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"They stripped me of everything; and then two great brutes cam and questioned me - until I thought I should go mad, standing over me, gloating, fingering their knives. I’ll never forget their claws and eyes."

-- The Tower of Cirith Ungol, The Return of the King

Chapter Five: To Tell the Truth

Setting: The Tower of Cirith Ungol, Mordor; March 14, 1419

Good gracious, he was actually going to do it! Try though he might, Frodo found himself unable to move, paralyzed as he was with fear as his shirt was ripped off and his hands bound behind his back.

"No, no! Please! I won’t do it again! Honest!" he pleaded hysterically, all sense of self-control now hopelessly abandoned as he saw his captor reach for a whip on his belt.

"Aye, that you won’t!" a gruff voice answered, throwing the perpetrator to the ground. Frodo braced himself for the inevitable, praying to whoever was listening that it wouldn’t come. Well, the Powers that Be, didn’t seem to be listening as a searing pain ripped across his back, one lash after another. Frodo would have given voice - and lots of it, too - to his pain if the force of the blows had not left him breathless while the blood poured out of his back. He felt the sticky substance mingling with nervous sweat and could only whimper in agony as he silently begged for mercy.

The blows finally ceased and the torturer untied his bonds. He dragged the terrified hobbit to his feet, keeping an excruciating grip on his arm - right where the whip had struck - and ignored the prisoner’s painful grimace as he led him away, towards an opened Gate. He whistled a summons, which was soon answered by three vicious wolves liking their lips in anticipation of a delicious morsel. The only problem was that those six hungry eyes were boring holes into his own.

He wouldn’t! Frodo desperately tried to calm his wild imagination - but it was beyond tame. Not only that, but the thought wasn’t exactly unrealistic. After all, if his captor was willing to beat him within an inch of his life, then who was to say…

"See, lads," the gruff voice prompted, redirecting Frodo’s attention as well. "Next time this young varmit sets foot on my land you can eat him. Now see him off!" He watched the small lad sprint across the field. He cupped his hands around his mouth and, knowing how much Frodo would hate it, yelled: "Get out of here you…BRANDYBUCK ! And stay out!"

Without a second thought, Frodo tore away from the torturer’s relaxed grip and ran like he had never done before: he ran for his life, vaguely hearing the Farmer’s voice in the distance. "Get out of here, you Brandybuck! And stay out!" He had thought that the ponies at the Yule-day races were fast, but in his desperate plight he would have left them all in the dust. His lungs burned and he longed to collapse on the ground and enjoy the sweet air in his midst, but he knew that if he dared it, he would be mauled to death in an instant. So on he ran, adrenaline carrying more weight than his short, bloodied, legs.

His paced did not slacken until after five exhausting miles he saw it. He never thought he would welcome the sight of the place which had taken his parents. But once again, the unexpected happened and - fearing that the time it would take to release Buckleberry’s Ferry from its dock would cost him his life - he willingly embraced to icy waters of the Brandywine and with his last rush of adrenaline, fought the harsh current. Staggering upon the river bank, he gratefully threw himself under the shade of a near-by Oak tree. So it was that he swore on his parents’ graves that he would NEVER cross - nay, would never even go NEAR - Old Maggot’s land ever again. He had once thought that mushrooms were worth anything, but yet again, a once firmly-held belief, was broken in two: NOTHING was worth THAT!

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Night fell and when it did Frodo awoke feeling more groggy and hot than he had any right to. It was night time, for goodness sake! He wasn’t supposed to be hot! - or groggy for that matter. He was suddenly glad for the darkness, or else the world surely would have spun itself in nauseating circles. His stubbornness over-ruled his good sense and he attempted to get on his hand and knees and crawl back to Brandy Hall. Surely someone had noticed his absence and worried for him! He had a sudden desire to itch the bloodied scars on his back, and a particularly painful one on his neck, and wondered how his Aunt Essa would react to the sight. He wasn’t sure whether to be terrified or amused at the image that came to mind.

He felt that nothing was amiss until he realized that it was not for lack of strength that he was unable to move his arms, the culprit was rather a physical restraint: felt like rope. No, it couldn’t be! Maggot had removed the ropes so he could run…And wait, why did his neck ache so abominably, even more so than his back? It was there, after all, that had been struck the most. Maggot may have been cruel, but no adult had ever dared to take a whip to a child’s neck! That was unheard of! A dream, he realized. That was all a dream - a memory dream as it were.

But what had happened then? Where was he? He remembered running…just as he had in the dream, and urging Sam to follow him…to where? To the passage that Sméagol had led them to shortly before vanishing. No wonder Sam had been so slow. He hadn’t trusted "the little Stinker" at that moment, nor his master’s good sense (or what was left of it) either. Then something had hit him hard and then… Sam! Yes, that was it! Sam had been there! But where was he now? He had to be near-by. His Sam would never leave him! He needed his Sam, and Sam knew that. Sam was his anchor to sanity, he would have been utterly lost to the Ring if it weren’t…the Ring!

As the Ring grew heavier it had dragged the chain down, causing sores and bleeding around the back of his neck. He had grown used to the ache, but it had never been like *this* before. This pain wasn’t from carrying too much weight, instead it burned relentlessly. It wasn’t only that there was a new pain that alarmed him, but rather the absence of the old one. If the chain that held the Ring wasn’t around his neck then where was it? He immediately came up with a number of reasons: none of them good.

His thoughts were interrupted and his heart stopped as he heard a ruckus from below. Someone sneering and arguing in a foul tongue: their (yes there were two of them now) voices muffled behind a thick wall of metal which was soon penetrated. He tried to calm his ragged breaths, hoping to remain hidden in the dark. Perhaps they were just passing by…But Luck had abandoned him as the voices continued in his direction.

"Well, well, looks like our Little Rat’s awake!"

Their what? He felt a sweaty, callused, and putrid foot make its way to his back and kicked it like one would do to a recent kill.

"Aye, the Rat’s awake all right," the other voice growled as he grabbed Frodo’s arm and dragged him to his feet, sharp claws digging into the Hobbit’s fragile skin.

"Let me go!" Frodo pleaded, much as he had in his dream. "Please!"

The Orc saw the pain in his prisoner’s eyes and sneered. "What? That hurt? The fun ain’t even started, lad! What’re ya doin’ ‘ere?"

"The monster," Frodo answered hesitantly, "It attacked me. I don’t know anything else." It certainly wouldn’t hurt to tell the Orcs what they surely knew already.

"Is that so?" the Orc retorted, bringing his long knife up to the Hobbit’s face.

"Would a little reminder help?" the Orc suggested, leaning towards Frodo, displaying a set of horrifyingly sharp teeth. But his brain barely registered the sight as his nostrils were hit with a horrid stench from the Orc’s breath, so horrible in fact, that the poor hobbit recoiled away, gasping for what fresh air was available in Mordor.

Frodo backed into the corner of the wall. "No!" answered shakily. "I…I was unconscious. I recall nothing."

The second Orc stared at him intently. This being looked strangely familiar. He could remember another being in the dark tower…small and wretched, quivering in fear.

Frodo noticed the quizzical look in the Orcs’ yellow eyes. A dread silence hung about the room as he said nothing, apparently he was the superior for the other Orc said nothing, as though waiting for instructions, like a civilized person would. Strange thought that, before that moment he had not contemplated the thought of Orcs being civilized in any sense of the word.

The lead Orc finally broke the silence with a voice that chilled him to the bone. "Does it even remember what it was doing here,…precious?!"

The Orc leaned foreword, gauging the prisoner’s response, which was quite entertaining, to say the least. His were wide and darting to and fro, avoiding direct contact, while muttering senseless words under his breath.

"You know that little worm, that Gollum, don’t ya, runt? Led ya here, din’t he?"

Frodo shook his head automatically.

"Ya din’t find the Lady’s Webs by yerself did ya now? Only her little sneak knows it."

Trapped! They had used the term "Precious".  They knew Gollum had given the Ring’s location in The Shire. If they found out that Gollum was in Mordor, they would beat him until he relinquished the location of Gollum and the Ring: an important piece of information that he would not have given, even if he had known it. Not for all the mithril in the world would he ever do that! "Sméagol brought me here," he managed at last. That at least was true. "Gollum must have showed him. I don’t know where Gollum is." True again!

"Then I ‘spose you ain’t the Baggins wit the Master’s precious?"

"No," Frodo answered, slowly regaining his confidence. Two could play at this game. Give someone a grain of truth, and they’ll believe your whole speech! "That was Bilbo. But he left The Shire years ago! He disappeared with It." True again.

"An’ where is ‘e now?"

Frodo mutely shook his head. He had lost his poker-face as a youth and hoped that the Orcs weren’t adept at reading Hobbit emotions, since his had a tendency to reveal themselves to others before himself. "I don’t know."

But the Orcs weren’t buying it. They saw the doubt in his eyes and seized the moment. "Yes, ya do. If you ain’t Baggins, then who are ya, anyhow?"

"No, I’m not the Baggins you want. That’s Bilbo. He’s my cousin," Frodo answered, determined to stick to his story. The more he repeated it to himself, the more he would believe it. "But I haven’t seen him in a long time. He could be anywhere." And to think he had once thought that being caught by Farmer Maggot was the worst trouble he could ever get into!

Frodo held his breath. One part of his mind told him to stop shaking. The more confident he appeared, the more likely they would believe him. Then they would…wait, what would they do? If he knew nothing, if they had no use for him…? Frodo gulped his saliva down, making no attempt to control his fear. Was there no way out for him? They had the Ring, surely they must! He had had it when he was attacked and they had him now. Unless Gollum had it, unless he had taken It before the Orcs came. If he told the Orcs what little he did know, he would probably be released back into the tunnel as Spider food. If he didn’t, they would beat him within an inch of his life…or more. He honestly wasn’t sure which idea he preferred more: death, or torture.

He looked the Orcs right in their yellow eyes. "I promise you, I know nothing else."

How stupid does it think we are? the lead Orc thought furiously. He had been torturing prisoners long enough to know fear when he smelt it, and this pitiful creature reeked of it. "Is that so?" he jeered. "Since ya don’t know the bisness, runt. We’ll give ya a secon’ chance!" His claws grabbed hold of the prisoner’s neck, letting loose small streams of blood. He turned to his companion. "Gorbag, take him to the Stretcher!" he ordered, throwing the frail creature to the ground. Stretcher? Do I even want to know?

The other Orc, Gorbag, grunted a reply and sneered at Frodo as he seized an arm.

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Frodo had feared walking up the stairs with his hands bound, and, for a moment had contemplated the possibility of asking for his hands to be freed for that small duration of time. Perhaps, then, he might be able to make an escape. But the Orc had apparently seen that trick before, and silenced Frodo’s request with a stinging glare and those ugly teeth before the Hobbit could say a word. Gorbag had his own ideas had unceremoniously dragged the hobbit up several flights of stone stairs.

When the Orc finally opened one of the many doors, he felt as though his eyes would pop out of their sockets at the sight. There in the middle of the room, was an iron contraption. It consisted of a long table with chains hanging down from either side and two bars on either end. But the most curious part was that the table was divided into segments, as though you could adjust the size… What in Middle-earth?

"Impressed, eh, Runt?" the Orc suggested with what could almost be described as a sense of pride, noticing Frodo’s reaction. "Designed it meself! And you’ll even be more impressed when we get goin'!"

Frodo gulped again, saliva trickling down his parched throat as he was dragged towards the infernal machine.

~*~ To Be Continued ~*~

Don't flame me! He's in the Torture chamber, isn't he? The "Frodo Brandybuck" chapter is next I PROMISE! 

I meant to put it in here, but this was such a good stopping point, besides, I've hit Writer's Block and I thought it was extremely mean to leave you people hanging for three whole months!

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