Boromir was uncertain whether it was the firelight or the noise that woke him. Perhaps it had been both.
Whatever the case, he found himself gradually awakening until he was fully alert and wishing that he had been able to remain unconscious.
His whole body ached. It felt as though someone had lit a fire inside of his head. His hand—the one that the Orc had injured—was throbbing.
The poison…is already coursing through…my blood… Boromir thought dimly, opening his eyes.
He closed them again a moment later. There was a real fire burning somewhere near him, and it hurt his eyes. He could not feel the heat, so he assumed that it was, at the very least, a few yards away.
The noise he had heard was the Orcs. It appeared that they were arguing yet again; however, this time they spoke in the Black Speech, and Boromir could not understand them.
Almost hesitantly, Boromir opened his eyes again and turned his gaze in the direction of the Orcs.
Sure enough, there were the three Orcs. They were crowded around a fire, growling angrily amongst themselves.
For a moment, Boromir felt a flash of horror. Had they caught Alcarin? Had they killed the stallion? What if the Orcs were now…
No. They had not killed Alcarin. Besides, even if they had, the fire was too small to sufficiently…
Boromir decided to stop his thoughts there.
One of the Orcs shifted position, and he could finally see what they were fighting over. He felt a faint sense of relief.
They did not hold meat in their hands. Instead, they held Boromir's black leather tabard, as well as his tunic and chain mail shirt. Apparently, they were trying to decide who would receive which item.
That explains why I feel so cold, despite the fire… Boromir thought, flicking his eyes downward to glance at his exposed torso.
Gingerly, Boromir attempted to sit up. Much to his chagrin, his hands were bound in front of him, making it extremely complicated to move without falling.
To make matters worse—if that was even possible—the soft thud of Boromir's body hitting the cold ground again alerted one of the Orcs that he was awake.
"Finally awake, eh?" rasped one of the Orcs, slowly standing up. "Took you long enough. It's been dark for over four hours now!"
Boromir gave the Orc no answer. Instead, he tried to sit up again. He managed to brace his back against the wall and use it as leverage to push himself into an upright position.
His pleasure was short-lived. As soon as he sat up, the Orc arrived and kicked him in the ribcage. Boromir hit the ground yet again.
Raucous laughs sounded from the two Orcs still by the fire. The monster in front of Boromir reached down. Without showing any sign of strain, the Orc grabbed Boromir by the upper arms and hoisted him up, slamming him against the wall.
Boromir winced as his already-aching head collided with the stone wall of the cave, but refused to make a sound. He would not give these creatures the satisfaction of knowing they were causing him pain.
"Trying to escape, were ya?" growled the Orc, roughly shoving Boromir against the stone wall again. "Why? Is there something important you need to do? Or do you just not enjoy our company?" He drew one hand back and brought it forward again, viciously striking Boromir across the face.
There were more laughs from the other Orcs, and one of them shouted, "Hurt 'im, Shazta!"
Shazta. So that was the lead Orc's name.
"Answer me!" snarled Shazta, grabbing Boromir's left hand—the one still bandaged from the run-in with the Warg—in a crushing grip.
Boromir bit back a cry of pain as he felt one of the gashes on his hand reopen, seeping blood through the already stained bandages. He knew not why, but he suddenly felt as though he could not tell the Orcs that he was journeying towards Rivendell.
Shazta slammed him against the stone wall again. Boromir was certain he felt something inside of him snap or crack…
He braced himself to be shoved against the wall once again. Instead, Shazta surprised him by yanking him forward and throwing him to the ground.
Boromir tried to keep his balance, but to no avail. He fell down hard, jarring his head against a stone. This time, he could not keep back a low groan of pain.
At this, the Orcs laughed.
Boromir felt a flash of rage at the sound of their taunts. Blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear his head, Boromir pulled his legs underneath his body and staggered to his feet.
It was much more complicated than he expected to stand up without any help from his hands. His knees nearly buckled in the process.
If—when—I return to Minas Tirith, I must exercise my leg muscles more often, Boromir decided. Then he was surprised that he had actually thought something out clearly. His mind was hazy, and most of his thoughts were broken and faint.
Shazta stalked towards him. Boromir tensed, waiting for another blow and feeling unbearably helpless to defend himself.
Surprisingly, Shazta reached out and, with a swift motion, cut the ropes away from Boromir's wrists.
Boromir glanced distrustfully at the Orcs, knowing that no good could come of this supposed 'act of kindness'. Nonetheless, he took advantage of the moment and rubbed at his sore, chafed wrists. He noted that his hands were trembling slightly.
Another aftereffect of the poison, I assume… Boromir thought gravely, cringing as the blood started circulating in his wrists again, causing them to throb.
"Right, then," Shazta remarked. "This ought to be fun." He smirked at Boromir. "We're gonna play a little game."
A wave of uneasiness rose up inside of Boromir, but he forced himself to meet Shazta's gaze steadily. 'Fun' almost certainly meant 'fun for the Orcs'-definitely not 'fun' for Boromir.
"The best thing is, this game has no rules," Shazta continued. A malicious grin began to spread across his hideous face. "The one fact that might be thought of as a rule is that weapons are not allowed."
Boromir stared at Shazta blankly. His mind was clouding over—no doubt an effect of the Orc poison—and it was taking increasingly longer for words to register in his head.
"Do I have to explain it even more?" growled Shazta. "All right, what's the best way to say this…we are going to have a little bout of hand-to-hand combat." The malevolent sneer on his face grew ever wider.
Slowly, Boromir began to comprehend what Shazta was saying. And then a horrible feeling of helplessness washed over him.
It was impossible! Shazta would beat him to a pulp. The odds were not fair at all—Boromir was tired and weak from the poison running through his veins, as well as injured. Shazta appeared to be (and probably was) healthy.
Boromir pushed down all of the reluctance and increasing terror that he felt. I am a son of Gondor. I will not show fear; certainly not to these brutes.
Shazta clapped his hands once. "Let's begin, shall we?" There was a dangerous glint in his yellow eyes.
Boromir's muscles tensed. He kept his eye on Shazta. Perhaps he could use his smaller size as an advantage against the Orc…but he had to wait for the right time.
Boromir nearly laughed at how ironic the statement was. 'Time'…someone who was stricken by Orc poison hardly had any 'time'. Certainly not enough time to defeat the said Orcs.
Shazta was circling Boromir. Boromir turned slowly in order to keep his gaze on the Orc.
Without any hint or warning, Shazta lunged, his fists raised. Boromir managed to dodge the attack, nearly toppling over as a blaze of pain lanced up his spine and into his skull.
He turned to face Shazta again. If the Orc had looked angry before, he now looked absolutely irate. It did not help that his comrades were laughing uproariously in the background, amused that the injured Man had evaded Shazta.
Shazta moved forward. Now he was going slower, as though he thought that if he got closer it would be harder for Boromir to dodge his next attack.
Boromir retreated at the same speed as Shazta advanced. He wanted desperately to back away faster, but he was in danger of stumbling as it was.
Shazta suddenly ran forward yet again. Boromir did not have enough time to sidestep the second attack, and Shazta almost instantly had him pinned to the ground. Boromir fought to get out from underneath the Orc.
A fist slammed into Boromir's face again and again, until he wondered whether it would be easier just to give up his feeble struggles to escape. Whether it would be easier to just succumb to the darkness that was creeping along the edges of his vision.
No. Boromir, Son of Denethor the Steward of Gondor was not going to let a mere Orc destroy him.
With a sudden surge of adrenaline and strength, Boromir lunged against Shazta's hold. Startled, the Orc faltered slightly. Boromir wriggled out from underneath him and staggered to his feet.
The other two Orcs continued laughing, even moreso now that their leader had apparently been bested yet again by a Man.
Shazta scowled, and murder shone in his eyes.
Boromir realized that, if he was going to have any chance of surviving, he would have to take the offensive.
With a shouted challenge, Boromir launched himself forward.
Shazta, who had certainly not expected Boromir to attack, was caught unawares and fell to the ground, with Boromir on top of him.
Boromir, still pinning the Orc down, stretched out his right hand and picked up a rock. He did not have stiff leather gauntlets on like Shazta did; therefore, it would be harder to do damage.
Shazta let out a roar and launched himself forward, throwing Boromir off. Boromir skidded across the stony ground and hit the wall. He could feel blood streaming down his face; he knew some of it came from a cut across his forehead, and some from his mouth, where two teeth had been dislodged.
But the rock was in his hand. Maybe he had a chance now.
Shazta stalked forward. He swooped down, grabbed Boromir's right hand—the one that continued to bleed through his makeshift bandages—and dragged him to his feet.
Boromir took the chance and brought the hand with the rock in it down hard on Shazta's head. Instantly, a flash of pain shot through Boromir's wrist—he had forgotten how notoriously hard Orc skulls were.
However, it seemed to have affected Shazta as well. The Orc stumbled backwards with a howl, clutching at his head.
Boromir kept the rock in his grip, breathing hard. I cannot keep this up for much longer…
With an enraged roar, Shazta staggered to his feet. The other two Orcs continued to cheer their leader on.
But Shazta was done toying with his prey. He snarled something in the Black Speech, and his comrades got to their feet, muttering under their breath.
Boromir retreated until he was pressed up against the wall again. The cold stone pressed into his back.
When the three Orcs reached him, he made one last desperate attempt to escape. He ran forward, trying to duck past his foes. Not the cleverest maneuver, but it was his only option.
It didn't work. One of the Orcs grabbed Boromir by the shoulder, then kneed him in the abdomen and threw him down.
Doubled over in pain and coughing uncontrollably, Boromir wondered why it had to be him of all people that would be captured by these sadistic creatures. It was humiliating.
Suddenly, a fiery blast of agony shot through his head and neck, and everything went black.