Author’s Note: * glances at clock * 3 AM? Gee wiz, I’m going to bed. I’ve already replied to my wonderful reviews so I don’t think I’ll do that again. My eyes are too tired. Goodnight, or good morning. Oh whatever! * grabs teddy bear and pillows * Adios!

Oh one more thing. I thought of putting one of those graphic warnings up for this chapter, but decided against it since there is no nudity or anything sexual in nature, which those warnings usually imply, but there is torture in the following pages. Lots of torture because, after all, Frodo is an Orc prisoner! You can’t very well forget that.

 Okay, now I’m really going to bed!

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 “Only [a day]? It seems weeks…I fell into darkness and foul dreams and woke and found that waking was worse.”

 -  Frodo to Sam in The Return of the King, The Tower of Cirith Ungol.

 Chapter Six: Frodo Brandybuck

Setting: The Tower of Cirith Ungol, Mordor; March 14, 1419 (Immediately following Ch.5: To Tell the Truth)*

Frodo found his feet glued to the ground, his eyes fixed on the enormous room around him. But it was not amazement that reflected in his panicked eyes, but rather bewilderment and horror, mixed in with a growing dread.  The room was dark, save for a small glimmer of red light from the Mountain’s Fire. Along the wall was a small fireplace and gathered around it were not the flowers and pictures such as had been present at every home he had ever visited, but rather several large barrels and iron contraptions, whose purpose he did not wish to guess. His knees began to shake and his face lost all color. His mind, though, was in the worst shape because there was nothing in it. He made no attempt to hide the vibration in his knees as he was led towards the principle piece of machinery within the center of the room.

Before Frodo even knew what was happening, he found himself lying face down on the steel platform as his wrists and ankles were chained down tightly.

"Now, runt, you will talk!" Gorbag ordered, leaning close to Frodo's face.  The poor hobbit recoiled at one look of his face, those horrible yellow eyes and the breath that stank of blood and the decayed flesh stuck between his sharp, jagged teeth.  But what Frodo cared about the most was staying alive and he was surprised he didn’t suffocate to death with his nose so close to that mouth. It felt like he was slowly dying of suffocation.

"I already told you," Frodo whimpered, coughing as he eyed the knife and whip at the Orc's belt, before quickly turning away.  “I know nothing." He coughed again, which was a very uncomfortable - and quite frankly dangerous - thing to do while lying on your chest.

The Orc merely shook his shaggy head of dreadlocks.  "I think not.  None of your kind has ever come here before, save one. And he was captured. Yer the first one to come on his own mind. Yer here for a reason, runt, and the sooner you tell us, the quicker you'll die!"

Frodo just mentally rolled his eyes at that.  Orcs were unbelievably stupid.  Telling a prisoner they were bound to die was the last way to acquire information.  The mere prospect of acquiring freedom should be used as an incentive: not outright denial of it.

"If not," the Orc continued relentlessly, "you'll wish were weren't never born."

Which means I'll wish I was born, which makes no sense at all, Frodo silently amended, although the implications were undeniable.

"I need only three questions answered: Who are you?  How did you get here?  And what in the name of Lord Sauron are you doing here?"

"How many times must I tell you?" Frodo snarled with all the indignation he could muster.  "I'm in the tower because the Spider stung me and your subordinates found me!" He had been about to say "Your people or men" or something to that effect, but somehow those words didn't quite fit.

"Wrong answer, brat!" the Orc snarled as his fingers went to one of the levers and cranked it: hard.

Frodo wasn't sure what he had been expecting.  But what he got was not it.  No one ever expected to feel an arm being pulled from its socket.  The pain struck so suddenly that Frodo wasn't sure when he started screaming.  All that he was aware of was a burning pain and shrill scream, which sounded too surreal to be his own. Frodo did not want to loose all self-control in front of total strangers. But an interrogation room was not one full of protocol or common etiquette. And as far as Frodo was concerned, the world had disappeared only to be replaced by an insurmountable agony. Normally he would never had dared to cry or show any sign of what may be perceived as a “weakness” in the presence of strangers, but he had no concern for imagery or impressions anymore and made no attempt to stop the flow of tears that ran unceasingly down his cheeks.

When Frodo finally lost his voice, the Orc reversed the handle and the pressure subsided immediately, though it never truly left. 

The leering Orc leaned over the small hobbit, barring his teeth. "Had enough, runt?"  But Frodo, still gasping for breath, just lay with his face pressed to the cold steel, unable to move, staring at the small puddle of tears that had collected on the ground, which continued to grow exponentially. His mind was so consumed with the pain that he did not hear the door latch, nor take any heed to the new comer's voice until he heard something of interest to his well being.

"What art thou doing, Gorbag?  Thou canst have the thing mangled and disfigured overmuch."

Frodo was fairly certain that the Orc, Gorbag, (apparently the things actually had names) would have finished with him as a useless sack of disjointed bones. He didn't know who it was that had just saved him, and at the moment he didn't care. Were it not for the chains holding him back, he would have hugged him in an instant. But as it was, a huge yet exhausted smile crossed his face as he sighed in relief and went limp on the platform.

The new comer apparently saw this, or at least noticed that the prisoner seemed more at ease, having gone limp on the platform as opposed to being tense from head to foot, and decided to put things to rights. Frodo heard a whip crack behind him and guessed what was coming next.  "You'll talk to me, you dung hill rat!"

Frodo felt a gritty hand on the back of his neck and winced as sharp claws penetrated his precious skin. But the pointy ends of his talons didn't pierce the epidermis lightly on the surface, but rather dug down inside, blood streaming down the sides. Frodo whimpered as they were pushed down towards the throat and he would have screamed had his diaphragm not been pinned to the surface, making every breath painful. 

"That hurt?" his torturer/rescuer taunted. “I have not even started, runt!  Thou dost not know the true meaning of “pain” as of yet. Now, I shall ask thee once more: What is thy name, and what art thou doing within the realm of my master, the Great Lord Sauron?”

“Got lost,” Frodo whispered, not daring to look his captor in the eye. That was the sign of a liar under normal circumstances.  But Frodo didn’t consider that to be the case here, not wanting to face someone who had nearly ripped your arm off was not exactly a suspicious sign by any means. “I was lost. Smeagol was my guide, not a very good one obviously. It was dark in the tunnel and I lost him.” He shook his head sadly, tears spilling at the memory of him and Sam roaming aimlessly about the tunnel, looking for that little stinker.  “Then the Spider came.”

“Aye, then thou art seeking this Smeagol to aid thee in finding the way home. Is that correct, runt?”

Frodo nodded miserably, wondering how he would get through this “session” in one piece without betraying any of his friends.  Betrayal was, of course, out of the question, but that didn’t mean that staying alive had to be as well.  Frodo knew that he was a terrible liar and for that reason would always be the first one to admit it, which was why he had told a story so close to the truth. It was about as close as he would ever be allowed to get and he hoped it might be enough to satisfy them. He thought perhaps he was going to get away with it, but that was just too good to be true.  An all-too-familiar sting raced across his back and then another and another.

“I think not,” a cold, cruel voice whispered in his ear.  “A lonely little hobbit, wandering away from home, away from the Shire, who happens to climb the Winding Stair and into Lord Sauron’s realm in attempt to get home? Even a blind man wouldst know whence he had entered Mordor. This is no innocent mishap, runt.”

Frodo recoiled at the mention of his home.  Though he said nothing other than “Don’t call me ‘runt’!” which was mumbled at a volume that he perceived as barely a whisper and therefore unable to be heard.  But he was mistaken.

“If thou wouldst prefer a different name, then perhaps thou shalt reveal his true identity so that it may be used accordingly.”

Here it comes, Frodo thought, bracing himself for the blow that never came. Instead he heard the grinding of metal and never had a chance to brace himself as the upper torso piece was moved downward, pulling at his neck muscles. His first instinct was to scream but all that came out was a high pitch squeal of alarm. He was certain the torturer would have released him at that, for how could he be expected to answer if he could scarcely breathe?  But this inhumane thing was taking his time, never minding as it idly ticked by..

The Mouth of Sauron watched the pitiful thing gasp for breath. To call it “pitiful was truly a gross understatement. Just a couple of notches tightened and he was already hanging onto one last breath. The Mouth let out a frustrated sigh and drew back the lever one notch. He wanted to kill the creature, but this little one could be extremely valuable and he would never hear the end of it if he ruined one of his master’s pawns. Or, more precisely, he might hear the end of it too soon. Best that he save the best for last in this case. Prisoners were not killed without the Lord’s prior consent, which was almost always given.

Glancing over at the prisoner again, the Mouth realized that he had tested the creature’s limits. He reluctantly rolled the lever back and soon all that was to be heard in the Tower Room was that of harsh breathing and frightened sobs.

Frodo lay on the machine, saliva dripping from his mouth as the tension in his burning neck muscles slowly eased. “Stop it, please!” he wailed, unable to stop the tears. He moved his arm automatically to massage his neck, but the rattling of the chain stopped his hand a few inches short of its target.

“Ready to talk, runt?”

Frodo nodded. “My name,” he began, gulping on his saliva to cool off the burning in his throat, “is Frodo Brandybuck.”

The Mouth nodded; at last he was getting somewhere. On the one hand it was a relief to be making progress and yet disappointing that he had snapped so easily. His fun would not last much longer if this held out.

“Now, Frodo, what art thou doing here? Surely thou must have suspected being led astray whence thou crossed over these mountains.”

With the threat of having his body ripped limb from limb, Frodo began telling his not-so-tall tale, one which he had rehearsed to himself several times in the Dead Marshes when he had first begun to fear capture upon noticing the sores and twisted bones in Gollum’s hands. Of course then he had thought it all pointless because any twisted story would be no good if they had caught him with the Ring, but they hadn’t.  Or so it seemed. If they had it, they would be gloating over him right now, rather than trying to torture the information out of him. For once, he was glad he had taken that necessary precaution. He began with a small, shaky voice, not at all the confident mannerism he had been hoping to maintain.  He only hoped he could tell it without the lie being evident in his eyes.

“I left the Shire when I head about the Black Riders coming. I had been given Bilbo’s home before he left. He disappeared from the Shire – literally – and then handed the Ring off to one of his Baggins relatives. When I heard about the Black Riders I went away with Baggins. He was at my house that night and I was going to help him move the next day, to a cottage he bought in Buckland. When we got there, he told us about the Ring and he planned to go to Rivendell – using some of the old maps Bilbo had given him -where he and the Ring would be safe. I thought I was in danger as well. So two of my kin and myself went with him. We stopped in Bree for the night, where we found a Ranger. He told us he knew some shortcuts between there and Rivendell so we let him tag along. A few days out of Bree we camped at Amon Sul where the Black Riders found us and tried to kill Baggins.  He was healed when we made it to Rivendell.  Then there was a Council and it was decided that he would still be the Ring-bearer while it was being taken South and he would keep it until it was given over to Denethor who could use It’s power against It’s master. Well, if Baggins was going then we weren’t going to be left behind.  Everything went smoothly until not too long ago. We were traveling along the River and one afternoon our camp was attacked by Orc-creatures with a White Hand painted on their faces. I got separated from them in the chaos and after a few days of wandering around lost, I found Smeagol who offered to show me a way to Minas Tirith and avoid the Southern troops going to the Gate. I had been led to believe that we were taking a passage through the mountains, the long way around to Minas Tirith. I didn’t know it was a trap until I had crossed through the tunnel and by then it was too late. Smeagol had run off and I was as good as dead and then you found me. Or someone did at any rate.” He did not add that he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Given the present situation, he would rather be in the Spider’s belly where he could not possibly betray his friends or the Quest.

The Mouth looked at him doubtfully, as he turned his back to the prisoner and searched for another torture mechanism. In the meantime, he allowed the creature to believe that he had been fooled.  Over by the fire, on the far end of the room there were several metal rods.  In this case the smallest of the collection would have to do since it was half the size of the subject in question. He set the small rod over the fire and as he did so, he began contemplating the tale that Brandybuck had presented before him.

The creature had been so stubborn and resistant at first that he was rather surprised that he spilled the story out so quickly. And, yet, it all fit. The Witch King had reported that Baggins had left the day before their arrival and he had indeed if he had been staying with the Brandybuck at the Old Baggins’ residence and there had been a report of a breaking-in at a small cottage where Baggins had supposedly been staying for a few nights. Frodo Brandybuck had confirmed the presence of four hobbits in Bree and that they had taken up with a Ranger, who had been seen in the company of the Hobbits on Amon Sul and they had lost sight of them for sometime afterwards after they took refuge in the valley of Imladris.  But Gollum (the one who also admitted to the name of Smeagol) had been told to bring Hobbits here and apparently he had done that. He had trailed them for sometime and then offered to “help” the first Hobbit he found unguarded, assuming that it was the Ring-bearer. But, yet, there were some pieces that did not fit. He had said nothing contradictory, but his story still left out several details. It did not account for another person who may have broken his bonds. Nor did it explain how a Ranger out of the Wild knew the location of the Elven Valley, which was supposed to be impossible to find.  He took the rod out of the fire and examined its red-hot tip. A twisted smile worked its way around his face. Perfect!

 “Thou are certain that there is nothing more thou hast to say in answer to my question?” the Mouth inquired, turning back to the prisoner who had turned his face to the wall. How he missed the old method of bloody beatings until they got the answers. He couldn’t wait until he was allowed to throw caution the wind and beat this brat within an inch of his life as often as he pleased. The wretched creature had no idea how fortunate he was right now.

Frodo nodded. The Mouth’s face twisted into an evil smirk.  “Wrong answer, little Frodo!” he mocked as he broughtthe burning stick upon the lad’s back and held it there. Frodo immediately and impulsively tried to break away, but this only resulted in the hot metal dragging across and digging into his back.  The Mouth hadn’t realized how many screams such a tiny set of lungs could contain until then.

Frodo no longer cared how pathetic he looked. He just squirmed and writhed on the steel pallet.  He did just about anything he could think of to escape the burning sensation that buried itself deep within his muscles. That of course included next to nothing, but he could not be expected to simply lay there like a dead thing either. It was a thing unheard of.

Running short on patience with the prisoner’s weakness, the Mouth clamped his hand over Frodo’s small face, stifling both screams and breath.  Frodo tried to squirm out of reach and away from the suffocating hand, but the claws dug into the skin behind his ears.

“Listen, young hobbit, and listen well.” The Mouth was surprised that he could be heard over Frodo’s frantic breathing and panicked squeals.  Not that anyone could blame him. Either the Mouth’s eyes deceived him or the prisoner’s face now had a bluish hue to it. “Thou hast told me, that thee walked into Bree and just happened upon a Ranger out of the Wild, who just happened to know the location of the secret Elven valley. Thou art concealing a matter or importance from me, Brandybuck and thou shalt not have a single minute of air until thou revealeth thy secret to me. Besides that, thou art not alone. Thy bonds were cut whence thou art found. Someone cut them and it was no Orc.  Thou might not be able to see it in here, lad. But there are 2 barrels in the corner. One hath hot rocks from the Mountain, the other contains small spiders. Now there are many kinds of spiders here, some poisonous to your kind and some not.” He cupped Frodo’s head in his hands and twisted his burning, aching neck so they were looking eye-to-eye. As his eyes had been focused on the ground until then, this was first good look Frodo had of his torturer.

He wasn’t quite sure what he had expecting, as he had long since given up predicting what was around the next bend in mind of Sauron’s servants. The sight before him really should not have surprised him at all, but for some reason it did.  His skin was dark and barely distinguishable from the ashes that caked it in several layers. He could scarcely identify the color of his skin, covered as it was in not only ashes, but burns as well. They were unlike the whelts he felt upon his own back, but care rather from being in such close proximity to the Eye and the heat that radiated from the Mountain’s fire. His lips also had not passed unscathed. It was amazing that he could speak with them at all, chapped and bleeding as they were. His robes, though, were another matter entirely.  They were purely black (no surprise there), but what did surprise him was the beauty of them and the workmanship was exceptional. He would have to be a fool not to see that much at any rate.  He had not realized that such a thing was available within these premises. But on second thought, he had probably taken them from a conquered Gondorian, except that there were no bloodstains or tears.

And his eyes, which had been forcibly locked with his own, were almost hollow, as if all personal emotion and memory had been stripped away.  Save perhaps one thing. Frodo had been expecting something akin to hot anger burning within those small pupils, but instead what he found was hatred. It wasn’t aimed at one person, thing or event in particular as far as he could see.  Rather it was pure hatred at the world, at anything aimed at ruining what he had worked so hard to achieve, though what that was Frodo couldn’t quite imagine. His teeth were barred in an ugly scowl, which could almost be identified as frustration.  Frodo could not see what he had to be frustrated about since his poor prisoner was readily supplying answers to the questions.  He considered the thought that perhaps the scowl was the only expression his face knew.  Indeed the crease lines seemed almost to be etched into his skin.  The thought of that would have driven his heart to pity the poor soul that could not longer smile. That, though, did not apply to the person who had willingly, mercilessly, and even gleefully, cranked the machine and brought burning rods upon his back.  No, he would not pity the creature who had chosen such a life.  All he found in his burdened heart was disgust. He would never understand how someone with such pain in his eyes could inflict such torture upon another.  It was nigh unbelievable, but he could not long deny the truth that stood not half a foot from his face.

"We have never let them loose on one of thy kind before and canst not know which ones would be fatal to thee.  If thou wishes to remain ignorant to that, then thou wilt tell me the whole truth.  If thou are not honest, if I don't trust what thou sayest, thou shalt be of no use to me, and I shall thoroughly enjoy watching thee die!  And even if their venom isn't fatal, there are many spiders that enjoy sucking a victim's blood dry!" With that, he released the Hobbit’s head, practically throwing it aside in disgust. It took every ounce of self-control that he possessed not to bang the little head against the steel bed.

"So, we shall start again.  Who is this Ranger thou took up with? Hm?"

“He didn’t say,” Frodo answered after a moment’s hesitation, shivering at the though of those nasty little things crawling in his eyes and mouth and under his arms and under his clothes, sucking his blood no less. “Just said he was called Strider. Didn’t want to give his proper name to strangers apparently.”  He knew that he was toeing the line here. This wasn’t what his rescuer-turned-torturer wanted to hear.  He wanted to be told the man’s proper name and lineage. But if he continued to play this game carefully, he could keep the spiders in their bucket without revealing everything. In any case, his torturer could travel all the way back to Bree if he so desired and that would be all he ever got out of the locals. No one there knew Strider’s proper name and likely none would have understood its importance anyway.  “We took up with him because he guessed our purpose.  One of my kin made a grave error. He was doing a stupid dance on a tabletop and slipped and the Ring went to his finger. He vanished and Strider saw it. Strider had heard the tale of Isildur’s Bane and correctly guessed what we were up to as there aren’t many things that can cause a person to disappear without a trace. He cornered us in our own room and swore to protect us if we would allow him to be our guide. Neither of us knew how to escape the Black Riders in the street so in him we saw our only chance to escape. When we got to Rivendell, he was called “Estel” and “Dunadan”. I don’t know which one was his proper name. After learning that he had three names, I did not question him further. I would not have been able to remember them all anyway. He must have had connections with the Elves in the past, but I didn’t ask. It wasn’t any of my business anyway.”  Frodo knew almost immediately that he probably should not have said that, but it was really no matter.  The name Sauron was looking for was “Aragorn”.  It was likely he would not recognize the name “Estel”. “Dunadan” though might be recognized and even he was quick to admit that “Hope” was an unusual name to give to a child.

“And, how may I ask,” the Mouth continued, choosing to switch questions upon realizing that the Hobbit could not be expected to know a Ranger’s full history, secretive as they appeared to be, “did thou manage to untie thyself? Decided to play a little game of Dead, did thee?”

Frodo shook his head quickly, grimacing with the pain. “How should I know?” Frodo snapped. I had just been poisoned. I could barely keep my eyes open! I don’t know what happened.”

“Oh I think thou knowet full well!” the Mouth jeered with a hideous smile. “Contrary to thy tale, lad, someone was with thee and I want to know who it was!”

 “My friends,” he began as an excuse slowly formulated with in his mind, “one of them must have come looking for me and untied me, to see if I was alive.” Frodo tried to swallow his nervousness, but it was a futile attempt. He somehow had to tell a convincing lie to cover for Sam when he wasn’t sure what had happened or what he had been left with. He had to tell a convincing tale even though he had been nearly unconscious with only a scrap of recollection at best. He could just claim ignorance but in this case they weren’t asking for a detail that he wouldn’t possibly know, but rather a fact as straightforward as the identity of a traveling companion. It didn’t look as though they would accept silence for this question and Frodo had no desire to give them a reason to burn his back again or to pull more muscles.

“So, thy friend managed to track thee through the mountains, is that it, lad?  All the way past the Dead City and up the Winding Stair without ever being seen?"

“Yes. One of my Company was an Elf. I imagine he would be capable of it.” Frodo couldn’t help but to beat himself over the head with that one. But it would be best if they were looking for an Elf, rather than Sam. It would put his gardener at an advantage, if only a temporary one. “In order to escape from an avalanche, our Company was forced through Moria and we managed to attract the attention of some goblins and trolls while we were there. When we finally made it through after several days, we realized the Orcs would be on our trail so we sought haven in the Land of the Elves along the Great River. There we were gifted with cloaks of their own making and an Elven Light, that of Earendil. I could have sworn I saw it through the wrappings before I passed out. And I heard shouting in Elvish. It must have been him.”  Well if the Orcs had mentioned something to his torturer about hearing Elvish voices and a blinding light, then his story would confirm it and it would also explain the Light of Earendil if they found it. They would then surmise that it had been carelessly dropped in the following fight. He honestly had no idea where Legolas was, except that he was not anywhere nearby, therefore their efforts in finding an Elf in the vicinity of the passage would be in vain and all to Sam’s advantage. Of course once they found no sign of an Elf, then he’d be in for the beating of a lifetime, but he managed to convince himself that that was not important as long as he bought Sam all of the time he could.

“And why, may I ask, would an Elf come tracking into Mordor after a pathetic thing like you? You carry something of value perhaps?”

They both knew that he meant the Ring, but Frodo (despite his agony) would not stumble into that trap. “The mithril shirt,” he answered, wondering when and if he would accidentally contradict himself with all of this lying. It was really hard to keep track of at times, especially with the relentless pain that was demanding his attention. “It was given to Baggins in Rivendell as protection from the Black Riders. He lent it to me because I wanted to try it on for a night. I always wondered how he slept with it on.  It just looked so uncomfortable yet he never complained of sleeping with it. It’s his protection and he wanted it back, I assume. They couldn’t risk him coming to Mordor with the Ring so the Elf must have offered to retrieve it.”

"But thou wore it still when we found thee!" He never tired of revealing a prisoner’s stupidity with such clarity.

Frodo gulped and then quickly shrugged as if to undermine the importance of something so significant, but his newly found poker face was hiding a flood of panic.  “He must have been scared off by the Spider when he found me.”  Yes, that horrid thing would scare anyone, surely! They would have nothing to say against that.  “He might have planned to finish taking my wrappings off when he returned, only to find that I had already been removed before then.”

The Mouth nodded, it was a possibility but an unlikely one. Yet, even though he wanted to, he could not expect Frodo to know the answer to that question as the prisoner had been imprisoned and unawares before Shagrat and Gorbag had found him. He had been hoping to catch the creature off guard.  But that had not happened, which had been in Frodo’s favor though the Mouth was loathe to admit it and quickly changed the subjected, which Frodo noted immediately. “Thou art telling me that my master’s Ring is in Minas Tirith?”

Frood gulped. “It’s supposed to be. That’s where everyone went and I don’t have It.”

“Know nothing, indeed!” the Mouth scoffed. Either Hobbits were stupid or they had a reverse sense of vocabulary from the rest of Middle Earth.

“Well I don’t,” Frodo had the nerve to retort. “I don’t know where the Ring and Baggins are and that’s all you care about. I haven’t seen hide or hair of my company for nigh on a week now. I ran out of food a little while ago.  Until then, I had my own pack with a few wafers of Elvish bread and a water bottle. Strider had the rest of the supply. And the Elf may have taken that after he left me. Probably thought I was dead after being attacked by that monster and what use has a dead body for food anyhow?” Frodo knew that most of this last bit of information was pointless as far as value was concerned, but no interrogator with half a brain would question a prisoner who volunteered information, however little it might be.

"Thou hast given me much to report to Lord Sauron, little one.  However if I find thou hast told one lie, or held anything back, thou shall wish that thou were dead!  And let this be a warning!" Frodo braced himself as best he could for the coming pain. He didn’t want another muscle pulled in his arm.  But this time he knew what to expect, and that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.  But apparently this torturer loathed routines, for this time he found yet another means of inflicting pain. He motioned to Gorbag (who appeared to have fallen asleep at his door post possibly due to the excessive conversing and the lack of excessive blood and beatings) to bring over one of the barrels he had seen earlier. The Orc woke up with a groan and obeyed. Then seizing a pair of tongs, the Mouth withdrew several steaming rocks from Gorbag’s barrel.  Frodo could smell the burning ashes that still clung to them from their days on the slopes of the burning Mountain. He didn’t dare think about where those were going.  He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to fall asleep in the few seconds before it came. But he had no such luck. One by one the burning rocks were placed upon his back, tearing a scream from the poor Hobbit’s throat as the heat ate away at his skin

With the door of the Tower Room shut securely behind him, the Mouth smiled wickedly, savoring the music of a prisoner’s scream. Most of the prisoner’s story was true by all accounts. Save, perhaps, for the last bit about the Elf. Evidence of an Elf had been reported surely, that could not be denied. But none had been seen in person and none would dare stray into the Black Land in pursuit of a mail shirt. No, Brandybuck was protecting Baggins for whom the Elf had been searching, that was the only probable scenario.  They had both been lost in the havoc of the Uruk-hai attack on the camp and Gollum had directed both of them there, knowing that one was needed and that this was only good for Spider food.  Gollum had, after all, been instructed to return Baggins the Tower, not just any Hobbit. He would have made certain of his quarry before making the long and treacherous journey back over the mountains that he feared so greatly.  The Little Rat had been caught in a lie and would pay for it before long.  But the poor thing needed a break now, since they could ill afford for him to die before all information had been extracted.

~*~ To Be Continued, Of Course ~*~

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: “If I start a story, I finish a story. No matter how long it takes.” I’m not one to abandon projects, particularly not one as fun as writing fanfiction can be.

For those of you who now think I’m racist because I made the bad guy (the Mouth of Sauron) black, just for the record, I’m not. I have met some wonderful black people, so I’m not trying to make them look bad or anything like that. But the Return of the King, The Black Gate Opens, says that the Mouth of Sauron was from a race called the Black Numenoreans. This was a race, an ethnic group. Not a political group that got the title due to evil actions, though that was eventually what happened. I figured that if they were an ethnic group described at “Black” then it probably had something to do with physical appearance. I could be wrong, I’ll admit, but that interpretation made the most sense to me so that was what I wrote down.

I won’t make any promises about the next update except that I hope to get to it soon.

It may seem obvious that chapter six is set right after chapter five, but not necessarily and certainly not with this story. I hope the settings at the top of each chapter are helping to follow the sequence of this plot, but just to be safe….

For the sake of your sanity, I present my CHAPTER CHART!

Chapter One, A Fool’s Hope: set as the troops are departing for the Black Gate (March 15)

Chapter Two, The Mouth of Sauron and Chapter Three, Sauron the Great: set the next day at Barad-dur.

Chapter Four, Follow your Heart: “flashback” to March 13 when Frodo is attacked.

Chapter Five, To Tell the Truth and Chapter Six, Frodo Brandybuck: set immediately proceeding Frodo’s awakening in Cirith Ungol.

In other words, Chapters 4,5, and 6 are set before the story “began”. I know there are two days (or 2.5 if you like) between when Frodo is questioned (i.e. “tortured”) and when the Mouth arrives at Barad-dur. Let’s just say it’s a long distance between Cirith Ungol and Barad-dur and the Mouth may have had “other duties” to tend to in order to count for that amount of time. Chapter 7 will be placed either during or after the same time frame as chapters 2 and 3. I hope this isn’t too confusing.