Chance Encounter

Disclaimer: I don't own anything or anyone that you recognize. They all belong to their respective creators/directors. I'll put them back when I'm through with them.

Chapter 7: A Blacksmith's Torment

Each breath was agony. His back burned with pain. The orcs held him down; their grip was stronger than any manacles' hold on him. With each lash of the whip he tensed, too tired to cry out anymore. Balian waited for reprieve but none came. He could feel hot blood running down his back, mingling with sweat and grime. He prayed for unconsciousness, or anything that could stop his torment.

"He still won't talk, Gurshak," snarled one of the orcs to their leader.

"Give 'im some time to think about it," said Gurshak. "We don't want our fun to end too quickly."

The wounded blacksmith was roughly tossed back into the corner where Frodo lay waiting, too frightened to move. The sound of leather on flesh and Balian's cries were burned into the hobbit's memory. He waited until the orcs were out of hearing range before crawling to Balian's side. The man's breathing was laboured and his hair was matted with blood. His features were etched with agony although he was trying very hard not to show it.

"Balian," whispered Frodo. "I'm so sorry…sorry for everything…"

On hearing the hobbit's voice, Balian opened his glazed and pain filled eyes. "Whatever for?" he asked. His voice was hoarse and soft from pain. "It isn't your fault." He managed to give Frodo a weak smile. "Don't worry about me," he said. "You have an important task. I'm insignificant. No one will miss me. They're all on the other side, waiting…"

"Who?" asked Frodo. "Who's waiting?"

"My wife," said Balian with a wistful smile on his face. His voice was distant. "She was beautiful, so beautiful and when she was with child, she was the most splendid sight to behold. She's waiting for me, with my son of course…he should be almost two by now…"

Frodo gazed up at the blacksmith's face. It was so sad yet so full of hope. He hoped that this would not be the end for either of them for he dearly wanted to hear the rest of Balian's life story. As he watched, Balian's eyes slowly closed again. "Balian?" whispered Frodo. He was frightened. The man was not responding. Only the slight rise and fall of his ribs indicated that he was still alive. The hobbit watched Balian sleep, knowing that the man needed the rest if he was to survive. Despite the blacksmith's words, Frodo still blamed himself, and the Ring, for what had happened. He decided that he would keep watch over Balian. It was the least he could do for the man.

As time passed, Frodo's eyelids grew heavy and despite his efforts to stay awake and keep watch over the wounded blacksmith, he fell asleep.

Balian was rudely awakened by a sharp kick in the stomach. He gasped and curled up tightly, instinctively protecting himself. A rough had grabbed his hair and he was dragged to where Gurshak was waiting. He was thrown down before the orc's iron shod feet. A large fire burned brightly behind the orc. Inside it were what seemed to be pieces of hot metal. Balian had some vague ideas as to what they were for but he had no desire for his thoughts to be confirmed. The blacksmith lifted his head and glared defiantly at the orc's sneering face. There was nothing else he could do.

"Ready to tell the truth today?" asked the orc.

"I am the blacksmith," said Balian, his voice full of venom. The orcs around him snickered.

"Very well then, blacksmith," sneered Gurshak. "You are familiar with horses, I s'pose?"

"What's it to you?"

The orc's grin widened. He held out his hand and one of the others passed him something made from leather and metal.

"You shoe horses, don't you?" said Gurshak. Balian did not answer. Gurshak did not seem to mind his stoic silence. "Therefore you should know how to break a horse," the orc continued. He dangled the thing in his hand before the blacksmith's face. It was an odd looking bridle, made for something with a much shorter nose than a horse.

"Perhaps it is time you learnt how the poor animals felt when you forced them to become your beasts of burden." Gurshak delivered this sentence with shining eyes.

Two strong hands grabbed Balian by the arms and pushed him down. Another yanked back his head by his hair. Rough fingers squeezed the hinges of his jaw, forcing his mouth open. The bit, a piece of round metal approximately the thickness of a man's finger, was pushed into his mouth. The orcs began to tighten the straps around his head and neck until he could hardly breathe. The bit pushed against the corners of his mouth, breaking the delicate skin there. It dug into his tongue painfully and pressed it to the bottom of his mouth. Balian could taste his own blood. It trickled from the sides of his mouth as the bridle made it impossible to spit or swallow. Around him, orcs laughed with cruel delight at his suffering.

"How does it feel to be a beast of burden?" asked Gurshak. When Balian did not respond, the orc roughly backhanded him. Balian would have been sent reeling by the force of the blow if the orcs had not been holding him down. He stared up at Gurshak with all the hatred and scorn he could muster.

"I see you have not been broken yet," growled the orc. "Bring the saddle!"

A saddle, made for a small pony, was brought to Gurshak. The orc leader jerked his head in Balian's direction.

"We improvised this saddle just for you, blacksmith," said Gurshak with a smile. "We've put a couple more holes in the girth so that you can fit it."

Balian arched in pain as the saddle was violently slammed onto his back. The leather chafed his raw flesh. The orcs began to tighten the girth. He screamed as they pulled on it. The pressure on his ribs was unbearable. He felt his already injured ribs crack under the pressure.

The orcs cheered. "Who's goin' ta ride 'im?" one demanded.

"I'm the captain," roared Gurshak. "I shall ride him!"

Balian struggled wildly at this statement, until one orc pointed his scimitar at Frodo. "You make more trouble, and 'e's goin' ta pay," growled the creature. Balian looked at Frodo, and then glared up at the orc. He had never felt so helpless before, except for the time when the midwife took his stillborn son away. He had no choice but to let the orcs do as they pleased with him.

Aragorn was thankful that the orcs had left a clear trail for them to follow. They had journeyed far from the rest of the Fellowship whilst following this trail, hoping to find their missing companions.

"Aragorn!" hissed Legolas into the ranger's ear. The elf pointed to a cave in a distance from which the cheers of orcs could be heard.

"They're in there," said Boromir, his face full of worry. The other two looked at him and said nothing. Instead, they made their way to the cave.

The sight that greeted their eyes made their blood boil. The orc leader sat astride a bridled and saddled Balian who was on his hands and knees. The other orcs cheered as the rider cruelly applied the whip to the blacksmith, raising bloody welts all over his body. Boromir averted his gaze in disgust. 'Why is he letting himself be humiliated like this?' wondered the man of Gondor with disdain. He definitely would have fought against this treatment, no matter how futile his actions would be.

"Aragorn," whispered Legolas urgently "we must do something, and quickly. They're killing him!"

The ranger shook his head. "The orcs are too many," he said. "We cannot win if we rush in there with blades bared and arrows knocked. The only way to overpower them is through stealth. We must wait until they tire of their game and rest. Then we will take them while they are unprepared."

"The element of surprise," said Boromir approvingly. "The question is, will they let their guard down before they find it?"

"They're too occupied with the blacksmith," said Aragorn, stating the obvious. "No one is paying much attention to anything else. I just hope Balian is strong enough to last until we put our plan into action."

"He's not a bad ride!" cackled Gurshak gleefully. "I should mark him as one of my mounts!" The other orcs laughed cruelly. A brand in the shape of an eye was brought. The end was glowing red. Balian's hand was held down flat with the back of it facing up. He dared not fight for fear of the orcs taking out their anger on Frodo. He cried out in pain as the hot metal came into contact with his skin and seared his hand. His body bucked but the orcs held him still. The scent of burnt flesh assailed his nostrils, making him feel ill. At last the orcs took the brand away.

Gurshak picked up the blacksmith's maimed hand and inspected his cronies' handiwork and smiled in satisfaction. "The mark of the Great Eye," he breathed. "Beautiful, isn't it?" Balian did not reply. Gurshak snorted in annoyance and bodily threw the man the other orcs who were now slavering at the prospect of more 'fun'.

Legolas could feel anger building up inside him as he watched the orcs torture the blacksmith. 'We're coming for you, Balian' he thought. 'We'll make them pay.'