~ The House of Healing, Rivendell ~

Sam shivered as he took in the sight of Frodo’s dejected and hopeless gaze while at the same time he remembered how the same pair of eyes had been staring at him lifelessly, but with something evil stirring behind them. They’re not completely different, are they, Samwise, the gardener muttered to himself. No, not at all. And the feeling that Sam had was not different either. He still longed to reach for that shaking body and rock Frodo into sleep and whisper to that sweet master of his that everything would be just fine.

Oh – and perhaps to return to Frodo the thing Sam had had too long in his keeping. The Ring.

Sam felt his own body to go rigid at the thought. Might he have been party to all the torments that Frodo had to suffer? Had Aragorn’s decision to give the Ring to him to keep worsened Frodo’s condition? Despite Sam’s sudden reluctance to give the Ring back to Frodo, he felt perfectly sure he was responsible for that, too.

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam moved away from the doorway. He repeated his call as Frodo did not seem to hear the first one. But neither did Frodo hear him the second time. What Frodo did was curl up tighter, clutching at the bed sheet, and take a deep, shuddering breath. He still looked petrified. And Sam groaned silently as he realized Frodo had many reasons to do so.

“Frodo –“ Again, Sam tried to make a connection as Gandalf’s troubled eyes followed each of his actions.

And to Sam’s surprise, Frodo did react, but not to him.

Everything happened in such a rapid motion afterwards. Sam stared in shock. Gandalf was ready to release Frodo from his agony. Merry and Pip were holding each other as if trying to draw strength from one another, which each knew very well had been wearing thin.

Yet there was nothing the wizard and the others could do to end the horrifying image of Frodo being in torment in a far away place across the land, river, and the mountains. Down at the south. In Mordor.

Thus for some precious moments, they could only gape, aghast. They were too shocked to pronounce a single word at the sight of Frodo reaching for his own throat with both hands, as if pulling at something while his breaths hitched sharply and his eyes slowly rolled up under his eyelids.

Someone – something was strangling him and the bystanders could only watch helplessly.

Then as abruptly as it had started, the attack stopped and Frodo plummeted into his mattress, chest rising and falling irregularly, face flushed by a sudden gush of blood streaming back into it, and he broke into terrible, fitful coughs. Sam, Merry, and Pippin dashed to the bed and Merry even jumped onto it. Gandalf;s warning to be careful with

Frodo’s weak condition went unheeded. The other hobbits were too relieved to see the fit had passed. Now they could…

But they were too quick to jump into conclusion that Sauron was through with Frodo. They all froze in place when Frodo suddenly maneuvered his hands to both his sides and went cold, as if something was holding him. Then the previously shut eyes flew open and all could see the utter terror in them. Everything – Frodo’s horrified glare and the others’ inexplicable fear for their beloved hobbit – was magnified by the hobbit’s silent scream. Nothing. Nothing came out of that gaping mouth.

But a moment later, as he noticed a small flinch in the corner of his master’s eye, Sam shoved Pippin away from the bedside. It was a mere instant before Frodo let out all previously contained in his stomach. The retch was endless, and Sam began to think nothing would be left of his Mr. Frodo.

* * *

~ Down at The Dungeon of Sauron’s Fortress ~

Dangling in the midst of air by the fog’s sinewy, invisible claw, Frodo had long succumbed to his definite fate – death. Cold he no longer felt despite his half-nakedness and having been confined in a damp, dark cellar. Hunger he long forgot, and he had, for some time, detached himself from the harrowing pain in his neck that resulted from the fog’s bruising grip. Deep in his mind Frodo was certain the pressure would not only leave marks on his delicate skin, but also some fractured bones.

And his body had prepared itself for its inevitable last breath. There was no air passing through his nostrils. All the pores on his skin had become clammy and cold and no air permeated them. If – when – his throat would crack completely all of this would be over.

Frodo had been preparing for his own death to claim him, and it seemed that now his wish would finally be granted. He knew the Ring was safe and that realization made his deliverance feel lighter.

Dangling in the midst of vast doorway of the dungeon, with head slightly tilting back, arms hanging loose and feet and legs swinging by the accord of the fog and not their own, Frodo was prepared to lose all his senses. Let me be, he smiled inwardly. He would not scream anymore, something that he knew had excited the Dark Lord very much, his being such a sadistic and merciless creature. Frodo would not plead, something that Sauron could gladly use to show to all inhabitants of Middle Earth that he was the most powerful one. And Frodo would not shed tears for all the bodily and mental pains inflicted by this abominable thing. In his mind he smiled even wider. He had finally won. The Dark Lord failed to get his Ring back and he would not restrain himself from his wrathful desire to kill Frodo.

Frodo’s body began to stiffen. He could not remember ever moving and the last thing he moved was…

Twitch!

Twitch!

Frodo’s mind snapped back into consciousness. What was that? Did he just feel something on his arms? Did that mean he would not die right now?

Frodo soon got answers to his questions, much to his dismay. Yes, the sensation on his arms was real – and no, he would not die, yet.

What? Frodo gasped, while at the same time he felt his body slide down and thud heavily as it struck the ground. To make it worse, Frodo had fallen sprawling on his back, or rather, on his bound arms. He gritted his teeth to stifle his scream as a loud crack was heard where his wrists collided with the floor.

Understanding slowly seeped in: this was what happened to his arms when he was suddenly alive again, the orcs busy tying up his hands.

Then another apprehension slowly surfaced.

It was Sauron who had replied to his questions. Frodo was to deal with him and his abuse again. The hobbit recoiled in a failed attempt to escape from definite pains. His throat closed in. He could not. No. No. He could not bear that any longer.

Frodo was pulled up by a couple of abhorrent brutes, was made to face the convulsing fog, and flinched when cold air brushed his right cheek. It felt as if the fog had just blown him a kiss.

A voice was hovering in the air, somehow there, and not there. The fog was telling Frodo how glad he was to see the hobbit return to him. But it snapped immediately at Frodo’s protest that he never intended to return. But as it spoke again, the voice was soft.

“Do not tempt me, Frodo Baggins. I meant it when I said I was glad to see you again. Do not try to make me change my mind or you to feel my wrath again. I’m feeling happy now and I want to honor this occasion. We shall throw a feast for you, Frodo.”

In the hands of the orcs Frodo writhed, face contorting as he tried to bear the pain in his hands with great effort. His heart drummed faster when he heard the word feast. If that meant for him to be having rats again…

“RATS?” The place was shaking at the sound of the fog, and Frodo was overcome by his fear. His knees started to give if not for the fast grip on his arms he would have fallen.

A heavy, thick chain snaked around Frodo’s neck out of the blue and he almost jumped. He was prevented from doing so by the orcs gripping his arms. Another length of chain was connected as a leash. Frodo almost slumped down due to the great weight but he was forced to march on as invisible hands wrenched at the loose end of the leash.

Frodo tried to strain against the pull but it was no match for Sauron’s mighty power. With thunderous laughs he yanked at Frodo, treating him as if he were a toy. Once the fog pulled the chain so hard that Frodo was dragged roughly to the middle of the chamber.

Then it loosened its grip, causing the hobbit to droop helplessly to the ground, only to be jerked back and experience yet another long walk in between his stumbles.

“Rats, Frodo? If you think that, you definitely have underestimated what a feast means to me. Rats are for lowly servants, like those brainless orcs! Rats are nothing compared to edibles you will shortly see.” The fog watched fondly at his raggedly breathing captive who gazed dazedly back. “But I see you enjoy my feast already. I appreciate your dance immensely, Frodo, and I think you are very thirsty now. Come. Have a drink.”

Sauron motioned some orcs to bring him a large basin of some kind of brew. Frodo had no idea how he could drink out of it but he did not feel good about things that were about to happen. He squirmed, attempting to get free from the orcs, and pushed backward. But fingers tightened at his locks and pulled them unforgivingly, shoving Frodo’s face into the basin.

Frodo gasped as he felt the liquid seep into his gaping mouth, nose, and eyes. It pierced into him like needles and he started to have difficulty breathing. His chest tightened and he tossed and turned as much as he could with head still pushed down and hands tightly bound and held. Frodo could not help pleading and begging in his mind, screaming at the evil lord to stop, knowing that he could hear him anyway. Frodo was also asking what he had done to deserve such kind of a feast.

“Feast?” Snorted the fog in disgust. “You succeeded in escaping my best men, the Nazguls, and now even have that wizard in hand to help – and you dare to ask for a feast?” Sauron yanked Frodo’s head out of the liquid, and still harried with the attempt to let air into his lungs, Frodo suddenly felt a loud backhand connect to his cheek. He was stunned for a moment before excruciating pain starting to spread. And eventually he could not hold back. The combination of shock after being nearly drowned and the swirling sensation in his head from the beating overcame him completely. Frodo could not care less for whoever stood before him. He heaved and heaved, spilling the meager contents of his stomach while his eyes shed tears, in misery.

TBC