Chapter Text
The harsh sounds of black speech along with the sound of clanking metal armor grate on my ears, like nails on a chalkboard.
The pounding in my head is almost unbearable and I raise a hand to feel the crusty lump in the back of my hair from being cruelly knocked-out. I've never been knocked unconscious before, so the trauma to my brain must have been drastic enough to force my brain to temporarily shut down.
And then I pause, awareness of my surroundings coming to me in bits and pieces. I've woken up to a nightmare.
I'm laying on a dirty blanket on the ground, literally surrounded by orcs. The pointy-eared fiends, upon noticing me awake, bare their disgusting teeth at me and leer with dark evil eyes.
I instinctively huddle into myself, trying to become a human armadillo and appear as small as possible only to realize with a start that I'm chained! Both my hands and my feet. And what's worse is my headache makes me feel so woozy, it's causing my stomach to clench. I close my eyes and focus on my breath, struggling not to throw up.
Definitly a concussion. All the other times I thought I had a concussion on this trip don't even compare.
A very nasally orc voice says something to the group in black speech that causes the whole camp to start laughing uproarously. It's obviously about me.
I stiffen my back, and clench my teeth feeling humilated and angry. And very, VERY afraid.
Why am I still here? I thought the Valar would be kind enough to send me home by now?
Tears prick my eyes making me clench them closed harder and my breathing catches. Apparently we were wrong. Gandalf... Galadriel... Bilbo and Ballin...even my own heart was wrong. Otherwise why am I still here in Middle Earth?
Despite the pain, confusion, and fear...I try to reassure myself with happy mental pep-talk.
I did it! I, Peyton Silva, a random woman from Earth (who always seems to mess things up), managed to save the line of Durin! Despite all the odds against me!
There won't be any royal funerals in the deep caverns of the Lonely Mountain. No lifeless pale bodies of three Durin's sons on cold, black slabs. No tear-stricken Bilbo, no distraught Dwalin, no sobbing Balin.
I won.
All of my friends have made it, safe and whole. A company of thirteen dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit. Against all odds, they all survived.
All...except for me.
I close my eyes, pushing away the self-pity. I refuse to feel anything except satisfaction for a job well done. I also try not to dwell on how my absence might be affecting everyone. One casualty in a quest such as ours is statistically miraculous after all. As Thorin once said, they should rejoice! They have a lot to be grateful for.
I have no complaints except one: I had hoped to be home by now, wrapped in a microfiber blanket on the couch with a plate of blueberry pancakes, surrounded by my relieved brothers, crying parents, and adoring nieces and nephews while I wore my favorite fuzzy socks.
But the grim reality of cold steel, and grinning orcs around me shatters that dream despite completing my mission. Maybe Thorin was right? Maybe there's no way home?
Maybe...I AM destined to die here?
No! I haven't come this far to only come this far! The Valar sent me to save the Line of Durin and I did! Unless, there’s more to it than that?
My sword is out of sight from where I lay, but I gently start testing the rusty shackles on my wrists. I tug and twist, hoping that I might find some sort of weakness or flaw.
The metal bites into my fragile skin as try to resist the iron at different angles. I finally have to stop pulling against my shackles because of the pain. My human skin is no match for iron. I'll need a tool if I'm going to somehow escape, like a metal prod to pick the lock. And there's nothing within reach...
Yet.
Determined in my new mission, I shift my attention to the orcs around me once again. Still laying frozen in my spot, I study the ones with their backs turned and resolutely ignoring the sneers and malicious chuckles from the others who want me to meet their gaze. None of them seem to have a piece of metal on their person that I can use.
After about an hour of lying here, my confidence has slightly risen from the fact that noone has touched me. I finally work up the courage to sit up and take a better look me at around the small camp. There's more than a hundred orcs, tents set up and fires going. Most if them seem to be cooking an unrecognizeable type of meat over a spit. The smell causes my stomach to roll again and I turn my face away remembering what meat was on the menu in the Lord of the Rings.
Again, I take heart in the fact that I was able to change the outcome of Tolkien's story!
And it wasn't due to excellent sword-fighting skills or an elf hit-man like I'd always imagined it would need to be.
Love actually was the answer. Just like all the fairytales say! Huh. I guess it isn't so cliche after all!
That's what Galadriel had meant: Only love could save him, and only I could do this because I am Thorin Oakenshield's One. I love him with all my heart and he loves me with all of his. I would give my life a thousand times over for him if I had to, just as he would for me.
And only Azog would use that to his advantage.
My eyes immediatly start searching for the largest and palest orc of them all and it doesn't take long for me to find him. Azog sits on a large stone, off to the side, surrounded by maybe nine enormous wargs. He seems to be petting and communicating with them. The wargs lap up the attention, reminding me of dangerous pets.
One of the wargs is laying down, facing me. He raises his head when he notices me watching them and growls, flicking its pointy ears back and baring sharp menacing teeth.
The heads of all the other wargs look over at me, ears perking up and Azog follows their gaze. I immediately flinch back and avert my eyes, wishing I was invisible. A dark part of me wishes I had the ring so I could disappear, before I kick that idea out.
Thank GOODNESS the ring isn't here! Azog had no idea his master's ring was right there on Ravenhill with us. That would have changed everything.
Azog doesn't approach me, but I can feel his pale eyes on me, watching from across the camp. I finally look back and meet his stare, glaring defiantly. His gaze is calm, expectant, as if he's waiting for me to make a move and run for it. Confident that I won't make it far.
My glare deepens. Don't test me! Because I WILL escape.
Before a winner can be decided between our silent glaring contest (thankfully he doesn't have eyebrows, so for once I might actually be winning!), the sound of more wargs braying into the camp, has me straightening my back. More orc riders arrive looking weary and battered. To be fair, they all look like that though.
The new arrivals look like stragglers from the Battle of the Five Armies, and they immediately ride straight to Azog.
I don't understand black speech in the slightest, but they seem to be bringing a report judging by their fearful and subdued body language.
One orc steps forward, presenting a cruel-looking scimitar, bowing low and practically shaking before Azog. My stomach twists painfully as I recognize Bolg's scimitar. The vivid image of the pointy end stabbing through the chest of a beautiful fiery elleth assaults my mind.
Why had Tauriel been on Ravenhill anyways? I never got to ask her or Legolas why they were fighting up there. She should have been down in the battle with her king.
Azog accepts the scimitar, studying it with a somber expression on his scarred face. He turns from the group who then scurry away, relief evident on their faces at his clear dismissal.
But then his eyes seek out mine once more, catching me by surprise. My stomach churns as he strides toward me, scimitar in hand. My muscles tense, heart pounding as it attempts to give me the adrenaline to run away. I can't with these shackles on my ankles. I pull my knees up to my chest though, sitting there on the ground and looking up at his menacing form.
I quickly try to calm myself. He said he wouldn't kill me and death would not come to me, remember? He needs me for Sauron.
"Your dwarf love is dead," Azog rasps, a smirk playing on his strange lips. "I just received word."
My heart drops and I let out a pained breath before I suddenly pause, my brow furrowing in confusion. That’s not what the conversation had looked like.
I shake my head. "I don't believe you," I croak, my voicebox dry.
Azog tilts his head, his English as broken as ever. "The runt king was weak from fighting. Much of blood was lost on ice. Why not you believe me?"
He kneels and I flinch back as his enormous clawed hand reaches out to me. Instead of harming me though, he slides it down my hair to my shoulder like he had done before. But his hand doesn't pause as it slides down my waist, my hip, up my thigh, and finally rests it on my knee.
I immediatly try to lean back and move my knee out from his grip, revulsion welling up inside me at his blatant touch. But his grip tightens warningly, tips of his claws just slightly pressing through my pants.
I know he's doing this to get a rise out of me. It's all a mind game to him. His gaze is still intent on my face as he waits for my answer.
I sneer at him, furious, "You didn't die from an arm wound in a disgusting orc hole. Why would he die from a foot wound when the best dwarf and elf healers that Middle Earth has to offer are looking after him?"
I then lean forward, relishing in the slight surprise in his eyes at my closeness and I smirk, "Face it, Azog... You picked the lesser prize back there on the ice."
He was played the fool. I won.
Azog suddenly lifts his head back and laughs, deep and throaty, dismantling my confidence like ice melting in hot water. My head aches in warning, remembering the last time.
"I like your spirit," he rumbles, his grin dripping with malice.
Without warning, he yanks my leg toward him, his hand still gripping the back of my knee. I fall flat on my back with a painful thud. His hulking figure looms over me and I gasp, instinctively raising my hands to push them against his chest in a fruitless attempt to keep him from coming closer. The warmth of his skin and the ridges of his scars against my fingertips are jarring.
Dread, the likes of which I have never felt before in all my twenty-seven years of life, fill my lungs as his face leans towards me.
He wouldn't…
I turn my head away and his voice is suddenly is my ear, whispering harshly, "The lesser prize? Did you not seeee the desssspair on his face as I took you away from him?"
Thorin's desperate face comes to my memory unbidden, looking up at me from between the curtain of his dark hair...his hands and knees surrounded by bloody ice...
Azog doesn't pause, "His reaction was better than when I cut off his grandfather's head and threw it at his feet."
I bite my trembling lips, drawing blood to keep from sobbing. I can't stop the pained sound that escapes from my chest though.
Thorin...I'm so so sorry...
I keep my face turned away, tears dripping from my eyes, but Azog isn’t satisfied. He lets go of my knee, reaching his large hand for my jaw and yanking my gaze towards him.
His cruel eyes drink in my pain and self-loathing. I can tell that this is my punishment for trying to talk back to him, for trying to rile him up as he did me. This is a power tactic, and currently he holds ALL the power.
Then he delivers the final blow.
Reaching his other hand up to the courtship braid I have in my hair, he delicately flicks at it with an enormous claw, "But the expression I am most excited to see….is the expression his face will hold when I present my newest son to him...born from none other than his One."
The nightmares that will plague me for the rest of my life won't be about giant spiders. They won't even be about wargs.
They will be of his evil smile as he says those words to me.
He stands with a satisfied expression, leaving me to myself as horrified and frightened sobs find their way around my hand covering my mouth. My body trembles and quakes in disgust and fear.
He's lying. He has to be! Orcs are born from weird yucky sacs they dig up in the ground…aren't they?
AREN'T THEY?!
I don't mean to vomit. I'm not proud of the fact that I can't hold it in, but my stomach has a mind of its own (maybe remnants from my concussion from earlier?), but it's just yellow bile. I haven't eaten anything since yesterday morning.
And it's stupid, I know, but a terrible anxiety invades my mind. What if Thorin did succumb to his wounds like in the story? Just because he didn't get stabbed in his chest doesn't mean that he can't bleed out from an artery in his foot.
What if Bilbo held him in his arms while he died just like in my vision?
What if a funeral is actually being organized right now rather than a rescue party for me?!
My sacrifice would have been for nothing...
NO! Stop it! I lay back down and curl into a ball, slightly rocking myself in fetal position as I press my hand to my mouth hold in my crying. Azog said that he was excited to...to...to show a son to him! That means... he IS still alive! Otherwise, how will he show him his son?
I cling to Azog’s little slip desperately, curling into myself. The orcs barely look up from their spots around the fire across the space from me when they hear me retching once more. They even go so far as to joke about it in black speech and laugh about me.
As I travel with the orc army, riding the white warg while sitting in front of Azog the Defiler, every day closer to my impending meeting with the Lord of the Rings, I try and escape my terrifying reality by thinking happy thoughts. A difficult thing with the pale Orc's chest thumping against me with every movement of the Warg.
Damn near impossible
But still I try.
There's a part of me that desperately hopes the company will come after me. I can't help it. I wish with every fiber of my being to be somewhere else.
But I know with a surety that even if they do come, Thorin won't be one of them. From the amount of trauma he sustained during the battle to his foot from Azog, and then causing further damage to it by yanking on it before pulling the sword out; he will likely have to walk with a cane the rest of his life. No charging into battle as he's always done.
The thought brings me deep despair. I close my eyes and try to imagine a happy ending to this alternate reality. What might the dwarves be doing right now if we were in a happy reality?
I imagine a HUGE celebration. One with ALL the elves from the Greenwood and humans from Dale in the restored halls of Erebor. All the animosity and bitterness between the three races wiped away as if it had never existed. As thoroughly and completely gone as all dust, cobwebs, and grime of the past 100 years are wiped away to show the sparkling and gleaming marble and granite halls underneath.
Decorations of alabaster, jade, and jewels that are set into the stone have been restored to form beautiful designs and labyrinthine woven tapestries.
I imagine the company all surrounded by their surviving kin from the Iron Hills, uncles and cousins receiving happy head slams and powerful back slaps as they gather joyously in an enormous banquet hall, celebrating their impossible victory over both Smaug the Terrible and the Orc/Goblin armies with giant mugs of ale and a delicious variety of food.
I imagine Thorin standing and raising a beautiful dwarf goblet of pure shining silver in a toast to Bilbo and Gandalf, for being the reason that any of this was possible and that they have his eternal gratitude.
I imagine the company drinking their ale in a toast ro Bilbo's insane bravery and then throwing food at each other like at Bilbo's house which then turns into a huge food fight among all the banquet eaters! And then Dwalin and Dain arm-wrestle like the immature boys they are.
Happy, laughing, burping, shoving, joyful faces on all of them throughout the party, which lasts for days.
No…WEEKS!
And all their dreams have come true! And miraculously, they all lived to see it! And then they all find their Ones at the party! And then Thorin and Thranduil actually get drunk enough that they're shaking hands and grinning stupidly at each other! Hahahaha! It's all so wond-
"You're smiling."
All the color and light drain out of my vivid imagination like pouring water on a painting...leaving it as colorless and bland as the pale skin of Azog, who is yet again intruding on my peace.
Ugh. Can't he take a hint??
We're camped for the night, and I'm currently chained to a tree near the fire. The image I had in my mind of Thorin's loud boisterous laughter and bright smile, alongside with Thranduil's equally radiant grin as they forgave one another had caused me to unconciously smile and chuckle too.
It was a beautiful, impossible fantasy.
My smile is now a glare as I look up at him, "Not anymore."
Hatred bubbles up within me, and I would love nothing more than to run my sword through him. They actually have brought Varsziel surprisingly! I hadn't even noticed Azog pick it up as he walked away with me, but I was focused on other things at the time. It must have been what he used to kill SunTear with.
He kneels down so our heads are closer even though he's an enormous eight-foot tall giant, one whole meter taller than me.
His head tilts to the side as he studies me, "You surprise me, daughter of man. What could you possibly be smiling about with a future as bleak as yours? You have no friends, no family. You will be tortured in some of the most horrible ways known to exist….what can possibly be keeping you in such good spirits?"
The torture bit throws me off, and I inwardly balk. I'm not strong enough to handle torture. Just him popping my arm out and for the company to pop it back was enough torture for me.
But I'm happy to know that he's so put off by my positive daydreaming and I can't help but smile at his annoyance again. His frown grows. I bet a million bucks that I'm the first human woman to smile at him.
I wonder if I'm the first anything to smile at him?
I shrug and find myself opening up, "Because I won. I came to Middle Earth, or rather I was sent to Middle Earth, with a purpose. And I completed it." I heave a deep sigh and lean back deeper into the tree, feeling a peace come over me. "I actually changed the original story. Thorin was meant to die on that icefield by your hand, and you were as well. But now, everything will be different."
He listens intently, his face unsneering for once.
"You are a seer?" he asks simply.
I can't believe I'm having a semi-cordial conversation with Azog of all people. But he's the only orc that will talk to me. The others keep their distance as they sneer at me, and they don't speak English.
"Not anymore," I sigh, looking away from him and out into the dark forest. I then shrug, "The story is done. I have no idea what comes next."
Not for the next fifty or so years at least, but I’ll never tell him that. I don't know how it will all be different, but I guess that doesn't matter since I won't live for another fifty years to see it.
"And you smile because you have…hope? That your dwarf love will come save you?" Azog's cruel smirk is back as he mocks me.
I shake my head, "No. I already know he won't. You did a real number on his foot."
Azog tilts his head, "You speak strangely. I do not understand your meaning."
I'm reminded that the dwarves had gotten used to my weird talking and my figure of speech and slang, whereas Azog struggles with speaking the language in general.
"It means that you ruined his foot. He's not coming." I hiss at him, angry again.
"But you hope that his people will save you?" Azog tries again.
"That would be nice, but...no. I don't want them to come since it would be a death sentence. I don't want any of them dying."
"Ah, you still think you will die then? That is your hope," Azog realizes as he looks out over his own company. He is silent for a moment before looking at me again. "And if I told you that you will live a long long life at my side….what would you do?"
His pale blue eyes study me. I'm not sure what he's seeking, but I'd bet anything that it's to cause me more pain.
"Take my own life," I reply firmly, not really seeing an alternative.
Either suffer for a long life or suffer for a short one? I'll take the short one, please.
Azog smirks, seeming to expect that answer before looking down at my shackles. The metal lumps and ridges on it have rubbed at my skin, causing bleeding sores to develop. "Would you like me to take these shackles off?"
I blink at him. Confused. I just threatened to commit suicide, and he's offering to make it easier for me? Isn't he worried about me offing myself before we even get to his Master?
"Yyyeeeessssss?" It comes out as a confused question as I stare at him, not understanding.
What's the catch?
Without another word Azog gently grips my arm towards him with one hand, causing me to flinch in surprise at the contact. My flinch causes me to scrape my already raw wrists against the shackles. I'll probably get tetnus from these dang things.
He pulls out a dark key from out of nowhere and with a jimmy and a CLICK! the iron shackles come undone. I rub at the sore wounds on my wrists, but keep my eyes on him warily, waiting for the punchline...
He notices my look and explains simply, "Treat me with respect and you shall be rewarded. Treat me with disrespect and you shall be punished."
I freeze.
It all suddenly hits me, the reason for his actions. He's training me! Like he would a warg puppy, to avoid pain and seek only pleasure from him. Another mind game. Oh, he's good.
I see red.
"You know what my hope is?" I seethe, leaning toward him, "That the story rights itself where you're concerned. I hope that a blade sticks into your heart and your reign of terror and defiling comes to an abrupt end."
Azog growls, a sound not unlike a warg, and bares his teeth at my face in a hideous grin, "I can't hurt you, woman…not yet. But I can kill Every. Last. Member. of Thorinshield's company you traveled with." He growls again, "Respect me….or I will decorate our home with their heads mounted on the walls and force you to pass by them every morning on your way to breakfast. What say you?"
I spit in his face.
His words are so cruel, so merciless, that the very idea of submitting my free will to someone like him makes my very skin crawl. I will die before I let him do something so heinous to my dwarf family.
Azog roars in anger, grabbing me by the neck and lifting me high in the air above him. I gasp and frantically grasp at his powerful hand at my throat, dangling in the air.
The camp erupts in commotion as the wargs all jump up and start yapping excitedly, quivering and whining with anticipation. This seems to be a signal for them.
I grunt and pull weakly at his thick muscled arm, my only focus to keep breathing. His hands are so big they fit completely around my neck and my pathetic attempts to pull at his hand are like a butterfly's wings brushing at a flower. I watch his eyes desperately, wondering if he will lose his composure and actually kill me this time. It would be a mercy but, even now, death still manages to frighten me.
He lowers me slightly, bringing my face to his face, still holding me up in the air.
"So be it." He sneers, his teeth sharp in an evil grin, "I shall enjoy stuffing their heads with sawdust."
The mind games don't end there, unfortunately. He strips me of my clothing, leaving me in nothing but my bra and underwear. He doesn't touch me, not like that anyways (to my eternal relief), but the humiliation and embarrassment is ever present and the leers and tongue-wagging of the orcs have become non-stop.
By the second night of traveling with orcs, the unsettling realization that I'm not going to magically wake up in my world settles deeper into my bones. My only solace is the sense of accomplishment from my success in saving the Durinsons.
I cling to it, allowing it to lift my spirits. An inner calm washes over me, despite everything. Good won in the end, for the company.
But what about me? Where's my happy ever after?
Besides doing this for the mental torture it inflicts on me, I have the feeling that Azog did this to ensure I don't feel tempted to try and escape in this frigid winter temperature. Well, he's winning in both regards.
After spending so much time around my modest dwarf company who think long johns are immodest...showing this much skin feels the same as being truly naked.
If I ever make it out of this, I'm never going to wear a bikini to the beach again. It'll now be forever tainted by this event.
I have to choose between freezing to death, or staying close to Azog and the wargs and where the fire is. More mind games to make me dependant on him.
I just want to curl up and die. I want to choose the freezing to death option. I do. But...I've already experienced hypothermia on this trip once and I don't want to experience it again.
Even though I gave my word that I wouldn't resist and I wouldn't fight, it is obvious that the orcs refuse to risk me getting away. My feet are bound once more together with leather by the ankles, as well as leather strips around my wrists from rejecting Azog's 'kindness'.
When we stop to rest the wargs, they even go as far as to chain my neck and waist to whatever tree is closest to camp. I never really considered that orcs stop for meal times. They just always seemed...unstoppable to me. Like an evil force that never eats nor sleeps. But I guess they need sustenance to keep going like anybody else. We're close to Dol Ghuldor. Only two more days, according to Azog.
The orcs know I'm Azog's particular project. This thankfully keeps them from approaching me while he's present. But it's like permission has been granted to harrass me when he isn't around. And apparently many of them DO know English.
As we travel to Dol Guldur, Azog frequently leaves to scout ahead, or even remain behind in case we are being followed by an army. In those times, he leaves me to the orcs with strict instructions that I not be allowed to leave (not even for bathroom breaks) and to not touch me.
He didn't say anything about harassing me, though. And harass me they do. Lewd, disgusting comments about my body parts that make me lash out a couple of times in righteous fury at them.
Ever since their leader traumatized me with his words and promises, the other orcs have followed his lead and make nasty passes at me in English. On one evening, it gets particularly bad while Azog has scouted behind.
"Why can' we just eat 'er?" One of the orcs asks with a sickening grin, drawing my attention away from trying to make myself comfortable against the tree I'm currently chained to. "She squirms too much."
They've been speaking Black Speech this entire journey but only speak Westron or English when they want to get a reaction out of me.
One of the orcs comes over to me and I immediately flinch back, as he gets into my space causing me to hiss slightly as the chains cut into my neck, stinging sharply. The chains are old and covered in rust which making the already raw spots bleed slightly.
I'm positive that if Sauron or Azog don't kill me, the tetnus will.
"The little human wet herself." The orc says peering down at me. When he speaks he spits slightly, sending the foul smelling spittle flying at my face. "Look at 'er."
I feel my face heating up as the orc speaks about the hygiene situation that I currently find myself in. I haven't bathed in five days, and I refuse to pull my pants down in front of any of these disgusting creatures. The orcs have not allowed me out of their sight, and I eventually lost the struggle to not wet myself like a baby. The fact that I haven't been able to hold it in is more than a little embarrassing. But I should give myself more credit.
No one can go days without peeing, it's impossible.
"She ain't so pretty now is she?" The smaller orcs sneers and snorts a laugh, following the larger one to come over to peer down at me.
He moves forward with his large hand outstretched, snickering the entire time, before yanking on my hand cuffs so painfully it causes me to cry out in surprise and hurt. I can tell that my entire body will be black and blue with bruises by the time I reach Sauron. I'm already covered in cuts and scrapes as well as marks from this entire Middle Earth journey, making me feel like my entire body is one giant injury.
"I wonder if that 'ill make 'er taste bette'?" The small one says moving closer to me, sniffing the air.
He sniffs at me slightly, releasing small puffs of foul-smelling air. Throughout the days I've traveled with them, I've made every effort to avoid looking at them up close. Their faces are truly ones only a mother could love: repulsive and grotesque.
Up close, their skin is caked with dirt, blood, and other unknown substances that make me feel nauseous all over again. He smells vile and looks even worse. Why don't they take baths? Do they enjoy the grime, or do they simply not care? Why don't they care?!
"I bet she looked real nice, once…Does she look smalle' to you?" He asked over his shoulder to the other two orcs.
I've lost weight but that's due to the stresss as well as barely eating their disgusting meat and odd flavored bread.
"She still looks jus' as maggoty and midgetey as before." A small orc says, flopping down lazily onto one of the stumps in the clearing.
The orc in front of me leans forward towards me, making my constant, never-ending panic increase tenfold. He reaches out his large hand, wrapping it around my wrist, before pulling me up until the chain still attached to the tree is completely rigid, making me cry out in pain. He pulls me so close to his face, and I can smell the noxious fumes coming from his gaping mouth. I feel bile turning in my stomach and mouth as he leans close to me.
I don't even bother to fight the tears from spilling down my face when the orc pulls me to his mouth and nose, inhaling deeply.
"I bet she tastes just as lovely as she looks," The orc says, sending involuntary shivers down my spine.
"Stop yer playin' around." One of the lesser leader orcs says from the other side of the camp, drawing the attention of the other two over to him. "Azog will be back soon. If you value your lives, you'll stay away from 'er."
The orc, immediately steps back from me, releasing me roughly making me grunt in pain. My shoulders crack painfully, my left one in particular (the one that Azog had dislocated before) sending fresh waves of pain everywhere I still have feeling remaining. I try to hide my whimpers as I remain there, chained to the tree.
If I was to compare this experience to the spiders, I would say that this is more a physical torture than a psycological one. The spiders filled me with a pure and potent fear, overwhelming my senses to the point of fainting. But here, Azog's mental anxiety fills my mind with hundreds of frazzled anxious knots, leaving me feeling like I'm going crazy. And the constant battering and bruising and riding on a warg makes it so much worse.
Time passes dismally slow as we wait for Azog to return. What's worse is that I'm being tormented by someone's minions. The true villain, Sauron, the master of these foul creatures, has yet to be revealed.
Azog doesn't come back as quickly as we thought he would. I slip in and out of consciousness for most of the day, my head lolling forward and backward each time I lose focus. I'm actually rather proud of myself for staying conscious as long as I have. Though I've fought to stay awake, I haven't succumbed to unconsciousness as often as I want.
I'll be the first to admit that I wish I could just stay unconscious. Each time I jolt back into awareness, the pain in my body feels worse than before. By the third time I wake up, I feel sweat trickling down my body. Having always lived in a hot climate in Nevada, I was used to sweating and usually didn't mind it. But this is winter in Middle Earth, and the combination of my body being drenched in salty sweat and the cold wind blowing against me is unbearable. I hate it more than anything.
By the time Azog arrives, all the sweat that had been clinging to my body has dried, leaving me feeling like mere skin and bones, devoid of any real substance. It's as if I could be carried away by the wind. The sound of clinking chains somewhat rouses me, and the moment I'm no longer bound to the tree, I collapse to the ground, unable to support myself.
Azog's metal boots come into my view which, after a moment's pause, he uses his foot to firmly roll me from my front onto my back so I'm looking upward at him towering over me.
"Are these orcs bothering you?" He gives me an evil smirk. "Ask, and I will give you my protection."
Ah, so he IS aware of the way his orcs treat me. This is another one of his mind games. He would absolutely love it if Thorin's One sought HIM for protection and comfort.
I glare at him. Absolutely not.
"Never." I spit, although it comes out weaker than I want due to my dry mouth.
Azog shrugs, not seeming to really care, "Very well. Let me know if you change your mind."
He then walks away, and the hideous grins that come upon the orc's faces around the camp almost make me scream out for Azog to come back. But I keep my mouth closed and close my eyes, instead. I curl into a fetal ball and stay in that position on the ground no matter the hideous sneers and words thrown my way until Azog is ready to depart.
I watch them with ill-disguised disgust as I attribute my continued consciousness to pure adrenaline, rather than fortitude. I feel as if all of my actual energy has been completely drained from my body, leaving me with nothing left but the energy that comes from being terrified out of your mind.
I feel my sanity slipping further once I see Dol Ghuldar's peaks in the distance.
We're here.
My resolve breaks and that night I give hypothermia a half-hearted try. I force myself to calm, breathing peacefully and trying to embrace the cold into my body, into my cells. I try to slip peacefully into hypothermia rather than violently before, and this time try to force myself to not shiver so I don't give my plan away, but somehow Azog catches onto my plan very quickly.
I barely get chilled before I'm forced to sit next to him by the fire, surrounded by leering orcs as ugly and terrifying as demons from hell. My mind finally catches up to me and I think about the horrible consequences of my decision if it had progressed too far.
I would have to sleep pressed close to Azog like I had with Thorin if I got too cold.
I immediately and completely give up the idea and reach out to the fire, letting it warm me back up.
I feel hands untying my ankles and wrists and I jerk away, afraid of the feel of their disgusting hands on me. They laugh at me and continue with their movements until the wrist and ankle binds fall off.
A hand suddenly grabs my hair and yanks. Pain. So painful. I cry as I feel my scalp pulling away from my skull and it's hot and sharp like tiny fire ants biting all over my head. I cry out and reach up to the hands holding my hair, trying to pull his hand closer to me so I can relieve the pressure.
I'm suddenly tossed forward and the breath wooshes out of my body as I slam down into the stone ground. I whimper at the way the hard floor jars my bones painfully.
The sound of metal clanking causes me to shakily look up and see that I'm in a black metal cage.
I look around me in the dark moonlight and I'm here. In the flesh. Dol Guldur. I thought Gandalf was grey but he looks practically blue compared to this place.
As I sit here, staring at my dirty knuckles grasping the corroded metal bars, I take in all my surroundings. If they could get rid of the current occupant and put a little tender love and care into the place….A LOT of TLC….it actually could look very lovely. I briefly wonder about Dol Ghuldor's history. What did it used to be before evil took hold of it? I don't get to contemplate it much further though
A slight breeze blows through the bars of the cage and the hair on the back of my arms prickle. He's here.
I can't face this! I instinctively curl up into a little ball. The slight breeze turns into a gust of wind and then that voice...HIS voice...
"At last."
I lay there, trembling against the old withered stone, refusing to look up. I know I will see a dark and shapeless mist. Sauron. The Lord of the Rings.
I'm suddenly surrounded in his darkness but unlike all the other times...I don't wake up when his thick darkness reaches out and touches my skin.
I scream.