Author’s note: I always swore I would never attempt Cirith Ungol, because I can't do it justice, but the following came to me when I woke early one morning. There is no rhyme or reason to these things. Having come to me, more or less complete, there was nothing to be done but write it down, and share it. I have borrowed not only Tolkien's wonderful characters, but also his own words. The ending is obviously almost pure Tolkien, but his words are also scattered throughout and acknowledged at the end.


THE PRISONER

I drift in deep water, I am drowning, and the water roars in my ears. I try to move my limbs to save myself, but they float lifeless. I am helpless, and beyond help. I want to scream, but the water will rush into my body. Soon I will have no choice; I feel the pressing urge to breathe. I will choke and drown like my parents before me.

Fiery liquid pours into my throat, so that I gag and cough as fierce laughter and jeers surround me. I am no longer floating, but am held and shaken; my face is slapped, but I hardly notice the pain over the burning in my throat and shoulder. My head lolls, dizziness and nausea take hold of me, and I retch and retch as I am thrown forward onto the floor. I try to force my mind to make sense of what is happening, but I have no point of reference; I cannot remember my last waking memory. With growing panic, I cannot even remember who I am. I force my eyes open, but there is no help there; everything is blurred and shapeless in a dim red light. Shadows move, but I cannot focus, and my disorientation increases. I try to push myself up with my arms, but they are weak and shaking, and I fall back to the ground. A heavy blow smashes into my side, and as I roll helplessly, it is repeated in my stomach, driving up under my rib cage, lifting my body up to slam down on my back. The little breath I have is knocked from me, so that I whoop and crow, my body arching up in my need for air. Just as the darkness begins to rush in, I draw a gasping breath. Pain floods through me, and I feel the warm dampness of my breeches against my legs: I have wet myself. More shouts and jeers, but I cannot make any sense of them.

A voice rises above the confused noise, ugly and guttural.

‘The next one of you to kick the Prisoner without my say so, will be carrion, understand me, you filth!’

The Prisoner. I am the Prisoner. A thought rises in my mind: Where is Sam? But it is followed quickly by: Who is Sam? I do not know the answer.

‘Sam!’ I moan anyway, spread-eagled on my back as the world swims around me.
A face, unfocused, looms over me.

‘Don’t you fret, my little dunghill maggot,’ it jeers. ‘You'll soon have your Elf-lord friend to keep you company, and then we’ll send the pretty pair of you to Lugburz, for the good of your health!’

As I feel my mind slipping away, escaping from the pain and horror, I think, ‘Sam is an elf, then?’

I stand on the bridge as Evil falls into the abyss. In slow motion, I see the whip curl upward and wrap around Gandalf’s knees, making him stagger and fall. I will run and save him, he will catch my hand; this time I will surely be fast enough, strong enough. This time. But my feet are rooted to the spot, and I cannot make them move; I watch, helpless, as he grasps in vain at the stone, and his body slides into the abyss. His body is falling, falling, until it vanishes in the depths. I am weeping so much I cannot breath.

Fiery liquid pours into my throat so that I gag and cough as fierce laughter and jeers surround me. I have been here before. Where is here?

A voice I remember. ‘Strip the little maggot first, and then we’ll see if he’s recovered enough from her ladyship’s poison to talk any sense.’

Poison. I have been poisoned? How? When? I open my eyes, and orc faces swim into focus. The stuff of nightmares. I am grasped roughly. I try to struggle, but I am so weak and held in a grip of iron. I feel like a fly trapped in honey making ineffectual movements to escape.

Soon I will die.

Even in this moment of terror, a memory tries to rise in my mind. A fly? I shake my head to try and clear my thoughts, but my mind is paralysed with fear. They slash my braces and rip my trousers from me, searching the pockets before throwing them to the floor and reaching for my undergarments. I struggle wildly. I know they must not find it - although I do not know what it is - and I kick out at my tormentors, biting the hand that holds me. My thrashing legs are caught and held in vice like grips. A clawed hand reaches up between them, grabbing me where I am most vulnerable. I break into a cold sweat, screaming my fear. A vicious twist, and I am thrown to the floor, doubled up in agony and vomiting. Pain is my whole world. A hand slams into the small of my back so I sprawl face down, into my own effluent. My shirt is torn from my back, ripped and torn from me. The jeering stops, and sudden silence fills the room, beating down upon me, more malevolent than the jeers.

I am hauled to my feet again. I sway, and my legs buckle as I try to look at the faces that surround me. All I can see are their eyes glittering in the dim light. I look down and see the source of the brightness, shining like moonlit silver, studded with gems. Looking up again, I see tiny reflections look back and then surge towards me, as the eyes close in. I am knocked and buffeted by the rush to finish their task, and I feel the corslet dragged from me. Sound rushes back in a hubbub of triumphant yells.

‘Give it to me!’ commands the voice, and then there is a crack of a whip. ‘GIVE IT TO ME!’ The hubbub dies into angry muttering. He is standing over me, his face criss-crossed with scars.

‘Who are you? What’s your name, you little scum?’

I look back stupidly. What is my name? Who am I? Moria. Am I in Moria? I cannot keep the tears from running down my face. He strikes me, and I taste blood on my lip.

‘What’s the matter? Lost your tongue? I’m sure they can arrange for you to lose it forever in Lugburz.’

‘I don’t know who I am,’ I whisper so he has to lean close to hear me, and his stench is all around me, mingling with the acid smell of my vomit.

‘Well, my little maggot princeling, I’ll be back, and then you’d better have some answers. Snaga! You come with me. The rest of you, back to your posts, and if any of you mention this to Gorbag and his lads, I’ll personally put out your eyes and feed them to the carrion crows. Now move!’

I am released from the grip which holds me. I fall to my knees, and then topple forward as they leave. ‘Sam!’ I moan, as the darkness rushes in. ‘Sam!’

A fly is struggling in a web. It will die soon. The spider will come running from the centre, lured by the vibrations in its silken death trap. I hear a voice speaking angry, bitter words.

“Trapped in the end! Like gnats in a net!”

I turn. Something is bearing down on me with monstrous and abominable eyes, some deep pit of evil thought. I turn to run, but I am caught in the web. I twist and turn, but I only become more enmeshed. The eyes are bestial, and yet filled with purpose and hideous delight, gloating over their prey trapped beyond all hope of escape. I cannot watch the final leap, but I feel the jaws close on my neck.

As consciousness returns, I lay pressed against the hard floor. My flesh shivers as the first clear sensation is how cold I am, and then the pain floods back. Some rags are piled against the wall, and I crawl onto them. The effort drains me, and I collapse in a heap. I curl up in a ball and weep, rocking back and forth, back and forth, in my misery and despair. I know I am alone, but suddenly Snaga is there, grinning evilly.

‘Here’s some food, ratling. You need to keep up your strength for going to Lugburz!’ He squats down and lays a filthy plate on the floor. He doesn’t go, but gloats over me as he tells me all the things that will be done to me in Lugburz, until I am reeling with the horror of it.

After he has gone, I lay shivering for what seems like an age, but hunger is gnawing at my stomach. I struggle to sit up, and look with distaste at what he has brought for me. Bread and mouldy cheese. I chew with difficulty; my mouth is dry and what I crave most is a drink. I am too weak and frightened to move; I collapse onto the rags, and fall back into dark dreams.

Figures move around the rack amidst screams from the victim. I cry out as I see who it is they torture.

‘Bilbo!’ I cry. ‘Bilbo!’

He hears me. His body is broken and battered, and just before his spirit flees, he turns a bloodied mask of a face towards me. A croak comes from his throat. ‘Do not tell them, Frodo! They must never find it!’

'Bilbo! Bilbo!' I sob as I wake again within my prison. But I know, now, who I am. I am Frodo, the Ring-bearer. Frodo, the Failure.

‘Oh Bilbo! They have found It!’ I whisper to the dark.

Where am I? I cannot guess. But The Ring has gone, and soon all places will be the same on Middle Earth. Only the elves will escape, if they can. I weep again at the thought that Sam must be dead; I would give anything to lay my head in his lap again, and feel him stroke my brow. My trust in Gollum has killed my friend of friends. I have murdered Sam.

For the first time, I am glad that Gandalf is dead and will not know what I have done - what I have become.

It is almost a relief when the orc of commanding voice returns, accompanied by another. The pain and fear are better than my self-recrimination and self-disgust. They question me, over and over, fingering their knives and gloating. Questioning me, over and over, until I think I will go mad. Madness seems an attractive option. I tell them little, and in the end they leave, laughing and telling me the real fun is yet to come. I know that whatever befalls me, I will deserve it. I have murdered Sam. I have destroyed Middle Earth. I have failed.

Soon after the noise of fighting reaches me, the clash of steel, yells and shrieks. I am too frightened to move. I huddle on the rags, cradling my nakedness in my arms,and shivering uncontrollably.

Then all falls quiet, and that is worse. I lay straining to hear something - anything - that may give me a clue to what is happening. The silence is a tangible thing, ominous and menacing.

I slip into more dreams, nightmares rather, until into my dreams come songs from my childhood.

'Sing it again Mama,' I whisper, 'You won’t leave me will you?'

‘Hush my dear, of course I won’t leave you. Mama’s here.’

I lay my head in her lap, and her gentle hand strokes my brow.

I drift in and out of consciousness, until my eyes snap open as I hear another well loved voice, raised in song. The singer starts again, and I feebly try to reply. But I have been dreaming, and the only answer is the voice of Snaga, shouting angrily from down below. As I cower back in my heap of rags, he is standing before me with a whip in his hand.

‘You lie quiet, or you’ll pay for it!’ he snarls at me, straddling my body. ‘You’ve not got long to live in peace, I guess, but if you don’t want the fun to begin right now, keep your trap shut, see? Here’s a reminder for you!’

The whip cracks down, searing across my side, and my body jerks with the pain. His hand is raised to repeat the blow, and I fling my arm up to protect my head, but the blow never falls. The next thing I know I am dreaming again.

‘Frodo! Mr. Frodo, my dear!’ Sam’s voice cries, and his voice is full of the agony I feel. ‘It’s Sam, I’ve come.’

I feel my body half lifted, and I am hugged close. Tears fall on my face. Am I still dreaming?

‘Am I still dreaming?’ I mutter, opening my eyes. ‘But the other dreams were horrible.’

‘You’re not dreaming at all, Master,’ Sam’s voice reassures me, ‘It’s real. It’s me. I’ve come.’

I can hardly believe it, and say so as I clutch him tight. I do not want to wake and find him gone. ‘There was an orc with a whip,’ I gasp, hardly coherent, ‘and then it turns into Sam! Then I wasn't dreaming at all when I heard that singing down below and tried to answer? Was it you?’

‘It was indeed, Mr. Frodo. I’d given up hope, almost. I couldn’t find you.’

I sigh deeply and close my eyes, ‘Well, you have now, Sam, dear Sam.’ And I lay back, feeling like a child again, at rest in my mother’s arms. For the first time in a lifetime, it seems, I feel safe. Whatever is yet to come, I want this moment to last for ever.



Author's note:

In many places I have taken Tolkien's words, and woven them into the story. So for instance Tolkien writes of Gandalf's fall, “He staggered and fell, grasped vainly at the stone, and slid into the abyss.” Which I have used, “In slow motion I see the whip curl upward and wrap around Gandalf's knees, making him stagger and fall. .......I watch, helpless, as he grasps in vain at the stone and his body slides into the abyss.”

In 'Shelob's Lair' Tolkien writes. “... but behind the glitter a pale deadly fire began steadily to glow within, a flame kindled in some deep pit of evil thought. Monstrous and abominable eyes they were, bestial and yet filled with purpose and hideous delight...” and, “'Trapped in the end!' said Sam bitterly, his anger rising ...” Which I have used: “I hear a voice speaking angry, bitter words.

‘Trapped in the end! Like gnats in a net!’

I turn. Something is bearing down on me with monstrous and abominable eyes, some deep pit of evil thought. I turn to run, but I am caught in the web. I twist and turn, but I only become more enmeshed. The eyes are bestial, and yet filled with purpose and hideous delight, gloating over their prey trapped beyond all hope of escape.”

I have also used descriptive phrases such as shining like "moonlit silver, studded with gems" which Tolkien uses to describe the mithril shirt in 'The Ring Goes South.' “It shone like moonlit silver, and was studded with white gems.”

In the book, Frodo says in 'The Tower of Cirith Ungol, “'They stripped me of everything and then two great brutes came and questioned me, questioned me until I thought I should go mad, standing over me, gloating, fingering their knives...'” Which I have used,“'They question me, over and over, fingering their knives and gloating. Questioning me, over and over, until I think I will go mad.'”

As for the final paragraph, it is almost pure Tolkien. The tense has been changed to the present, and there are some small additions. Here is the original text, in my opinion one of the most moving passages in Lord of the Rings:

“'Frodo! Mr. Frodo, my dear!' cried Sam, tears almost blinding him. 'It's Sam, I've come.' He half lifted his master and hugged him to his breast. Frodo opened his eyes.

'Am I still dreaming?' he muttered. 'But the other dreams were horrible.'

'You're not dreaming at all, Master,' said Sam, 'It's real. It's me. I've come.'

'I can hardly believe it,' said Frodo clutching him. 'There was an orc with a whip, and then it turns into Sam! Then I wasn't dreaming after all when I heard that singing down below and I tried to answer? Was it you?'

'It was indeed, Mr. Frodo. I'd given up hope, almost. I couldn't find you.'

'Well, you have now, Sam, dear Sam,' said Frodo, and he lay back in Sam's gentle arms, closing his eyes, like a child at rest when night-fears are driven away by some loved voice or hand.”

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