Alright alright alright, new chapter! Thus begins my favourite arc of this story so far.

Fair warning that the dove isn't going to be in a very good condition from here on out. I don't think it's dead exactly but it's definitely not living its best life.

Quick TWs for this chap:
— Robb throws up/feels nauseous pretty much throughout the entire thing so beware if you have emetophobia, and
— in the very last paragraph, Robb briefly considers suicide to prevent himself from revealing secrets to his enemies. This is not further elaborated, and not at all graphic.

Take care of yourselves!

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There were two things Robb noticed immediately as consciousness returned to him. One: his head and side hurt like a bitch, and two: he was about to throw up.

The swaying of whatever it was he was on did not help. Neither did the fact that he was upside down. With every jolt, Robb felt bile rise—slide down?—further in his throat, and every dull throb in his skull chipped away at his already sleep-addled self control.

The nausea pulled Robb into awareness just enough for him to gather that someone was carrying him. It did naught for him but make him feel the full effects of their stepping into a rabbit hole just moments later. This was the final straw. The sudden jerk sent a sharp sting of pain through Robb's head and his stomach gave up every effort.

With a painful retch, a gush of vomit forced its way out of his mouth. Robb heard it hit the ground and something closer to his face—the person carrying him, most likely. Robb tried to apologise, but all that left his lips was a weak groan, followed by another gag.

He needn't have bothered. The person gave a disgusted snarl, their frame rumbling against Robb's, and then he was shoved off their shoulder. He had no time to even realise the feeling of weightlessness before he hit the ground hard. All air left his lungs with a wheeze. He did not even have the breath to cry out as even more pain shot through his body. His head, his side, now his shoulder and hips: there was no part of his body that did not hurt.

Lying on his side, gasping for air, Robb finally opened his eyes. It was a mistake. Bright light assaulted his retinas, worsening the thumping in his head. He squeezed them shut immediately and retched again. A small trickle of acrid bile spilled out of his mouth and made its way down his cheek.

Only now did sound come rushing in. He heard shouting—several voices, he was certain, but he could not say how many. They were deep and growling, and Robb did not recognize them.

The bile drip, drip, dripped onto the ground next to his ear.

Robb forced himself to focus. The voices were speaking in a language he did not understand. It did not sound Elven, but beyond that it could have been anything. Dwarvish, the Old Tongue, hells, even Valyrian. Perhaps it was even Common, and Robb's brain was too out of sorts to realise it. In his state, that was not unlikely.

Perhaps, if he could only see—

With another groan, Robb tried to drag his sluggish arm up to his face. The other one came with it.

Ah.

Robb twisted his wrists to be sure, but there were no two ways about it. His hands were tied. Wriggling his feet experimentally, he came to the same conclusion. When he finally got his hands in a good enough position to block the sun from his eyes, Robb saw why.

The voices belonged to Orcs. Tall ones, like those in the woods just days before, like the ones who—

Oh.

All at once, Robb remembered. The Fellowship splitting up, sending Grey Wind away, travelling with only Boromir as his companion. Boromir asleep, Robb leading the Orcs away from him, fighting them. Losing.

He swept his eyes around, squinting through the pounding in his head. The grass here was shorter, the ground far more muddy than it had been back at their small camp. Boromir was nowhere to be seen. Whether this was good or extraordinarily bad news, Robb could not yet say. He certainly hoped for the former.

Robb counted three Orcs. In any other situation, he would have fancied those odds. Now, though, tied up, injured and without a sword, starting a fight spelled certain death. Or perhaps dismemberment if they truly thought him an important hostage.
So when the biggest of the Orcs shoved the other two out of the way with a snarl and strode over to him, Robb stayed frozen. Well, tried to. His eyes widened and he could feel himself shrinking back, basic instinct taking over. Robb bit the inside of his cheek. He lowered his tied arms so they protected his ribcage. It left his head undefended and the light still hurt his eyes, but at least he saw more. He would not let this Orc take him by surprise.

The Orc grabbed at the collar of Robb's tunic and hauled him up to his knees. Stars cut through his vision, and he had to blink several times to chase them away. The nausea was back in full force. Taking shallow breaths through his mouth, Robb did his best to keep from throwing up on an Orc for a second time.

Suddenly, there was a waterskin in front of his face. Whatever it contained was not water, though. It smelled foul. Robb gulped. The Orc clearly intended to make him drink it, going by the way he was shoving it ever closer to Robb's mouth.

Automatically, Robb attempted to pull back, but the Orc's other hand moved to wrap around his throat in an instant. The sharpened, claw-like nail of his thumb dug into the underside of Robb's chin as it pushed his head to tilt up. Robb stifled a whimper.

"Spit up on me again and I'll cut your throat," the Orc hissed. He thrust the waterskin into Robb's mouth and tipped it up. The liquid that hit his tongue was disgusting. It tasted like blood and mud and alcohol of the worst kind, with the consistency of dirty river water. It made Robb's insides want to shrivel. And yet, he had no choice but to swallow. The alternative was to choke, either on the drink or on his own blood if the Orc chose to make good on his threat.

After far too many painful seconds, the Orc finally pulled back. Robb gasped for breath, which turned quickly into a coughing fit. Free of the tight grip on his throat, Robb slumped to the ground again, his forearms barely catching his weight. With every cough, pain shot through his head. The world was turning, although if it was because of the alcohol or still the same nausea as before, Robb could not say. The coughs became gags and only through sheer force of will did he stop the bile rising in his throat once more from spilling out of his mouth.

Robb took a big, gulping breath, his eyes squeezed shut. Then another one, and one more after that, until he no longer felt he needed to throw up at the slightest movement.
He carefully turned around so he was sitting half-upright, leaning on his elbows, the Orcs in his field of vision. Only then did the pain in his side come filtering back in. Robb's next exhale was more of a hiss than anything else, but he kept it quiet.

The Orcs were talking again, still in the same guttural language, only the nearest one watching Robb as closely as he was them. One of the other two—smaller in frame than the one who had forced him to drink, but larger than the third—pointed sharply to the horizon without looking away from his companion. Robb's eyes instinctively followed. It was no more than a quick glance, but he knew immediately what had the Orc so agitated.

A tall, black plume of smoke rose in the distance, at the edges of a great forest. It was a bonfire—or a pyre. Whichever it was, it made his captors unhappy. Robb hoped ardently that they would not take it out on him.

The shortest of the three Orcs spoke up again, one fist coming up to rap at his chest, where he bore the sigil of a white hand. Then, with an insistent noise, he flung his arm out in Robb's direction. Three pairs of red eyes turned to him. Robb tensed, biting down on the inside of his cheek.

The middle Orc—the leader?—pushed the one closest to Robb to the side and before he knew to react, a blade rested at his throat. He felt a sharp line of pressure, but it did not break skin. Out of the corner of his eye, Robb saw a square pommel and faint shapes of runes. This was Balin's dagger, he realised, jaw tightening. His dagger. For the first time since he had woken up, a flood of hot anger filled Robb's chest.

How dare they take the blade of someone their people had killed, of someone they had taken prisoner, and flaunt it so. Robb would not be surprised if they had taken Airilíre, too, just to melt it down and turn it into another one of their brute scimitars. Intellectually, Robb knew these beings adhered to no such concept as honour, but this mindless thieving pragmatism—taking a weapon from a prisoner simply because it was better than what they possessed—made him want to tear their throats out.

This was just like what the Lannisters had done with Ice.

Still. Despite his clenched fists and creaking jaw, Robb held his tongue. He knew firsthand the damage this dagger could do, and had no desire to see it inflicted on himself.

"If you try to run, I'll cut off your feet," the Orc spat. "Lord Saruman will want you to talk, not walk, and he won't mind a few screams. Understood?"

Eyes wide, Robb gave a tiny nod, but his mind was awhirl. The blade dug further into his skin at the movement until a bead of blood emerged. Robb took no notice of the pain.

They were taking him to Saruman. It explained why he was still alive, but it made the immediate future seem rather bleak. Saruman would want information—something Robb would never willingly give to him. He swallowed and the drop of blood burst, making its way down his neck. It tickled.

Robb would have to prepare himself for a sharp questioning. Dark amusement spread through his stomach at the thought, although it was quickly subdued by the ever-present nausea. Right. As if wrapping it in pretty words would make Robb less apprehensive—afraid—about the fact that Saruman would likely have him tortured.

Would he have Orcs do it, or was Saruman the type of man to do his own torturing? The man was a wizard, Robb recalled. Perhaps he would simply use magic to make Robb tell him everything he wanted to know.

A tug at his feet ripped him from his rapidly spiralling thoughts. Robb was almost grateful to the Orc for it. It was the smallest one. He was untying the rope at Robb's ankles, ripping at it with a scowl when the knot would not come undone. Faintly, through his confusion, Robb wondered why he did not simply cut it instead. The answer came only seconds later when the rope finally loosened and the Orc reapplied it, this time tying one end to each ankle. It gave Robb enough range to walk, perhaps hobble a few short steps at a faster pace, but not nearly enough for a successful escape.

Still. His legs tingled with anticipation, muscles tensing as though they could barely wait for Robb's order to run. And every instinct screamed at him to give it. His eyes flickered from one Orc to the other, and then to the third one some steps away. With a growl, the first Orc pressed Balin's dagger deeper into his skin. Robb gave a hiss of pain, feeling another drop of blood trickle down his throat, but he lowered his gaze. He relaxed his muscles, his whole body sagging in defeat.

No. Running would not get Robb very far. And when he was inevitably caught again—provided he managed to get away in the first place—his recapture would leave Robb in a worse place than he already was.

Saruman wanted him. Needed him, if he was lucky. Until they arrived at Isengard, that gave him a certain measure of protection. But the Orc was right: there were many things they could do to him that would leave him broken but still capable of answering questions. For now, his best option was to submit.

Another, longer piece of rope was tied around his wrists, threaded between the coils of the first one.

And if all else fails, Robb thought to himself grimly as he was pulled to his feet by the makeshift leash, I will find a way to kill myself before I give up my friends.