when they're rescued. They'll try to get back, or do what the orcs would want. We don't know what these folk'll be like. If we weren't so hurt, if even one of us was at proper fighting strength, then I might think differently, but… Well, they're dangerous and we're vulnerable. We can't rush into this."
"He's right," Bróin croaked. "Ada says that's why orcs call death a mercy. We need help – we can barely carry ourselves."
Nelly pushed herself up, and a little further from Bróin, wincing as she did. "I'm not leaving here without them," she said, and her quiet words rang with finality. "I won't."
"Then how're we going to do it?" asked Bróin. "I'm not saying leave them, I'm really not, but Nell, you can't walk, and I don't think I can, either. Not more than a few steps, at least. Frodo's leg's been ripped apart, his other leg's scratched all to hell – he's not going to be walking far either, and I don't know how long Toothy will be able to carry us with a paw like that – if he can carry us at all. Sam's got legs, sure, but he's also got a bloody great stab wound in his shoulder, so I'm not sure how long he'll last before he collapses. So how do we get ourselves out, and take two dozen battered, traumatised people with us?"
"I don't know," she said quietly. "But Bro, you managed to tame a warg – an animal that had been beaten and cursed at and tormented all its life. You were able to show him kindness, and he trusts you."
Bróin frowned heavily, scratching behind Toothy's ear. "It's not so simple with people. Stop trying to convince us about the why, anyway. We know the why. We need to figure out how to get to the how."
"Well, whispering in the shadows probably won't help the trust front," said Sam anxiously, crossing his arm over his chest. "And we can't force them to come with us and starve along the way."
"Is there any food in the bags?" asked Nelly.
"What bags?"
"The ones that the men and the orcs dropped. Did you not see – they were wearing packs!"
Sam scrambled to his feet, hurrying over to the bags in question. The prisoners flinched as he neared them, but otherwise they did not move. Not a single muscle. It was eery. Sam dragged the packs back to the others, and he and Frodo tore inside.
"Yep, that's food, though that looks far too much like meat for my liking, this bag coming from orcs, and all," said Sam. "But it's, it's not bad, not a bad haul… It might last them near a week, if we're lucky. Maybe."
"I mean it," said Nelly, her voice wavering. "I won't leave them here."
"We're not going to leave them here," Frodo promised. "We won't. But we will have to keep up our guard, and keep a watch. We can't trust them."
"I thought getting home was supposed to be the easier part," mourned Sam, but then he stood up straight and sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Well, Bofur always says it's better to start with hope in your heart and nought in your pocket."
Nelly snorted. "And Nori always says that's a load of utter rubbish." A sad, wistful smile spread across her battered face, and she nodded slowly. "But I'm with you. I'll take the taunting from Nori when we get home."
The all looked up at the prisoners, and when Frodo prodded him, Sam rose, clearing his throat. "Um, excuse me! Right, well, now that nastiness is over, we're going to be getting off home now. You're all more than welcome to come, if you want, though of course you don't have to. I'll let you know right now we've little in the way of provisions, and it's not going to be easy, but we'll do what we can."
The prisoners stared back blankly, and a shiver ran down Frodo's spine. Near the end of the line, one man was trembling violently, his shoulder curved over as if he was half trying to make himself look smaller, and his chained hands hovered over his stomach. Beneath them, Frodo could make out something dark, half hidden against the rags of the man's clothes, and then his stomach swooped down uncomfortably.
There was a shard of black stone stuck in the man's side, a shard the size of a small dagger, and still the man was standing. His grey eyes snapped up towards Frodo, and what little colour he had left drained from his face. He looked away quickly, but then he paused, and stumbled forward, away from the others to collapse before Frodo's feet.
"Please, lord," he rasped, his voice even more pained than Bróin's. "These others are worthy slaves – they have served well, they will serve well – please, spare them. They will be useful to you. If you must eat, I beg of you, use me. I am spent. Use me."
One of the other men in the row choked, and the man on his knees gave a flinch.
"Use you?" Frodo frowned, but then realisation struck him, and he felt as though he had plunged into a lake of ice. "We're not – we're not going to kill you, if that's what you mean! We are not folk of Mordor, we… we are not like them."
The man bowed lower, his head scraping the ground. "Forgive me, lord, forgive me."
"I am not a lord," said Frodo, but ask he spoke the man flinched as though he was being whipped, his fists clenching tightly.
"I am sorry, Master, I am sorry, I did not know. Forgive me, Master, forgive me."
Frodo looked desperately at Sam, but his friend looked just as lost as he was. Taking a deep breath, Frodo turned back to the man, and as he did, he found himself clutching at the shield around his own neck.
"I'm not your master, either," he said softly. "Please, look at me, if you can." The man looked up, and his eyes were so void of anything but fear that Frodo felt tears well in his own eyes. "Listen to me, please – I am not your master, nor your lord – none of us are. You are free now, free to go and choose as you please, and… and… I can't even begin to imagine what you have gone through. What you've suffered… But Sauron is dead. Barad-dur has fallen. It is over now, I promise. And we're going to get you out of here, we're going to get all of you out of here."
The man simply stared back at him with that same, blank expression, the only flicker of life on his face the fear within it. The others were the same, though none of them dared even look at Frodo, and he swallowed, glancing over his shoulder at Sam and the others.
"We still have some bandages left," Frodo said, praying that their stock lasted. "And we have enough herbs to make a salve that'll stave off infection better than any. I'm afraid it will hurt though."
The man said nothing, though Frodo thought he saw a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
"Better make it quick, Frodo," muttered Bróin. "I don't want to stay here any longer than we have to."
Frodo nodded, tugging at the satchel he had found earlier in the day and pulling out several of the vials. He used a small copper cup to stir the salve in, mixing it with a little water and some of the few herbs he had kept himself, and when it was done, he hesitated.
"May I – may I look at your wound, sir?"
The man flinched, a small whimper escaping his lips, but he also rose onto his knees, pulling his rags up to reveal the puckered, swollen skin around the stone in his side.
"Oh, Mahal," choked Bróin, turning his head away.
"Don't try and take it out," said Nelly quickly. "It could make the bleeding worse."
"That's what I thought too. I'm sorry," Frodo murmured. "I really am – but the pain won't last too long, and the good outweighs the bad, I promise. Here – bite down on this." He passed the man the scabbard for his little knife, and the prisoner bit down dutifully. "Hold on, now…"
Frodo smeared the salve over his fingers and reached out, applying it on the very edges before the broken skin first, before moving to the wound itself. As soon as he did, the prisoner let out a shriek of pain, and Frodo winced. He had never had to use this salve before, but Óin had taught them all how to make it up in a pinch long ago, and Kíli had often described the burning sensation he had felt at Weathertop to an enraptured audience of tween hobbits. Till now, it had been a gruesome story, and little more, but the man's screams cut straight into Frodo's heart, and he swallowed, applying the salve over the entirety of the wound as quickly as he could. He smeared a little over the outside of the stone to try and clean it a little, and then he drew back, cringing as the man's screams broke down into desperate, gasping sobs.
"I'm sorry," he said again, his voice thick with tears he did not have time to shed. "I'm sorry. But it will help, I promise. N-Nelly, can you pass me the bandages, please?"
"It's alright," Sam murmured, pushing gently past Frodo. "I've got it. C'mon now, sir, that's it, if you could just hold your arms up for me just for a moment…" The prisoner obeyed with the expressionless obedience of a slave, tears working down the crook of his nose – a nose that had clearly been broken more than twice, and Frodo's arm wrapped around his stomach. He had done that – he had caused that pain –
"Hey," murmured Bróin, prodding him in the back. "Medicine hurts sometimes. Don't you dare torment yourself for that."
Frodo nodded, dashing at the corners of his eyes, but it was hard. The last thing that he wanted to do was cause the ex-prisoners of Mordor more pain, even if that was through healing.
Sam worked quickly, winding the bandage over and around the wound as best he could. "That ought to do you for a little while, but I'm not sure you should be walking…"
"He, he can walk!" stammered one of the other men – the man who had choked before – and the man on the ground looked up in fear. "Lords, please, he will walk! Do not release him, please, please!"
"If by release, you mean kill, we've already said we're not going to be doing that!" Sam promised. "I just think it's a decent wound, is all. Not that we have much of a choice… Now, let's see if we can be getting rid of these chains, now. Nelly? I know your hands are hurt, but you're the best lock-pick of us all."
Shaking her head slightly, Nelly gave a gentle smile and held out her hands to the man before Frodo. "C'mere," she called weakly, and the man obeyed, shuffling the few steps towards her before sinking to the ground again, bowing at her feet. "What's your name?"
"Filth, my lady," he said, and Nelly's face crumpled.
"I… I can't call you that," she said in a small voice. "My name is Nelly. This is Frodo, and Sam, and Bróin – and that warg there is Toothy. Now, I've given you my name – what's yours?"
"My name is Filth, my lady," repeated the man, and Nelly swallowed.
"I won't call you that," she said, more strongly this time. "What was your name before?"
The man cringed down, the fear growing stronger in his eyes. "I – I don't remember, my lady-"
"Nelly," she said gently. "My name is Nelly. I promise, you can speak freely around us, but if we're going to make it out of here, we need to trust each other – we need to try."
"They, they beat it out of you, m'lady," said the man who had begged for the other's life. "You, you aren't allowed to say your name, not at all and, and if you utter it they…" He shuddered, and held up his forearms, and Frodo winced. Vicious words in Black Speech had been branded into the man's arms, and while most were scars, one wound still looked to be weeping. "Some forget who they are entirely. Especially those who were children when they were claimed."
"Claimed?" Frodo whispered, a lump growing in his throat, but Nelly had always been the strongest of them all – except maybe for Sam. She rubbed her eyes and sniffed.
"Right," she said. "Right then. Are you sure you don't remember?" The man nodded, and she nodded back. "Where did you come from, then, before all of this? Do you remember that? My family hail from the Shire, but I have lived in Erebor for most of my life. Frodo and Sam are the same, though Bróin's family were from the Blue Mountains before Erebor, not the Shire. Do you remember where your people are? Do you remember anything at all?"
The man raised his eyes cautiously, but he shook his head. "I… I was a child," he murmured. "There… there were trees. Many trees."
"Alright," said Nelly softly. "In that case, with your permission we'll call you… Taurion. That means son of the forest. Will that do for now?"
An incredulous look crept into the man's eyes, and Nelly gave a wry smile.
"You are allowed to say no, you know."
"I…" he paused, looking down at his hands, and then he looked back up. "If it pleases you, m'lady, you can call me Taurion."
Nelly smiled. "Good. It does please me. Now, Taurion, let's get these chains off of you." Suddenly, Nelly swore, and the prisoners flinched as one.
"What's wrong?" asked Frodo frantically, and when she looked up, her eyes were burning with rage.
"These… these shackles have been soldered on…" She shook her head, rage and sorrow at war on her face. "We, we don't have any bolt-cutters, do we?"
"No, but we've got some fine old swords," said Sam firmly. "And an axe, to boot. We can try.."
A couple of the prisoners shot anxious glances at each other, but most simply continued staring at the ground. It was unnerving, and Frodo felt a lump rise in his throat. They had to get these people out of here. All of them. They had to.
"Bróin's right – we shouldn't linger here for too long," he said carefully. "Not if there might be other orcs crawling about. I think the axe will be fastest – I can do it. I have most in the way of arms, after all."
With a sombre nod, Sam passed him the axe, and Frodo sat down before Taurion, who seemed to shrink before him.
"I promise, I'll do my best not to hurt you," Frodo swore. "Can you hold your hands apart against the ground, so that the chains are as taut as they can be? And then lean back."
The man obliged, turning his head away, and Frodo aimed the axe carefully, taking a deep breath. It felt heavy as sin in his aching arms, but when he brought it down again, it made next to no mark on the chain at all.
The third strike made only the smallest of notches in the metal, and when he brought his arm up to strike a fourth time, Frodo's arm shook so badly that the axe slipped from his hands. The handle struck his shoulder as it fell, sending yet another new spasm of pain through him, and he shook his head, looking up at the others dejectedly.
"It's no use," he panted. "I'm not, not strong enough."
"Can I see?" asked Bróin, shuffling towards them. He took the chain in his fingers, running his fingers over the links. Finally, he too shook his head. "There's not even so much as a chink… I'm sorry, but Frodo's right. We can't get them off you. Not yet."
Taurion said nothing. His eyes were fixed on his wrists, as though he was amazed that his hands were still there.
"Alright then," said Sam, masking the shake of his voice admirably. "Next thing, then – when was the last time you had something to eat.
"We were fed this morning, my lord," said Taurion. "Our feet will not fail for some time."
"First, off, I'm the least likely to be a lord out of the whole lot of us," said Sam. "My old Gaffer's a gardener. Secondly, we're not worried about your feet. We're worried about us all getting out of here alive. Got it?"
Somewhere ahead, something screeched again, and Frodo shuddered. "Let's just go." He glanced at the warg, who let out a low howl, clambering to his feet and shaking like a wet dog. Then, though he limped a little, Toothy lowered himself down before Bróin expectantly.
"Are you sure?" Bróin asked, stroking behind the warg's ears, and Toothy gave another low howl. "Alright then…" Bróin clambered up onto Toothy's back with a little more strength than he had in the morning, though the tumble to the ground seemed to have been harsher for Nelly. She moved more stiffly than before, and as Sam and Bróin helped her up, Frodo saw blood seeping through her sleeves at her elbows.
With a heavy sigh, he clambered onto Toothy himself, this time sitting at the front, and he felt Nelly's chin rest on his shoulder.
"I'll walk, for a while," Sam said, taking one of the 'walking sticks' Frodo had found earlier and tapping it on the floor for good measure. "Give Toothy a rest, and all. I'll let you know if I need a break."
Well, I'll believe that when I see it, Frodo thought glumly, but he understood Sam's reasoning. With Toothy injured and a group of folk who would be walking anyway, it made sense to move at a slower pace, and try not to fatigue the warg who had already saved their lives so many times.
"Will you be alright to walk?" he asked Taurion, who nodded quickly, backing into his place in the line. Frodo smiled sadly. "Let us know if you need help, then. Let's go."
They moved out quickly and quietly, but it was the most uncomfortable quiet Frodo had felt in months. Distrust and fear surrounded the group like smoke, pouring down their throats until it was hard to breathe. The prisoners seemed too afraid to even breathe too loudly, and followed the warg in file, with their heads bowed. Both Bróin and Nelly seemed to begin to sag after a little while, the adrenalin from facing the Mouth of Sauron leaving their veins and stealing back the strength it had offered them in the moment. Bróin started shivering again, and Frodo's shoulder became gradually more damp as Nelly's tears ran down onto it.
"You alright?" he murmured quietly, and she sniffed, nodding.
"Just hurts," she whispered back. "It hurts so much."
"When we stop, I'll see if we have anything for the pain," he promised, but he already knew that neither his own pack nor the one he had taken this morning would offer any relief for her. He had already checked them five times.
Sam's face grey steadily greyer, but he walked on with a stiff-jawed stubbornness that showed just why he was so well suited to be living with dwarves. Every so often he looked over his shoulder, but just like Frodo, the glances that he cast backwards were few and far between.
For each time that they looked back, prisoners that had been leaning on others quickly stood up straight, staggering along on their own weary feet as though they had never showed a sign of weakness. Those who had been helping them bowed their heads and hid their hands, as if to smother any sign of kindness they could offer. When Frodo saw Taurion pull away from the man that had cried out for him in line, his heart broke so badly that he promised himself he would not look around again, not until he had too.
He knew what it was like to lie about your loved ones in a futile attempt to protect them, after all.
The memory of Cirith Ungol struck him straight between the eyes, and he realised with fresh horror that this was the fate that would have befallen Bróin, had Sam not been there to free them. Sent to Lugbúrz to work in the mines, beaten and tortured and abused until there was nothing left of him but fear and hopelessness. He found himself reaching back, stretching around Nelly to make sure that Bróin was still there. The young dwarf squeezed his hand, but he did not smile.
After an hour or so, they saw the end of the rubble, and Frodo felt the tension raise even higher. Though it was a relief to be able to see where they were going, there was no cover here, and they would not be likely to find any for a while. A road stretched out before them, arching towards the mountains, and while Frodo knew that it would be the quickest way to the Black Gate he also knew that it was the straightest way back into he heart of Mordor. The chances of meeting surviving orcs seemed astronomically high – but they had no choice.
Not one of them had the strength to face Minas Morgul again – mentally or physically – and they knew of no other way to escape. The rocky, barren landscape offered so little cover that there was no benefit to leaving the road, and at least that way the ground was smooth beneath them.
As the road drew closer to the looming mountains, the world around them grew darker, and their pace began to lag. The heat of the day began to fade, giving way to the desperate cold of night, and Frodo knew that they would have to find shelter soon. He scoured the empty landscape desperately, until at last his eyes fell on a small building. Dread squirmed in his stomach – he had absolutely no desire to spend the night in an orc hut, but they needed shelter from the elements – especially as the prisoners had little in the way of clothes, let along blankets.
"There." He pointed towards the small building, and Sam groaned.
"Are you joking now, Frodo? I'm just going to be the first to say it now, this is always how the ghost stories start around the campfire."
Despite himself, a small smile tugged at Frodo's lip. "Do you have any better ideas?"
"No," said Sam stubbornly. "But I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' when this ends badly."
"Understood," said Frodo, his smile growing.
As they drew closer, it became clear that the building was a little more than a hut, and quite well made. As a matter of fact, it was the first fully whole building Frodo had seen. All the others had been at least partially destroyed by the volcano, but this one stood strong. It almost like a small house in the style of the Bree-landers, if that house had been painted black and grey.
"I suppose I'll go scout it out then," said Sam unhappily as they headed up the path, and Frodo drew his sword.
"Be careful."
Sam nodded, drawing his own blade and creeping up to the door. He pulled on the handle, and it eased open with a gentle creak. With a shudder, he screwed up his nose and crept inside.
Silence swallowed them.
Anxiety clawing at his throat, Frodo spared another glance over his shoulder. Tears were streaking through the dirt and blood on two of the women's faces, and a third was sobbing silently, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. She looked to be one of the youngest prisoners – one he would even call a girl rather than a grown woman. He frowned slightly, but did not say anything. He could not afford to be distracted – not with Sam inside alone.
A few minutes later, the door opened again.
"It's all clear," Sam said. "I've checked every room, and the basement twice."
"It has a basement?" asked Bróin.
"Aye, and I checked it twice," repeated Sam. "Now, inside, all of you. Come on."
Toothy lumbered forwards, barely squeezing through the door without knocking them all off again. The prisoners filed in after them, and the women lingered until the last, with the crying woman the last through the door before Sam shut it entirely.
The room was not nearly so dank and eerie as Frodo had expected. The floor was tiled, and lined with worn but well-woven rugs, and there was a carven fireplace in the corner. A couple of long, low lounge chairs lined the walls, and the wooden stairs were well made, and almost beautiful.
"What is this place?" he murmured, not expecting any answer.
"The officer's lodge, sir," said one of the women, her eyes trained down on her toes. "Are you wanting us to prepare now, sir?"
A sinking feeling dropped through Frodo's stomach, and he looked at her carefully. "Prepare for what? Have you been here before?"
An audible sob escaped the crying girl and she clamped her hand over her mouth, breathing in desperate, gasping breaths as the woman who had spoken addressed Frodo again.
"Yes sir. This is where we must reward the work of the great lords."
Frodo's eyes widened, and he shook his head frantically. "Wha- no, no! I told you, we don't want to hurt you! You're not prisoners anymore, there's nothing that you 'must' do! And we're not great lords – we're not even lords!"
"It's alright, really it is," said Nelly gently, meeting the eyes of the terrified girl. "I promise, no one will hurt you here tonight. No one will touch you. Toothy will guard us all tonight. Sit down, make yourselves comfortable if you can."
A couple of the prisoners looked at each other, and then they slowly made their way to the far wall, sinking down onto the ground. The girl did not stop crying, but she shook a little less.
Sam helped Nelly and Bróin down off of Toothy and onto one of the long chairs, and Frodo sat beside them, rifling through the bags of the orcs to find enough food to be passed around. As he did, Toothy lay down before the sofa and let out a long sigh, and Sam began to pass the portions of food Frodo was fetching to the prisoners.
"Eat it, please," he urged them, and they stared blankly back.
"We, we have eaten today, lord," whispered Taurion, and Sam grimaced.
"One meal won't last you a whole day! In the Shire, we have seven. Now, we're down to two meals at the moment, which is bad enough, but I won't be having anyone in this company going to bed on an empty stomach," chided Sam. "So you'll all do your best to finish your dinner, if you don't mind!"
One by one, the prisoners began to eat, and Sam finished his rounds, taking his own portion of bread and dried fruit from Frodo. They munched in silence, and Bróin gave Toothy a healthy serving of the dog food that Faramir had provided them – the only food source that was not running dangerously low already. When he finished eating, the warg sighed and rolled onto his side, his great legs knocking over a stand of tools by the fireplace with a great clang that made everyone jump violently.
"Iklifumun mê," cursed Nelly, pressing her hand to her heart, but then she froze, her eyes on the fallen tools. "Sam… he with the working legs, and all – is that a bolt cutter?"
At once, Sam sprang from the couch, grabbing the metal handle, and his eyes lit up. "It is! We won't be able to do much about the cuffs, but we can get the chains off of everyone, now."
"I can do it," offered Frodo, shrugging his uninjured (though admittedly awfully aching) shoulders, and Sam nodded, passing the tool over. Frodo lowered himself down off of the couch and crawled carefully towards the nearest prisoners. They could come to him – he knew that – but in his heart, Frodo felt that if he could crawl over rubble and ruin in a hopeless attempt to find help, he could crawl across a smooth floor to offer a little dignity back to those who had had it stolen.
When he reached the first in line, the elf did not raise his eyes. He simply sat there, still as stone, and Frodo placed the bolt cutters to the ring that linked the shackles to the chain. The bolt cutters were well made, and though it took a little effort, they sliced through the metal. Frodo moved to the elf's other wrist, and cut the ring there too, and the chain fell away completely.
Slowly, the elf raised bewildered eyes towards Frodo, and Frodo smiled.
"We truly are here to help," he murmured. "I promise."
The elf glanced down, and whispered in a voice almost inaudible, "Hannon allen."
Thank you.
Another elf beside him froze, stiffening as though preparing for attack, but Frodo smiled.
"Le nathlof," replied Frodo gently. You are welcome.
The elf looked up, his eyes widening, and then he glanced at the other beside him. Frodo's eyes followed, and he realised with a start that the pair were identical, as similar to each other in looks as Elladan and Elrohir, though one bore a brand of a single strike on his cheek, while the other bore two.
They had numbered them, Frodo realised, his insides boiling with rage, but he swallowed his anger and moved onto the second twin, who bowed his head low.
"Av-'osto," Frodo said gently. Do not be afraid. "Êl síla erin lû e-govaded 'wîn." A star shines upon the hour of our meeting. "Man i eneth lîn?" What is your name? He addressed the last question to both of the twins, and it was the first who spoke.
"Im Red," he said. I am Red. "Hanonya ná Rín." My brother is Rín.
"Mae govannen," said Frodo, putting his hand on his chest and bowing in elf fashion, and Rín glanced up, meeting his eyes for the first time. Identical to his brother's, they were a brilliant grey, and Frodo thought he could sight of a glimmer of hope within them, and he smiled.
As soon as he had removed the chains from Rín's wrist, Frodo moved onto the next in the line, a dwarf, and there he bowed low himself in the manner of dwarves - or at least as well as he could slumped so awkwardly on the floor.
"Zai adshânzu ra barafzu," he said, and the dwarf's eyes grew so wide Frodo feared for a moment that they might pop out. At your service and your family's. As Frodo cut through the chains, the dwarf spoke in the Common Tongue, in a voice that was so quiet Frodo doubted it would carry even to his friends.
"I have not heard my mother tongue in a lifetime," he said, a frightened awe on his face. "Who are you?"
Frodo smiled. "The adopted nephew of Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor. What is your name?"
The dwarf looked even more taken aback, but he bowed until his forehead scraped the ground. "Nali, my lord."
Frodo bowed back, and as soon as the dwarf's chains were gone, he moved to the next person in the line. One by one, Frodo cast away the chains, and one by one the prisoners offered their names.
Besides the newly dubbed 'Taurion', seven more could not give an answer other than a cruel tag given by the orcs. Some were words of black speech, like Snaga and Glob, while others were in the common tongue, though no less creative or cruel. Two were elves, to whom Frodo quickly gave names meaning hope and freedom, and Bróin bestowed the name 'Astrid' to a dwarven woman who could remember nothing before her life in the mines. The others, two men and two women of the mortal race were named by Sam, who gave them the 'good, decent hobbit names' of Andwise, Fredegar, Daisy, and May.
"Now, you don't need to be keeping these names if you don't like them," said Sam quickly, "but they're better than dirty orc slurs, I think. If you think of something you prefer, just let us know. Now, I reckon it's best we try and get a little rest. I saw a couple of bedrooms upstairs – let me go and see if I can find any blankets."
Sam disappeared upstairs, returning after a few moments with an armful of sheets and blankets that he distributed to the strangers as fairly as he could, though most had to share. Frodo took the first watch.
It was a long one – an achingly slow stretch of silence, broken only by the snuffling and snores of those around him, and awful memories and thoughts and imaginings plagued his mind for hours, until at last his yawns grew so large they threatened to drown him, and he shook Sam awake.
His friend took over without complaint, of course, and Frodo rested his head on Sam's shoulder, surrendering to sleep within the moment.
And if he dreamt that night, Frodo did not remember at all.
All Kíli could do was watch. He was bound to a great tree, leafless and dark and smothered in dark mould, and there were ropes around his ankles and knees and waist and chest and neck, and his arms were pinned in place and he could not even squirm, and he was gagged, and no matter how loudly he tried to scream, no sound came out.
Below him, his brother was about to die.
Fíli was fighting, fighting with all that he had, but there were a swarm of orcs approaching from behind, and he could not see them, and as Kíli's screams were lost to silence, the enemy reached his brother.
Horror squeezed Kíli's ribs so tightly that he could not breathe, but it did not stop him from trying to scream, to beg – to do anything, anything to reach his brother –
The orcs brought a knife down into Fíli's gut, and the prince let out a choked cry, staring down in horror, but then another orc seized his hair and wrenched his head back, and Kíli tried to close his eyes but even they would not obey him, and he watched the knife rip through his brother's throat, and he watched the life leaving Fíli's eyes, and he watched his body hit the floor –
And then the orcs turned their faces to Kíli, letting out wrenching, shrieking laughs, and they began to stalk him, dragging Fíli behind them by his hair, his hair, and his lifeless eyes locked with Kíli's –
"Kíli! Kíli! Wake up, nadadith, it's alright. I'm here, Kíli, wake up, now!"
Kíli gasped, jolting as though he had been thrown by a catapult, and as his eyes flew open he saw the soft light of a candle, and his brother's face above him.
"Fíli," he breathed, and he heard his voice aloud, and noticed the raw ache of his throat.
"You were screaming," Fíli worried, putting the candle down on the bedside table and leaning back slightly. "Are you hurt?"
Kíli closed his eyes and shook his head. "No. I'm sorry, Fíli."
"Don't be a fool," his brother replied sharply, taking his hand and squeezing it. "Was it a nightmare?"
Kíli nodded.
"What was it about?"
Sighing, Kíli shook his head slightly. "You."
"Ah, I'm not that bad, am I?" teased Fíli gently, but Kíli shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut tighter and trying not to see the image of his brother's throat torn open.
"I – I saw you die, Fee, I saw you die. They, they cut your throat in front of me, and I couldn't do anything to stop them – I couldn't move, I couldn't scream, I – I was useless, Fíli, useless, and you died because I, because-"
"Hey, hey! It was just a dream," Fíli murmured, lying down beside Kíli so that he could wrap his arms around him. "It's just a dream, nadadith. I'm here, I'm alive. I'm not leaving you anytime soon. I promise. I'm here."
Kíli pressed his face into his brother's chest, trying to steady his breathing. Tears of frustration filled his eyes and he shook his head slightly. "I – I'm so sick of this, Fee – of not, not being able to move, of, of being so useless! If something happened to you-"
"Nothing's going to happen to me."
"You don't know that! And I couldn't do anything to stop it if it did and I… I couldn't live with that, Fíli!"
"Shh." Fíli tucked his chin onto Kíli's head, pulling him closer. "That's why I won't let anything happen to me – it's the best way to make sure you're alright. It's alright, Kíli. It's alright, now. And you're not useless."
I'm not far from it. I – I – I know that I'm lucky," said Kíli hesitantly, the words burning against his lips in their desperation to spill out. "I do. I'm alive, and technically whole and I – I'm alive, Fee, and I'm so grateful, but… I… I hate this. I hate not being able to move, being stuck in one place – I hate that I have to be looked after like a child, that I was here, barricaded in my room while you and Bilbo and even Vinca were out fighting and – and I – I think about what I'll never be able to do, and I – I'll never climb another tree, Fíli. I'll never be able to dance, or to run, or to get up a staircase by myself. I – I hate it, and I – I'm – I'm scared. Am I – is… is this what the rest of my life is going to be? Forever?"
"I don't know," murmured Fíli, his arms growing tighter around Kíli. "I don't know how to make it better. I don't know if anything can. But it won't be this bad forever, nadadith. I promise you that. I'm so sorry, Kíli. I'm so sorry."
"We've been through this," Kíli sniffed. "Don't be."
"I can't help it," said Fíli wryly. "I'm your big brother. I'm supposed to be able to fix you, but I can't. I know it's hard, Kíli – I know it has to be worse than I could imagine, but you are not helpless, and you are not useless. You could never be useless, Kíli."
Kíli did not reply to that. He knew that he and Fíli would never agree on the matter. Instead, he sighed, and said, "I'm sorry for waking you."
"You didn't."
"Fíli-"
"Truly, you didn't wake me," said Fíli – and to Kíli's surprise, his voice sounded almost sheepish. Kíli drew back and looked up at his brother, and as he did, he noticed what looked like soot on his brother's face.
"Fíli, were you in the forges?" he asked incredulously.
"I got back twenty minutes ago," admitted Fíli, and Kíli's eyes narrowed.
"What time is it?"
"Just a few hours past midnight. It's not too late."
Kíli scowled at the clock on the wall until his eyes could make out the hands, and then he smacked his brother on the arm. "Four hours past midnight is not a few! Thorin'll have you up again in two hours, Fíli, you're going to make yourself ill!"
"And when else could I go?" protested Fíli calmly. "I cannot go in the morning anymore – like you said, duty drags me out of the door before dawn, and all day I go here and there trying to fix the mess those bastards made of our mountain. All day, I help our people, and then as soon as I can be sure that my freedom is justified I come here. And before you go off on another one, no, that isn't optional. But I need time to clear my head, Kíli, especially after… After the things I saw, I… I need to be able to be alone – to think, and to process it all. And it just so happens the forge is the best place to do that, so the past three nights I've been leaving as soon as you fall asleep."
Kíli pursed his lips. He knew that Fíli had been struggling since the battle that was barely a working week ago – he had seen the horror heavy in his brother's eyes, and heard the tremor in his voice when he spoke of the death that he had seen. When he spoke of Óin, there was such pain in his voice that he could barely make out the words, yet still, Fíli pressed on. While Kíli had been stuck in one place, Fíli had been helping to secure the mountain, and tend to the wounded, and organise provisions.
"You're a wonder, Fee," he murmured, almost unaware that he was speaking aloud, and his brother snorted softly.
"I think that if I am, I got it from you."
"What sort of sense does that make?" Kíli scoffed, leaning back and meeting his brother's eye. "Still, Fíli, you've got to get some sleep sometime. You'll be no use to anyone if you're dead on your feet. I understand wanting to clear your mind but I'd blown out the last candle by ten – what could possibly so important that you could spend another six hours in the forge?"
Fíli's face changed at once. His eyes lit up, shining brightly as a smile slipped across his face, and he sat up. "Would you like to see?"
Kíli frowned. "What?"
"It's finished," said Fíli softly. "Needs a few finishing touches, and some cushioning, still, but I finished this evening. I was going to surprise you when you woke up."
To Kíli's disgruntlement, he was intrigued. He wanted to be annoyed at Fíli – two hours was not nearly enough sleep and it never would be, but now he was curious.
"Quickly then," he said, rolling onto his back and crossing his arms over his chest. "So you can actually close your eyes before Thorin rolls you out of bed."
Fíli got up and swiftly disappeared into the gloom of his own room, past the dark door, but a moment later he returned, and Kíli's jaw dropped.
It was a wheelchair.
Its ran almost soundlessly over the floor, and each of the spokes of its wheels were intricately engraved with vines and flowers. The back of the chair was grand as a throne, and the armrests, like the wheels, bore beautiful and detailed designs that must have taken Fíli hours. Dwarven runes and patterns joined with the traditional flowers of the Shire, and Kíli felt a lump in his throat.
"Now, I know it looks like your average wheelchair," said Fíli hastily, "but I made a few alterations. Firstly, this second when here, the one that lets you push yourself without getting your hands dirty, it's attached to this lever here, which is a brake, so you should have just as much control yourself as anyone pushing it would have. Then there's a basket that you can attack underneath you, in case you fancy going shopping, and then there's this..."
Fíli reached down to the right armrest and pulled a small wooden lever out from the side of the right armrest, as smoothly as though it was made of silk. With a small smile, he pushed it down, and to Kíli's amazement, the back of the chair folded back over itself, locking down to a height where it would be only as tall as the top of Kíli's hips. As it did, the arm rests folded inwards, resting just above where his legs would be, and even before Fíli spoke again, Kíli knew what such a drastic and wonderful alteration was for.
"So that you can shoot whenever you like," said Fili softly. "You don't need any help to do it - you can pull the lever on your own, and it should give you more than enough space to manoeuvre around it. It'll also give you a fair range of motion for a sword too, I suppose. And there's a little step on the back so you can still piggy-back the little ones, and I've made some tracks to go over the wheels, so when it's safe you can get a better grip over the ground when you're gardening. Also, there's a tinder box built into the back-right wheel, and three knife holds – oh, and a snack compartment-"
"Fíli," Kíli whispered, rubbing desperately at the tears in his eyes. "Fíli…"
"I… I know it's not much," said Fíli, his face falling slightly. "And obviously, I still need to make up the cushions and-"
"Fíli," Kíli said again, beaming through the tears that choked him. "It's perfect."
I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! I couldn't resist having a cheeky peek at our Durin boys at the end of this chapter - I've missed writing about them! So, do you have any theories? One or more of our mentioned prisoners are canonical Tolkien characters, so if you have any ideas or guesses as to who I would love to hear them!
Also, and hugely importantly, the name Taurion is taken from the fantastic story 'Winter With a Burglar' by the wonderful Dwarven Lass - it's a fantastic, lovely story about Bilbo babysitting future dwarflings, and you should definitely go and read it! She's a great writer and it's one of my favourite fics.
Until next time, take care of yourselves!