Author's Note: Hello, people. First of all, thank you to all of my reviewers. Reviews are always greatly appreciated unless they are flames. Secondly, I would like to note something about this chapter. My Elvish OC will be introduced in this chapter. I actually got the idea for this character and her involvement in this story shortly after I became a Lord of the Rings fan. I am aware of the fact that there are many other Elvish OCs on , however, I can tell you that this is not the typical OC elf. I did base her name on my name translated into Elvish and I know that it may be spelled similarly to Elrond's wife's name although the pronunciation is different. I did not intend for this to happen, it just turned out that way. (I have a friend who's name translated into Elvish is Galädriel so it's basically coincidence.)

I used a Sindarin dictionary for some of the phrases, although I'm not sure whether it translates into a dialect of Sindarin like some do.

Sorry if this chapter kind of sucks.

Chapter Warning: Violence (I'm not going to put warnings about angst since it's basically expected)

Chapter 3

The Maiden of the Mornedhil

The essence of time was hardly present in the "Pits" of Barad-dûr. Sunlight did not reach them, as they were halfway underground. Even if this was not the case, the sun did not shine brightly in Mordor; it was merely a blazing orb in the sky, bringing heat and discomfort. So, the beginning and end of a new day was barely felt in this dungeon.

The only way Frodo had been able to estimate how long he had been imprisoned was by watching who was guarding his cell. This tended to alternate between various orcs, Hyarmur, and a few other men in the service of Sauron. All of them were equally callous. Frodo knew well that the term "guarding" was merely used as an excuse for them to reap more joy from hurting him; there was no one else in the Pits to torment, so it was all focused on Frodo. Eventually, he stopped keeping track of time entirely, for there seemed to be no point in doing so anymore.

Now, although he wasn't aware of it, was the twentieth day of imprisonment. Frodo was pressed up against the back corner of his cell. It was the hardest place for the guards to reach him and some of the men often decided that the thrill of seeing him squirm in pain was not worth struggling to drag him out. So, that small corner in the shadows had come to hold the miniscule sense of security that Barad-dûr could possibly contain.

The orcs who had been sent to monitor Frodo had satisfied their cruelty enough for the next hour. They had used up the methods of inflicting pain that had been deemed "not fatal" by their superiors, and were now slumped outside, talking quietly in forms of the Black Speech amongst themselves. This was a relief. Frodo had already gotten a number of new bruises from them earlier that day.

He felt, strangely enough, freezing (this was, of course, cynically ironic as he was in the "Land of Fire and Shadow"). The fact that he barely had any clothes or anything to keep him warm did not help at all. His muscles were sore from the chill running throughout him. It had started soon after his arrival at the Dark Tower and grew more severe with every day, weakening him even more.

There was the shuffling of feet outside and Frodo knew that new guards had come. The door creaked open and he flinched at the sound. A young man came over and snatched Frodo off the ground, partially by the hair, but nearly dropped him a moment later. To the hobbit's surprise, the guard shook his head and hurried off. The door closed behind him.

This, however did not ease Frodo's fear at all. He knew that the guard would return, perhaps with a new method of torture. Barad-dûr, after all, contained a myriad of ways to make its captives suffer and he doubted that he had seen half of them. He waited until he heard voices coming down the stairway.

"What's the matter?" came the distinct, hoarse voice of Hyarmur.

"I think the Halfling's ill," answered another man. "Feels like he's got a burning fever. Thought I ought to ask you, saying that you're always dealing with these sort of things."

The voices grew closer and the cell door was flung open once more. Frodo heard heavy breathing as someone knelt down next to him and pressed their hand against his forehead. After further examination, Hyarmur stood up and turned to the other man.

"It appears that you were right," he growled. "He's probably got some nasty diseases. Just give him a dose of something…"

"Waste of medicine," muttered the other guard. "I still don't see why he's worth keeping alive. He's useless, really. Useless and troublesome! We haven't gotten anything else out of him lately, but we still have to keep him fed and healthy."

That last statement was almost humorous in its inaccuracy. Every day, one of the guards would bring Frodo water, but they gave him no food. Hunger was not unfamiliar, especially not after the trek to Mordor, but he had never been this famished. The hunger pains mixed with the aching from his legs and open wounds were excruciating, but he had learned that at times it was better to starve for another day than to try to take food from the guards.

(This had come about on his eighth day at Barad-dûr, when a pair of men had come to watch him. Frodo supposed that they had gotten bored and of course, the best form of entertainment had been to offer him a morsel of food and kick him hard below the ribs when he, against better judgment, came out to take it. He had sworn to himself that he would not fall for that foolish trick again.

The same lesson had been dealt out in another way a few days later. This time, Hyarmur had been guarding Frodo, and had dropped a burnt piece of bread next to the prison door. It had barely been a mouthful and it was within reach, even with bound hands. Frodo had assumed that it was unwanted. That much had been true, but that hadn't prevented him from getting a swollen eye when he tried to grab it.)

"Are you contradicting the Dark Lord's orders?" said Hyarmur; there was a definite change of tone and volume in his voice. "If the Dark Lord wants him kept alive, that's what we aim for!"

"Are you sure we shouldn't fetch her instead?" asked the other guard.

"Who?" said Hyarmur.

"I believe you know who I'm talking about," was the reply. "Don't act as though you don't. She knows methods that could work very well in this situation."

"No!" Hyarmur shouted. "We cannot trust her with the Halfling. Pity will get the better of her. All we need to do is get his fever to go down, then it'll be like it never happened. She doesn't need to get involved in this two. Hasn't she already gotten unnecessarily involved in enough things here? Now, go get that medicine!"

The other man left and returned a short while later with a small bottle of a murky liquid. Hyarmur snatched it from him and sat down next to Frodo, who immediately recoiled when the bottle was opened; the odor of its contents was utterly repugnant.

"Take it, rat," said Hyarmur. "Stop being difficult!"

Frodo felt hands grope at his face in the darkness and pinch his nose so that he couldn't breathe. The foul medicine (if that was what it really was) was forced down the moment he gasped for air. It seemed to scald his throat and made him want to gag, but he was forced to swallow. The first thought that came to mind was, "I hope it wasn't poison", for the guard who had brought it certainly believed Frodo deserved to die.

The men had now left and were going back upstairs. Shivering, Frodo inched back against the wall. He closed his eyes and began to wonder what had made Hyarmur and the other men who were servants of Sauron so malicious. Surely they had not always been iniquitous. Brutality was intrinsic for some of the wicked creatures of the world, like orcs, but not to men…

But Frodo did not ponder the subject further. There wasn't much point in ruminating these matters anymore. What did any of this matter when there was no future outside of this nightmare? He dozed off while he still had the chance to rest; a new guard would be coming soon.

Frodo dreamt of a meadow by a small forest far away. There was a little creek that created a very placid sort of music when its trickling mixed with the bird's chirping. Apart from this, he heard voices calling to each other. There were two hobbit children running around, laughing about an imaginary adventure.

"Now that we have to go to Rivendell," said one. "And await further instruction from…"

"Where?" asked another, who appeared to be a little younger.

"It's an elf-city and it's ruled by Lord Elrond," answered the first. "Bilbo told me."

"How does he know?" asked the second.

"He went there before," said the older. "He travelled there and many other places on an adventure once. There were dwarves and elves and trolls… he told me a story about the trolls fairly recently, Merry. There were three…"

The little hobbit went off into a tale that was rather familiar to Frodo. As a matter of fact the whole dream was very familiar, like a memory. Perhaps that was what it was. He could tell that one of the hobbits was indeed his younger self. The other, he felt like he should remember; he knew that this person had played a role somewhere in the lost past.

There was also something about the meadow and the woods. Although, he could not recall a name for this haven, he knew somehow that it was real. He had been there before, but the memories of its joy had been washed away by the present anguish of life. It was all a riddle that he was unable to discern.

A few hours later, he would awake to distant shouts and the shriek of a Nazgûl overhead, and the fear would replace any joy from his subconscious fantasy. His heart would be filled once again with the sinking feeling that even if that peaceful place in his dreams did exist, it was lost now. If he had been there once, he would not live to return to it.

Despite daily doses of medicine, the disease continued to rapidly drain Frodo's strength in the week that followed. The guards would still come of course, but he could no longer show even the slightest bit of resistance. He could do nothing but wince and shrink back when they hit him.

He was given extremely meager amounts of food perhaps every other day. Hyarmur hadn't made an effort to order the other men to give any more, for he did not believe that the illness was caused by lack of nourishment. Frodo wasn't sure what would kill him first: sickness or starvation.

Yes, he had unwillingly accepted the fact that he would soon be dead. Many people would not find this a horrid fate at all if put under the same circumstances; they would see death as the only form of freedom. Frodo certainly did not want to remain at Barad-dûr any longer, but he did not wish for death. He still wanted to cling on to the quixotic hope of being rescued.

He had been there for twenty five days, precisely). Hyarmur was growing increasingly frustrated with some matters of war concerning Gondor. This was of course was made worse by the fact that all of his methods of healing had not cured Frodo's illness at all. For Frodo, Hyarmur's rage meant extra beatings. It was an even more miserable morning due to this.

Frodo was trying to ignore the sore bruises and get a bit more sleep. He had retreated back to his corner. Hyarmur had satisfied his anger a little and was leaning against the wall outside of the cell when he suddenly got up. He went to the entrance to the stairway, and yelled, "What are you here for?"

"To heal," came a voice Frodo had never heard.

"Who told you that you were needed here?" barked Hyarmur.

"I was ordered to come here by the only one I do take orders from here," was the answer. "You have no power to tell me otherwise."

Frodo lifted his head a little and squinted to see a slim, tall figure come down the steps. It stood next to Hyarmur.

"You can leave now," came the figure's voice and Frodo could tell that this person was female. "I do work better when I am alone with the one I must cure."

Hyarmur paused before saying, "I have been charged with keeping and monitoring the prisoners we have here. You cannot just tell me to leave."

"You cannot deny authority merely because you disagree with it," was the reply, still calm but threatening at the same time.

There was a long sigh. Then, Hyarmur said, "Tell me what you plan to do."

"That is not of your concern," said the other person. "But to assure you that I do not do anything that I have not been given power to do, here is my simple task: Cure the Halfling and perhaps give him a bit of food, perhaps for the next few days. I know what you fear, but you do not need to worry. I have not been given permission to remove your marks of sadism, nor have I been given permission to free him or fully heal his injuries in any way. I was also instructed not to touch the broken limbs. If that is enough of reassurance for you, it would be rather helpful if you would go."

Hyarmur hesitated, contemplating whether to argue further, but decided against it and then made his way up the staircase, slowly and reluctantly, muttering curses under his breath. The tall figure sighed and turned to the cell. Frodo heard a creak followed by light and swift footsteps. He looked up at who he assumed was a new tormentor. For a moment he did not believe what he saw, as it was now so hard to distinguish what to believe, but he soon decided that this was not another hallucination sparked by the madness of a tortured mind.

Standing in the darkness, there was a female elf. She was wearing a black cloak and had long braids of dark hair. Her face was like that of all elves, untouched by physical aging, but etched with the marks of many years of thought. Slung around her arm was what appeared to be an arrow-sheath.

At first, a sudden relief came over Frodo, but it faded quickly when he remembered that he could not expect mercy from anyone in this horrid place. The men who plagued him every morning did not look particularly malevolent, but they were still monsters, weren't they? There was no reason that an elf could not decide to be cruel towards him. Anyone who could serve the Dark Lord would not be above harming a defenseless, sick hobbit. Anyone who could serve the Dark Lord was someone to be afraid of.

Keeping this in mind, Frodo turned away from the elf, and awaited whatever pain would soon come. Why couldn't they just leave him to die? He didn't think he could possibly tolerate much more of it without losing the last, tiny remains of sanity he still possessed. As distress engulfed him once more, and the tears of sorrow began to slip down his face again, four words slipped out in a pathetic, pleading whisper:

"Please, don't hurt me."

Frodo didn't know what good he had expected that to do, but he hadn't been thinking when he spoke. If it had been another guard, he probably would have been kicked for talking. He cringed and whimpered a little, anticipating a blow, but the elf did nothing of the sort. She kneeled down next to him and said, "Hush, I don't come here to harm you, nor will I ever do so."

She rested a hand on Frodo's arm. He flinched at the touch, but then relaxed a little after realizing its unfamiliar gentleness. Nonetheless, he was still weary of this elf who was now muttering phrases in her own tongue. Finally, when she felt that Frodo had calmed down a little, she asked, "Tell, me your name, child."

"Frodo Baggins," Frodo said in a nearly inaudible murmur.

The elf nodded and said, "You ought to know what to call me. I am Célebriän, descendent of the elves of Nargothrond. That is my true name, although I have obtained many others throughout the years. 'Dark Elf' they called me. 'The Maiden of the Mornedhil.' Not entirely untrue, but not true in the way they think it is."

Célebriän stopped and muttered something to herself, as if she was contemplating events of the past. She dropped her arrow-sheath onto the floor, but there were no arrows in it. Instead, it appeared to function as a bag. The elf drew out two small containers, one with a clear liquid and one with a white powder.

While she was mixing these things together, Frodo smelled the mouth-watering scent of warm bread emanating from the bottom of the arrow-sheath. He was reminded of how famished he was. Célebriän poured the substance she'd made into a little cup and held it to his mouth.

"Drink this," she said. "It will help you. Then, you may have something to eat. To think those fools are surprised to find that you are ill when they've starved you half to death like this!"

Frodo drank this new medicine without a struggle. It tasted very bitter, but not half as bad as what the guards had used. His previous decision to not give into trust had faded away rapidly for one simple reason: He was desperate for comfort. He couldn't stand that feeling of being so unwanted and uncared for. He didn't want to die like that.

Célebriän was speaking to him tenderly, cradling his head like you would a small child. A few weeks ago, Frodo wouldn't have allowed this. He wouldn't have tolerated being coddled as though he wasn't even a tween yet. (Elves indeed often considered those of the mortal races youngsters, a habit that resulted from a myriad of years of life throughout the ages.) But now, the suffering of Barad-dûr and the weeks of being treated like a worthless animal had washed away all dignity and pride. He was grateful for any kindness here.

"I'm sorry, but I cannot do very much for your injuries," Célebriän whispered. "I am here for… very specific duties, one might say."

She reached into the arrow-sheath and took out a piece of bread, which Frodo eyed longingly. The elf tore off a piece and gave it to him. As simple as this food was, it was absolutely delicious to Frodo. The last "meal" he'd been given had been nearly two days ago, and had consisted of a bit of stale crust.

"Eat," Célebriän said. "But eat slowly or you will make yourself sick. I'll give you more later."

Frodo nodded and muttered, hoarsely, "Thank you."

Célebriän smiled at first, but then shook her head and said, "You wouldn't be thanking me if you knew my past. There are indeed plenty of regrettable things in that story, but I am indeed trying to redeem myself…"

She paused and listened, for far away she could hear the sound of orcs growling as they set off to new posts. Frodo only heard this when the orcs got closer to the walls of Barad-dûr. Memories of their malice flooded back to him, making him shudder. Célebriän murmured something that Frodo could not understand before turning back to him.

"You need not be afraid for now," she said. "I may not always be able to be here even though I'll come as much as I can, but when I am with you, they shall not bring further harm to you. That, I can promise you. Things are going to be different this time."

Frodo didn't quite understand her last sentence, but it seemed that Célebriän had been talking to herself again. She stayed with him for the rest of the day, during the end of which, he nodded off. He didn't feel all that much safer. No words of reassurance could ever make him feel truly safe in this cursed place, but for the first time in weeks, he did not feel utterly alone and that was a blessing.