Thanks so much to PackWolfLegolas and Jaya-Avendel for voting and commenting on the last chapter and to dobblewolf who commented as well!

This chapter leaves off from Chapter 5 - Ambushed and Alone, so please don't be confused: it's gone back in time about three weeks since Chapter 7 - Invitation to Death.

Aragorn ached. He ached so badly he couldn't move. He had never before in his life felt pain as bad as what he was feeling now, every muscle, every bone, every part of his body hurt with a bone deep ache.

Even blinking hurt, so he lay perfectly still with his eyes tight shut and concentrated on breathing around several bruised, possibly broken ribs. Being smashed repeatedly into a tree tended to have that effect on people, he supposed. With every jolting slam, he had felt his ribs shift painfully out of position, some of them far enough to be badly fractured at least. Well, the orcs' "fun" has lived up to its name at least. He thought idly. Not for him, obviously, but the way that they had cheered and screamed showed that they had obviously enjoyed themselves, especially when he had broken his infuriatingly long silence and groaned at the persistent abuse being done to his body.

Whipped non-stop. Beaten with fists, hands and, eventually, kicked and stood on as well. That had happened when being tied upright was no longer entertaining enough, and seeing him lying helpless on the ground seemed to them to be much better. And then finally being thrown around, into the ground, or more often into a nearby tree, until the bark was stained red with blood, and near shredded from the force with which Aragon had been hurled into it.

Aragorn decided that he felt renewed sympathy for Celebrían, Elrond's wife, who had sailed to the Undying Lands not long after being tortured by orcs. If he was an elf, he decided, he would have faded some time ago now, from the grief of his exile from Rivendell and Elrond's rejection of him. Instead, a deep lack of care, both for himself and for the world around him, had settled over him. He had stopped eating, stopped trying to find shelter from the cold at night. Instead he had simply walked until he could walk no further, from before dawn to after dusk, slowly falling iller and becoming weaker. And now this. Aragorn wondered without really caring if he wold live out the rest of his short life as an orc's playtoy, until he succumbed to the Morgul poisoning already in his blood. The orcs' weak antidotes wouldn't last forever.

Eventually, after a long while of asking pointless questions to himself, unconsciousness swallowed him once more.

———

When he awoke, Aragorn found that he was still bound tightly with thick rope and that he was moving. Shifting, he realised that he was draped over the shoulders of what appeared to be a warg, although he couldn't be sure, as the only thing he could see when he opened his eyes was blurry, mottled brown fur. It worried him that his vision was so obviously not correct. His healer's instincts screamed at him to help himself, but of course, he couldn't, and even if he hadn't been an orcs' prisoner, he supposed he still wouldn't have done anything. What does it matter? He thought. There is nobody left to care if I live or die. He could only hope that when his time came, no more torture or abuse would come in between. Hope that he would die quickly, painlessly. Hope that he would pass on from this forsaken world soon.

After a long time of travelling, perhaps a week, although it felt more like months to him, the orcs seemed to have forgotten about Aragorn. This made him rethink his original theory that the orcs kept him alive only to hurt him. Perhaps there was more to it than he had realised. Why else would he be ignored like this? Orcs were known, renowned even, for their delight in torture and abuse of prisoners. They were infamous for their murdering, altogether evil ways. So Aragorn knew that this was no stand-alone band of orcs. These orcs were employed by, or at least, in the service of, someone or something else.

Just then, the warg, for warg it was, carrying Aragorn was brought to a sudden halt. Although it was difficult to tell, he got the distinct impression that it was shying away from whatever stood in front of it. He heard a high-pitched whine from the terrified creature before its rider silenced it with a sharp slap. Aragorn was suddenly jerked upright by a cruel hand on his shoulder, and another in his hair, forcing his head back until he was staring into the face of the biggest orc he had ever seen. Through blurred eyes, Aragorn still recognised him as the leader of the orc-band: Gulgrin was his name. He smiled a wicked smile as his prisoner grimaced and shrank away from the orc's hideous touch. Quickly hauling Aragorn to his feet, he and another orc began to drag him away down a hard track leading off, whilst the rest of the party stayed in wait for their leader's return.

The sickness and poison had by now taken full hold of Aragorn and his weak struggles did nothing against the iron grip of Gulgrin and his companion. He didn't even have the strength to walk, and was instead dragged rather unceremoniously down the road.

After a short while, the trail seemed to become more of a walkway, made of black stone and crudely carved as it arched almost elegantly out over a dark valley that seemed to be so deep that it fell into The Void itself. A deep sense of evil clung to this place, and Aragorn was reminded of all the tales of Mordor he had heard growing up in Imladris. But then he pushed the thought away: it hurt too much to think of his old home. At the end of the walkway stood a huge fortress. It was rust-red in colour and its sheer metallic walls stretched just as high as the surrounding cliffs. There was no sign of life from within, and the small slots serving for windows showed no light inside. At the base of this huge stronghold was a gaping archway, and evil seemed to pour out of it as if it was a tunnel into a Balrog's lair. Which, thought Aragorn, it just might be. The evil and despair surging from the gaping entrance swallowed Aragorn's soul, and all resistance left his weakened body as he stared dully at the archway. It was reminiscent, he supposed, of a huge black mouth, ready to swallow all life that strayed into it. And Aragorn knew with a deep sense of dread. Once you go in. There's no coming out.

Seeing their prisoner's sudden lack of fight, the orcs moved forward swiftly towards the arch, meaning to show the figure standing there who it was that they supported between them. This man, they could sense, was stronger than most, and no doubt their boss, as they thought of him, would reward them grandly for his capture.

It was a few moments later that Aragorn first caught sight of the cloaked figure standing in the entranceway. He was robed all in black, and his hood shadowed his face, if he had one at all. His gloves were made in likeness of cruel, sharp, metal scales, one overlapping the next so that when his fingers were bent, each individual knuckle was armed with its own, small dagger. A long, deadly sword hung at his side, and his boots were each tipped with a single long, metal spike. But most notably, the absolute dread that washed over Aragorn like an ebony wave showed that this creature was far from human. Aragorn recognised it immediately. Ulairë. Or in the common tongue, Nazgûl.

Thanks again for reading! Please VOTE and COMMENT if you enjoyed! Thank you! Aragorn and Legolas will meet soon don't worry! Probably in about two chapters! What do you think will happen? Any thoughts on the plot so far? Please share with me, I LOVE all the amazing comments I get, even criticism! Thanks!

Also I would like to dedicate this chapter to dobblewolf for being the first person EVER to vote on this story!