A/n: All my reviewers- thank you SOOOO much! I’m thrilled that you wanted more of the story so here’s the next chapter! Sorry it starts out so slow and like the first chapter- it isn’t that long.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters of The Lord of the Rings, however, I feel quite free to torture them in what ever way seems best... MWAHAHAHA!

***

The sharp crack of the whip was a cruel reminder of reality, drawing Sam back from the deep peace of the far green land to which his heart had strayed. Harsh sound tore through him like a knife. Anchoring him once more with a shock and a jolt- like stepping from a warm fire lit room to the frigid starry night. Only there was a beauty in those sacred star-graced nights, and if there was any beauty to be found in Mordor, Sam was yet to see it. It was an ugly thing, to be there- planted among the fire and the ash and the jagged rock. Rooted firmly in a terrible play of fates that was to be reality- his reality. For what was real for him was certain to be another’s darkest dreams. What was real was endless pain and hunger and the everlasting march towards what could only be the end. The Shire wasn’t real; it was only a memory- a sweet distant memory. And memories fade...

He bowed his weary head lower still and let the hard, dead lands about him drift away...

***

Frodo felt him slip away into some kinder place and longed so desperately to follow. But with the familiar sad acceptance, he knew he could not. He couldn’t afford to. All his mind and force were bent too strongly on what- so long ago- had been the simple task of placing one sore foot before the other, willing stiff muscles to push his weight along the road.

But what he strove to hide from himself- was that he truly could not, because he did not know where Sam had gone. It was somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. He knew that. It was somewhere green and in bloom, where the soft wind could dance about you as the bright sun smiled down. But the rest of this world was in shadow- or else he was.

For it was as though a great dark veil enfolded him, withholding from his recollection this blessed place. And floating in and out and beyond that shroud were the mists and the unseen forms that hovered in them. The shadows of the past. Often he would try to raise his left hand to brush them away as though they were the cobwebs of the common spider. But more like the webs of Shelob were these. No matter how he struggled to push them aside they would just ooze back into place.

And often his right hand would creep to his breast when his resolve wavered and desire swayed him. His fingers would fumble for a fine silver chain before his sense could slap the hand away. It was then he would lie to himself- he was only making sure he had not lost it. Only making sure that no one had seen it. But in the far cavernous depths of his soul he knew that he was waging a war against this simple thing- and he was losing.

Neither of the poor Hobbits had had one single clear thought in... how long had it been? Minutes, hours, days? They were simply overwhelmed and exhausted from the heat, the humid air thick with the closeness of bodies pressing about them the swat and the stench of the orcs. The long time without food or water or any rest. The short time before one of them would fall and both of them would fail. But perhaps it would be a mercy to end it now, for if they reached the end of this road there would be no mercy there.

***

Sam was again awakened by a sound but this sound was no horrible whip. It was the sound of advancing voices- loud, angry voices. Another division of some dark army. If they were Sauron’s, he could not tell. They were far too large to be orcs and on their tattered banners was a strange and unfamiliar sign, though he couldn’t tell, in full, what it was. Hellish turmoil broke loose as these creatures broke through their lines. Orcs in fury drew their swords and frenzied with hunger for a fight. In this sudden disarray, Sam found his chance.

He threw himself to the ground, dragging his master down with him. He felt the pain race through him in his heavy landing but he could pay it no heed. This was their chance. He began to crawl. Clumsily scrambling over uneven ground in an effort to not be trampled. Frodo could only follow, his limbs slow and spent in his dying strength. Sam seized his arm and half dragged him along. There were rocks right ahead of him- a cluster of boulders. If only he could...

A whip crackled dangerously near to his head.

“Thinking of deserting again, eh, my slugs?”

Sam’s heart dropped into his stomach. Frodo cringed. The slave –driving orc grabbed them roughly with claw-like hands.

“I’ll have none of that now, back in your lines!” He barked, nearly throwing them back into the march. The battling divisions had regrouped and were going their separate ways with many riotous hollers and taunts.

Sam looked to his left- to Frodo- stooped and limping, barely moving on, barely drawing breath. Something inside himself shattered as it so often did followed by the same burning question. Why must they suffer so?

He drew his cloak ever so slightly over Frodo’s arm so that no one could see him clasp his master’s hand gently in his own.

It wasn’t long before the torch- lights bobbed into view. An encampment lay nested in a barely sloping valley but neither Frodo nor Sam had the vigor left even to pray that it was the place where they would finally lie and rest. They filed in between the fires and the few shelters with the stragglers at the end of the grim parade.

At last they collapsed, far from any campfire where keen eyes might spy them out. Their breaths were shallow gasps, choking on the very air in their parched throats. Sam felt he might be ill if his rapid heart didn’t slow. Frodo felt nothing at all.

“Not so fast my little slugs!”

Sam knew he would be sick. How could this happen- couldn’t they just let some tired soldiers rest?

“I caught you two deserting today- TWICE!”

Please just leave us be...

“And you came in late to camp! Well I oughta lash your hides right off your backs!”

The dreaded whip fell upon Frodo. He didn’t wince; he didn’t weep or plead for it to- he just toppled over to meet the ground where he lay, sprawled out like something quite dead. A group of gathering orcs jeered. Sam bit back a cry. The slave-driver cackled a gurgling phrase in a detestable tongue. The spectators howled. Then Sam was introduced to an agony such as he had never imagined.

The supple leather sliced into his neck, then bit his sides. It beat into his back, driving the very life from his body. Beneath his helm tears streamed down his cheeks. The blows continued. He bit his lip with such force that blood filled his mouth. The world spun. He fought desperately at the darkness that was threatening to consume his mind. Something struck his head. A small stone? The whip kept falling, crashing on him. He could take no more. No more!

It was then that Samwise Gamgee made his mistake. He began to scream.

No orc could possibly have that scream.

An iron shod foot was driven into his stomach.

“Stop yer shrieking ye rat!”

Sam’s neck snapped back as the helmet was wrenched from his head and the shreds of black cloak ripped from him. He crumpled in a heap beside Frodo, who seemed to be awake as his helm was torn from him as well.

“Well now, what have we here?”

The ring of a blade being unsheathed echoed through the camp. Wild calls and whispers were the response of the mob. Sam drew closer to his master. Frodo grasped his trembling arm and shrunk into him.

“There’s quite a price to be put on your heads.”

Sam closed his eyes ready for a sword to fall.

“But what use would you be to us dead?”

Both Hobbits held their breaths.

“You little maggots may be a good ... tool,”

Sam’s eyes opened but he could no longer make out the forms looming about him or understand the hash voice falling upon his ears.

“In our negotiation.”

Blackness finally won its battle for Sam's mind. The broken Hobbit slumped and knew no more.