I started writing yesterday evening, and this is the beginning of chapter 8 (completely unbeta-ed yet, of course, but enough to show you the way we are going...): __________________________________________________
He was back in Mordor again. The sharp rocks kept shaking beneath his body, the air was heavy with sulfur and singed his lungs with every laborious intake of breath. Behind him the dying mountain roared its mindless rage into a blackened sky, and the smoke made him double over in an endless coughing fit. He wiped the tears from his eyes, a dull pain in his chest. Where was Mr. Frodo…?
Sam moaned.
In a small, clear corner of his clouded mind he still knew that this was not Mordor. He knew that he was alone, chained with one wrist against the wall of a dark, foul place. Mr. Frodo was nowhere near (at least he supposed so, for he still didn’t have the slightest idea where on earth his abductors had brought him), and he lay in this unknown dungeon, guarded by his two watchdogs and that tall, frightening fellow with the eagle-like nose and the white hair.
He turned his head to the jar the Grinner had brought him earlier this day. He couldn’t reach it with the handcuffed arm, but he could at least make another attempt with his free hand. In a way he was happy that the candle had gone out hours ago, and that he could barely see anything in the near darkness of the room. His wounded fingers were not a pleasurable sight, not at all. The phalanxes of both his ring- and third finger were swollen to double size, making them look like tightly stuffed red sausages. He couldn’t flex them without giving a miserable whimper of agony, and the smallest touch against the inflamed flesh made his head spin and fill with a lazy, feverish fog. He crawled in the direction of the jar, the chained arm stretched in a painful angle, and then he touched the clay vessel.
It felt as if a white hot blade cut his fingers right to the bone, and he fell flat on his face, grinding his teeth in helpless anguish. He didn’t want to cry for help, he didn’t want that white-haired fellow to come into the room, to bow over him, to tell those two others to finally wring his neck.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-16 07:04 am (UTC)__________________________________________________
He was back in Mordor again. The sharp rocks kept shaking beneath his body, the air was heavy with sulfur and singed his lungs with every laborious intake of breath. Behind him the dying mountain roared its mindless rage into a blackened sky, and the smoke made him double over in an endless coughing fit. He wiped the tears from his eyes, a dull pain in his chest. Where was Mr. Frodo…?
Sam moaned.
In a small, clear corner of his clouded mind he still knew that this was not Mordor. He knew that he was alone, chained with one wrist against the wall of a dark, foul place. Mr. Frodo was nowhere near (at least he supposed so, for he still didn’t have the slightest idea where on earth his abductors had brought him), and he lay in this unknown dungeon, guarded by his two watchdogs and that tall, frightening fellow with the eagle-like nose and the white hair.
He turned his head to the jar the Grinner had brought him earlier this day. He couldn’t reach it with the handcuffed arm, but he could at least make another attempt with his free hand. In a way he was happy that the candle had gone out hours ago, and that he could barely see anything in the near darkness of the room. His wounded fingers were not a pleasurable sight, not at all. The phalanxes of both his ring- and third finger were swollen to double size, making them look like tightly stuffed red sausages. He couldn’t flex them without giving a miserable whimper of agony, and the smallest touch against the inflamed flesh made his head spin and fill with a lazy, feverish fog. He crawled in the direction of the jar, the chained arm stretched in a painful angle, and then he touched the clay vessel.
It felt as if a white hot blade cut his fingers right to the bone, and he fell flat on his face, grinding his teeth in helpless anguish. He didn’t want to cry for help, he didn’t want that white-haired fellow to come into the room, to bow over him, to tell those two others to finally wring his neck.
(...)
I promise I'll write as fast as I can.*grins*