A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Nineteen~

"There's something out there," whispered Sam. As if his words did any good.

"Keep your voice down," rasped Frodo, slumped wearily against the cave wall. Through his exhaustion, a part of him prickled -- he hoped that hadn't come off as rude. (Or like the stories constantly rattled about by Bilbo, most tending to concern various "nosy relatives.") But he didn't dare to look up, risk disturbing their guards. They had no need to be heard, or give away whatever Sam heard, if it was help or the opposite.

"I did hear something," he hissed, making sure to keep his voice down. "Someone's outside, out on the snow."

"Sam."

Sam merely huffed. "Alright. It could be help, you know, now passing us by." They had been captives for four days.

Frodo glared at him. The skin around his neck itched, where the chain rubbed constantly. Each day since their departure from Rivendell, it weighed down on him more; and he could do nothing. Was it all really worthless? When it came to the thing he carried, that seemed the only truth. No. He shouldn't think like that -- it was becoming like Gandalf said. The Ring will twist you, Frodo. And if you do not notice, it will break you.

He couldn't help but shiver.

Sam had said something else, something Frodo couldn't quite make out. But at the far end of the camp, an orc growled, before stirring to his feet. Sam nearly jumped, and Frodo yanked him down. He knew that blaze in his friend's eyes.

The creature turned its scarred face, cast it lower to view Frodo and Sam. Frodo sat still, glowered at the thing weakly. Gandalf had told him once the origins of all orcs -- monsters born from twisting elves into shadow, living lives of destruction, of pain, hating all, even the master they served in fear. And he wondered, what curse had brought them so low in their dark hearts, that they lacked even the seed of compassion? They had come from elves, apparently, the complete opposites of the monsters before them. Frodo bit down hard on his cheek. He could not pity them now, no. Those things were all beyond that.

The orc had taken another step, closer to the two huddled figures. Sharp eyes darted over them hungrily. "Now, what's this?" Hissed the orc-guard, looming above them both. "What exactly did you hear out there?" His voice was crawling, nasty, and it took several seconds for Frodo to decipher the jargon as Westron.

A younger Frodo would've winced, trembled worriedly. A stronger Frodo would've fought in defiance. This half-starved, thirsty halfling stared.

"Speak, Halfling."

Frodo held his tongue. Tiredness beat down on him, reminding that it'd been four days since he'd slept, two since he'd eaten -- or drank.

The orc's clawed fist smashed, hitting Frodo full in the face. Frodo reeled backwards, hitting the stone wall. His ears rang, even as Sam dragged him upright. At last as he surrendered, opened his mouth to submit, his voice was only a gasp, and it faded; lost to the screaming winds. Frodo saw shadows in his vision, knew he was either sick or the rest of the orcs had been roused.

Sam jerked up, trembling despite his furious glare. "Don't bother him, it . . . it was me." The hobbit faltered, heaving fast breaths. "I just heard . . . an animal, or something. The noise was small, anyway, it could have easily been the wind . . ."

"We barely even heard anything, actually," Frodo added, voice barely more than a cough.

The orc made a sort of scoffing sound, though it was hard to tell if it was a snort instead. He turned to one of his companions and they conversed, in a nasty, wretched-sounding language Frodo knew as the Black Speech. After a moment, a third returned from outside, gave the hobbits one furious look, and began fervently hissing in his companions' ears. This new arrival was taller but scrawny, less build than the first. Not the strongest fighter, probably. On its belt there was a fine array of knives and a single hatchet, stained red-brown and black with a substance that Frodo would prefer not to question. He felt that familiar, grieved pang, remembering they had taken Sting. What would Bilbo think, after finding he'd lost it so quickly?