Many thanks for the Beta'ed version by Eruthiawen Luin. Happy New Year!

Chapter 17: Window on the East

Frodo sat in a sparse room that was, nevertheless, a prison. He was not reunited with Merry, whose cell had likely become a den of torment.

And was that so terrible? So asked Frodo in the thick mists of his once-garbled mind.

Frodo groaned. This was the end for himself, for the world. All that was left for Frodo was the long, lonely wait for his doom. Merry's agony, at least, would be faster. Be done with it and damn him.

There was another awful wonder in his mind – the glass ball, the Palantir, the Eye. Saruman had forced his captive to look upon this thing. For the moment after the orb was uncovered, the great Eye was fixed upon him. Frodo tried to run away from it, to no avail. The Eye called to Frodo as claws tore deep into Frodo's mind.

"You have come back," demanded the Dark Lord. "What is your report?"

Frodo was frozen and did not reply.

"What are you?"

The eye pressed him then, and hurt him greatly. "I am no one," answered Frodo feebly. "I am small."

The laugh was terrible.

"Tell Saruman this dainty is not for him," said the voiceless speech. "I shall have it be sent to Mordor."

Then it was over. The wizard covered up the frightful orb.

Frodo had assumed the conversation had happened in words. It had not.

"What did he say?" Saruman had asked.

"Nothing," Frodo had answered tonelessly.

"You lie, I think," said the wizard. "But what will it matter? It is I who will have the power."

Did Saruman know of Sauron's new request? Or was this white wizard a player in his own treachery? Who was the master? It was never Frodo.

If Sauron would come to fetch the Hobbits out from Isengard, there would be no retrieval, no hope. This would not be a rescue, just a more terrible cage. The torment would be beyond his reckoning. Nevertheless, Frodo did not divulge this new request to his current captor. Both Saruman and Sauron were enemies, and Frodo had precious few friends.

Frodo was then returned blindfolded to his cell.

The moment he hit the ground after being roughly shoved into the room by the Orcs, he brought his hands up to pull off his blindfold. The sight he was greeted with was the door being shut, and the sound was that of a lock clicking. There he sat, lost to the depthless shadows of his cell.

The candlelight on the four corbels now danced across the bare walls. New shadows formed in Frodo's reckoning until they coalesced into the shapes of dark horsemen cantering menacingly around the room.

Frodo clasped his hands over his face. His visions were delusional. He wanted to scream. He wanted death.

No. Frodo wanted the Ring.

This thing pressed down on him as a hunger that could never be sated. Could Frodo have given it away if he'd first come to Rivendell? Or ought Frodo just keep It safe?

Frodo struggled to stop crawling down this bad path.

He needed to come to Rivendell and make this misery end. He needed to come to Rivendell and make this misery end. He needed...he needed...

Frodo repeated the mantra, as if the folly might bring forth his true desire.

Rivendell. To Rivendell. Rivendell...

Then with this repetition, came another unexpected word.

Sam.

VVVVV

Sam stood near the Ranger, the outlaw, the Hobbit, and the corpse. The two men were doing most of the talking. Were the Hobbits at the heart of the group's plans, or exiles from this conversation? Sam knew the answer. The two men kept the two smaller beings at bay. It was what stoked Sam's anger.

Sam felt uncanny power within himself. He was small but had shown his strength—his quality—when the bad man came. Sam had slain him with his own hands. That was no small thing. Or, thought Sam, was it?

For Merry, his death at Isengard would be fast, and, probably, already done. It would be most fitting. It should have been most fitting to Merry the week after their being held captive at Crickhollow. But about Frodo's rescue? Could Frodo be saved?

Pippin assumed that the Ranger was the center of Frodo's recovery. Strider kept talking of tunnels. Who was to say if these fabled tunnels would do anything but cause Frodo's death, or cause their own?

Sam was walking….when had he begun to walk? He needed to think, think, THINK and so he needed to move. Each thoughtless stride from the clearing brought the sounds of the Men further away. The voices left Sam's hearing entirely. Sam was all too suddenly alone. His fingers smoothed over the surface of gold in his pocket as he picked his way through the trees. Where was he going?

There was the rustle of leaves and Sam had suddenly become aware of …what? A deer?

The ominous setting had Sam on his toes, abruptly alert. The sound of crunching Autumn leaves drew his attention to a cluster of nearby branches.

Sam heard soft snorting noises and the solid sound of hooves. A flash of panic flew down Sam's spine. A dark horse pushed through the branches. Sam stifled a scream. The Black Rider! The Black Rider! To Sam's immense relief, the brown horse halted, lifted his head, raised his ears, and loudly whinnied. This was Strider's animal.

Sam patted the horse's chest. "You're back, Master Brego."

Strider's horse and the hobbits' ponies had been spooked away by the Black Riders some days ago. Sam had a dream-like vision of the two ponies clomping their way happily back to the Shire. Either that, or the poor creatures would be eaten by wolves—a less pleasing vision.

The horse nudged Sam on his neck and nickered softly.

"Wish we could find your friends," said Sam. A burning pang filled his chest at the thought of lost friends, tugging at his thoughts until, once again, tears fell upon his cheeks. "And I wish we could find Frodo."

Sam tried to stifle the weight of his anguish. At present, he needed to get his reunited beast back to Strider.

Sam knew he could not mount the beast under his own power. He took hold of the bridle and led the horse in what he hoped was the right direction.

A pale ray of sun came in through a gap in the canopy . In the afternoon light, Sam noted that the horse tack was no longer the same. The fibers on parts of the bridle were intertwined with cloth of red and green. The saddle had an inlay of a white steed ensconced on an emerald field. Strider's horse had been borrowed or stolen, and had found a new owner.

Where was this new owner?

Another bleak vision came to Sam— that of a mounted warrior waylaid by foul creatures. Would Sam and the horse now be waylaid too? Sam again began brushing his free hand over the Ring.

Hsssss.

A new sound intruded on Sam's crowded cluster of fears, so delicate he almost dismissed it for his own imagination had he not felt the presence of it, the thrilling chill of being he confront the creature? Flee? Fight? Instead, Sam stilled his feet and tightened his grip on the horse's bridle.

There was a second hiss. Sam stupidly told himself it was a badger.

Then came clearly understandable words amongst the hissing.

"Where is it?" said the guttural voice.

Sam dropped the Ring and, with a quivering hand, drew his dagger. "Who's there?" Sam called out.

Again there was a hiss. Sam scanned across the woodlands. He saw nothing. The horse took a step back and snorted. Sam did not like the sound of him either.

"Show yourself!" Sam had spoken the words loudly, and instantly wished he'd never said them. "Or…" continued Sam, "run away in the opposite direction, and quickly." Sam raised his dagger and swooshed it about toward an unseen enemy. "I'm armed with a knife…a mighty sharp knife!"

"Sharpses and small," hissed the creature.

Sam turned to the voice, a stone's throw across the glade. The ferns were tall and dense. Sam could not see the speaker. "The knife might be small, but I've slain a man with it."

"No cutting. Not needed, Preciousss," hissed the creature. "Give it me, and we will go."

"I'll not give you the horse," said Sam.

The creature chuckled. It sounded more like a wheeze. "No, Precious, no horse. Too big, yes, and we come on our feetses."

A pair of haunted eyes rose above the foliage. He crawled out of the bracken, slouching forward on his fingertips and toes. Despite its hobbit-size, he seemed almost froglike. What was he? Sam wanted him gone.

"Tell me what you want, then," said Sam. "Or just go."

"The Precious is gone," said the creature. "We wants it back."

"Nothing more precious here than this knife," lied Sam with gumption, thrusting the knife forward again as if in an attempt to slice through the air. Surely the Precious meant the Ring!

"It was stolen," said the creature, paying no heed to the threat of the knife, pacing forward with his fingers near the ground. "Stolen by a thief who keeps it in his pocketses. Smeagol told riddles with the Bagginses, and then the Baggins lied," the creature's eyes went dark. "Baggins lied and stole our Precious!"

Sam now knew what this creature was. Mr. Bilbo had, in fact, been a thief, or, by the words in the Thorin and Company contract, a burglar.
Bilbo had come upon him in caves near the Lonely Mountains so many years ago. Smeagol, or Gollum, as Bilbo had called him, played a riddle game, which had been no game at all. They competed for the Ring and, as Frodo long suspected, for the life of the elder Baggins.

Sam had learned even more of the tales whilst eavesdropping at Bag End. According to Gandalf. Smeagol, had been a hobbit. His brother, Deagol, had found the Ring, and when Deagol wouldn't gift it to Smeagol as a "birthday present," Smeagol killed him.

"There's no Baggin-ses here to speak of," Sam replied, mimicking the creature fiercely in an ill-considered play with fire against his better judgement.

"Then what is in your pocketses?"

Ninnyhammer! Thought Sam. Gollum was nearly right.

"I have no pocket-ses to speak of," said Sam "except for the scabbard… which is empty." Sam again raised the point of his dagger.

"Where is it!" snarled Smeagol.

"I've no idea," said Sam. "Not here."

"No," said Smeagol thickly. "Precious is near." The creature moved closer, slinking over the rocky ground, hissing as he went. There was an evil glint in his eyes. "I can feel it, Precious. You are the thief, or Baggins is still thief. Where is it? Give it back! It is mine!"

There was something darkly resonant in Smeagol's speech. Sam recalled how Frodo had spoken of the Ring while in the web of his delusion. "Give it back to me!" Frodo had shouted at Crickhollow. "You cannot have it! Thief! Despicable thief! Wretched, disloyal fool of a servant! Unbind me and give it back! Do as I say! It is MINE!"

Sam shuddered.

"I've nothing to report about any Baggin-ses, or Precious-ses or Thief-es-ses!" said Sam.

"But Smeagol heard things," said Smeagol . "There was not the old Baggin-ses, but the new Baggin-ses. He was gone, gone, gone with the Precious. And you tried to find him, -Gollum-! But you couldn't find the new Baggin-ses. because big men took him to the high tower where the Orc-ses are now gathering behind the walls."

"How did you know that!" cried Sam, and then realized in his dismay, that he had just given himself away.

"We hear things, Precious, yes, we do hear things. You speak of the tunnels….deep dark tunnels where the yellow face never goes. The tunnels lead inside the tower."

"We found no tunnels," said Sam. He hopeful glint reached his eyes as he raised them. "Did you?"

"We searched for them. Searched and searched , though some said they couldn't be found. But Smeagol found one!"

"Where is it?" demanded Sam.

"Sam!"

Brego whinnied vociferously, and bolted toward Strider's voice. Sam was flung forcefully to the ground. By the time Sam righted himself, Strider had mounted his steed, and Smeagol had disappeared.

"I found the horse," said Sam stupidly.

"Retreiving Brego was a boon." He ran his finger over the browband, inlayed with white horses. "He rode with the Rohirrim, I see."

"What is a Rohirrim?" asked Sam.

"From the land of Rohan," said Strider. "The horse-people set between Orthanc and Gondor."

"Is that good?" asked Sam.

"Riders of Rohan have been held in firm friendships with Gondor," said Strider. "But there are likely some evil tidings" Strider ran his fingers through his horse's mane. His fingers were specked in red. "There is blood, but the horse does not bleed. This Rider is likely dead."

"What felled them?" asked Sam.

"We will see soon enough." Strider reached out his hand and helped lift Sam atop his mount. "We must get ourselves to safety.

VVVVV

A great pounding upon the door interrupted the wizard from this conversation with Scur. Scur stared stupidly at the chained little imp, who did not rouse. Then his ears were more focused on the grunted explanations of orcs from the inner corridor. All the orcs at Isengard called Saruman "Sharkey."

"We are the fighting Uruk-hai! The Uruk-hai of Isengard! We fight under Sharkey, not the sun-hating maggots of Barad-dur! Our regiment mustered at dawn. On the Fords of Isen we meant to march east to harry the whiteshins in Rohan. We meant to raid more villages where women and children were slain in heaps, horsemen were skewered with spears and we feasted on horseflesh. We thought the whiteskins had not the strength to attack us near Isengard. But, my Lord, we were ensnared. There was a trap! There was whiteskins swarmed out from the forest along the road, plowing us down with their sharp spears and a rain of arrows before we could raise a shield. We'd not expected this! Erkenbrand, the horse breeder, called to us a threat. We were not able to slay him and the horsemen fell back into the trees and vanished. Many of our regiment were slain. We ask for more fighters to march to Rohan for happy slaughter of all men. I am Ugluk. I have spoken."

"You have spoken," said Saruman. "And spoken well. You shall have your fighters. Not only should you fight for vengeance, but raze them from the groud. My great weapon is coming soon. It is time for the real battle to begin."

"Where is this great weapon?" asked Ugluk. "We ought to make use of it for our fighting Uruk-hai."

"The weapon is coming soon," said Saruman. "In this very cell, perhaps."

Scur shuddered at the words and again looked down at the wretched little imp.

"The Halflings that were noosed?" asked Ugluk. "Can we see the tricks before they're properly killed?"

Saruman laughed. "They cannot be spoiled…yet. Soon enough, I promise you. But there are two other Halflings in the wilds. Find them, alive and unspoiled, and, once we have our weapon, the tricks on the captives will be astounding."

Scur swallowed hard. This was never part of his job, even as a proper ruffian.

"What of the horsebreeders?" asked Ugluk. "More tricks?"

"Later," said Saruman. "Time to kill. Entertainment must wait. Let Rohan first become a kingdom of corpses. Then the survivors can give you your show."

"And what of Theoden King?" asked Ugluk.

"Grima has turned him bones and dust," said Saruman. "That is a show of his own. Kill him or let him rot. It matters not to me. His heirs, Theodred and Eomer, are the ones that must die and die quickly."

"Erkenbrand is the one who came upon us, slew many, then swear his curses to our host," said Ugluk.

"Then kill him especially thoroughly ," said Saruman. "Also, the Isengarders must fight with the Orc that came from Lugburz. We need all the warriors we can field in horse country. The Easterling men will come to slay as well."

"Isengarders can tolerate the sun," said Ugluk. "Those maggots from Mordor do not much love it."

"Our Isengarders do not much love these maggots from Moria," said Saruman. "Yet we tolerate them. And, for now, we must. Our fighting Uruk-hai from Isengard are the most superior of orcs," said Saruman with a silky tone. "Surely you know this. I made them this way. For now, all must fight Rohan. Keep only what guards you may. Empty Isengard out to harry the rest."

"What then?" asked Ugluk. "Shall the Maggots of Mordor leave to serve the Great Eye?"

"That may be a later…discussion," said Saruman. "But when all our work with Rohan, and then Gondor, is done, it will be best to put an end to this incivility between the best tribe, and the lesser one. Once again, I am quite sure you know who are the true Fighting Uruk-hai."

Ugluk laughed uproariously.

"And there is one more thing," said Saruman, "Osgiliath is now on both sides of the Great River. Mordor has taken it, though Rangers still delude themselves that it is kept upon the west. The Orcs and Easterlings shall conquer both sides. After that, we must consider what the Isengarders ought to do with this land."

Scur bit his lip. This was all going wrong. Osgiliath was his homeland. He did not want it conquered then governed over by the Orcs.

"Blow the horn and muster the armies," said Saruman. "We go to war."

"I will do your bidding! I am Ugluk. I have spoken!"

And with that, the clomps of Ugluk's boots moved down the corridors and fell away.

Scur now moved closer to the door. "My Lord," said Scur desperately. "Osgiliath…there is no need to raid that."

The Wizard laughed viciously. "So you heard that. Then you must know that the plans for Osgiliath have already been made. Your country will no longer exist. Your loyalty, Scur is now to me."

"But…my family," began Scur. "She planned to return."

"Ah, your daughter," said the wizard in a tone that was close to mockery. "I must bring her to the tower to help Frodo better consider his options. Do not allow her to leave the protective boarders of the wall, or, I fear, death will quickly come upon the girl…if not other things."

"You can't!" cried Scur. "Please."

"Dear Scur," said Saruman, "The time is nigh to assist with the greater good."

VVVVV

Most times, Merry had been blindfolded during his interrogations. The pain came at the end of the voices that asked the same unanswerable questions. In some cases, they were Orcs. They spoke in a rough, monstrous tone, and hurt Merry horribly. Then he fell from consciousness, chained to the same chair.

Other times, the wizard came. That most recent interrogation, Merry had passed from consciousness in a blissful darkness. The wizard woke him again in soothing speech that would turn to pain. Merry had no recourse for the questions. All his answers had been spent. Then Merry fell back into the void.

He was shaken. Agony pulsated through him again as he woke.

Why didn't they just kill him?

Of course , thought Merry. Because Saruman still required the Ring.

"Kill me please, Saruman" he moaned.

"I'm not him," said a different voice , not Saruman's but not unfamiliar. The blindfold was removed. Merry opened his blurred eyes to reveal Scur.

"Scur," said Merry, " I have earned my quick death. Please deal it."

"Even if I did want to kill you," Scur lowered his voice "I cannot. You must answer two questions. Where are your companions? Where is the trinket now?"

"I don't know," said Merry. "How could I? My companions are long gone. I have no means to find them."

"The wizard said they would be found and must be," said Scur.

"Then find them!" pleaded Merry. "And let me die!"

"I can't kill you yet," said Scur. "I only need to hurt you." Scur raised up poker, its tip orange at the center of his sight. "The wizard said there were Riders, Riders in black. They sought the trinket. Didn't Grimbold warn of them? Tell me what you know! Speak rat!"

"They are not riders, but wraiths," said Merry. "They are immortal – though the horses can be killed. They are minions of Mordor, servants from the Great Eye. They seek the trinket. You can't battle them – not alone. And that is all I know."

"Then you need to know more!"

Scur seemed more afraid than angry. Tears welled in his squinty eyes. Then he lifted the poker at the center of Merry's sight.

"Wait!" said Merry. "What does Saruman want? What does he truly want? Do you even know?"

Scur rested the poker. "Saruman said it was for the greater good."

"What does that mean?" cried Merry. "If you don't know, then just kill, please. That would be the greater good."

"No I do not know," said Scur. "I do not know about the twisted halls of the tower, why we cut all the trees, what we're building, why we need the Halflings, and what we are fighting. I'm just a soldier from Osgiliath. Saruman plans to have it overtaken by the Isengard Orcs."

Merry began to understand what was happening. "Have you no one in Osgiliath that might be warned?"

"It will be the heartbreak of my little Clothilde," said Scur.

"Your…daughter, yes?" asked Merry, clutching on. He did not mention the word whore.

"Yes," said Scur.

"She is…here in Orthanc?"

Scur did not answer, and averted his eyes.

"Did you not speak of your daughter?" asked Merry.

Scur still did not reply. In Scur, Merry saw a sadness which he had not yet witnessed by the ruffian. This was Scur's vulnerability, and Merry had to try to delve into it. "Please – tell me, Scur, where is she? Why is this so terrible? Did Saruman say something on the girl?"

"Answer the questions!" bellowed Scur. "That's all I want! Tell me the answers so I can kill you."

Merry pressed on like a hammer on a nail. "What did Saruman say on Clothilde? Will she go home? Will she have children? Where is she now?"

Scur sobbed. "I do not know! What do you know?"

"Nothing," said Merry.

"Then you must answer the questions!"

"Please, stop!" cried Merry, the poker drawing close. "I can't answer the questions! Tell me again of your daughter. What did the wizard say about your daughter?"

"Saruman said …that if this interview does not go well, Clothilde…would die most horribly. I do not know what to do – other than do what I must. I think he will try and kill her anyway." Scur fell to sobbing.

Merry leaned his head in his chained hands. "Gods," said Merry. "The terrible tactic of torments on one victim for the sake of another."

"Does it work?" asked Scur drearily.

"Yes," said Merry. " I have tortured Frodo's companion to bring Frodo to bear. Agony inflicted on a loved one for Obedience of the other." Merry wept. "I used it many times."

Scurs's face grew hard. "And I will do the same."

Scur drove the end of the poker into the embers and brought it down on Merry's back.

The heat seared Merry's flesh. He screeched until he had no voice left in him. And then Merry again fell into the void.

VVVVV

The four companions moved along the eves of the woodlands, in view of the western side of the Isen River.

They had two horses, Brego to go with Strider and Sam, and Grimbold to share his horse with Pippin.

Pippin now understood Strider's reckoning of the situation with Gondor. Grimbold could not be trusted too near the Ring.

Strider had told Pippin to keep a wary eye on the injured man – for though he had healed him, his desire for the Ring was still there. "Speak to me if he says anything about Sam," Strider had said. "This may be a dangerous group. But we have no choice. Grimbold is the one that might help us with our deeds. "

And what were these deeds? Strider explained that they must see what was going on, and so better consider these hard decisions. In the depths of his mind, Pippin even wondered if saving Frodo was truly the Ranger's most immediate goal.

What Pippin did know was that they were moving closer to Isengard, that there were ever more enemies, that all things now were perilous, and that this was never supposed to be the fate for any Hobbit. For the smaller creatures, everything had gotten far too big.

Pippin's thoughts wandered. Much of what Merry had told him about Gandalf was untrue. The Grey wizard had attempted to help Frodo from the beginning. Frodo had never been the needless sacrifice of other peoples, as Merry had insisted. If all four hobbits could have gone to Rivendell, their peril would have been over. The Ring would have been given to one of the Dúnedain, or elves, or princelings, or dwarfs.

Merry's scheming and sadism had wrecked their world. Pippin had helped in that misery. And the misery then landed upon himself. What had they all become? If only Pippin could have turned back time.

The Ring had drenched bile upon their scruples, Meriadoc most of all. But what of the darkness in Sam's once-gentle heart? The Ring was a burden, a corruption, as much as a power.

In the distance they saw the top of Isengard's high tower. It was huge and broad, but from this distance, it resembled the top of a tiny needle. A small hill rose up between themselves and Orthanc. Beyond that, Strider had said they would be in sight of the Ford. They began to crest the hill.

"By the Valar!" cried Strider, and quickly drew reign.

Pippin began to question this, but when he saw the corpses strewn across the Ford, he fell to stony silence.

Strider dismounted from his steed. Pippin gazed down. Most of the orc bodies were splayed with spears and peppered with arrows. There were also a few dead horses with the same green and red trappings that had been worn on Strider's retrieved horse.

"The horseman of Rohan fought hard," said Strider. He leaned down and patted the head of one of the dead animals. "As did the horses."

Grimbold also dismounted to stare at the bloodwork along the ford. "This seemed like an ambush," said Grimbold. "And it's one the Uruk-hai lost."

"I've never seen this," said Pippin.

"The carnage?" asked Grimbold.

"No," said Pippin. "The Orcs. I've never seen Orcs."

"Best kind you will see are dead," said Grimbold. "Yet I have seen far too many."

From far away, a great horn resounded in their ears, faint but nonetheless a clear, pristine call indifferent to the guttural growls and great clanging of swords and spears in opposition.

"What is that?" asked Pippin

Strider turned his gaze to Isengard. "Battle."

TBC