CHAPTER SEVEN: Orthanc

There are few things in this world – or any world, really – that are more unpleasant than the deep, clanging boom of a door shutting you into some place you don't want to be.

One of those things is having this happen to you while you are bewildered, frightened, exhausted, covered in sticky black blood, and wearing the reeking garments of a monster that tried to kill you in what had formerly been your backyard.

Eicys was not having a good day.

She peered out at the world from beneath Murgash's old helmet, which covered her from the nape of her neck all the way to her eyebrows. The lower half of her face was covered by a thick layer of mud and oatmeal, and the rest of her body was covered by those bits of Murgash's clothing and armor that Eicys had been able to pull off his corpse before it was inhumed by a tree.

She had never felt more disgusting in her life. She trailed along just a little behind the gang of orcs, trying – unsuccessfully – to avoid any contact between her skin and her disguise, and keeping a careful eye on the curly copper supernova that was her sister's hair. It bobbed along just ahead… Eicys had to fight back a crazy impulse to dash forward, seize Cebu by the wrist, and run like mad. That wouldn't do anyone any good at all. She had to be patient. Patient and devious and invisible.

She edged along at the back of the group, now climbing the steps into Orthanc itself. Invisible, invisible, she repeated to herself.

"Oy, snaga!" a rough voice shouted at her. "Where d'yeh think yer goin'? Yer not allowed in the tower wivout a mark." The guard gestured at the White Hand painted on his helmet.

"But I have to – "

"Clear out," said the guard, "or I'll stick this spear fru yer neck an' hang yer head over the front gate."

The threat of a blade in the throat was far too close to recent events for Eicys' composure. She squeaked and stumbled back down the steps. But Cebu had hesitated in Orthanc's obsidian doorway, and now turned around. "Eicys?" she said disbelievingly, her eyes scanning the area and entirely missing her little sister.

"Cebu! Cebu, I – uh…" Eicys threw a glance at the suspicious-looking guard, and wisely shut her mouth. Pulling her helmet a little lower over her eyes, she watched the orcs herd Cebu into the tower with her friends, and then blundered back down the steps in a fog of disbelief and misery.

Now what?

LCLCLCLCLC

Once past the door-guards, the Immies were hustled into a bare stone room and made to sit on the floor. The orcs stood around in the corners, talking and laughing in their horrible language, and occasionally delivering a lewd or threatening comment in Common for the Immies' benefit. Dilly hunched up with her knees drawn into her chest, and glared at nothing. With every minute that passed, she grew more and more convinced that they were in deeper trouble than any of them knew how to get out of.

She wished Eredolyn would try to take things a bit more seriously, and also that she would stop staring at Elf and orcs alike with the same expression of pleased fascination. It seemed likely to elicit a rather violent reaction any minute now – and the orcs didn't like it much either.

These gloomy musings were interrupted by a sudden shriek, repeated banging noises, and cries of, "She's killed me! Th' filthy little strawhead – Get her away fr—" The yell cut off suddenly in a way that seemed ominous. It was replaced with more banging, then footsteps and a hoarse feminine voice, half-shouting, half-singing something indecipherable. The orcs exchanged unpleasant grins.

"Never knew why they don't jest kill that'n," said one. "Causes more trouble'n the rest of 'em combined." His companion shrugged. The sounds outside the room increased, with a deeper human voice mixed in, bawling furiously. It grew louder, and then the door opened with a bang, and a curious group burst through.

An orc was dragging a girl across the floor by her hair; she was twisting and fighting madly, and her blows landed on her captor's armor in a metallic cacophony. Behind the orc was a large and red-faced man, swearing violently and waving a roasting fork and landing the occasional kick. Just after him, another girl staggered in, whimpering, clutching her face and side: blood streamed from her nose and mouth, and she had two spectacular black eyes blooming across her face.

"…Here," the man panted, kicking the prone girl again: she snarled at him in – "I think that's Rohirric!" Eredolyn hissed gleefully. "She's from Rohan!" Eredolyn had an interest in the Mark that amounted almost to a fetish. And if blonde hair and stubborn defiance were the distinguishing features of an Eorling, this girl most definitely qualified.

"Y're goin' up t' see th' Master?" the sweating man asked one of the Immies' guards. It nodded. "Good – y' can take this horse-dung up with you, an' ask him if we're finally allowed t' kill her. I know we're short on drudges an' all, but all th' strawheads we catch are more trouble'n they're worth, an' this one's th' worst of th' lot."

The guards shrugged acquiescence, and the girl was kicked into the Immies' midst with a straightforward brutality that made even Eredolyn wince. She seemed about to say something, but Dilly elbowed her. The last thing they needed right now was heroics.

Unfortunately the Rohir didn't seem to agree. She rolled upright and lunged... and was kicked heavily in the stomach by an enormous orcish boot. She folded up noiselessly. Eredolyn glowered belligerently; even Tuima looked taken aback. The Immies scooted in around the girl, more appalled by the minute.

She shouldn't even be able to walk! was Dilly's first thought. She should be dead!

The Eorling was skin and bones. They had all probably used that phrase many times without really thinking about it, but they had never seen anyone to whom it was truly applicable until now. The girl's joints looked huge and knobbly on the ends of her emaciated limbs. She was dressed in a shapeless woolen dress, and her pale hair was pulled back into a messy braid. Blood trickled gently from a line of scratches across her face. She smelled of sweat and dirt and malnutrition.

"Nh," said the girl, getting her breath back. It was startling how her face transformed: one minute she looked like the poster-child for a campaign against poverty/abuse/famine, and the next the Immies were unconsciously backing away. This girl didn't need anyone feeling sorry for her. She'd take care of herself. Anyone who tried to mess with her would also be taken care of – probably with a knife.

"Hello," said Eredolyn. "What's your name?"

The Eorling stared. "Who are you?"

"Eredolyn," said Eredolyn. She was treated to a slow look, up and down, and apparently deemed non-threatening. "You're no Dunlending," the girl said shortly. "Where're you from?"

"Uhh…"

"Near Fangorn," said Dilly smoothly. "You?"

"The Westfold," she said, her voice clipped and rather strained. "Why are you dressed like that?"

The girls looked down at their jeans. "Practicality?" suggested Dilly.

"Huh." The Rohir plucked at her filthy smock. "Clever."

"Um, do you mind telling us what's going on? We don't really know what to expect..."

"Death, torture, or slavery, depending on how much you've annoyed him." Oblivious to the results this produced, the girl sucked absently at her bleeding knuckles, and grimaced with pain. "Ah, Bema," she swore softly. She took hold of one finger, set her teeth and screwed up her eyes.

"Stop," said Tuima abruptly. The girl looked up. "That's broken," Tuima said, pointing to her finger.

"I know. I'm putting it back in place."

"Valar above – Here, let me…"

"Hold on a minute – " the Rohir said sharply. "You – what are… You're one of the Firstborn! You're an Elf!"

"Thrilling, isn't it. Give me your hand."

The Eorling extended it warily. Tuima rubbed up and down the bones for a moment, feeling delicately for the break. There was a sudden, nasty popping noise. The girl gasped and yanked her hand back. "How did you do that? I didn't even see you…"

"Is there anything to splint it with?" Tuima asked serenely. A moment of consultation among the Immies produced a ballpoint pen from Eredolyn's pocket and a strip from Dilly's cuff. Tuima wrapped up the broken finger with cool professionalism.

"Thanks," said the Rohir at last, examining the ballpoint pen.

"Try not to punch anyone wearing armor again," was Tuima's only reply.

"Nah, I broke this hitting Drysi. But that's all right; I heard at least two of her ribs crack, so it's fair." She grinned a truly unpleasant grin.

The Immies exchanged glances of varying horror, bewilderment and excitement: Drysi was one of Saruman's servants in Coralie's unfinished story. "What did she do?" asked Eredolyn.

The girl's eyes flashed. "She's a spying, tale-bearing, snivelling little Dunlending wretch," she said.

"You did say Drysi, right?" asked Eredolyn.

"Yes."

"So… just by way of, you know, experimentation… do you know of a Lady Coralie?"

"Of course," said the Rohir. "She's been in the dungeons for a while now."

"Ha!" cried Eredolyn. "I was right! We are in a fanfic! We're in Lady Coralie's story! I knew this couldn't be the real Middle-earth. Things have been way too nice for us so far."

"Eredolyn," said Tuima, in a voice cold enough to explode the hearts of trees, "your friend Eicys is dead. Please explain to me how that constitutes nice."

"No," said Cebu: it was the first noise they'd heard from her yet. "Eicys is still alive. I heard her. Outside. She was calling me."

Tuima raised a skeptical eyebrow but said nothing. The rest of the time passed in silence – save for Eredolyn's attempts to get the Rohirric girl to talk about her homeland. But getting information out of the Rohir was about as easy as pulling a tooth from a crocodile; Eredolyn didn't manage to extract much beyond a name: Wulfrida-Limola Oloriel Raeda Eoricsdotter.

"Um," said Eredolyn, when the last syllables died away. "Do you have a nickname?"

Wulfrida-Limola Oloriel Raeda Eoricsdotter frowned and shook her head.

"What do your friends call you?" Eredolyn persisted.

The girl looked as though there was one basic assumption in that sentence that she didn't understand. Dilly reflected that a troublemaking Rohirric drudge would probably have a different definition of 'friend' from most people – probably something along the lines of 'an enemy I have not yet tried to kill.'

"Isn't there a short form of your name?" asked Eredolyn.

"I have been called Wilore by some of the lazier of tongue."

"That works," said Eredolyn, happily ignoring the 'lazy of tongue' bit. "Wilore it is. Oh, look, they're calling us in. Come on, guys! We get to see Saruman!" She bounced to her feet.

Wilore gave her a mistrustful look. "Is she mad?" she asked the Immies.

"No," said Dilly.

"Yes," said Tuima.

"She's just… a little bit overexcited," explained Cebu.

Eredolyn beamed at them. "What's not to be excited about? It'll be our first canon character! I wonder if he'll look like Christopher Lee…"

Dilly winced. Tuima rolled her eyes. Cebu looked concerned.

"She's mad," said Wilore flatly.

A/N: I just wanted to apologize to everyone for the weird repetition screwup in the last chapter. Thanks for pointing it out; all is fixed now! You guys are amazing. Seriously. Reviews are the fuel on which authors run... and they're a heckuvalot cheaper than the other kind of fuel. Urgh.

Save your pocketbooks! Review!

the Immies