~ At the Barad – dur ~

A sound more like a ghastly keening noise than a mere chortle echoed deafeningly in the grim torture chamber to replace Frodo’s heart wrenching shrill. The stupendous figure whose mocking laughter still filled the damp air in that wretched place loomed over the shackled form of Frodo. Sauron – as he still appeared, like the twisted Maia – unsheathed his extremely lengthy sword from its blood-sticky and flesh-torn case – Frodo’s ripped abdomen. Fresh, crimson liquid squirted in a sudden, rapid stream as the sword was withdrawn.

Completely unaware of what was coming off, Frodo twitched a little and then went stock-still. His lids were shut despite Sauron’s roaring screech; the agony was too much to bear. And once more did the Dark Lord offer his clamor as Frodo’s spilled blood that was previously pooling around and soaking the hobbit-spirit’s languid feet now was slowly drained. The dire creature lifted his weapon, brought it to his masked face, and sniffed it. He laughed wildly as he knew a spirit was not supposed to bleed. But if he, Sauron, desired it, bleed it would.

Another sniff. Another shrill. And a lithe tongue sneaked from behind the mask and licked the blood dripping from the edge of the sword. This hobbit was truly blessed in his youth. His blood smelled and tasted fresh and untarnished.

Sauron threw his hand holding the sword up, crying out a spell, and pointed the tip of it to the direction of the chains restraining Frodo. Swoosh! The chains disappeared at once and Frodo slid down bonelessly to the cold floor of his prison. And almost at the same time, the sword vanished into thin air.

It was not going alone, though. Deliberately, Sauron’s form seemed to melt away and evaporate, from his legs and up, until what remained of him was the sluggishly floating fog once again.

An almost inaudible intoning of another incantation, and a loud bang was heard at the door, followed by the squeal of the heavy door cracking open.

“You summon us, my Lord?” A hideous snicker accompanied the throaty voice of an orc. And the beast was not alone. Five or six more were pushing the first one to get inside the chamber. The terrified scream from Frodo some moments ago had clearly intrigued those lowly creatures, and now that their master had bid them to come, they cheerily answered the invitation. Other beings’ suffering was their daily diet, and they were starving now.

The fog hovered over Frodo’s unmoving form on the floor and an eerie sound resonated.

“Take him away and put him in the lowest dungeon. He is not dead yet, I remind you, so beware of any attempt to flee. Do not let any light enter the cell and do not feed him anything. He is not made to eat anything, I assure you!” The sound turned to a low, deep chuckle. “as he is not flesh and blood, unlike you all. Now carry on!”

The two biggest, brutish orcs trotted forward and each took Frodo by the upper arms, and started dragging the hobbit away. Frodo’s head lolled to the front, curly locks – those that were not glued to his sweaty brow and temples – helplessly swaying as a cold breeze blew once they stepped out of the horrid place

The orcs hauled Frodo carelessly and stepped fast down the many stairs and coarse ground, without even bothering to ask the others to take Frodo’s legs so as to avoid dragging him.

The fog did not say anything about the manner of taking Frodo to the dungeon, so on the orcs went, two pulling Frodo along the way and the others following closely. They catcalled wildly especially when they caught Frodo’s miserable groans as he felt his chest and stomach scrape roughly and painfully at the elevated stairs, his body bouncing helpelessly. Soon Frodo’s shirt, already badly torn, was nothing but tatters and so were his breeches. Lines of blood soon sprang anew.

***

~ At the Prancing Pony ~

.What was so terrible about this shiny little piece of jewelry? Sam mused, staring blankly at the thing on his open palm. Sam had felt nothing but peace ever since Strider shoved it in his hands.

“Can’t put the daisies there, lad. They will burn under the sun,” his Gaffer poked softly at the back of Sam’s bent shoulder. The boy was squatting down, grinning a little. He had never intended to leave the plants there, but he would not talk back to his gentle, old da. His father might be aged, yet it was undeniable that he knew almost everything about plants and each of their needs. The old Gamgee had it at his fingertips when crocuses were ready to bloom and when daffodils needed more compost. Sam learned a lot from his old man for that – and many other things – Sam loved him with all his heart.

Sam sucked in the fresh, unblemished air into his lungs, the smell of dewy, morning grass, and the fragrance of roses and wild mimosa that were growing unevenly along the outer side of Mr. Bilbo’s hedges.

Sam’s eyes wandered around Bag End’s backyard, all green on the soil bed with sparkles of violet, crimson, and grayish colors. He need not own it all. It sufficed him just to…

“Sam.”

The young gardener blinked. The air stirred. Pippin and Merry turned to Sam questioningly. Oh, don’t bother. Sam heard another voice calling on him.

Sam drank in the bright light of the sun warming his tanned skin and neck. Sweat started to drip but Sam did not mind as all just gave him the feeling of being hale and hearty. Everything was so perfect…

“Sam, Sam!” A hand latched onto his shoulder and shook him briskly. Sam blinked again and looked up from his outstretched hand. Strider. The halfling drew ragged breaths and he suddenly felt restless.

“Strider,” Sam huffed. “There is no need for us to stay here any longer, what with all the sufferings of Mr. Frodo. We should get back to the Shire. All of us. We will be safe there. And the Ring will be safe as well.”

Even if in that very moment a herd of Ringwraiths stormed into their room, Strider would not be as baffled as he was to hear Sam’s suggestions. Though Sam’s words rung with pure concern, the last sentence totally nonplussed the ranger. He turned on his guard instinctively.

“Halfling,” called Strider in cautious tone. “I can see how you it pains you to witness your master’s agony. But forget not that it is the Ring that has caused this. Compose yourself, Sam, and try to see it with your clearest mind. We’re not going to be safe in the Shire and neither is the Ring. Help me, Sam. Help Frodo! Bear It ‘till he is strong enough to carry It again. Be strong yourself and ward off any temptation that might befall upon you …” Strider locked Sam in his gaze, his hands sliding down to Sam’s closing the hobbit’s hand over the Ring. “…by the Ring. I believe in you, Sam.”

Strider had indeed a strong trust toward the gardener. He had seen in Sam’s eyes the determination to protect Frodo from anything, even if that became a weakness that the Ring could try to twist.

Sam was silenced. And all of a sudden, all the voices and visions that had been poisoning his mind were slowly dissipated. Sam gaped at Strider in confusion, looking down at his fisted palm, and whipped his head to his left, catching frightened gazes from Frodo’s two young cousins. Then his eyes swept down to Frodo’s bound form, lax and limp.

Sam dazedly faced Strider again.

“I don’t know how he can stand it for so long, Strider,” he said faintly. “Yet I know Mr. Frodo has always been so strong.” He sighed. “Will he be all right?”

A vague smile appeared on the ranger’s lips amidst the scruff of his face.

“He will live, Sam.” Strider’s voice was gentle. “Though he’s in terrible pain. Now I need your help.” Sam nodded, slipping the Ring into his breast pocket absently.

“Anything, Strider.”

From the corner of his eyes, Sam saw how Merry and Pippin relaxed their tense muscles. Sam’s heart heaved in remorse. He had frightened them. He hoped they could forget what had happened, and forgive him.

Strider tapped Sam lightly on his back.

“I need you to boil some water with these.” The ranger handed over a small bunch of leaves. “This is athelas and it can relieve pain. Hopefully it can help with Frodo’s.”

***

~ At Orthanc ~

“They will find the Ring… and kill the one who carries it.”

Gandalf gasped at the former-mentor-turned-traitor. A name came to him and fear seeped into his heart, making him shiver.

“Frodo!” he panted. A flash of vision blared through his mind.

“Aaahh!!”

“You cannot hide! I see you!”

“No!”

“Silence!”

“Welcome to Barad-dur!”

A frown formed across Gandalf’s brow. What was that supposed to mean? Had Sauron taken Frodo? This early? How? Unfortunately the wizard was not given time to ponder the thought too long. He had another ill business to deal with.

Gandalf fixed his eyes on Saruman behind his half-closed lids. He wondered how someone with this already high power could still hunger for more —So much so that he was willing to sell himself to the forces of Evil, and to help Sauron resume his dark sovereignty over Middle Earth.

Gandalf knew it was inevitable that he do whatever he could to fight against it even if he had to pay it with his life. Gandalf’s eyes were still locked with Saruman’s with wrath and careful calculation. Would he be fast enough to flee? They grey wizard turned around and, as if he was slowed down by some kind of a strange force, he felt the looming entrance to the outside world seem like a hundred leagues away. And what Gandalf was afraid of turned to reality.

The door slammed shut with its might, something that could only be made possible by the help of Saruman’s twisted supernatural ability.

“No! Frodo! I must save Frodo,” whispered Gandalf in a baleful tone.

A roar of laughter came out of Saruman’s sinister mouth. Gandalf’s head jerked back.

“Tell me, friend, when did Saruman the wise abandon reason for madness?!”

And so started the battle between the two wizards, --a battle that became unequal the second that Saruman ripped the staff from Gandalf’s hand.

***

~ At the Prancing Pony ~

Merry and Pippin helped straighten Frodo to an upright position after fixing a soft bolster behind the unconscious hobbit to lessen the discomfort caused by the knots of his bonds biting into his writsts. Frodo puffed a little, resting his head exhaustedly on the bed’s headboard. Sam came with a small bowl of boiled athelas water. He put it carefully on the side table and sat himself next to Frodo.

The mattress dipped a bit as Sam bent down. Still, there was no sign of recognition from his beloved master. Sam leant forward and stroke Frodo’s cheek tenderly, brushing small curls off his sweat-soaked forehead. Frodo’s eyelids finally twitched and he leaned into the touch.

“Yes, Mr. Frodo,” choked Sam. “It’s me, your Sam. Please wake up. Don’t leave us in a fright like this. We don’t want to lose you, Frodo.” But that was it. As Frodo was still not waking, Sam patted the cheek again, a little harder this time. Still no sign of wakefulness. Another harder tap and another and another. In the end, Sam practically slapped Frodo on both cheeks. But his master neither flinched nor opened his eyes.

Sam turned to Strider in despair, tears brimming in each corner of his reddened eyes.

“He won’t respond,” wailed Sam pathetically. Strider came over, sitting at Frodo’s other side.

“Hush now, Sam. In that case we should try to get the water inside without his help. We need not awaken him. Come now. I’ll open his mouth and you pour in the liquid.”

TBC

AN: All reviews are treasured!