Author's Note: My apology if some of the names of OCs sound strange. They are taken from roots from Black Speech, Quenya and Sindarin, and are inspired by other less well-known names that Tolkien created.

Chapter Warning: Violence/Mental Torture/Slightly Scary Stuff

Chapter 2

Guilt and Darkness

It was nearly impossible to see now, and Frodo could not comprehend how his captors were able to carry on without tiring. Although they kept a firm grip on him, Frodo was left to walk on his own now and couldn't help but stumble over the uneven stone steps.

The orcs with him grumbled about this and occasionally, the one behind would use his whip if he felt Frodo was moving too slowly. Somehow, it never missed its mark. Perhaps these creatures had lived in the gloom so long that they had sharp senses even in the darkness.

At last, Frodo sensed that they were reaching the end of their climb. There was a bright light up ahead, but it was not at all inviting. Despite his exhaustion, there was something about it that made him want to flee back down the stairs again. Without thinking, he froze, shaking from fear of an unseen terror.

Someone shouted at him from behind and the lash of the whip followed, but instead of moving, he collapsed, crouching on the edge of a step. The fright had worsened. Something malevolent was approaching at a great speed. There was a dreadful long screech and Frodo cringed, covering his ears. He knew that noise too well; a Nazgûl was flying overhead.

After what seemed like an eternity, it became more distant, and slowly, that threat was gone, but there was still one ahead. Frodo had been snatched up again and was being hauled towards the ominous light. It was only a few steps away.

Soon, the stairs had ended and he found himself surrounded by a ghastly light. He sensed that he was very high up and close to a fell power. He was pushed to the ground, and the orc who had been carrying him spoke.

"The Halfling, my Lord," he hissed in a tone of frightened respect. "We have brought him to you, for he holds valuable secrets and has resisted our methods in the chambers below."

With that, the orc slunk back into the darkness of the staircase, watching from the top step. Trembling, Frodo slowly raised his head and immediately shrunk back in trepidation for high above, boring into him with nightmarish intensity and might was a great, flaming eye: The Eye of Sauron.

Despite how dreadful a thing it was, it held Frodo's gaze. It was like being trapped in a state of unreal horror. An awful voice spoke in his head, and he felt weak, unable to resist its command: "Tell me your purpose".

Some great evil seemed to be searching through him, and it felt as though it was tearing him to shreds in the process. Frodo had collapsed, writhing and convulsing. He was using all his will to fight back his thoughts about the Ring and his role as a Ring-bearer, but that was exactly what Sauron was looking for, and inevitably such information slipped out.

The hobbit curled up on the floor, whimpering softly. The voice was speaking to him again, cruel and harsh with growing rage, "You supposed that a useless Halfling could possibly defeat the Dark Lord? Fool!"

A new pain surged through Frodo as though he was being skinned alive. Above his own shrieks he heard the voice ask him "Who helped you? Who did you journey with?"

The burning, stinging agony worsened rapidly and Frodo felt his will to hide the truth drain from him rapidly. All logic and thoughts of consequences or duties were pushed from his mind. A sense of utter despair and desperation had seized him. The secrets of his mission were poured out in a mindless mess of weeping and anguished screams:

"No! Not alone… eight… a Company of nine… seeking to destroy it… began months ago to destroy it… from Rivendell… to Gondor… or Mordor… only six left… four hobbits… an elf… a dwarf… two men… one an heir… a descendent of kings…Strider… Aragorn!"

With that, Frodo shuddered and fell silent, sprawled on the floor. The dark power was slowly loosening its grip; awareness of the situation was returning and when it did, the realization of what had just spilled out was crushing.

Sauron knew it all now. He knew of the Fellowship, the plan to destroy the Ring and the living heir of Isildur, and it was all because the Ring-bearer had given in.

"You should have at least given up a better fight," Frodo thought to himself bitterly. "You could have at least attempted to withstand it longer. Why were you so weak? They would have endured it for you. Gandalf, Legolas, Aragorn…"

The mere thought of Aragorn exacerbated the already heavy feeling of guilt. He had healed the Ring-bearer's injuries and would have led him into Mordor if the need had come. What had Frodo done in return? He had given away this companion's name and identity to the Enemy, and along with it, he had likely throw away the hope of the remaining Company.

Even if he, by some inexplicable miracle, escaped Barad-dûr and, by another obscure wonder, met the Fellowship again, he doubted that he could ever face them or be forgiven. How would he ever be able to apologize, to explain that he had tried and lost the battle? It would be impossible. There were some things that could scar even the strongest bonds of friendship.

Someone had lifted him up, and once again, they descended the long, gloomy stairway. A little farther down, Frodo heard a new voice speaking in his head, not terrifying or malevolent like the earlier one, but certainly not comforting either. It sounded accusing and hurt. It slipped in and out of his thoughts, and Frodo could not decide whether or not it was real.

After what felt like another hour, pure darkness faded into dim lighting, and Frodo was thrown onto the floor. One of the orcs bent down and began the tie rough ropes around his arms. Frodo no longer had the energy to struggle against this.

When this was done, the ropes were uncomfortably tight, but he knew that that was barely anything compared to what he would soon be put through. Orcs never left their quarry untouched until the moment they slaughtered it.

Frodo felt the expected sting of the whip across his chest. Wincing, he curled up and hid his face. A series of lashes followed in quick secession, and the orcs howled with amusement. Frodo shut his eyes and told himself not to cry, for he would not add to his tormentor's sadistic pleasure, but eventually, the inevitable tears of pain came. He curled up more to hide them. He caught a glimpse of another saw-edged dagger and braced himself.

"Stop that for just a moment," came an authoritative voice. "I have instructions."

It was the same person whom Frodo had heard ask the orcs for him to be sent to the Eye. Slowly, he lifted his head a little to see a man, clothed in a deep red. He was gaunt and had eyes that were piercing and dark like a shadow. They reminded Frodo of the glare of some iniquitous beast.

"The Dark Lord requests that you keep the Halfling alive for now," said the man. His voice was a rasping growl.

"What for?" said one of the orcs in dismay.

"There is a reasonable amount of advantage that comes with keeping the former Ring-bearer here," continued the man. "Such significant things do not go unnoticed. The way I believe things are is that as long as our enemies know that the key to their chance of victory in this war is being held here, they will eventually risk invading Mordor. Once this happens, it will be much easier to slaughter many of them than if we sent a portion of our armies to their strongholds. Hope makes even the wisest act like fools."

The orcs grumbled in dismay, but did not protest.

"Furthermore," added the man, glancing at Frodo with an unpleasant smile. "I'm sure that the Halfling knows more than he's told us so far. Perhaps we just don't know what questions to ask at the moment. To assure that he lives to the time when we do know what to ask, I've been sent to heal some of the damage you did earlier. I'm not doing anything major, just something to stop the bleeding."

"Don't you go blaming us for any 'damage' we did on your orders, Hyarmur," growled one of the orcs. "It's not like you're not going to do any harm to the little maggot."

Hyarmur chuckled a little. "It's true that I may indulge myself in a bit of fun later, but nothing fatal. I'll guard him a bit for today. Tomorrow, you can take over and make him squeal as much as you want, as long as you don't kill him, but don't be too disappointed. There is still one more thing I'd like you to do right now. Although I doubt that the Halfling would be able to escape and go far if he had the chance, we can certainly avoid some complications if we make sure that he can't run at all, if you understand me."

Frodo heard shuffling, and saw a figure come forward. It was Gorghâsh carrying something that appeared to be very heavy. He lifted the object up with great strength and Frodo felt a crushing weight fall on his left leg. Several similar blows came after and he thought he heard a few cracks. A similar process was soon carried out on his right leg. He was screaming and squirming, but the orc holding him down was much stronger.

In the corner, Frodo saw Hyarmur watching with a cold, bored expression. After a few minutes, the man held up his hand and said, "I believe that shall do."

He sauntered over to Frodo and tested if he could stand on his own. Immediately, Frodo fell over his broken, throbbing legs with a yelp.

"Good," Hyarmur said to the orcs. "You may go now if you wish."

He bent over Frodo and took out a container of some thick, black liquid, which he applied roughly to the hobbit's bleeding wounds. It stung terribly and Frodo whimpered.

"Shut up," snapped Hyarmur. Frodo obeyed. He sensed that he had not yet seen how dangerous Hyarmur was entirely, but there was a definite air of hostility and ruthlessness about him.

The strange murmur that Frodo had heard on the stairway was creeping back now, growing louder and louder. He strained to make out the words it was saying and where it was coming from. There was something sickeningly familiar about it that he could not yet decipher. He was only brought back to reality when Hyarmur picked him up.

He walked a few feet before opening a cell door and dropping Frodo inside as if he were tossing away something of small value. The barred door was slammed shut with a clang that echoed through the lonely room. Instinctively, Frodo crawled to the corner, as quickly as his maimed legs could allow him, and lay there, cringing like an abused animal.

"Alright," said Hyarmur. "I don't want to hear any incessant whining or sobbing from you. You stay quiet or I'll come in there and give you a real reason to cry. Is that understood?"

Frodo gave a terrified nod and turned away against the wall. The mystic voice was returning for the third time. This time, it was clear. It uttered a single word to him:

"Explain."

Frodo looked around for the source of the voice. It seemed to be coming from outside his cell.

"Explain to us this betrayal," it said again.

Turning his gaze to the side a little, Frodo saw someone looking through the bars. He started in disbelief and horror for there stood Aragorn, son of Arathorn, but there was something strange about him.

It was the same face Frodo had left at Amon Hen to a certain extent, but now it was etched with deep sorrow. And the eyes! They were the most noticeable difference. No longer did they hold any amicable or concerned gleam. They were filled with icy, malicious disgust. When Aragorn spoke, his manner of speech was also much changed from what Frodo remembered.

"You left us, Frodo," he said. "You snuck off only to get yourself captured by the Enemy, and told him the crucial secrets. Explain."

Frodo found himself choking back tears.

"He… he hurt me terribly," he stammered. "He took hold of me, and I… I couldn't help but give in and –"

"So you sold us, because you simply could not endure the pain?" said Aragorn in a tone of upmost repulsion that Frodo had never heard before, or had ever imagined coming from his companion. "The Enemy is upon all of us now."

"Please understand," cried Frodo. "That's not how it was… not exactly at least…. Please forgive me!"

"It seems that you do not value aid and protection from others," Aragorn continued, ignoring Frodo. "So, we have decided you don't need our assistance anymore."

"No!" Frodo found himself begging. "Please, don't leave me here. Don't abandon me…"

"Did you not abandon the Company?" snapped Aragorn. "Did you not abandon the friend who followed you through your journey towards Mordor, the friend you ran away from in the night, chasing the Ring? You left him on the edge of the Black Land, alone. You left him to die."

Awful image of what would become of Sam flashed through Frodo's head. He seemed to hear his friend calling, "Mr. Frodo!" from a distance, followed by screaming and the delighted shrieks of orcs. He stared at Aragorn, who gave him one last uncaring look. Then, the Ranger seemed to fade into the shadows. Frodo was yelling, pleading over and over: "Don't leave me to the Enemy! Please, please forgive me!"

He didn't realize that he was speaking aloud and only stopped when he felt someone seize him and hit him hard across the face a few times.

"Who're you yapping for?" shouted Hyarmur. "There's no one there! Stop it!"

With that, he let go of Frodo, and left after giving a final hard kick exited the cell and shut the door again with an angry bang. Frodo retreated back to his corner and stared at where he had seen, or thought he had seen, Aragorn. There was nothing there now, but the earlier vision had been as clear to him as Hyarmur slouching against a nearby wall.

With a sigh, Frodo lay down on the hard, stone floor, but sleep was slow to come. Demonic faces seemed to be drifting around outside of his cell, each with a vague resemblance of someone from the Fellowship. Misty hands groped at the bars enclosing him. Frodo found it nearly impossible to determine their reality.

Exhaustion eventually overcame him, and when he awoke from a night troubled with similar apparitions, the line between truth and fantasy had nearly dissolved completely, like a memory forgotten after years of hardship.