𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 || 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊

ᴛʜɪʀᴛʏ

Isengard was ugly.

Mother had always said the first impression was the one that counted. As she was so often, Catelyn Stark had been right on this, as well. With every step further into the barren ring of land surrounding Saruman’s mighty tower, Robb's opinion of the place decreased. It went beyond the simple lack of trees, truly—he had more than become used to that in the past few days, traversing Rohan. No, what really bothered Robb were the giant holes and chasms in the ground, the deep mud, and the squeals and screeches of whatever creatures dwelled beneath the earth here.

Orcs, most likely. Perhaps Wargs, as well.

In any case, Robb concluded through the haze of pain and thirst that clouded his mind, Saruman clearly needed a gardener.

The Orc tugged on the rope around his hands and Robb stumbled forward. He swallowed down the hiss that wanted to escape his lips. His wrists burned from the tight bindings, his head still throbbed, and his injured side was not doing all that well, either. Robb’s head still swam from the after effects of that alcoholic abomination the Orcs called a drink.

They had been walking for hours now: over plains, across a river, uphill along the side of a great forest at the foot of a mountain range. It was still the same day as when he had awoken, although the sun was halfway past the horizon at this point. Robb’s stomach grumbled, but he pushed down the hunger and nausea that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his gut. There was nothing he could do about them, now.

With every stumbling step he took, Robb came closer to the tall, dark tower that was Isengard. With its sharp spikes and lack of windows, it looked so menacing that Robb wondered how anyone had ever trusted its lord.

Then again—Robb fought to suppress a delirious giggle—he had trusted Roose Bolton, who ruled over the Dreadfort and whose family had ever been at odds with the Starks. Perhaps he ought to stop pointing fingers.

Finally, the Orcs came to a halt. Before them, Isengard loomed, a narrow set of stairs leading up to its iron gates. The moment Robb stopped moving, his legs threatened to buckle beneath him. Clenching his teeth, Robb locked his knees. He would not face Saruman kneeling.

The doors opened with a metallic creak and out stepped an old man. He was tall and thin with a long, white beard, and for a moment Robb thought it was Gandalf. But no, he corrected himself, it could not be. The man wore white robes, for a start—and if they gleamed strangely in the light of the setting sun, reflecting every colour of the rainbow, well, that was probably the alcohol influencing Robb's perception speaking. His nose was thinner than Gandalf’s, a bit more hooked, but what truly separated the two wizards was their posture. Where Gandalf had always walked with just a bit of a hunched back, Saruman stood tall and straight, his dark staff more of a sceptre than a walking stick. It made Robb wonder if Gandalf had acted more affected by his age than he truly had been. He had certainly struck Robb as the type to do so.

When Saruman’s eyes fell upon him, Robb squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. No matter what awaited him, he would not give this man the satisfaction of seeing Robb intimidated. He had faced death. Whatever pain Saruman would inflict, whatever threats he might make, Robb would not give in.

“Where are the Halflings?”

Despite himself, Robb was surprised by the sound of Saruman's voice. It was soft, almost kind; not at all the sneering, spiteful hiss he had somehow expected. It explained much, though, about the deep trust this man had enjoyed from so many.

“The horsemen killed the rest of us,” the leader of the three Orcs answered, his snarl vicious as ever. Robb didn't think it had ever left his face since he had been awake. “Probably got the little maggots, too.”

The breath caught in Robb's throat and for a moment, his mask slipped. He had thought—hoped—that Aragorn and the others had rescued Merry and Pippin already. In his mind, the worst-case scenario had been finding them here in Isengard, imprisoned alongside him. But this…
Robb’s mind flashed to the plume of smoke he had seen in the distance. It summoned images of two little bodies, mangled and broken, burnt beyond recognition. Tears and bile burned in his throat, and Robb swallowed both down. How cruel that history should repeat itself in such a way. How foolish of Robb to think, for just a moment, that Merry and Pippin would be fine. He should have known better. Nobody was ever truly safe, not as a bargaining chip, or behind the walls of a castle. In the end, war and death consumed all.

Robb blinked back the tears until they were no longer threatening to overflow. The pain in his chest froze over until all that remained was cold fury. He blinked once again, and reality came rushing back in.

“—come you escaped their fate?” Saruman was asking, sharp eyes fixed on the Orc in charge.

“We were tracking this one,” the Orc answered, tugging on Robb’s leash. Robb stayed rooted to the spot, letting the burning of his wrists fuel his anger. “Only got back after it happened.”

“Hm.”

Saruman’s gaze flickered to Robb, giving him a once-over. When their eyes met, Robb held his stare. He refused to be the first to look away, even when it became a strain not to blink and there was a particularly painful spike of his headache.

“You said you were curious about him, too,” the tallest Orc said.
Saruman turned to the Orc, but it did not feel like a victory for Robb. His glare stayed fixed on the wizard.

“Yes,” Saruman mused, “I suppose I did. He is a rather special case. The loss of the Halflings is lamentable, but you did well to bring him to me.”

The Orcs muttered in vindication, as if they had not debated about eating Robb at least thrice along the way.

“Bring him to one of the upper cells. I will see to him later.”

The upper cells, as their name suggested, were not underground. Instead, the Orcs dragged Robb into the tower and up several flights of stairs until his legs threatened to give out under him, his muscles uncaring of his fury.

The cell they stopped at had no windows. Its door, like everything else in this blasted building, was made of dark metal that blended into the wall when closed. Grooves and spikes ran along the walls inside, proving once and for all that, if nothing else, Saruman was truly committed to his aesthetic. Robb, who had been cataloguing everything he saw, noted the spikes as dangerous for everyone who hit them with enough force. If he had anything to say about it, that would not be him.

Still, his chances of escape were steadily decreasing and finally hit rock bottom when Robb's left wrist was chained to the wall above his head. It left Robb half-dangling, balancing on the balls of his feet. His exhausted legs burned, and Robb was sure the pain would only get worse with time—not to mention what would happen once Saruman showed up.

The one wrist was the only thing the Orcs chained, and although the other one thanked them for it, that left Robb just unbalanced enough that he could not find his footing. He was unsure whether the lack of shackles was a sign of arrogance or confidence. Robb hoped for the former.

His outer clothes had been long gone when he had first awoken, but now the Orcs removed his boots, as well. Left only with a torn tunic and breeches, the cold touch of the floor and the wall at his back sent a shiver up his spine. Robb valiantly tried to suppress it.

When the door finally closed behind the Orcs with a dooming clang, the last sliver of light in the cell disappeared. Robb blinked into the darkness. Closed his eyes. Opened them. Closed them again. It made no difference.

Robb sighed. At least there was no draft.