A second LOTR fic by Iorhael

An AU horror/mystery. Frodo was a second too late to take the Ring off his finger when he first put it on at the Pony. Not only was the Eye able to see him but it also took a part of Frodo’s spirit hostage.

Rated: R for violence, torture, angst

Disclaimer: all belong to JRR Tolkien, the greatest writer on earth.

Warning: AU

Author’s Notes: Some lines are taken from the best movie, Fellowship of The Ring.

Chapter 1

“Baggins!” exclaimed Pippin. “Sure I know a Baggins. He’s over there, Frodo Baggins.”

Pippin’s words snapped Frodo away from fingering the golden band – The One Ring, as mentioned by Gandalf, The Grey. The wizard was one of his uncle Bilbo Baggins’ close companions apart from the elves and some men.

He didn’t mean to fondle the accursed yet tempting, simple ring, but ever since the thing came into his keeping, it had been trying to make him, to seduce him to put it on. This night, in the midst of the strange big folk of Bree and in front of his cousin Merry and his loyal servant and gardener, Sam, he would have slipped it around his chubby forefinger if not for Pippin who had unwittingly, as usual, mentioned his true name despite his warning NOT to do so at any cost. He was Mr. Underhill now, as he had told Butterbur, the innkeeper and bartender of this rather stuffy drinking place, at the counter a moment ago.

Frodo rose swiftly from the hobbit – sized stool and hurried toward the crowd that gathered around his foolish cousin.

“Pippin!” His voice was a mixture of anger, worry, and fear, especially of the scruffy-looking men.

“Steady on!” Warned Pippin, seeing that Frodo was stumbling in his direction.

Unfortunately, an outstretched booted foot caught one of Frodo’s bare heels, making him slip backward. The Ring, which was still in the hobbit’s tiny hand, slipped and flew up, whirling a moment in the air, and fell back down, right onto Frodo’s finger. Frodo disappeared at once, inviting loud, gasping breaths from the Breelanders. Pippin gasped too, eyes widening in disbelief.

“Frodo!” He hissed.

But Pippin’s cousin was no longer there. He was still crouching down, but he was surrounded by a world unfamiliar to him. Bree was dark, he realized, but this place was much darker. He felt as if he were surrounded by mist, and in a second, the hooded creatures that had been chasing him and his cousins down from the Shire were there with him. He felt himself being lifted up and a mammoth-sized, dark gate welcomed and swallowed him whole. The invisible hands that carried him up didn’t stop there. He went up and up and ---

“Aaahh!!”

A big, fiery Eye’s bright light blinded him, forcefully compelling him to shut his eyes.

“You cannot hide! I see you!”

A thundering voice almost forced his eyes open. Frodo didn’t comply, overwhelmed by terror at the possibility of seeing Sauron himself with his own eyes.

But nobody actually told him to open them.

Instead, he was dragged further, this time forward, and Frodo sensed fingers tighten at his upper arms. Frodo opened his eyes right before being thrown unceremoniously to the floor.

“No!” he protested, unclear to whom.

“Silence!”

It was that voice again. Frodo got to his knees and turned from side to side but he could see no one, not even the ones who had brought him here. He could only see a large, murky, empty, windowless room with rough, stony walls and floor. Frodo turned around and found a towering, steel door behind him that was securely locked. He didn’t remember it being opened or closed before. That alone sent shivers down his spine.

“Welcome to Barad-dur!”

Frodo gulped realizing the voice did not emerge from a living being, yet it had indeed emerged from somewhere. Frowning, Frodo scanned every corner of the room, seeing nothing but darkness. Only ---

Frodo let out a stifled cry.

Now there was something!

Preceded by a cold wind that chilled him almost to the bone, a form of enormous lumpy fog floated in the air, circling Frodo’s body, teasing him with its ice-cold groping fingers. It floated down, not really touching the ground, before settling itself across the shrinking and quivering hobbit. The fog didn’t have eyes but Frodo was overwhelmed by a feeling that it stared at him, piercing right into his soul. Frodo backed away only to find that he had been pressing himself hard against the freezing, uneven wall.

“How do you fare?” the fog asked him in a blaring voice. Frodo almost choked at the question, despite the fact that the fog didn’t have a mouth to speak with. Frodo could barely utter a squeak, but just stood there mesmerized, his mouth gaping wide. The fog raised its voice again.

“Please, do make yourself at home because you will remain here long. How long will depend upon you!”

Stay? Frodo went rigid. But before he could do anything, he felt two strong hands grabbing his wrists. A feeling of being betrayed burnt in him and he thrashed hard against the unseen hold. The next thing he felt was probably the strangest sensation he had ever experienced.

He couldn’t fight his enemy, as it was far too strong for him. He was being snatched away, with his arms held tightly behind his back. But at the same time, he also felt himself being thrust back to where he had been standing, this time without anybody or anything restraining him.

The next second, Frodo gaped so wide his eyes hurt from the strain. He – he saw himself in front of him, also gawking widely!

A clamor of laughter made both Frodos bolt in surprise.

“Allow me to introduce you to yourself, Baggins!”

The two jerked their heads in the fog’s direction.

“Ah, do not look so surprised. Of course I know who you are! You are the thief, Baggins from the Shire.”

Frodo realized then that it was talking about his uncle. But he was more curious about his ‘twin’ who was still writhing desperately.

“Do you know who he is?” asked the fog. Frodo stayed still. “He is a part of your spirit. He will help me get me back my Ring. Of course, I will need your cooperation, as well!”

Frodo squinted at the fog. Suddenly his breath caught in his throat. A part of his spirit? Did that mean that he was among the living dead now?

The fog seemed to chuckle.

“No, you are not.” Oh, so it could read minds. “You are still alive. You’re not a zombie, yet, but you will be, if you do not do what I ask.”

The fog – the evil spirit of Sauron – continued.

“I have done so many things to get my Ring back. I captured the sulking creature Gollum. I sent away orcs and Ringwraiths to trail you. But I realize that they all are not enough and cannot guarantee that my Ring will return. I have finally come to this – a method both effective and certain. I only have to hold half of you to make sure that the other half will deliver the Ring to me – quite willingly.”

As he froze to hear such an abominable plan, Frodo was feeling the Ring around his finger. The fog laughed again.

“You see, you have so many ways to bring it back to me. You may simply encounter the Ringwraiths and ask them to bring you and the Ring here. You will need to come here to regain your other half, of course. Or if you want to walk all the way to Mordor by yourself, you may, although I won’t recommend that. I want my Ring and I want it NOW!”

Frodo felt his knees wobbling. But Gandalf said it had to be destroyed---

“If it is destroyed, then you will be destroyed with it!” The fog thundered, catching Frodo’s thoughts. “I hold your other half here, Baggins. Do not forget that. The longer you delay your coming here, the weaker he will become. I will not feed him, and he will eventually fade away. You cannot imagine how to feed a spirit, can you?” It laughed maliciously. “And if you try to tell anybody about this, I will have to torment him. But one thing you must know. If he suffers, you will certainly suffer too!”

At this point, Frodo could no longer hold himself upright. His legs gave way and he collapsed, whimpering in anguish. He flailed his hand, showing that he had the Ring right here, right now.

“Take it. Take it now. But please release him. Release ME.” His voice was a mere whisper. But the fog only chuckled, bewildering Frodo.

“Oh, my dear Baggins. You may be lovely, but you are also foolish. Even you are only a spirit right now. You are not really here. Your body is still in your world and so is my Ring! I suggest that you --”

That brought Frodo back to himself, and with a speed swifter than any ponies in the Shire, Frodo reached for the Ring and yanked it off his finger. He was back at the Prancing Pony again.

TBC Chapter 2

Warning: AU, angst

- At Barad-dur -

Frodo couldn’t explain how he really felt seeing the other half of him vanish into thin air. Forlorn, yes, probably. It almost felt like when he learned of the death of his parents – a sense of longing, and abandonment, as if his heart was pierced with the sharpest blade, left bleeding and weeping. But there was also a sense of hope in knowing that his twin advanced as fast as he could to get the fog monster in front of him its bloody Ring, thus freeing him from this cold and damp place.

He was still struggling with all his might. There was no reason for this abominable being to hold him here unless –

“Aww --- aren’t you tired, little Baggins, twisting and thrashing like that? See? You are breathing like a horse that has run for many miles!” Frodo could swear the fog was shifting up and down when it ‘spoke’.

“What is your name, Baggins? What do they call you?” Frodo ceased his writhing and hung limply in the unseen hands, looking up.

“What do you need my name for?” Frodo asked weakly. The fog let out a strange noise Frodo perceived as laughter.

“As I said before, your stay here may be longer than you might expect. In that case, we need to know each other. I am Sauron. Your name?” It repeated the question.

“I shan’t tell you!” Frodo replied angrily, not really answering the question. His face reddened. “I never wanted to be here in the first place and staying here is the last fate I expect the universe to give me!”

The outburst silenced the fog momentarily. Soon it was moving again, swinging from side to side. It moved slowly, languidly, looking as relaxed as something like fog can. Despite such an appearance, when it spoke again, its voice was full of wrath.

“No one speaks to me in such a manner, and no one questions my doings!” Frodo trembled, recoiling, with his head slightly bowed but eyes upraised, glancing apprehensively yet challengingly.

“I’m not questioning you. I’m defying you! I demand my release, now!”

Spoken slowly but decisively, the words hardly betrayed Frodo’s true feelings. Terribly afraid, he decided to try his luck. Perhaps Sauron would think twice about his actions and change his mind about keeping him here against his will. Beyond that, Frodo could not imagine he would be able to stand being kept here even one more day. Even when he closed his eyes he couldn’t force this place from his thoughts. The dark, menacing walls effectively blocked his mind from the joy and peaceful scent and image of the Shire.

Frodo squinted at the fog, trying to anticipate what it would say or do in response to his brash remarks. His heart beat so hard Frodo was afraid Sauron could hear it, too.

Sauron did not say anything. He just floated closer to Frodo, nearer and nearer until he totally engulfed the hobbit, consuming and covering him. Frodo suddenly felt as if someone were choking him. He threw his head back, trying to open the airway to his lungs, but to no avail. The grasp tightened even more powerfully.

Frodo tried to scream but nothing came out except a pitiful suffocated gasp. Sauron continued the torment leaving Frodo panicked at the thought of him dying there. So soon! Tears ran down his already bluish cheeks.

/Frodo! My name is Frodo!/ How he wanted to scream that out now. /No! Please don’t kill me now! My name is Frodo, damn it!/

***

- At the Prancing Pony -

Aghast, Strider could only stare at the sight before him. The hobbit suddenly dropped to his knees, clutched his own neck, and emitted a low whimpering noise as if he were being strangled. It happened so suddenly. He hadn’t even laid his hands on him, Strider thought.

Or maybe he had, the ranger mused. Was that the reason for this? Was what he had done the cause of Frodo’s distress? But when Frodo had reappeared so close to his chair and the ranger had grabbed him, the hobbit looked a little dazed, perhaps, but was otherwise fine.

Frodo was gasping, not totally aware of his surroundings when someone suddenly snatched the back of his cloak and half dragged, half carried him up a short flight of stairs to a closed door and opened it. A dimly lit room was revealed, and Frodo was thrown inside, stumbling to his hands and knees.

Frodo recovered swiftly, leaping up and turning to face his captor. Relief caused the tense muscles in his face to relax a little. A human. Only a human! This was good. He tried to regain his composure, calming his still pounding heart. Although this human was almost double his size and looked like a ruffian thanks to his unshaven face, he was nothing compared to the fog – Sauron.

Frodo felt his knees weaken again as he remembered his frightening experience. He was not completely safe from the Dark Lord, though. In fact, his troubles had just begun. The changing of colors in Frodo’s face did not escape the ranger’s keen observation.

“You draw far too much attention to yourself, Mr. Underhill!” His acknowledgment toward Frodo’s alias was quite surprising and rather odd. Frodo could swear that he caught a caring and worried tone in the man’s harsh reprimand toward him. Who was this fellow?

“Who are you?” Frodo asked, his voice shaking a little. He immediately regretted the soft tone of his voice. The man would mistakenly think that Frodo was afraid of him - which he was not.

Strider seemed reluctant to answer Frodo. The ranger did bring a letter from Gandalf explaining who he really was but now was not the time for the hobbit to see it. Then, in the space between Frodo’s question and the ranger’s reluctant thoughts regarding his answer, it happened.

All of a sudden, the hobbit started to convulse and his breath hitched. He was pulling at the fastenings of his cloak and tossed his head back exposing his soft throat. Nothing strange happened to it but Frodo started scraping it as if something was seizing it and he was trying desperately to get it free.

“Frodo!” Strider shouted, no longer protecting his disguise. He ran to the hobbit’s twisting form on the floor. Frodo seemed to have lost contact with reality. His eyes rolled back and sweat drenched his entire body. He would soon lose consciousness, Strider realized, and for the first time, Strider, himself a healer, felt helpless. He could do nothing to aid this small creature.

“Let him go, or I’ll have you Longshanks!” Strider had never felt so startled in his life. The door he recalled to have been locked and secured with a chain suddenly broke open and three figures, Frodo’s companions, burst inside.

Armed with ridiculous items, anything they could find at moment’s notice, the three hobbits sprang into the room to stand threatening the man they found kneeling beside their Frodo.

Sam wheezed at the pathetic sight of his master. “You keep your hands off him, bloke!” Sam completely forgot his weapons, throwing them away and running to Frodo’s side, alarmed as his master’s face turned blue.

“You – you killed my master!” he choked. Strider, his hand already on his sword’s hilt, let it go and raised both of his hands.

“No, little master. I never intended to do your friend any harm. Quite the opposite, I am here to protect him.” He tried to make his voice as convincing and gentle as possible.

“Protect him!” Merry wrinkled his nose as if the man before him was the most noisome creature he had ever met. “Torture him is more like it. Come on, Pip!” he turned to his younger cousin. “We must keep this man away from Frodo while Sam’s trying to save him.”

So, there was nothing Strider could do but watch. Merry guarded him at a fork’s point. Besides, he didn’t want to have the hobbits think ill of him. He let the hobbits do as they wished. They would eventually fail, too. Sam looked up, gazing at Merry with anguished eyes, and shook his head. He could do nothing to help, indeed. He could only sob softly, forced to admit his defeat.

TBC Chapter 3 – Comforted… no!

At Barad-dur

“There is no need to be coarse, Frodo Baggins. Mind your language or I shall have to give you more lessons!”

Nothing seemed to block his throat any longer, and Frodo felt a sudden rush of air flooding his lungs – a little too much, perhaps, as it dizzied him and made him nauseous. Sauron was still hovering over him, enveloping his body, but his presence was no longer having a damaging effect. Instead, the damp fingers of the fog were touching Frodo with such tenderness, almost like a caress. Frodo felt a hand under his chin, lifting his head up.

Breathing raggedly, with his face ashen and wet with tears, Frodo looked up hazily at his tormentor. “Are you feeling better now, Frodo?” asked Sauron gently. Frodo knew better than to try to defy this menacing beast again. He nodded weakly despite his sickened feeling.

Sauron roared with laughter.

“If you feel like vomiting, then do so. Do not try to lie to me. I can see what is inside the deepest abyss of your mind!” His voice echoed amongst the walls of the chamber, so loud that Frodo was dying to cover his ears to protect them from it.

He realized that he could not do so with his arms clutched behind his back, and instead squeezed his eyes shut tightly, hoping to drive the invasive presence of Sauron from his mind and senses. His action earned him a hard slap. Frodo opened his dimming blue orbs and stared in a daze at the fog.

The blaring voice was heard again. “It is only by my permission that you may do or say anything! I did not tell you to close your eyes. Open them and look around you!”

Frodo’s brow creased as he sized up the fog, uncomprehending. He suddenly sank to the floor as his arms were released, falling to his knees. Frodo’s limbs felt as if they were pricked by hundreds of tiny needles as the blood flowed freely into them. He moaned audibly at the sensation. His arms were terribly stiff and cramped, and Frodo felt as if they had been dislocated. It was hard to tell. Apart from the stiffness, however, he didn’t feel the kind of excruciating pain that he imagined would accompany such an injury.

He was massaging his sore arms when a hand wound itself in his hair, pulling his head back cruelly. “I said, look around you!”

Frodo flinched at the voice and the pain at his scalp. And he still did not understand exactly what the fog wanted from him. Look at what? Everything looked just the same. The room was still dark and the walls were still stood threateningly high. The black door was still closed and securely locked.

Locked. That reminded Frodo of how hopeless the situation was now. He could not help but think about Bag End and the warmth of his bed in front of the small, dancing fire in his room. Would he ever see them again? They felt so far beyond his reach now.

Frodo squirmed a little against the fog’s grip. Had Sauron meant to remind him that he was still imprisoned here? Were there any creatures more cruel than this cursed one? Frodo had known nothing but torture since his arrival here. What purpose did it serve for the Dark Lord to torment him? Frodo’s presence in Barad – dur was more than enough guarantee that the Ring would be returned to Sauron. Could the reason for the hobbit’s torment be nothing more than to feed Sauron’s feral desire to cause pain? Frodo whimpered at the thought.

Frodo had never been a weak person, or given to whining, even when he was a small child. He had borne up bravely even at the sudden loss of both of his parents, but being kept here was much more than he could stand.

Sauron was giving Frodo more reason to fear him, as a loud bang sounded and the four walls moved backward to create a much larger room. Frodo gasped in shock as the movement stopped abruptly, and cracking sounds issued from one or two of the walls. Chains were sprouting from them as if they were plants growing outward from hidden roots. The chains were of varied lengths and some trailed shackles at their ends. Frodo shuddered at the disturbing pictures that began to fill his mind.

That was not all. A loud clang came from the corner to Frodo’s left. Now free of the hand in his hair, his gaze turned swiftly in the direction of the noise. A bed – like structure wrought of iron seemed to appear out of nowhere. Frodo did not know what the menacing object was or what it was for. He only knew that he would not want to be made to lie upon it.

“Frodo,” Sauron’s purring tone made the hobbit jump. He looked nervously at the fog-like form now drifting slowly around a table, which had suddenly emerged seemingly from nowhere. On the table was an object hidden under black fabric. One corner of the fabric seemed to peel back unaided to reveal a rather large, round ball made of a dark glass or crystal. Frodo had never seen anything like it, and he tilted his head sideways as he looked at it. What was it, and what power did it hold?

Suddenly, the globe seemed to cloud with mist, and then to clear again. Frodo’s breath caught in his throat as he saw an image of himself, and of Sam!

***

At the Prancing Pony

Merry reached out to tap at Sam’s shoulder, extending his sympathy. But suddenly he stopped, his hand suspended in the air.

“Sam, Sam!” he called. His eyes widened, gazing at a space behind Sam. The gardener looked at him questioningly at first, but then sudden understanding gripped him.

He spun around, gaping at the sight before him.

“Mister Frodo, you’re breathing again!” Sam exclaimed between sobs, his relief bringing him to tears.

Frodo was still struggling to catch his breath. His chest heaved rapidly and his eyes were wide with terror when he failed to recognize his surroundings.

Merry and Pippin joined Sam, dropping to the floor on either side of Frodo.

“Frodo! Oh, Frodo! You’re still alive!” Pip squeaked, shaking Frodo by the shoulders.

Merry pulled Pippin’s hands away briskly “Ssh, Pip, don’t! It’ll alarm him.” Grumbling, Pippin complied.

Sam fought the impulse to immediately pull Frodo into his embrace. He realized that Frodo needed a time to recover his senses.

A moment passed in silence. Strider let out the breath he had been holding, relieved as Frodo at last returned to himself.

Frodo’s eyes began to focus again as he again began to regain control of his breathing, but he still seemed rather confused.

“Sam?” he whispered slowly. “Merry, Pippin?”

“You’re all right, Frodo dear!” Merry held Frodo’s face in his hands, the unexpected touch causing Frodo to flinch. He pulled away and tried to sit upright, but spots flickered before his eyes and he lay down again, closing them tightly.

“Frodo!” Sam cried woefully.

His master raised his hand, trying to calm his loyal gardener.

“I’m fine, Sam,” he spoke faintly. “Just a little headache. Otherwise, I am--”

“But what happened, Mr. Frodo?” Sam cried urgently. Frodo looked at him with weary

eyes. “We thought this ruffian here was hurting you, but he didn’t even touch you!”

Frodo gazed up at the man. Strider was his name, as he remembered Butterbur telling him. The man looked strong – and trustworthy. Suddenly a thought crossed Frodo’s mind. Could he trust this man enough to--?

But the pain in his chest reminded him of the bad experience. What if Sauron found out that he told someone about his problem? The fog had told him, loud and clear, not to do that. Sauron was capable of doing anything he wished, and what had just happened to Frodo was proof of it, although he wondered what his other half had done that deserved such a cruel punishment.

Now able to sit up with the support of several hands on his back, Frodo stared at the ranger. A mixture of things shone in the hobbit’s stunning eyes: despair, fear, and trust.

As if reading Frodo’s mind, Strider stooped and moved closer.

“Are you frightened?” he asked.

Frodo did not answer that right away. The answer would be yes, of course, for now. He became restless all of a sudden. When he returned his gaze to the ranger again, he knew that he could trust him.

“Strider,” whispering, Frodo leaned forward and reached for the ranger’s hand. The man grasped the hobbit’s much smaller hand in his own and knelt down.

“Tell me, Frodo. Tell me what troubles you.”

“I ---“ Frodo’s voice was choked with emotion as tears suddenly welled in his eyes. He wanted to tell this man everything, to let him solve all of his problems! Strider was a strong man and Frodo believed he was capable of doing anything. If anyone could free him, Strider could. And yet--

“I’m sorry, Strider. But it’s difficult for me.”

Strider released Frodo’s hand and extended his own to pat the hobbit gently on the head.

“Come, little one,” he encouraged. “Release it.”

Frodo nodded, resigned to what he would do.

“It began when I slipped---“

But the sentence was left unfinished. Frodo suddenly saw a burst of light before his eyes and he screamed, a heart-wrenching sound none of those present had heard from him before.

TBC Chapter 4 – Terror

Warning: AU, deep angst

Frodo could not seem to comprehend how he could be here in this loathsome place, and yet see a figure looking so much like himself in that magic globe. It wrenched his heart to see that Sam was there in the image also, kneeling beside ‘him’. Merry and Pippin came into view as well, and they all looked relieved. Where were they, and what was happening there?

Frodo inclined his gaze to the foggy figure looming behind the table, cursing silently. He failed to recall anything that happened before he was nearly choked to death, and it was all because of it – because of HIM, Sauron!

The disembodied creature stirred and floated closer to Frodo. The hated echo of Sauron’s laughter almost caused Frodo to reach out as if to strike back. Now the fog delivered a mocking gasp.

“You want to kill me, Frodo Baggins?” Sauron’s voice was as dry as the crusted mud under Frodo’s heels. “How clever of you to think you could succeed where others have failed.”

Frodo tensely recalled the day he had poured Gandalf a steaming cup of tea in the comfort of of his kitchen at Bag End, and the conversation they had shared.

”But he was destroyed! Sauron was destroyed!”, Frodo had squeaked, before he could stop himself.

That was true, but untrue at the same time. Sauron’s spirit had abandoned his body, but instead of departing to Mandos Hall, it stayed in Middle Earth, withdrawing and waiting for the most suitable time to return once more to dominate the world of elves, men, dwarves, and hobbits.

“Frodo – Frodo.” Sauron’s coo drew Frodo back to the present time. “How thoughtful of you to remember me when you cannot even grasp what has happened to you. Thank you, Frodo, you have flattered me so much.”

Frodo’s gaze fell back to the crystalline ball.

“Pray tell me what is this?” He asked in a small voice. He could not constrain himself.

The fog flew back to the vicinity of the table. A silence followed. Sauron seemed to have his reservations, as if any answer would divulge a great secret. What eventually came next was like the beginning of a twisted travesty of a bedtime story for Frodo, a tale of things both foul and frightening.

“When at last I succeeded in extracting information from the repellent creature Gollum, I was no longer hindered in my efforts to track you, my little one. When Gollum screamed out your name and told me where you dwelt, I knew that finding my Ring was only a matter of time.”

Frodo shifted on the hard, cold floor, sitting down and hugging his knees up to his chin. His stomach growled with hunger and fear continued creeping slowly into his heart. The fog did not seem to notice this, nor did it care at all.

It continued, “When I discovered you, Frodo, all I had to do was look into this lovely globe to locate you and follow your every move. This globe allows me to see thing that are happening at a distance. It is called Palantir.”

“Don’t,” Frodo panted suddenly. The dark globe and the One Ring must have surely helped Sauron to reach him, and eventually to capture him in flesh and blood. Frodo shivered miserably, salty liquid warming his colorless cheeks.

“Ah!” Sauron breathed in smug satisfaction. “I see that you begin to remember, Frodo dear. However, I must correct you with regard to one matter. You are not truly here in flesh and blood. You are just a spirit! A meaningless thing that can easily be scattered on the wind to vanish into thin air.”

Sauron enjoyed how the color was completely drained from Frodo’s striking face now.

“Fear not, halfling!” Sauron’s voice was again the thunderous tone of command. “I do not intend to banish you to nothingness. Not yet. Not until I get my gold trinket. Even so, I may choose to keep you here afterwards. You are a rather amazing little creature, Frodo.”

“No!” Frodo sprang forward, trembling with anger. Sauron could not do that! The Dark Lord had made a promise to release him, mere spirit or no, and reunite him with his other self, the one Frodo saw inside the Palantir.

There was a movement in the dark, glassy orb, and Frodo spun around toward it. A human almost twice in size as the other figures came into sight.

“Strider,” whispered Frodo, feeling as if he were snatched back to the time when Butterbur told him the man’s name. Hope rose in him. Perhaps the man could –

His thoughts were interrupted as ‘Frodo’ in the globe haltingly voiced exactly the same idea. Faintly Frodo could hear as his twin started off,

”It was when I slipped---“

Everything suddenly became blurred, as the voices faded and Frodo felt as if the floor under his feet had vanished.

The floor had not disappeared, it was just that his feet had lost contact with it as he was pulled swiftly backward. Before he realized it, his arms were wrenched upward and his wrists were shackled into the strong cuffs dangling from the chains on the wall. Frodo was left hanging helplessly, his feet barely touching the ground.

Frodo came to realize a few moments later that he had been holding his breath the entire time. A huff of air rushed into his lungs when he breathed again. Sadly, that was just for mere seconds.

Frodo’s eyes widened in shock as he stared down. It was as if his body had turned into jelly, and a hand was extended from the fog’s figure and thrust through him, deep into the hobbit’s stomach. When the hand slowly crept out, it had ripped open Frodo’s abdomen and snatched out what looked like the hobbit’s intestines. They were dripping blood, and the sight sickened and horrified Frodo. Words were lost to him entirely and he barely remembered to breathe or to weep. Frodo threw his head back hard, hitting the wall with a sickening thump. He wailed in unending terror and misery, until his voice cracked and all the air seemed to be sucked out of his lungs.

TBC

AN: Like it? Hate it? Confused by it? Or disgusted? Please, don't make me trapped in the dark!Chapter 5 – Tight-lipped

Warning: AU

At the Prancing Pony

Sam could not stand it any more. He desperately wanted to bring Frodo into his arms to lessen whatever torment was at work in his master’s body now, not that Sam actually knew that Frodo was indeed tormented. It was just the scream – Sam had never heard a scream of such pure agony

But he could not do as he wished. He could not just get up and embrace Frodo. He found himself unable to even look at his master as Frodo convulsed violently, his body arching upward, then slamming down again. The blood freezing shrill cry still rang in his ears and Sam shrank back with his teeth chattering, plopped down and hugged his knees tightly to his chest.

Strider looked over his shoulder at Sam’s miserable form. He wanted to give consolation to the hobbit, yet he failed to find any words. His own heart seemed to shatter in pieces.

Frodo was about to tell him something when his words were suddenly drowned in an ocean of pains and cries. What on Middle Earth was happening? First the hobbit had not been able to breathe, and now this, all without any obvious cause at all.

Determined that he had to do something about it, Strider scooped up Frodo’s shaking body up into the cradle of his arms and brought him to the bed. At least, Strider could spare Frodo the chill of the cold floor. Thank the Valar, Frodo’s screams gradually subsided.

The ranger lowered Frodo down onto one of the small hobbit – sized beds, and tucked him in gently. The other three hobbits, including a now calmer Sam, followed Strider’s motions with hopeful eyes flickering in the dimly-lit room, and soundlessly gathered themselves around Frodo’s bed.

“Is he all right, Strider?”

“Why does he keep trembling?”

“He is bleeding, Strider!”

The ranger started at the last of those tiny figures’ remarks. He quickly moved the crimson-stained blanket aside and found Frodo’s shirt in the same condition, covered with a thick coat of sticky crimson.

Where did the blood come from? Strider opened the blanket wider. No, there was no knife or sharp object that could unintentionally have hurt Frodo.

“Merry!” Pippin, the youngest of all, surprised the others with his loud cry. He then wept so hard that the man and his fellow hobbits felt like crying, too. Pippin was still very young – he had not yet come of age – and Frodo was his favorite cousin. All that had happened was just too much for him. Frodo might even die. “He’s not going to leave us, is he, Merry? Please tell me he won’t. It can’t be!”

Merry could not do anything more than pull his cousin closer and turn him away from the sight of Frodo’s sad condition. Gently Merry took Pippin and brought him to his shoulder.

But no, Frodo might not die. He might be too strong to just fade away. Even so, he had not returned to normal, although the shaking had very much lessened and now and he was breathing freely again. The blood remained on his shirt.

Strider experienced a feeling of déjà vu as there was a loud bang on the door and a group of people came rushing into the room as the hobbits had earlier. They were big folk with long swords in their grips, and they glared wildly around the room, spotting a group of hobbits and one man gathered around a bed. Sam, Merry and Pippin scurried behind Strider for protection.

“Strider!” roared one of the men. The ranger quickly but casually covered Frodo’s body with two blankets, concealing the already blooded one and praying that the men did not pay attention to what he was doing. The ranger raised his chin up.

“Any problem, Butterbur?” he asked coldly.

The Prancing Pony’s owner eyed the ranger suspiciously.

“What have you done this time?” asked Butterbur.

“What do you mean?”

The owner and bartender glanced over Frodo’s prone form.

“Why is he lying down? The others are not.” He nodded to Frodo. “I told you not to disturb these halflings, Ranger. They are gentlehobbits from the Shire and they are highly respected around here.”

Strider sighed deeply, definitely not wanting to tell the men what was happening, especially when he was not sure himself.

“I know who they are, Butterbur,” the scruffy-looking ranger tried to convince them with his soft and composed voice. “I guard the borders of their lands, if you recall.”

Still looking doubtful, Butterbur finally lowered down his weapon, and glancing to the men beside him, he signaled for them to do the same. They complied silently.

Slowly, Strider walked toward the door, herding the men out without their even realizing it.

“You must believe me,” persuaded the ranger. “Although I am little more than a stranger to you, have you ever known me to harm your people?” The men shook their heads silently. Strider nodded slowly. “You know I work hand in hand with the Shiriffs in the Shire and the authorities here. Just go to them should you have any reservations.”

Butterbur nodded repeatedly as if he were under a spell. He was not sure about this but subconsciously he believed the ranger. It was strange, but this man seemed to have an almost magical charm. It was possible to be upset with him when not in his presence, but when eye to eye with the Ranger, Butterbur felt compelled to agree with him.

When the last man had quit the room, Strider closed the battered door and made a barricade with a sturdy-looking chest to bar the way to any more unwanted visitors. He took a relieved breath. He was not really in the mood to face another problem. One was enough to make this already long night even longer.

Strider turned around to face the hobbits around Frodo. Frodo had managed to sit up and had joined the other three as they sat looking at him. Strider dashed to the group and almost shoved Merry away when he placed himself at the side of the bed abruptly. Merry grumbled a little but stopped when he saw how urgently Strider grasped Frodo’s shoulders and gently turned the hobbit to meet his gaze.

“Frodo, are you all right?” asked Strider almost in a whisper. The chalk-faced hobbit with nodded slowly, his eyes half closed. No sound came out of his purplish lips.

Then Strider could see that Sam was rather upset.

“Now, Mr. Frodo, you shouldn’t be up!” Sam scolded, realizing that everyone in the room knew he was only trying to hide his fear by sounding harsh. “Please sir, just lie down again.” He was about to set Frodo back down again when Frodo himself caught both of Sam’s wrists and eased them away gently.

“I – am – fine – Sam,” Frodo seemed to ground the words out. “I have to be. This quest--“

“Don’t talk about any quest right now, Mr. Frodo,” cut Sam quickly. “You’re bleeding.” Sam’s voice broke as he looked at the crimson stain on Frodo’s shirt.

Bleeding? Frodo looked down. Oh!

All of a sudden everything seemed to come back. The pain, the nausea, even the disgust, all the sensations Frodo had suddenly experienced when he was about to tell Strider---

Frodo gazed up, his eyes searching for Strider and staring. His expression was difficult to read. Frodo had been trying to tell this man what was happening, but Sauron must have reads his intentions, though Frodo did not understand how. Sauron must have punished Frodo through his other self in the tower in Mordor. Mordor – the name of the place sent shivers down the hobbit’s spine.

Strider snatched himself away from Frodo’s sharp gaze and reached out at the torn and bloody shirt. Frodo followed the ranger’s movement silently, too stricken to say anything. He watched as Strider pulled the shirttail out if his breeches and lifted the stained part for him to examine.

“Do you remember anything, Frodo?” Strider urged him gently. Frodo stared blankly at him and at the shirt, alternately. He then moved his head so slightly Strider had to interpret it as a nod.

“Yes? What is it?”

“I ---“ Frodo started with great difficulty, mouth parched from having cried out loud. “I remember who you are, Strider,” he said after some time. Then Frodo turned his head to each of his cousins, and to Sam.

“I remember them, too, Merry, Pippin, and Sam.”

Strider exhaled loudly. Was Frodo jesting? This was not what he had expected. He also caught confusion dancing in the faces of the other hobbits.

“That is very good, little one. But why did you scream? Was it a dream or a vision?” The ranger prodded Frodo gently.

For a second, Frodo’s clear blue eyes clouded, whether with fear or misery, Strider could not tell. He only knew he must wait for the hobbit to answer. Frodo answered sooner than expected, realizing that doubts would only lead to misunderstanding, and that could lead to something fatal. Sauron might very well do something that would kill Frodo.

“There is nothing wrong. I – I’m completely fine. I was just – feeling unwell.” Frodo’s voice weakened. What a lame thing to say. But he was resolute. Frodo decided that he would never divulge any of the dark secrets that troubled him.

TBC AN: Not much of an action this time. What do you think? Pretty thanks with cherry on top if you’re willing to leave me a sentence or two! – Iorhael Chapter 6 – Critical Decision

Warning: AU, angst

~ At the Inn of the Prancing Pony ~

“I’m fine, Sam,” whispered Frodo weakly. “I’m just feeling unwell.”

Sam’s eyes bored into his master’s. The gardener did not believe a single word. But Frodo was determined he would not say anything. It was impossible for him to do so -- not when he was under Sauron’s control. Restlessly lying in Strider’s rearranged bed, Frodo could only sigh deeply.

He had been feeling much better although he was still shuddering slightly from the memory of the sudden, gripping pain in his abdomen that made him feel as if he was being ripped in two. Frodo clenched his eyes shut silently in rising terror despite himself. Salty tears streamed down Frodo’s face. He could not go on forever like this, shutting himself off from the others. He would go insane! Yet Frodo could not fathom what else Sauron would do to him should he dare to tell Strider and the others. The Dark Lord might finally decide to end Frodo’s life. Ah, Frodo thought quietly, Sauron would eventually kill him anyway, if he did not deliver the Ring soon.

Frodo tried to hold back, but his sobs were getting louder. He suddenly realized that he need not do that. Sam, Merry, and Pippin, warmly tucked in one big blanket, were all deep in their slumber. The tension in their hearts had been lifted, and their sleep-deprived bodies had pulled them into a dreamless slumber. Frodo forced himself to sleep, too. His bloodstained shirt had been replaced with a clean one – the one he remembered tucking into his pack. The comfort of being clean and the security provided by the alert Ranger should have allowed him to doze off.

Yet, amidst the snores and the regular breathing of his friends, Frodo still could not relax into sleep. Turning his body uneasily, Frodo vaguely heard a faint sound in a distance. A sound he had come to know very well though unwillingly.

“The Ringwraiths.” Frodo noticed how Strider hissed. The hobbit whipped his head sharply to the ranger’s direction, surprised and curious to realize that Strider knew he was still awake. “They’ve come.”

“Who are they?” Frodo could not help reply, in a small voice.

But Strider’s explanations about the kings of men, the undying ones, and the servants of the Dark Lord were pushed aside and scarcely noticed by the hobbit. It all sounded like a background noise to Frodo’s sudden, intruding thoughts.

This was the chance he had been waiting for! The Ringwraiths had come to take the Ring to Sauron and Frodo could let them take him to Sauron. He would be able to free his trapped spirit once and for all.

Carefully brushing aside the sheet covering his body, Frodo cast a calculating look toward the ranger, wondering if he could get away without his notice. Fortunately, Strider seemed to be absorbed in his own thoughts and did not even realize when Frodo quietly lifted the wooden bar across the door and crept soundlessly from the room.

***

Standing alone in the deserted and eerily quiet hallway, Frodo found himself recoiling and wanting to go back to the room, when all of a sudden he heard a heavy clank of metal at the other end of the corridor. The hobbit gasped and with thumping heart, he nervously took small steps toward the sound. A loud creak from a door being opened forcefully made Frodo’s heart jump. He stopped for a moment but was determined to go on. Where were the Ringwraiths?

Half running, Frodo followed the sound. The smaller rooms they had vacated, thought Frodo bitterly when spotting a ray of light pushing out from one of them. Frodo was sure that was the room where they, he and his companions, were supposed to spend the night.

The room was designed especially for hobbits with its small furniture: beds, chairs, tables, and consoles.

Frodo peeped into the room and – Ai! Four enormous, hooded figures, with their backs to Frodo were slowly approaching each of the four beds where he and his companions should have been. Frodo could not see the long, battered – looking swords they held in their hands, and so did not know what they intended by breaking into the room.

Then he saw the wraiths raise their weapons high in the air and with a swooshing sound, they slashed downward swiftly and perniciously. The swords encountered nothing but empty bed with soft pillows and bolsters. Enraged beyond words, the wraiths wreaked havoc upon the beds, their shrill cries rising by several octaves. Frodo gaped silently and covered his ringing ears, but held his ground.

Frodo shook uncontrollably, clutching the wooden doorframe tightly with his diminutive fingers as the unearthly cries died down. He felt so small and helpless facing the fearsome beings. What if the wraiths simply took the Ring and struck him dead? Sauron had indeed told Frodo to go with them to Mordor, but who would ensure that he did? All the Dark Lord desired was his Ring. He would likely care little for Frodo, or the spirit Frodo he held captive in Barad – dur.

Drowning in doubt and despair, Frodo involuntarily stamped his foot in frustration, but not so loudly that the wraiths would hear. He did not intend to be captured before he had the opportunity to explain his situation, if that were even possible. He wondered about Gandalf’s whereabouts and what the wizard would advise.

The four Ringwraiths were still wandering around the room as if expecting to suddenly spot a trembling hobbit crouching in a corner. Frodo realized they would soon leave should they find nothing, and if he did not make a decision quickly, he would lose the opportunity for transport to Mordor.

Taking a deep breath, Frodo steeled himself, let go of the doorframe, and stepped into the room. Or rather, he tried to. He never succeeded, as two big, strong hands suddenly grabbed him from behind, one clamping over his mouth and nose, the other tightening around his body.

“Don’t move!” The words were spoken in a harsh hiss in Frodo’s ear. “And don’t make a sound!” With that, Frodo felt himself being lifted up and carried away.

***

Sam awakened with a start at the screeching of the ringwraiths. Sweaty and cold at the same time, he gazed over at the vacant seat by the window where Strider had been sitting before and started to wonder. Sam then caught sight of the rumpled blanket beside Pippin, and gasped.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam cried, waking up the two other hobbits. Sam jumped out of the bed, out of the warm sheets covering his body, and ran to the gaping door. He almost bumped into Strider, who was carrying a struggling form in his left arm while the right one was working hard to stifle the wild cries the form was emitting the entire time. Frodo. He looked exactly like a trapped animal. “Give way, Sam,” grunted Strider with panting breaths. Sam, desperately wanting to protest at the harsh treatment of his master, was silenced by Strider’s determined, commanding tone. Sam moved aside, letting the ranger enter and pace directly toward the seat near the window.

“Quiet!” Strider hissed again, to Frodo this time, while shaking the frantic hobbit roughly, his wide hand still covering Frodo’s mouth. Frodo stared at him with unimaginable rage. He was so close to the only solution to his hopeless problem and this man had to come to ruin everything for him! Frodo screamed out a string of words, incoherently, but Sam was sure he had never imagined such words coming out of his beloved master’s mouth before.

“I said quiet!” Snapped Strider, a bit more fiercely now. Frodo went silent, his eyes still flashing furiously. The man nodded. He whispered the next instruction.

“I’m going to pull my hand away but you have to promise not to scream again. The Ringwraiths are still around and they can hear even the faintest sound.”

Frodo could do nothing but comply. He nodded.

“Good,” mumbled the ranger and slowly withdrew his hand from the hobbit’s face. But the moment the hand disappeared, Frodo raised his voice.

“How dare you do something like that to me! Who d—” Instantly, a hand clasped back on his mouth. Strider slid swiftly to Frodo’s back, tightening his hand over Frodo’s mouth and forcing the hobbit to involuntarily tilt his face upward. Frodo whimpered slowly behind the sweaty hand.

Groaning lowly, Strider motioned to Sam to hand him his pack lying on the floor and fished out two wide scarves from it. Both Frodo and Sam’s eyes grew wide as Strider thrust the scarf in Frodo’s mouth and knotted it behind his head. Strider then reflexively snatched Frodo’s flailing hands and secured them at his back as well.

“What are you doing?” Sam shouted. Strider gave him a weary gaze.

“I don’t know what you think of him, Sam. But to me, he is nothing more than a traitor to the free peoples of Middle Earth.”

Letting out a gagged cry, Frodo was completely baffled. Was that what Strider thought of him? All his anger was nearly swept away as he glazed up at the Ranger.

Sam blinked.

“What do you mean?”

Strider snorted.

“What do you call a person who willingly sells all of Middle Earth to the enemy?” Sam looked quizzically at Strider while Frodo slumped back helplessly. “It’s true,” continued Strider.

“He was going to the Ringwraiths. I wonder what he was going to do. Frodo?”

Strider’s voice was as sharp as a razor. Frodo shut his eyes in despair. Even if he was not gagged, he still would not want to reveal what truly troubled him.

***

~ At Barad-dur ~

Frodo never knew terror could grip him so fiercely as he witnessed the failure of the flesh and blood Frodo in his first attempt to get to Mordor by approaching the Nazgul. He saw it all. He saw how the other Frodo had managed to get out of Strider’s room to reach the one the former kings of men were ransacking. But then it was Strider himself, the man Frodo once thought could help him, who hindered and robbed him of the opportunity to save the spirit Frodo, now hanging, literally, in unimaginable dread.

The spirit Frodo heaved raggedly in his shackles. He was not completely recovered from the previous torment inflicted on him by Sauron. Still clear in his mind were the fear and disgust he had felt as Sauron had suddenly gutted him and cruelly dangled his entrails before his very eyes.

Although the sight of the result of Sauron’s atrocity made Frodo want to close his eyes, he was unable to. There he was, awake and panting, wondering how he could still be breathing after all that had been done to him. Sauron’s laughter startled Frodo and the hobbit looked hazily at the fog.

“You die when I allow, Frodo Baggins. Do not wish that I should be required to grant you your death.” The fog crept slowly forward, and with lightning speed, the invisible hand penetrated Frodo’s body again, returning his intestines to their place. The mental image of it alone horrified Frodo and he felt bile rise in his throat, threatening to spill over. Nauseated, Frodo tried to restrain himself from vomiting but he failed. Frodo retched miserably, spilling all the contents of his stomach, as if he HAD a stomach with any contents, mostly onto his chest. Sour stench erupted into Frodo’s nose, making him throw up even more, until what was left was mere liquid and dry heaves.

Wearily, Frodo gazed at Sauron with mixed feelings; fear, despair, but also a desire for vengeance. Frodo was maddened at how easily this damned creature treated him as if he was a plaything. Frodo silently swore that he would never, ever, let this thing ---

SPLASH!

“W – what---” Frodo gasped and wheezed, completely aghast as he suddenly found himself drenched in water.

“ENOUGH!” The thundering voice seized Frodo’s mind completely. “Enough with your inquiries!” Frodo was stunned, frowning a little and starting to wonder again. Inquiries? What inquiries? Had he not just ---

“BE QUIET, HALFLING!” A great claw suddenly clamped over the top of his head. “Your busy mind is too loud! Stop thinking or I shall stop you!”

Frodo twisted in his bonds, making the chains rattle noisily. The damp touch of the foggy claw was still on his head and he was afraid to think. But it occurred to him that he was more afraid of not being able to think anymore.

Somewhere in his clouded mind, Frodo suddenly realized that he was STILL thinking. He smiled inwardly. Sauron could torture him physically until he was completely broken. But the Dark Lord could never rule his mind!

THWAP!

A stunning backhand whipped Frodo’s face violently to his left. An ugly bruise directly formed on the hobbit’s cheek and a tear involuntarily slid down his pale cheek.

“That’s what you deserve for thinking. Now we shall see if you can still smile.”

Frodo was hanging limply, trying to catch his breath. He desperately wanted to rub his stinging cheek, ensuring himself that he could at least lessen the pain he suffered anywhere else. Damn the shackles! They still kept his arms in place. And Sauron was right. Frodo could not smile anymore.

And now, in the Palantir he had seen his twin’s unsuccessful move. Frodo shuddered in grave anticipation at what Sauron would do about it.

“No, no. Please,” he stammered as the fog floated ever so slowly to his direction. It was no use, no matter how hard he pulled at his chains, no matter how desperately he cried. No use. “Please!” His voice shook terribly. “It’s not his fault,” Frodo said, referring to his other self. “He intended to go with those dark creatures, but the man – the man! “

Sauron had been hovering just an inch in front of him. Frodo could sense the scent of death invading his nostrils.

“Ba – ggins---”

Frodo shivered. The vague, floating whisper from the fog reminded him very much of that of the Ringwraiths. Suddenly everything was cold and Frodo was transfixed in his place, his eyes staring blankly, unable to even breathe.

“I am growing impatient,” continued Sauron, still with his menacing voice. “Your task is to bring the Ring here by such method as you choose. I know you are willing to do that. Oh, yes, I am sure of it. Thus I should not doubt you, for if you fail one way, you will undoubtedly seek another. But I AM impatient, and I am angry. When I am angry – “

Frodo had been spellbound by the eerily soothing voice, but suddenly was successful in breaking the hold it had on him. “Aah! Get away from me!” He grasped the chains restraining him and swung his legs out toward the fog, as if kicking at the gaseous cloud would matter. Even as he did, the fog trapped Frodo’s legs and with a sickening crack, it twisted both the hobbit’s ankles at an awkward angle.

Searing pain blinded Frodo and he threw his head back as the fog let go of his legs. Inarticulate cries of agony burst from him as he sobbed, unaware as to whether his ankles were broken or merely sprained. “Help! Please, help!.”

An icy finger swiped the streaming tears from one of Frodo’s cheeks, and the hobbit fearfully opened his eyes, trying to imagine that it was the caring touch of someone – his mother perhaps – but it wasn’t. Frodo flinched, inflaming Sauron’s rage further.

“And when I am angry, I will have satisfaction!” His statement complete, Sauron came closer to do the ‘thing’ that would surely satisfy him. Effortlessly, he rained violent blows upon Frodo’s face, leaving the hobbit nearly senseless – nearly. Sauron would not allow Frodo to lose consciousness this time, but assured that he was still awake to feel the pain.

***

~ At the Inn of the Prancing Pony ~

Frodo was indeed awake as he sat in the dimly lit room in the Prancing Pony, screaming against the gag in his mouth, his jerky movements nearly sending him reeling from the chair. Frodo squeezed his eyes shut as pain assailed his legs and face. He struggled vainly to rub the pains away with his tied hands.

“Mmmhh!” Frodo groaned piteously. His eyes were fixed on Sam, pleading silently to him to release him. Sam, confused at this sudden change of behavior, averted his gaze from Frodo turning it instead to Strider’s direction.

“Strider!” Sam called tensely. “You must untie him!”

The Ranger looked down at the hobbit. For mere seconds worry seemed to flash across his scruffy face. But when he threw a glance at Frodo, deep distrust and slight disgust were still in his eyes. The man did not believe Frodo was truly in pain. He even lightly kicked the hobbit at the heel, which caused Frodo to let out a yet another groan, his back arching and his tears flowing more freely. Then it occurred to Sam that his master was starting to hyperventilate. Frodo’s eyes rolled back revealing their whites as the flow of oxygen was diminished. Sam, heedless of Strider’s possible actions toward him, leapt forward and wrenched away Frodo’s gag.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo,” coddled Sam gently, cupping Frodo’s face in his hands. “What is wrong with you? Aren’t you going to say anything at all, even to your Sam?”

Frodo noticed the warm and soft voice and struggled to come back to his senses. Still panting heavily, he slowly opened his eyes, pale blue and glistening with the remnants of the tears. Sam, oh Sam. How was he supposed to tell this loyal manservant? Sauron would surely punish him if he did. The Dark Lord always punished him, for what he did – trying to tell Strider or the hobbits, and for what he did not do – succeeding in bringing the Ring to Mordor. Frodo was in the dark as to what extent he could survive those punishments. It would be very bad if he died before telling these beloved people what really came upon him.

“S – sam?” Breathed Frodo. The gardener moved one of his hands to Frodo’s soaking forehead, brushing aside the curls away from his face.

“Yes, Mr. Frodo?”

The fair hobbit took a deep breath. He had made a decision, eventually. At least, if he died from the last punishment, he would be in the arms of someone cognizant of his dilemma, who cared for him so much. Frodo’s blue eyes never turned away.

“Sam, Sauron has captured me. He holds a part of my self, a part of my spirit. I will get my spirit back if I bring him the Ring. I didn’t tell you this earlier because he told me not to do so or he would torture me. Well, he has already.”

Frodo did not allow Sam to interrupt, as he had to tell him as quickly as he could, before Sauron realized what Frodo was doing. Before Sauron imposed on him yet another torment.

Frodo felt grateful that he had told Sam as best as he could. It mattered little to him whether his gardener or the others – Strider, Merry, and Pippin – believed him or not. Getting the information across was above everything – even above an excruciating pain that followed shortly. “Sauron knows,” mumbled Frodo, much to himself, as he surrendered to oblivion.

TBC

AN: --- and please leave your yet another message telling that you have been reading it – before Sauron has the chance to stop me! Chapter 7 – An Unlikely Way Out

Warning: AU, angst

Frodo gazed blearily at the tormentor before him. He wondered what other punishments would come down upon him. There was no single muscle left in Frodo’s body that did not scream with pain: his face, his midsection, his legs, his feet – and oh, his ankles. The scorching agony from his badly sprained ankles still jarred his body violently, making Frodo gasp at the slightest movement.

Frodo had tried to shift to every possible position to reduce the pain, only to find that they each carried their unique miseries. He had once pulled up his injured limbs so as not to make contact with the floor. But his feet cramped up and the stiffness invited pinpricks all over his legs until they climbed up almost to the knees. Frodo gave up the position, and then tried to rest the balls of his feet flat on to the cold floor. But he felt none the better. The pressure Frodo placed on his heels forced his ankles to bear the burden of his weight.

He had suffered similar damage once before, but it was terribly different at that time. Bilbo had then wrapped Frodo’s wrenched ankle up in a warm and healing bandage. The old hobbit knew there should be no pressure applied to that kind of injury.

Frodo lifted his legs a little bit again – and again he had to wince. He did not want to admit that he was in such a great pain this time. He would not cry. He hated to look weak in front of Sauron yet again. But he was weak – weakened by his wounded body.

… except for his arms. Frodo had just come to realize this. Not only did he not feel aching along the length of his arms, but he also did not feel his arms at all. Frodo glanced up (which made him flinch for the soreness in his neck) at the chained limbs and thanked the Valar silently that his arms and hands were still intact. They had just become so numb that Frodo thought that his brain could not order them to do anything.

But apparently it was not true. Frodo had yet to do something with those arms of his.

There was this sudden urge to spin his head to face the Palantir. Sauron had been in control of Frodo’s actions, and it was Sauron who had made the hobbit turn his head. There was nothing Frodo could do but comply. He squinted mournfully at the glass ball to see why Sauron had forced his gaze upon it – and yes!

“What?” A loud hiss came from the fog, turning back at Frodo sharply. “Do you realize what this means for you?”

Frodo flinched back in apprehension, and unconsciously clawed at the shackles – something he thought he would never again be able to do with the lack of sensation in his hands.

“Yes,” whispered Frodo hoarsely. “Yes, because what he has just done is the wisest thing possible,” he referred to his other self. “And yes I know what will happen to me because of that – but I don’t care.” Frodo was quite sure about this. He felt drained already with all the tortures inflicted on him. He would not survive another one. “I know what his words mean to me.” Frodo strained forward, stared at the fog challengingly, heedless of all his screaming muscles. “They bring me to death. And that will be much better as you still haven’t got the Ring!”

Frodo was wondering to himself as he spoke. By deciding to tell Sam about his imprisonment in Mordor, his other half had opened his eyes as to how all of this should end. Frodo could no longer hope to flee or to have someone come to save him. It was out of the question that the physical Frodo who was still in Bree would willingly deliver the Ring to Sauron. No matter how much Sauron tortured Frodo’s spirit, giving in was still not worth the whole of Middle Earth.

Frodo-spirit closed his eyes in despair yet slowly peacefulness flowed into him. Come, come, his mind cerebrated. Do whatever you want to do with me. I have lost but so have you!

The fog seemed to be paralyzed, stopping its languid movements, as if it were too incensed to stir. It was infuriated, both by Frodo’s futile resistance and by his unspoken demur. Since when, glowered Sauron, did a mortal dare to challenge him??

But Frodo, hanging limply as he was, kept his eyes shut. He, of course, could not read Sauron’s mind although he could guess at what it held. Frodo could also feel the shifting air around him that made him finally decide to open his eyes. And what he saw before him almost made his heart explode in complete shock. Frodo quaked violently as tremors ran through his veins, shattering his previous determination to accept anything Sauron decided to rain upon him as long as it would grant Frodo the end of his life.

Seeing the fog suddenly swell up tenfold could shatter even the strongest of men, and not realizing what he was doing, Frodo started to stutter. He was saying things that he himself could not discern the meaning of. He felt as though something were swallowing him whole and alive, and his eyes felt as if they were about to jump out of their sockets.

“You are pleading for death, halfling?” Sauron thundered. “I will give you worse than that!”

Then something unbelievable happened. The fog seemed to transform and materialize into something … or someone. Frodo had never seen anything like this before, but he was sure that what he saw was the real form of Sauron himself - or rather - the image of him. The towering figure was appallingly clad in his complete war armor and a metal helmet bristling with spikes. In his hand was a stupendous sword, the biggest on Frodo had ever seen.

Sauron had come to kill him!

And Frodo wept silently in his heart. Was this what he had asked for?

All of a sudden there was a roaring sound of laughter. Frodo longed to be able to cover both of his ears. Sauron was laughing at him, Frodo thought miserably. He felt he was nothing more than a small, helpless rat, and Sauron was toying with him.

“No, no, no, no, no,” said Frodo over and over as Sauron lifted his sword with his gigantic hands high in the air. A blaring yet strangely cloying voice was heard from Sauron’s mouth.

“Do you know how many lives have met their ends upon the edge of this?” Sauron sneered as he raised his terrifying-looking sword. “Do you have any idea how many brave warriors of elves and men have lost their heads to the strength of my sword?”

Frodo could only stare, mouth gaping, body and face bathed in sweat and tears.

“I would not be so hasty in demanding something if I were you, Frodo my lad.” Frodo’s head jerked up at the intimate use of the endearment Bilbo had always used for him. A blazing fury surged in the hobbit’s heart. Sauron had no right to appropriate and use Bilbo’s kind phrases in such manner.

“I have no right?” replied Sauron, as if in wonder. “But are you not happy to be reminded of someone you dearly love in the last moments of your life?’

Frodo leaned back. Exhaustion washed over him. Did Sauron want to slay him or not? Whatever the answer, Frodo did not have any more energy to fight. Sauron was too powerful. Frodo turned his head sidelong to look at the Palantir, trying to catch the sight of the beloved faces of the best company he’d ever had, Sam, his two closest cousins, Merry and Pippin, and the stranger he had come to know as Strider. Frodo knew Strider never meant to harm him. The ranger was simply doing his duty.

Sauron, still in his menacingly huge form, chuckled.

“Saying farewell, eh? Do not be troubled, little one. You are not going to die, yet.”

Frodo gazed at the evil thing wearily.

“Please,” he pleaded. “End this here and now.”

A hard thwap from an unseen backhand spun Frodo’s face to the side.

“Nobody – gives – me – orders!” Sauron punctuated each word with violent slap while eyeing at the dazed hobbit. “Yet I do mean to to grant you something …as a reward.”

This is it, thought Frodo, his heart trembling nonetheless, as he saw Sauron swing his heavy sword down and thrust it forward – to Frodo’s abdomen. Nothing could stop the swift stroke.

Frodo was stunned for half a second as the iron slammed into his body, his face contorted, eyes staring unbelievingly. He felt nothing upon the initial impact, but the respite was brief. The next sensation Frodo knew was an unimaginable pain so severe it left him breathless momentarily. Recovering, his lungs sucked in a huge breath and his keening wail echoed through the towers and dungeons of Mordor.

***

Sam eyed the frozen form of his fair master in alarm, still shocked and struggling to comprehend Frodo’s words, which now seemed unreal as Frodo sagged lifelessly in the chair before him. The faithful gardener shifted his gaze from Frodo to Strider, who stood in the corner of the room, then back to Frodo again. Words were still beyond his reach.

Finally Sam reached out and felt how cold Frodo’s shoulder had become. Panic snaked in him. Several times Frodo had seemed to be tormented and had lost consciousness, but had never been so still and cold as a result. With shaking hands, Sam trailed his fingers lightly across Frodo’s chest. The pulse of Frodo’s dying heart still beat faintly and Sam stooped to close the distance between his face and his master’s brow.

Sam’s eyes were brimming with tears as he caressed Frodo’s silky complexion with his cheek. Sam still had not decided, though, if he could believe what Frodo had told him or even if he understood it. What registered in Sam’s humble mind now were simply the events happening before him, how Frodo had been suffering all of this time.

“All he said is true, isn’t it?” murmured Sam, not speaking to anyone in particular. Merry and Pip exchanged confused glances and Strider locked his sharp stare on Sam’s eyes. Sam felt disagreement hanging in the air. “Why else should he run to the wraiths to give up the Ring voluntarily?” he cried out, insistently holding to the belief that his master was still a pure and innocent being, not the treacherous traitor Strider had previously suggested.

The ranger sighed heavily.

“I have no knowledge of what Sauron is able or not able to do,” he finally admitted. “But if I were you, Sam, I would not be too trusting anymore. Frodo has tried once, and he might try again if he gets a chance. Frodo has an even stronger motive now – he has to release himself! Don’t try to unbind the scarves, Samwise!” Strider gave a harsh warning.

Strider got up from the bed and approached the chair where Frodo was sitting motionlessly and Sam was kneeling down beside him. Sam – for the first time – regarded the ranger with an apprehensive look.

What was he going to do? Sam’s suspicion grew and he felt almost ready to attack Strider when the man scooped Frodo’s bound and limp form up into his strong arms.

“Certainly we cannot leave him sitting stiffly like this.” Strider brought Frodo to the bed and laid him on his side, the trussed up wrists lying as they were behind the hobbit’s back. Sam thanked the man silently for his decision although he still objected to the bonds.

But then Sam’s eyes widened seeing how Strider’s hands were groping at Frodo’s vest pocket, sneaking into it, and withdrawing something gold in his fingers. The Ring!

“Here,” Strider thrust It out at Sam’s face. “Frodo is not to carry this trinket anymore. It is not safe in his hands. But I cannot allow myself to bear it, either, for I do not trust myself enough. So I deem you to have custody of it. Guard it well!”

“But… But…!” Sam choked. This could not be! The Ring belonged to Frodo. Well, at least Frodo had inherited it, and judging by the nature of the thing, this Ring was not something to be passed around easily. Had Frodo not been comatose, he would never have given it away so willingly, not even in the most desperate circumstances, Sam knew. He could already understand the reason, as he examined the Ring Strider had thrust into his right hand. Something strange and dark seemed to slither into his heart.

TBC Chapter 8 – Down and Out

~ At the Barad – dur ~

A sound more like a ghastly keening noise than a mere chortle echoed deafeningly in the grim torture chamber to replace Frodo’s heart wrenching shrill. The stupendous figure whose mocking laughter still filled the damp air in that wretched place loomed over the shackled form of Frodo. Sauron – as he still appeared, like the twisted Maia – unsheathed his extremely lengthy sword from its blood-sticky and flesh-torn case – Frodo’s ripped abdomen. Fresh, crimson liquid squirted in a sudden, rapid stream as the sword was withdrawn.

Completely unaware of what was coming off, Frodo twitched a little and then went stock-still. His lids were shut despite Sauron’s roaring screech; the agony was too much to bear. And once more did the Dark Lord offer his clamor as Frodo’s spilled blood that was previously pooling around and soaking the hobbit-spirit’s languid feet now was slowly drained. The dire creature lifted his weapon, brought it to his masked face, and sniffed it. He laughed wildly as he knew a spirit was not supposed to bleed. But if he, Sauron, desired it, bleed it would.

Another sniff. Another shrill. And a lithe tongue sneaked from behind the mask and licked the blood dripping from the edge of the sword. This hobbit was truly blessed in his youth. His blood smelled and tasted fresh and untarnished.

Sauron threw his hand holding the sword up, crying out a spell, and pointed the tip of it to the direction of the chains restraining Frodo. Swoosh! The chains disappeared at once and Frodo slid down bonelessly to the cold floor of his prison. And almost at the same time, the sword vanished into thin air.

It was not going alone, though. Deliberately, Sauron’s form seemed to melt away and evaporate, from his legs and up, until what remained of him was the sluggishly floating fog once again.

An almost inaudible intoning of another incantation, and a loud bang was heard at the door, followed by the squeal of the heavy door cracking open.

“You summon us, my Lord?” A hideous snicker accompanied the throaty voice of an orc. And the beast was not alone. Five or six more were pushing the first one to get inside the chamber. The terrified scream from Frodo some moments ago had clearly intrigued those lowly creatures, and now that their master had bid them to come, they cheerily answered the invitation. Other beings’ suffering was their daily diet, and they were starving now.

The fog hovered over Frodo’s unmoving form on the floor and an eerie sound resonated.

“Take him away and put him in the lowest dungeon. He is not dead yet, I remind you, so beware of any attempt to flee. Do not let any light enter the cell and do not feed him anything. He is not made to eat anything, I assure you!” The sound turned to a low, deep chuckle. “as he is not flesh and blood, unlike you all. Now carry on!”

The two biggest, brutish orcs trotted forward and each took Frodo by the upper arms, and started dragging the hobbit away. Frodo’s head lolled to the front, curly locks – those that were not glued to his sweaty brow and temples – helplessly swaying as a cold breeze blew once they stepped out of the horrid place

The orcs hauled Frodo carelessly and stepped fast down the many stairs and coarse ground, without even bothering to ask the others to take Frodo’s legs so as to avoid dragging him.

The fog did not say anything about the manner of taking Frodo to the dungeon, so on the orcs went, two pulling Frodo along the way and the others following closely. They catcalled wildly especially when they caught Frodo’s miserable groans as he felt his chest and stomach scrape roughly and painfully at the elevated stairs, his body bouncing helpelessly. Soon Frodo’s shirt, already badly torn, was nothing but tatters and so were his breeches. Lines of blood soon sprang anew.

***

~ At the Prancing Pony ~

.What was so terrible about this shiny little piece of jewelry? Sam mused, staring blankly at the thing on his open palm. Sam had felt nothing but peace ever since Strider shoved it in his hands.

“Can’t put the daisies there, lad. They will burn under the sun,” his Gaffer poked softly at the back of Sam’s bent shoulder. The boy was squatting down, grinning a little. He had never intended to leave the plants there, but he would not talk back to his gentle, old da. His father might be aged, yet it was undeniable that he knew almost everything about plants and each of their needs. The old Gamgee had it at his fingertips when crocuses were ready to bloom and when daffodils needed more compost. Sam learned a lot from his old man for that – and many other things – Sam loved him with all his heart.

Sam sucked in the fresh, unblemished air into his lungs, the smell of dewy, morning grass, and the fragrance of roses and wild mimosa that were growing unevenly along the outer side of Mr. Bilbo’s hedges.

Sam’s eyes wandered around Bag End’s backyard, all green on the soil bed with sparkles of violet, crimson, and grayish colors. He need not own it all. It sufficed him just to…

“Sam.”

The young gardener blinked. The air stirred. Pippin and Merry turned to Sam questioningly. Oh, don’t bother. Sam heard another voice calling on him.

Sam drank in the bright light of the sun warming his tanned skin and neck. Sweat started to drip but Sam did not mind as all just gave him the feeling of being hale and hearty. Everything was so perfect…

“Sam, Sam!” A hand latched onto his shoulder and shook him briskly. Sam blinked again and looked up from his outstretched hand. Strider. The halfling drew ragged breaths and he suddenly felt restless.

“Strider,” Sam huffed. “There is no need for us to stay here any longer, what with all the sufferings of Mr. Frodo. We should get back to the Shire. All of us. We will be safe there. And the Ring will be safe as well.”

Even if in that very moment a herd of Ringwraiths stormed into their room, Strider would not be as baffled as he was to hear Sam’s suggestions. Though Sam’s words rung with pure concern, the last sentence totally nonplussed the ranger. He turned on his guard instinctively.

“Halfling,” called Strider in cautious tone. “I can see how you it pains you to witness your master’s agony. But forget not that it is the Ring that has caused this. Compose yourself, Sam, and try to see it with your clearest mind. We’re not going to be safe in the Shire and neither is the Ring. Help me, Sam. Help Frodo! Bear It ‘till he is strong enough to carry It again. Be strong yourself and ward off any temptation that might befall upon you …” Strider locked Sam in his gaze, his hands sliding down to Sam’s closing the hobbit’s hand over the Ring. “…by the Ring. I believe in you, Sam.”

Strider had indeed a strong trust toward the gardener. He had seen in Sam’s eyes the determination to protect Frodo from anything, even if that became a weakness that the Ring could try to twist.

Sam was silenced. And all of a sudden, all the voices and visions that had been poisoning his mind were slowly dissipated. Sam gaped at Strider in confusion, looking down at his fisted palm, and whipped his head to his left, catching frightened gazes from Frodo’s two young cousins. Then his eyes swept down to Frodo’s bound form, lax and limp.

Sam dazedly faced Strider again.

“I don’t know how he can stand it for so long, Strider,” he said faintly. “Yet I know Mr. Frodo has always been so strong.” He sighed. “Will he be all right?”

A vague smile appeared on the ranger’s lips amidst the scruff of his face.

“He will live, Sam.” Strider’s voice was gentle. “Though he’s in terrible pain. Now I need your help.” Sam nodded, slipping the Ring into his breast pocket absently.

“Anything, Strider.”

From the corner of his eyes, Sam saw how Merry and Pippin relaxed their tense muscles. Sam’s heart heaved in remorse. He had frightened them. He hoped they could forget what had happened, and forgive him.

Strider tapped Sam lightly on his back.

“I need you to boil some water with these.” The ranger handed over a small bunch of leaves. “This is athelas and it can relieve pain. Hopefully it can help with Frodo’s.”

***

~ At Orthanc ~

“They will find the Ring… and kill the one who carries it.”

Gandalf gasped at the former-mentor-turned-traitor. A name came to him and fear seeped into his heart, making him shiver.

“Frodo!” he panted. A flash of vision blared through his mind.

“Aaahh!!”

“You cannot hide! I see you!”

“No!”

“Silence!”

“Welcome to Barad-dur!”

A frown formed across Gandalf’s brow. What was that supposed to mean? Had Sauron taken Frodo? This early? How? Unfortunately the wizard was not given time to ponder the thought too long. He had another ill business to deal with.

Gandalf fixed his eyes on Saruman behind his half-closed lids. He wondered how someone with this already high power could still hunger for more —So much so that he was willing to sell himself to the forces of Evil, and to help Sauron resume his dark sovereignty over Middle Earth.

Gandalf knew it was inevitable that he do whatever he could to fight against it even if he had to pay it with his life. Gandalf’s eyes were still locked with Saruman’s with wrath and careful calculation. Would he be fast enough to flee? They grey wizard turned around and, as if he was slowed down by some kind of a strange force, he felt the looming entrance to the outside world seem like a hundred leagues away. And what Gandalf was afraid of turned to reality.

The door slammed shut with its might, something that could only be made possible by the help of Saruman’s twisted supernatural ability.

“No! Frodo! I must save Frodo,” whispered Gandalf in a baleful tone.

A roar of laughter came out of Saruman’s sinister mouth. Gandalf’s head jerked back.

“Tell me, friend, when did Saruman the wise abandon reason for madness?!”

And so started the battle between the two wizards, --a battle that became unequal the second that Saruman ripped the staff from Gandalf’s hand.

***

~ At the Prancing Pony ~

Merry and Pippin helped straighten Frodo to an upright position after fixing a soft bolster behind the unconscious hobbit to lessen the discomfort caused by the knots of his bonds biting into his writsts. Frodo puffed a little, resting his head exhaustedly on the bed’s headboard. Sam came with a small bowl of boiled athelas water. He put it carefully on the side table and sat himself next to Frodo.

The mattress dipped a bit as Sam bent down. Still, there was no sign of recognition from his beloved master. Sam leant forward and stroke Frodo’s cheek tenderly, brushing small curls off his sweat-soaked forehead. Frodo’s eyelids finally twitched and he leaned into the touch.

“Yes, Mr. Frodo,” choked Sam. “It’s me, your Sam. Please wake up. Don’t leave us in a fright like this. We don’t want to lose you, Frodo.” But that was it. As Frodo was still not waking, Sam patted the cheek again, a little harder this time. Still no sign of wakefulness. Another harder tap and another and another. In the end, Sam practically slapped Frodo on both cheeks. But his master neither flinched nor opened his eyes.

Sam turned to Strider in despair, tears brimming in each corner of his reddened eyes.

“He won’t respond,” wailed Sam pathetically. Strider came over, sitting at Frodo’s other side.

“Hush now, Sam. In that case we should try to get the water inside without his help. We need not awaken him. Come now. I’ll open his mouth and you pour in the liquid.”

TBC

AN: All reviews are treasured! Chapter 9 – Taken

Warning: AU, violence

~ At the Prancing Pony ~

“Idiot!” Mumbled Sam through his clenched teeth, between his labored breaths. He snapped away the jumble of leaves and flower petals among his fingers, dropping them to the ground and eyeing them wildly before his vision gradually being blurred with annoyed and regretful tears. His gaze was still on the torn leaves – the ones he was supposed to nurture – and shifted quickly to the fresh, wild weeds – the ones he was supposed to get rid of.

“Fool of a Gamgee!” Sam cursed himself again. “What would Mr. Baggins say if he learned about this?” What made Sam feel even sorrier was that this was not the first time he made that mistake. Many of Bilbo’s flowers had been victimized by Sam’s carelessness. Though so far none of those harsh words had ever escaped his gaffer’s master’s lips, Sam was afraid Bilbo would not tolerate any more of his mistakes.

Sam plopped down to the ground, arms resting on his bent knees. He felt frustrated and useless. This had been Bilbo’s idea to let him help with the garden to lessen his father, Hamfast’s burden. It had been years since his gaffer worked as Mr. Baggins’ gardener, and now that he was getting old, Bilbo thought it would be better if Sam started to learn the art of gardening, especially if he were to take his father’s place later on.

Samwise had been so grateful to be given the chance, and had started to work right away, several days ago.

He hadn’t realized that gardening was not as easy as it had seemed. Sam could not even differentiate the good plants from the weeds. Well, he could – after he was mistaken enough times to leave the garden bereft of anything at all useful.

“I think I’ll quit!” Sam shouted while straightening up abruptly, knocking into something… or someone that suddenly stood up behind him.

“Ugh, Samwise!” A clear voice followed the sound of a body getting slammed down. “What’s wrong with you?”

Worried and surprised, too, Sam turned round and his eyes widened.

“Oh Mr. Frodo! I apologize, sir… master!” He got more nervous realizing that Frodo, too, was his master, his being Bilbo’s kin. Sam’s awkwardness could really get him into trouble this time. And although he did say he wanted to quit, did he really mean to?

Sam cleaned his hands, rubbing them along his breeches, and took both of Frodo’s as he helped him rise. “Are you all right, Mr. Frodo? Are you hurt somewhere? I’m so sorry, master. I never meant to do you any harm. Please don’t be mad at me, Mr. Frodo. Please?”

Frodo had never meant to be angry, especially in his surprise. But looking at the pleading look Sam wore, he could not help smiling, grinning, and finally… laughing.

“I won’t be mad at you, Samwise!” His blue eyes shone with a slight mischief. “As long as you tell me what has bothered you so, so that I can laugh properly.”

Sam looked hurt at this, but casting his eyes downward, he blurted out bashfully, “I want to quit working here, sir. I won’t be able to be a good gardener.”

The smile faded from Frodo’s face. Looking at the younger hobbit questioningly, Frodo let a brief look of sadness flash across his eyes.

“Quit, Sam? But why?”

Getting impatient, though more with himself than with his master, Sam pointed at the dead leaves and flowers on the ground.

“Just look at them, Mr. Frodo! Look! I pulled up flowers, not some wild, nasty weeds. Me gaffer has always told me how to do the job right but I’ve failed.”

Frodo’s brow knitted, and he looked thoughtful for a few seconds before replying.

“You want to quit working because you’ve mistaken plants for weeds? That easy? Have you ever thought that your da will be more disappointed in you should you yield so quickly than upon finding out that you have got rid of most of Bilbo’s flowers?” A corner of Frodo’s mouth curved a bit upward in a sweet smile, enticing Sam to smile as well. The failed gardener bowed his head, beaming sheepishly.

“Never, Mr. Frodo,” Sam mumbled. “I never thought about it that way.”

The older hobbit nodded a little.

“Trust me, young Gamgee. That’s how your father’s going to think.”

Sam looked at Frodo as if awe. His mouth gaped widely. Sure, he knew that Frodo was several summers older than he! But Sam had never thought this gentle, quiet Baggins would be that wise in his age. Sam felt like dropping to his knees, taking one of Frodo’s lanky hands, and kissing it deeply with his lips.

But Sam did not do it. Could not do it. He was too enchanted by Frodo’s words. And that was just one of Frodo’s moments of wisdom he had encountered – one of many.

Frodo…

***

Sam could not tear his eyes away from the unmoving, mute lips that adorned the fair face of his Mr. Frodo. There had been no words of wisdom coming out of those lips anymore ever since eerie things started to happen and Frodo started to act even more uncannily.

Frodo had even attempted to give up the Ring, which was why he was bound now, and the Ring had been entrusted to him, to Sam.

And Frodo had been in so much pain.

But thank the Valar, Strider and Sam had successfully forced the athelas water down Frodo’s throat. Sam fully hoped it would help bring Frodo back to him, to them, and would clear away all the oddness that had come upon him.

Sam brushed some drenched curls away from Frodo’s forehead and noticed how his brow knotted fast all of the sudden.

“What is it, Mr. Frodo?” muttered Sam while his fingers continued their constant motions over the sweaty skin. Ever since Frodo had taken several sips of the water, Sam had observed changes on the hobbit’s face as if some kind of battle was happening within him. Sam’s thoughts lingered when Frodo first had been in deep tranquility. His face had showed the warmth and peace the old Mr. Frodo had usually manifested.

But gradually it changed. As Frodo slept, his face contorted. Sam’s breath caught in his throat. Frodo was being tormented again! Sam knew he was.

Not wanting to see any more of such sufferings, Sam rose suddenly from the bed, startling the two hobbits sitting cross-legged at Frodo’s other side. Sam went to Strider, clawing out at the ranger as he was packing, making ready to leave. Sam froze.

“Are we leaving, Mr. Strider?” His voice went out almost inaudibly, his eyes staring wide.

“Indeed we are, Master Samwise,” Strider said gruffly as he slowly hefted his sack upon his back. He walked to the bed and motioned for Merry and Pip to ready themselves, too. The two hobbits complied without much talking, much to Sam’s bafflement. He raised his voice now.

“But – but Mr. Frodo’s not even awake! He’s in agony! Don’t you realize that?!”

Turning around and gazing wearily at the angered hobbit, Strider sighed.

“We’ve got to keep moving. The Ring is not safe yet. I don’t want It to be a prolonged burden to you, Master Samwise.”

Sam could understand that but how – how were they supposed to move with Frodo completely oblivious to his surroundings, let alone walk?

As if reading Sam’s thoughts, Strider nodded to a point outside the window. “You are going to get yourself a pony, Samwise. So, besides carrying our provisions, it can also bear Frodo.”

Sam looked at the ranger apprehensively. Surely they could not expect Frodo to ride in his current state, could they? How would the gentle beast carry him? By letting Frodo slouch over its back, with his hands remaining tied? Sam’s anger mounted. This Strider really needed someone to give him a sense of who Frodo actually was – Sam’s most ear and beloved master, not some kind of dangerous criminal!

***

~ At the Dungeon in Sauron’s Fortress ~

Even a moonless and starless night in the Old Forest would not have been as dark as this dreary cell. And as eerily silent as the forest could get, it was never close to the deafening stillness of the tight walls around Frodo. The hobbit curled up more tightly, not wanting to lose the sense of himself, of his existence. He was afraid that even that would at one point start to forsake him little by little until it left nothing but insanity in its wake.

Frodo squeezed his eyes closed and sucked in each harsh breath as he lay on his side on the damp earthen floor.

Insanity? Was such a thing really yet to come? Even now he felt he was beginning to lose his wits, thinking about his body. And which body was that, silly hobbit, he berated himself? Was he not only a spirit?

In his mind he laughed hysterically at the thought, but it saddened his heart so! The laughter capered cruelly through his head while at the same time he tried to choke back the sobs that coursed through his tormented body.

Frodo could not deny that the shudders had also come from the cold. His clothing was naught but threadbare rags now and offered only a vain attempt to warm him.

Frodo huddled even more tightly, hugging his knees close to his chest.

Apparently, Frodo’s gradual movements brought him closer to the wall. A stinging, icy pain stung his back and he cried out softly, turning around until finally he no longer had the wall at his back but was facing it instead. And this time he gasped out loud as his cheek tasted the coldness of the earth.

“This can’t be happening. What is this place that has entrapped me with such a small chance to escape? I don’t deserve this. No one does.”

But suddenly, through his parched lips and dry throat, Frodo felt some kind of warm brew flowing down. It tasted strange but a burst of strength seemed to rush into him afterwards.

Yet Frodo still kept his fetal position, trying not to let his hopes rise higher. This, his mind warned him, could be trickery. Who knew that after the brief draught of comfort, real fires might sear his throat?

There was a movement in the air. Or it might have been in Frodo’s ragged mind, for he did not hear or smell or feel anything, except for the biting cold. But all of a sudden an excruciating pain, real, not imagined, exploded on his bare back, invading all of his senses and rendering them useless. Frodo squealed pitifully, bucking and arching his back helplessly, as the scraping and grazing from what felt like sharp, long nails abraded his skin once more. The thoughtless, cruel nails from invisible hands scratched Frodo mercilessly starting from the neck and down to the small of his back.

Frodo kept on bucking and screeching, tears forming and streaming freely down his filthy cheeks. His heart screamed wretchedly,

“What! What have I done this time??”

Slowly, the cruel nails left Frodo’s back and grabbed his hair instead, yanking it and his head backward. Gasping, Frodo glared wildly into the darkness. He still could not see anything, but cold air suddenly washed over his face, making him shiver even more. Then the voice came again, together with a tightening of the grip at his scalp.

“Ah! No!” pleaded Frodo.

“But yes…” The floating sound followed swiftly. “For I’m angered! I am Infuriated! That ranger of yours… he’s so clever!”

Gazing incomprehensibly, Frodo shook his head.

“I – I don’t know!” He was almost hysterical. “I can’t take this anymore. Please, let me go!”

The sudden release of the grip on Frodo’s head made it jerk forward. Frodo felt the room whirling around him as the invisible fog engulfed him and he was rendered motionless. Iciness spread all over his body, fingers snaking and strapping his chest, waist, midsection, even up to his throat and face, and down around his thighs, knees, and ankles, cutting off the air to his lungs and stilling Frodo entirely. There was nothing the hobbit could do, his breaths harsh and labored. His mind and soul cried for air and warmth, and feeling like he was inside a cocoon, Frodo fell into an unfathomable abyss.

***

~ At Amon Sul ~

There had been times when he had control over himself, over his body and mind and feeling, when he himself decided what to do with them, what to eat and when to rest. What weed to smoke to relax him and what to read to entertain himself. He had control even when he was still a small lad of twelve summers when – the most devastating tragedy came upon his life, the passing of his parents. Even then he already knew what to do, even if he had to do it with a crushed heart. He knew he had to hold back his tears as much as he could at the funeral. And he succeeded – under the most difficult circumstances, yet he had made it.

But now, in this hopeless time, he could not even recognize his own body, which had been too often convulsing in wretched pain. And he did not know why he suddenly stopped breathing.

Was it because of the blanket that was thrown over him by Strider to protect him from the cold, or from the fog’s deadly embrace? And the pain, it was definitely impossible that it was merely caused by the biting of the rope around his wrists. And more, it was even not on his wrists but on his back! Where did it come from?

Strider lowered Frodo slowly. They had reached Amon Sul, Weathertop, and it was night. Everything was dark except the dim light from the moon. The ranger still insisted on keeping Frodo tied up, much to Sam’s consternation. Frodo, however, was still unconscious, and even seemed not to be breathing right now.

Sam plopped down beside his master, not wanting to let him out of his sight even for a blink. He did not join his two other companions who were busy with the fire and food, nor did he care when Strider told him to have a little rest. All thought of any motion fled from him as an eerie shriek pierced the darkness.

They were back! Those hooded creatures, creatures even darker than the night! The Black Riders!

“Surrender him!”

It was a voice? Sam was not so sure if he really heard it or not. It was more like a hiss.

Whatever he heard, Sam willed that no one would take Frodo away from him.

“Get away! Go away from my master! GO!”

Sam sprang to his feet, sword being unsheathed and ready to thrust.

But he was too small. Two came near him, moving slowly, and swatted him down.

“Nooooooo!!!!!!!”

Sam cried, not from the pain he got from striking his temple on a sharp rock, but because of what he saw…

“Take him!”

They swept toward Frodo, who was lying helplessly on the ground. One of the riders grabbed Frodo at the waist and the limp figure was raised up to the dark form’s shoulder. Merry and Pip could not do anything either as they had been downed by the other wraiths. They could just stare in shocked disbelief as all the Ringwraiths fled, bearing Frodo with them.

It all happened so quickly and Sam was still lying on his back when Strider rushed to the hobbits with a flaming torch in his hand.

“You’re too late!” cried Sam, trembling, an accusatory tone in his voice. “They took him! They took Mr. Frodo away!”

TBC Chapter 10 – Mercy

Warning: AU, violence

Sam rose, still quivering from exasperation and disappointment of Strider, and from his own intense remorse. He staggered backward, hand stretching out to find something to hold his trembling body up and feeling silently relieved when his hand found purchase on rough surface of crumbled watch tower. Sam’s eyes were glistening with angry tears.

“They snatched Frodo away! They finally got ‘im.”

Strider gazed at the hobbit in bewilderment. He was about to say something but fell silent as he realized nothing he uttered would ever make up for his failure.

His words sounded bitter in his ears but Sam had every right to be enraged. Strider was supposed to be their guide and guardian. He was supposed to protect the small one carrying the heaviest of burdens. He was the ranger.

But Sam was not done. And all his distrust and disagreement to Strider’s treatment of Frodo erupted to the surface.

“And you insisted that Frodo still be bound! You knew how dangerous the road was, yet you didn’t think far enough to see that he might need his hands to defend himself.”

Merry and Pip, who had slowly stood up, fidgeted at Sam’s tone. They could not help feeling lost as well. Here they were, two – no, three – small hobbits out in the wild with only one Ranger to protect them. The only person they expected to make them feel safe was the very human standing before them, the one who had failed them completely. Merry and Pippin wondered if they would ever trust the man again.

Merry drew closer to Sam and tugged at the gardener’s elbow.

“Sam, what should we do now?” His voice was small, shivering in trepidation. He was in fact just a year younger than Sam but he could see that he could rely on the young Gamgee now that Frodo was taken.

Sam turned to face Frodo’s cousin and was about to reply when he heard someone call his name. The ranger.

“Sam, there is still hope.” The statement seemed odd but Strider’s smooth voice was calming Sam down.

“Remember,” continued Strider --, “they will not find the Ring with Frodo. Let us pray that the wraiths will just abandon him somewhere once they see this fact. We can track Frodo down.”

Sam angrily rubbed his tears away with the back of his hand, feeling dizzy, as if blood rushed to his head once more.

“That’s what you think will happen when those wraiths find out that Frodo hasn’t the Ring in his keeping!” Sam stated in utter mockery. “Why, they would just kill him!”

“Sam!” Merry was startled. “How could you say such a terrible thing?”

Sam still looked straight at Strider, but apologized.

“Sorry,” he mumbled to Merry.

And suddenly a realization struck Sam, leaving him feeling utterly overcome. He was the one with the Ring. Had those wraiths been more meticulous, he would have been the one whom they would have captured. He, and not Frodo. He, and his beloved Mr. Frodo would have been still left unharmed.

But that was not what happened. Frodo was still taken because Sam had not the courage to stop it. Shame washed over him. He should have taken the Ring out when he had charged against those undead creatures. Or he should have felt it through the fabric of his shirt so those witches could smell it. But the fact was he did not do any of those things.

Sam dropped to his knees, hiding the flood of his tears behind his shaking hands.

“I’m so sorry, Strider.” The muffled sound of Sam’s made the Merry and Pippin look at each other.

Merry brushed at Sam’s shoulder.

“Sam?” He called tentatively. Sam lifted his face from his hands and grabbed Merry’s hand so abruptly that Merry jerked backward and would have pulled free of Sam’s grip had Sam not clung so dearly.

“Mr. Merry!” Choked Sam. “I’m very, very sorry! I should have showed the Ring to those foul things. It’d have been better if I’d been the one snatched away!”

Merry was bewildered at the statement. How could it be better that any of them be taken? Merry turned to Strider, helplessly. He might not be able to trust the man fully anymore, but right now he was their only hope.

“Whatever should we do now?” Merry murmured, almost to himself.

***

~ At the Dungeon of Sauron’s Fortress ~

It was not enjoyable anymore, what with the frozen body beneath him. No writhing and twisting that made the victory even more delicious. Satisfying.

The fog slowly floated away, disentangling itself from Frodo’s spirit and fading from sight, disappearing but still existing, still present in the fetid place.

An invisible hand stretched out, grasping Frodo’s curls at the back of his head and pulling them roughly, rolling Frodo to his back.

An ashen face was revealed, with eyes tightly shut and lips slightly parted. Frodo did not seem to breathe.

A groan was heard in the distance. It seemed like the fog was either enraged or sorry. The former was more likely, as a moment later Frodo’s face snapped to and fro as if someone was slapping him.

Indeed, he was being struck, repeatedly.

Another groan resounded, this time lighter. The fog, wherever it was, was watching in satisfaction as his act started to show a good result. The corpse-like figure stirred, arched his back as if trying desperately to suck in air into a wide-open mouth, and broke into harsh, persistent coughing as the air rushed into his lungs.

Growing impatient at the non-stop fit, the fog tugged Frodo by his arm to a sitting position and clamped its damp palm over the hobbit’s mouth. Terrified, Frodo fluttered his eyes open and started hyperventilating. His muddled mind could not register what actually prevented him from coughing since it was nothing, absolutely nothing that he could see over his mouth. Yet he could definitely feel it. Then, whether it was out of pity or more likely cruelty, the fog reappeared, a short distance in front of Frodo, who was now staring at it in terror.

“Stop it. Please, let me die,” Frodo begged silently. The fog contracted, its groan replaced by small chuckles.

“On the contrary, little one. As your ranger has taken such foolish action, I am forced to keep you alive to ensure that I will get my Ring back, one way or another. I know your other half no longer carries It, but I need your presence still.” With that the fog released Frodo, leaving him gasping and breathing raggedly.

Frodo’s eyes bore a question as well. He no longer had the Ring? An unutterable sense of loss suddenly filled him. Then another feeling – more physical – suddenly burst on his stomach, causing Frodo to double over. With eyes now clouded with tears, the hobbit scanned the fog blearily, trying to discern why he was suddenly struck so mercilessly.

“Mercilessly? Need you ask more?” Growled Sauron. “Must you question all my acts upon you? How many times do I have to remind you the Ring is MINE? You have no right to feel anything with regard to It!”

Frodo bowed submissively, sitting on the floor, shoulders hanging forlornly, his arms huddling tightly around his torso in a futile attempt to regulate the pain and regain his breath. He willed himself not to think of the Ring anymore.

“Good. Very good,” hissed the fog. “Now, to reward your obedience, I have decided to give you something to eat.”

Frodo lifted his head, staring in disbelief. Eat? How would that be possible? Wasn’t he a non-fleshly being that was not capable of feeling or doing things only a corporeal one could? Still, because Sauron had decided he should, he had felt all the pains inflicted upon him. Frodo swallowed hard. Would Sauron, with all his power, be able to make him taste the food and drink? Frodo started to imagine things, recalling the memories of all the meals back at Bag End and even the sips of ale he had had at the inn of Prancing Pony in Bree before all this had happened. Frodo’s stomach growled at the images of stew and warm bread and his parched throat felt achingly dry.

Sauron gave a cruel smirk at the pictures in Frodo’s mind, and opened the trap door on the ceiling with its invisible limb.

“Get down here!” The fog roared at several heads popping in. “And bring what I ordered!”

Hideous heads appeared at the trap door and their owners began to drop down into the chamber. Orcs. Some of them were gripping something in their hands. And when they had all crouched down before Frodo and the fog, they opened their fists, dropping the food Sauron mentioned. Frodo glared at once, his stomach churning in agony.

Rats.

TBC Chapter 11 – Stabbed

Warning: AU, violence

~ Down the Old Road ~

The nine Black Riders rode on, screeching and squealing, celebrating their victory at seizing the Ring, along with Its bearer. Though Sauron only needed the Ring, he would not waste the chance to torment the hobbit, rewarding him for his obstinate act – keeping the Ring from Its rightful owner.

The Witchking, the one taking hold of Frodo, pressed his skeletal hand upon Frodo’s back, eliciting a weak moan from the still unconscious hobbit. The Witch King had recklessly thrown the bound figure to the back of his horse after they had successfully escaped the other frail hobbits and the careless human who had patrolled at wrong side and come much too late to save the wretched creature.

Frodo had so far been an easy and obedient prey. Not that the hobbit intended to be. It was all because his divided self had been forcing him to feel what the other felt, to act what the other did, and to suffer what the other had to suffer. And he had been behind the shadow for as long as he knew, without realizing that his spirit self was literally beneath it, the fog, the very materialization of the Dark Lord Sauron himself. And when the one detained in the cursed land of Mordor stirred to wakefulness, the other one carried by the Ringwraith slowly awakened, too.

The Witch King sensed the waking of the hobbit and welcomed it with a sharp hiss.

“Come, halfling. Struggle and I will tear you apart.”

Frodo barely registered the sharp remark as he was still fighting with himself, trying clear his confusion, focus his sights, and catch his breath. He tried to lift his head but even that was difficult. After some time Frodo came to realize his uncomfortable position, lying on his stomach on the back of a horse, an enormous, pitch-black horse, with someone – or something – behind him. And his hands were still securely tied behind his back.

The jostling of the horse constantly tossed up and down, the harsh contact it made between the horse’s lithe body and his soft, empty stomach torturing Frodo as he got sicker and sicker. The hobbit groaned in agony as an attempt to draw more air to his head to rid off the growing headache failed entirely. There was no chance at all. The horse sped up like flying, making Frodo keep bouncing.

Worse of all, the wraith thought Frodo was being resistant to his words and thus decided to do something about it. He caught Frodo’s trussed up wrists in his grip and squeezed them so hard they cracked sickeningly.

Frodo bit his lip to stop him from crying out loud, but tears streaming down his face without him realizing it. How it hurt! The wrists had been sore enough to get additional pain.

“I… I…” And Frodo was forced to choke back his plea as a sound smack struck the back of his head.

The horses strode along with their foul riders, heading to Mordor, ignoring what Frodo was intending to say:

“I don’t have the Ring anymore.”

* * *

~ Flight from Orthanc ~

A sudden furore in the air awakened Gandalf to full consciousness. But he barely realized what the big shadow was as he was suddenly lifted into the air and slammed back, hard, on his stomach, knocking the air completely out of him. Gandalf shut his eyes and opened them again, gazing up to his attacker through the layers of his hair. Saruman.

“So, dear friend,” he leered mockingly. “What has your proper mind told you? Join me… or perish?”

“My proper mind knows exactly what to do,” grumbled Gandalf. “and it has nothing to do with you!” His chin up, Gandalf challenged Saruman, seethingly.

“Friendship with Saruman is not lightly turned aside,” Saruman, frowning, hissed threateningly.

Gandalf crawled up slowly. The air surrounding them stirred more vigorously. A flash of an enormous shadow startled both wizards. But Saruman hardly wavered.

“One ill turn deserves another. It is over! Embrace the power of the Ring, or embrace your own destruction!”

Gandalf bore his eyes sharply against Saruman’s.

“There is only one Lord of the Ring! Only one can bend it to his will. And he does not share power!” He turned around and without warning leapt off the Tower of Orthanc, landing on Gwaihir’s back.

“Meneg hennaid, mellon-nin,” breathed Gandalf, patting the sturdy neck of the gigantic eagle. “But now you must hurry!”

Gwaihir heard, sensed and smelled his close companion’s panic.

“Are you hurt my friend?” queried the bird. “I’ll fly you to Rivendell at once!”

“No!” Gandalf could not help shriek. Gwaihir jumped mentally but he succeeded in keeping himself checked and thus, flying steadily.

“Fly low and be on guard! We are looking for any sign of Frodo,” Gandalf continued before Gwaihir had a chance to ask a question.

“Frodo?” Silently Gwaihir cursed himself for being so out-dated. The answer came swiftly behind his ear.

“Yes, Frodo. Not Bilbo. He’s Bilbo’s nephew.”

Gwaihir restrained the urge of asking about Bilbo. Instead, he asked, “What is it about Frodo? Is he in a grave peril?”

Gandalf almost did not hear the question. He looked down the terrain that had been getting closer as the big eagle flew downward. Gandalf, sweeping across the landscape with his gray eyes, was expecting to spot two hobbits walking wearily with Aragorn. But soon he found that he could not even convince himself of that possibility. The vision or hearing of Frodo’s scream the other day had left him deep in sorrow, no matter how much his heart wanted to deny it. But…

“Look!” Gandalf cried, pointing out at a group of dark shadows moving swiftly. “Down, down!”

And while Gwaihir warped down in an amazing speed, Gandalf recognized in horror the figures of the Black Riders. Ringwraiths. Nazguls.

And they were heading toward Mordor.

Gandalf’s heart seized in dread. He had never wanted those creatures to ever march out of the bedeviled place to begin with, especially now. He knew they had come forth seeking the Ring. But if the Nazgul were returning to Mordor that could mean…Gandalf tore himself away from that line of thought, gooseflesh prickling all over his body. The Nazgul’s return to Mordor could mean that they had found the Ring…and its bearer.

Gwaihir tailed behind those creatures very closely in such a manner that they would neither hear nor feel his and Gandalf’s presence. Then the bird flapped his wings hard, ascended gracefully and swiftly forward.

Screeching sounds emitted from the Riders’ horseshoes being pulled to stop in a sudden movement. Gwaihir floated over the ground, still fluttering the wings a little, and his rider was staying on his back, labored breaths wheezing out of him. Gandalf was trying hard to compose himself but he found he could not. The sight of a small figure slumped over the lead Rider’s horse struck him like a physical blow. “Stay out of the way, wizard!” hissed the leader, who was unmistakably disturbed by the presence of the wizard and the eagle.. Gandalf’s brow furrowed.

“Wicth-King! Most twisted of all men! How dare you raise your voice against me!” Gandalf thundered, raising both his hands. He deeply regretted the loss of his staff in Isengard.

Yet, instead of cringe of fear the wizard had expected, it was soft, mocking chortle that came from the wraith.

“Beware of what you are saying. You might not know who or what is awaiting you!” With that, the Witch-King wrenched at Frodo’s backside of the cloak and hauled him up. Frodo stared wildly as he was seated in front of the wraith, letting out a strangled cry as he caught the sight of an unbelievably huge winged creature in front of him with…

“GANDALF!” he shrieked.

His suspicion affirmed, Gandalf leant forward, hands grasping Gwaihir’s feathers tightly. He was stupefied, angry, horrified. All came into one. It was Frodo. Frodo in the clutches of the Nazguls. Gandalf whispered something to Gwaihir, who then languidly drifted forward. The bird’s movement ceased at once as it felt Gandalf tighten his grip.

“No,” breathed Frodo. No, he was not saying that because the Witch-King had hurt or beaten him again. It was nothing like that. But the beast had indeed touched Frodo in a way that made the hobbit’s blood run cold. It was a caress, the hand around Frodo’s throat and creeping up slowly toward his chin. Frodo’s eyes went downcast in trepidation, his breaths heavy.

“A wise decision, wizard,” said the Witch-King smugly. “You are wise to keep your distance. I have your halfling and I will bring him to Sauron.”

Frodo squirmed a little at the mention of the name, and he earned the wraith’s cruel snag at his jaw. Gandalf could see now that the hobbit’s hands were bound behind his back.

“Do not try to pursue us or take him from us.” The other eight wraiths moved threateningly and now they were surrounding their leader.

“Damn!” cursed Gandalf silently. He strained to keep from losing sight of Frodo. The hobbit seemed like he was drowning in a sea of black, the fact that he was less than half the size of those Nazgul only intensifying the appearance of his utter helplessness. And the terror in Frodo’s eyes choked Gandalf further.

The only options available were horrifying; to do nothing while Frodo was being taken away to Mordor or press forward in an attempt to rescue the hobbit at the risk of seeing him killed by those evil beings.

“Frodo,” Gandalf called out.

The hobbit’s eyes were closed now, tears pouring down his pale cheeks, revealing outwardly the dread that came from the deepest part of his heart mixed with the longing for normal days in the Shire. Gandalf’s voice, however gruffy, sounded like a comforting chant in Frodo’s ears.

There was a rustling sound on his side as the beast reached down and drew out something. His eyes fluttering open, Frodo was almost relieved to see that it was not a long, terrifying sword that the Witch-King had fetched. It was a small and slim dagger though still considered long for a hobbit’s size.

On the contrary, Gandalf felt all his bones turn into jelly once he saw the weapon.

“Morgul blade!” he panted. “It might not kill Frodo but it would turn him slowly into an undead creature like those wraiths!”

Gwaihir tensed as he heard what Gandalf was saying. And the bird was now watching warily as the Witch-King slowly motioned the dagger to Frodo’s open throat. His skeletal hand was now rested heavily on Frodo’s shoulder.

A guttural cry from Gandalf marked his sheer despair upon the situation. The leader replied with a smug chuckle.

“We are leaving now,” he hissed, while delivering a silent threat as he pressed the blade further into Frodo’s skin, eliciting a gasp from the captive. Frodo stiffened as the horse he was riding was now moving backward, followed by the others. Terrified, Frodo could not choke back a sob.

“G – Gandalf…” His voice was just a notch above a whisper, shuddering violently. But the pressure of the blade was swiftly increased, silencing him altogether.

However, Frodo’s plea did not fall onto deaf ears. Gandalf had heard it and made a decision, a daring one. He had to go on!

Thus, while the horses were receding, Gwaihir silently mounted and started the pursuit.

The Witch-King, realizing the movement, cried out,

“SO! I see that you care not for the well being of the halfling! You asked for this, wizard! Now bid him farewell!”

The Witch-King lifted his blade off Frodo’s throat, tightened his grip on the hilt, and sank it deep into the front of Frodo’s left shoulder.

TBC Chapter 12 – Fading

~ At the Dungeon of Sauron’s Fortress ~

And when they had all crouched down before Frodo and the fog, they opened their fists, dropping the food Sauron mentioned. Frodo glared at once, his stomach churning in agony.

Rats.

His eyes bulged out. Colorful spots swam in his sight. Frodo clutched his naked stomach with his arms, feet retreating involuntarily – only to bump into something soft and yielding, the fog. Frodo turned back spontaneously, surprised but not too shocked to find the creature had suddenly crept up behind him. The hobbit looked up, a desperate plea going out unspoken. His eyes went wide again as he felt a claw tightening around his throat.

“You want to turn down my generous offer??” thundered the fog. The unseen hand squeezed the soft neck even further, making Frodo squeak. “I know you are hungry. I know you think you cannot eat something physical. But I can make it happen. I can make all the impossible possible. So eat!”

Frodo flailed his own spectral hands in an attempt to grab the fog’s arms but he failed completely. Sauron’s spirit chuckled, and let go of Frodo’s neck, turning Frodo around so that the hobbit was facing the orcs once more. With a harsh shove he sent Frodo down to his hands and knees. The fog put pressure on Frodo’s back so that he could not move.

“Give him one!” Growled the fog to the orcs. “But prepare it first. You don’t want the food to run away when he is eating it, do you?”

An orc snatched one of the scattering rats from the floor and twisted it in its middle, producing a sickening crack. Frodo struggled to get to his feet but the fog was still up above him.

“No, no!” He wailed as the orc handed him the dead, bloodied rat. Frodo shook at the sight of it under his nose. The smell almost made him retch. No. Not almost. As the fog grabbed his hair all of a sudden and tugged it backward, Frodo heaved loudly, releasing acidic liquid from his stomach onto the floor, the rat and the orc’s hand.

The orc roared in fury and leapt forward, tossing the rat to the air and seized Frodo’s ears with his blood-dripping hands. The vile creature pulled the hobbit’s ears so violently that Frodo felt like they were being ripped away from his head. Then it released them to suddenly backhand Frodo, as the hobbit was about to scream. The strike sent Frodo slumping to the side and he stayed there, stunned and in great pain.

However, the act did not go unpunished… by the fog. Before Frodo realized it, the next thing he saw was some kind of a whirling power take the angered orc and send it flying to the air and crashing heavily to the unforgiving wall. Seeing this only added to Frodo’s horror. He pulled himself to a sitting position and backed away as fast as he could before any of the other orcs could grab him again.

“Fool!” Hissed Sauron. Now it was he who took one of the rats and moved threateningly toward Frodo.

“Please, sire!” thought Frodo in despair. “Please leave me be.” But that would not do with the supreme ruler of Mordor. Once he wanted something to be done, he would make sure that it was done.

Suddenly Frodo saw him stop dead in his tracks, looking as if he heard something, or sensed that something had been happening

Just as suddenly Frodo himself felt a sharp pain around his wrists, followed by a more agonizing one at his left shoulder. The latter felt as if he had been stabbed.

* * *

~ Down the Old Road ~

Frodo’s corporal half wheezed loudly as an alien thing invaded his body. He looked down, head swimming a little, eyes observing the big form of the skeletal hand gripped the hilt of a long knife that was now embedded in… his skin. The hand pulled the knife back a little and then slammed it back into Frodo’s shoulder again, harder and deeper this time. That was just when Frodo fully realized what had been happening, and realized what he felt.

A piercing scream tore the air, followed by a sadistic sneer from the Witch King. He drove the blade deeper, and then withdrew it from Frodo’s soft tissues, coated with blood. Frodo’s scream was cut off by his own chocking sound, breaths raspy with undiluted pain.

Gandalf watched with renewed terror as the horrifying scene played out before his eyes. He never imagined something like this could actually come to pass in front of him. He had learned about the deadly effect of the weapon, hearing the legend told over and over by his former mentor Saruman, but never had he thought he would witness it himself. It was particularly awful to see it happen to someone he knew, especially a hobbit – a frail, young hobbit whose strength hardly matched even half that of the Ringwraith.

Gandalf felt as if he were frozen in time. Frodo, no…

A weak moan brought the wizard back to reality. With his keen eyes he watched how Frodo strained against the clutches of the Nazgul, as if he were trying break free of the rope tying his wrists together to grasp at his bleeding shoulder. Beads of sweat trailed over the hobbit’s face and his eyes stared wildly, full of agony.

“Gods, please! GANDALF!!”

Gandalf straightened at the strangled cry. He grasped at Gwaihir feather and shouted in despair.

“After them, my friend! We have to take Frodo back! We can’t lose him!”

The air dispersed as the gigantic eagle flapped his wings, ascending, determined not to disappoint his companion. The group of accursed creatures gasped at the sight of the enraged bird and scurried off.

But it was not that easy to escape. In just several moments Gandalf with his winged mount had managed to catch up and had even passed the leader. Gwaihir turned around and floated in the air, slowly descending, moving threateningly toward the Witch King. Gandalf could see now how pale Frodo was, and that he seemed to be unconscious.

“Halt, you vile creature!” Gandalf spat. “And surrender us the halfling. You cheated us!”

Instead of stopping, the Witch King urged his horse forward, forcing Gwaihir to back away. Gandalf shouted encouragement to the eagle.

“No, Gwaihir! Don’t move back. It is he who must give ground before us!”

And the Witch King moved back, indeed. Or rather, turned his mount in a different direction, so sharply that Frodo was slammed to the ground, landing heavily on his chest, his wounded shoulder smashing mercilessly on the rocky terrain with a thud.

“Frodo!” Yelled Gandalf and advanced to grab the still form.

“Come, Gwaihir! Come!”

The bird flapped his wings as fast as he could, but Gandalf felt he was still too slow.

“Faster, my friend. Faster!”

The short distance between Gandalf and Frodo felt like leagues with the Ringwraiths also headed toward the hobbit.. They were even faster than the great eagle.

The nine riders were all around Frodo now. They all faced outward, ready to defy Gandalf and Gwaihir, swords unsheathed in an ominous manner. Gandalf could not even see Frodo anymore, obscured as the hobbit was in a sea of black cloaks.

“You must kill us all now, wizard, if you want to get your precious halfling back.” The voice became even more menacing. “If you can.” The mockery in the hollow voice was too much to bear.

* * *

~ At the Dungeon of Sauron’s Fortress ~

Frodo slumped back against the hard wall, right hand clutching his left shoulder tightly, breaths becoming labored all of a sudden as he was trying to will away the pain. His face turned ashen without him realizing it.

“W-what happened?” He stuttered.

The fog grew silent, too, for Sauron was barely able to tell what had happened without consulting his stone first. He dropped the rat unceremoniously to the floor, and hurried to Frodo. Sauron saw how the hobbit’s pupils slowly dilated and his face was contorted. The fog extended his hand to reach for the hobbit’s shoulder. Frodo was terribly weakened but he managed to evade the fog.

“No, don’t touch me!” Frodo cried miserably, but directly lowered the left hand as shudders ran through his entire left arm.

“Aaahhh!” Chills swiftly washed over his arm and they stung greatly. Tears slowly formed in Frodo’s eyes. He gasped.

“Help me… Oh, please. Help me.”

Realization dawned on Sauron now. Frodo had been stabbed. The fog contracted, fearing the worst. Frodo could not die right now! Not when he had not got his Ring. He had taken a long road and he did not want to fail. Sauron stood there in silence, contemplating, but he suddenly burst out in surprise. The figure lying down in front of him was thinning away little by little. Frodo was nothing but a thin, transparent film, and soon he would be nothing at all.

TBC Chapter 13 – Gandalf’s Feat

~ Down the Old Road ~

The big pot and small pan that were hanging at the sides of Sam’s backpack were making a clattering noise as they swung and bumped into other equipment he carried, as Sam fought hard to close the distance between him and Strider.

Curly, light brown locks were slapping onto Merry’s forehead as the hobbit tirelessly hurried on in an attempt to get to the Ranger as well, but something slowed his movement, keeping him a distance behind Sam. That something was Pippin, the youngest of the four hobbits who now tried as best as he could to move quickly.

He was only slightly smaller than Merry, but still he could not catch up with either his cousin or Sam. The tree roots that were poking out of the earth made his effort even more difficult. He had to keep running while trying to always be aware of those roots and jump over them to avoid falling. Pippin was grateful, though, for the Ranger had guided them along a path that was relatively free of jutting tree limbs.

Oblivious to the miserable condition of the hobbits, never did the ranger slow down his own flight. Dashing off with Bill the Pony in tow did not seem to be a problem for him, though it surely became one for Bill. The labored, raspy breaths of Strider’s companions that were echoing throughout the wild did not seem to bother the ranger either. They were several hours behind those black riders who had snatched away Frodo. They had to make haste or Frodo would be gone without a trace. That was all that mattered to Strider.

The four companions moved on in a straight line, only the sounds of their footfalls and the occasional groan of discomfort filling the air. Strider cleverly dodged trees that loomed in his path. Sam laboriously scampered on though sometimes he felt as if his heavy pack might cause him to topple over backwards. Merry had now stripped off his vest. His body was so warm he felt like diving into a river to cool himself.

And Pippin – Pippin was very close to tears now. He felt incredibly exhausted. His legs were burning. His heart beat at a frantic pace. His vision was blurred, both by tears and a growing dizziness. Pippin barely recognized what was in front of him. His heavy legs would not jump over nasty roots lying on the ground anymore. Pippin was more stumbling than running now – and blindly. When he felt his toenails touch a bump in the path, he directly lifted his foot to avoid it, but it was too late.

Pippin did not lift his foot high enough to clear the root. Rather, he slipped over it and the next thing he knew he lost his footing and landed hard on his stomach. The poor hobbit managed to call out weakly before he felt his brow strike the stony ground.

“Merry!”

All slipped out of his sight afterwards, and everything went pitch black.

* * *

~ At the Clearing of the Forest ~

“Kill you all, you said?” Roared Gandalf. “Kill you all so that I may take Frodo back? I should like nothing more!”

Gwaihir swept forward as Gandalf now stood upright on his back. The wizard trusted the eagle not to make any sudden movements that could drop him to the ground. Gandalf grasped his staff tightly in both hands, raising it high in the air, challenging the vile creatures before him.

The nine riders were also brandishing their menacing swords while slowly moving about, their dark horses snorting and stamping restlessly, closely circling around a bound figure lying immobile on the ground. Those undead kings seemed to treat Gandalf’s threat lightly, as if mocking the absurdity of it.

“Fool,” hissed their baleful leader. “You cannot kill us. None of your kind could accomplish the deed.” The sureness of the wraith’s tone sickened the Wizard. He tilted his head up to the sky and called out an incantation. The sky turned dark and bolts of lightning cracked, rupturing the clouds, or so it seemed.

Fire flashed from the rents in the clouds, streaming fast toward the Nazgul, striking first the tip of each sword to swiftly travel the length of the weapons and set both sword and Ringwraith aflame. Bloodcurdling screams jarred everything and everyone within the earshot as the once human kings, now engulfed in the fire, were unseated from their panicked mounts and thrown to the earth. Those that were able fled into the woods.

Gandalf was not finished. He was still reciting his spells and his eyes were closed in concentration. An unearthly voice was coming out of the sky. It was Manwe himself, and the voice was growing in volume. The remaining wraiths, now bereft of their swords, were forced to cover their ears for the great voice bore down upon them. Soon they could no longer stand the torture and escaped as fast as they could, somehow regaining control of their horses.

Most importantly, they left Frodo alone, and left Gandalf the Grey to shudder at the sight of the tormented hobbit.

Gwaihir lowered himself, making sure that the Wizard maintained his position on his back. Gandalf dismounted as fast as his shaky limbs allowed, with the help from the eagle. The winged beast spread his left wing so Gandalf could use it to lower himself to the ground.

As soon as his feet touched the soil, the Wizard hurried to Frodo’s side. He knelt down, put his staff aside carefully, and reached out to untie the rope binding the hobbit’s wrists. But on the way there, Gandalf’s hands hesitated and went to smooth the curls instead. The act revealed Frodo’s right side of his face, ashen and cold. Freezing cold. Gandalf was stunned for a moment but then resumed releasing Frodo from his bonds.

The cord could be undone easily, which rather surprised the wizard. And what was more, it did not even chafe into the hobbit’s skin. Gandalf felt as if the rope was there to merely keep Frodo from hurting himself, and not necessarily to harm him. If that was the case, Gandalf doubted if it had been the Nazgul who had bound Frodo. The Wizard’s brow furrowed as he gently turned Frodo over. His thoughts were interrupted by a weak moan from Frodo’s lips.

Frodo lifted his right hand and reflexively clutched at the wound in his left shoulder. His face was twisted as he felt pain that both burned and chilled him. He pulled his hand away quickly, sensing that the pressure might only make the pain worse. But he was wrong. It was still painful. Frodo resumed his grasp, tears involuntarily trickling down his face.

“Gan – dalf…” The voice was so small and frail it grieved Gandalf so to hear it. His heart was wrenched by the fact that Frodo was actually still unconscious and yet, the hobbit called his name. How could Frodo know he was there?

Gandalf regretted so much that he had been prevented from keeping his word. He had told the hobbits they were to meet him in Bree, but he hadn’t been there upon their arrival. Gandalf had promised Frodo that he would make sure he was there to assist him, yet he hadn’t been. And for so long, Frodo had hung onto his every word.

Gandalf gritted his teeth. Saruman! If something terrible came out of this and Frodo failed to reover, Gandalf could not imagine adequate punishment for Saruman.

And… a Morgul blade.

Shuddering, Gandalf slowly unbuttoned Frodo’s vest and shirt, which was torn at the spot where he was stabbed. A small cut was revealed as the Wizard carefully pulled the fabric aside. A small wound, but deadly.

“Little friend,” Gandalf stroked Frodo’s sweat-soaked curls. “Let me do what I may. Hold tight to my hand.”

And the Grey Pilgrim grabbed his staff, lowered its top over the pale, blemished spot and once again his loud but elegant voice filled the forest clearing.

* * *

Frodo wanted to scream as new sensation washed over his injury, but he restrained himself when realizing that the feeling was nothing about pain. He felt warm, instead, and that was comforting after the endless torturous cold. Frodo took a deep breath, the first one he could savor after even the smallest hitch agonized him.

The hobbit gradually calmed down, resting almost peacefully on the hard ground, eyes clenching shut. Still unconscious. But amidst his clouded mind a figure slowly came into sight. And when the mind got cleared, Frodo spotted Gandalf.

TBC Chapter 14 – The Mystery Revealed – and a Predicament

~ Down the Old Road ~

“Merry!”

Pippin’s fading cry far behind him caught Merry’s attention and stopped him from running. He turned around and started to follow the sound. Merry’s surprise at the shout and the total silence following it changed to panic as he spotted his younger cousin’s body sprawling on the ground. Merry could not see Pippin’s face as it was buried in the dirt. He knew at once that Pippin was unconscious.

“Pip!” Breathed Merry with great difficulty, being out of breath himself. “Hang on! I’m coming!” And he dropped on his knees beside his dear cousin, carefully turning him over. Pippin’s face was dirt-stained, as expected, but the dampness on his cheeks aroused Merry’s suspicion that the wretched lad had been crying. Oh, thought Merry miserably. Pippin must have pushed himself over his own limit to catch up with the rest of them. And it was not just the roots that had to be blamed for Pippin’s falling over. He must have been too weary to manage his steps as he ran.

Merry brushed Pippin’s locks away from his face, his fingers gently rubbing the dirt away. He patted the hobbit’s cheek gently to bring Pippin back to consciousness. Pippin did stir but he did not awaken immediately. His eyes moved behind his lids in he moaned softly. Suddenly his face contorted as if in pain.

“Aaahh!” He whimpered softly, hands reaching down to his feet.

“Pippin?” Merry frowned in puzzlement. His gaze traveled down to Pippin’s rapidly swelling ankle. “Oh, Pip! You’re hurt!” Merry gave Pippin another gentle slap but the hobbit did not seem aware of it all. Merry looked up in despair and called out, “Strider!”

Sam had known there was something strange happening when he no longer felt Merry’s presence behind him and he was about to turn back when he heard the scream. Merry’s voice sounded petrified and Sam echoed his calling to the ranger who had been many paces ahead.

“Strider! Wait!”

Sam ran to the direction of Merry’s voice once he was sure Strider had heard him.

“It’s Pippin,” Merry gasped as Sam and Strider reached his side. “He twisted his ankle and fell, and now he won’t wake up.”

Strider pulled Merry up and knelt in his place. He took out his flask of water and poured a little of the contents into his hand, sprinkling it on Pippin’s pain-stricken face. The hobbit inhaled sharply and his eyes snapped open.

“What happened?” His voice was weak and indistinct partly because of the water going into his mouth and nose. “Please wait for me.” He was babbling, but then the pain in his leg brought him back to full awareness.

“Ouch, my foot!”

“Yes,” responded Strider gravely. “Your ankle doesn’t look good. We need to do something about it.” The ranger got up and motioned Sam to come to him. The gardener approached him with a questioning and worried look.

“Do you know of athelas?” Asked Strider.

“Athelas sir?”

“Kingsfoil.”

“Kingsfoil! It’s a kind of weed. What do want it for?”

“It’s a healing herb. I’ll be able to make Pippin feel better if I wrap some of it around his injury. Go find it, Sam.”

Sam nodded readily though his heart regretted what had happened. The longer they were held here, the more threatened his master’s life would be. He just hoped Pippin’s injury wasn’t serious.

“Aye sir,” Sam replied and started to head toward the nearby bushes. Kingsfoil was an ordinary weed. He was sure he could find a few clumps of it about the area.

The gardener was right. He successfully gathered enough bunches of athelas and handed them to the ranger, who in the mean time had finished tearing strips off a blanket to be made into bandages.

“Well met, Sam. Thank you very much.” He received the leaves without looking up, and after squeezing them a little until a sap – like substance began to drip from them, placed the weed on Pippin’s swollen ankle. Pippin gasped a little in surprise but calmed down as the coldness the weed soothed the pain. He remained quiet as Strider wrapped the cloth around the ankle and tied it securely.

“There,” Strider stood up while Sam and Merry helped Pippin sit up. The younger hobbit leaned against Merry’s shoulder as dizziness struck him. “We should get going,” continued the ranger. “But seeing you like this, I think it’s better if I carry you along the way.”

Pippin sighed in relief. He could not imagine having to walk again, or even to move.

“Thank you Strider,” he whispered and tightened his arms around the man’s neck as the latter gently lifted him up and cradled Pippin on his chest. The hobbit sighed, his heart lightening at the sight of the slight smile on the ranger’s face.

“Let’s go. We can’t keep Frodo waiting longer.”

And the others could not agree more.

* * *

~ At the Clearing of the Forest ~

The mist faded bit by bit and Gandalf became clearer to Frodo, even with his eyes close. Frodo felt peaceful but he also wanted to cry. For the first time after the day this nightmare began he felt safe. Now he had someone who could protect him and probably even help him out of this trial.

Trial? Frodo almost choked at his own choice of word. This was no laughing matter and he might not survive this at all. His mind went to his other half and wondered why he had not yet felt any pains he had got so used to he felt strange with the absence of them. Sauron might have got tired of Frodo, perchance, and started to ignore him.

Warmth brushed over his cheek and he, still in his dreaming world, opened his eyes. Gandalf. The wizard was still with him. It was not a dream. Frodo’s struggle against crying broke down and tears streamed down freely.

“Gandalf,” Frodo breezed. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t, my child,” replied him with a tender voice. “Are you still in pain?”

Frodo shook his head dreamily. He indeed did not feel the pain at all. His life might be in peril but he was beyond pain. Gandalf knew Frodo was not lying.

“I will bring you now to Rivendell, Frodo lad. Lord Elrond will be able to bring you back.”

“Bring me back?”

“Yes, Frodo. Bring you back from the shadow world. That is why you are incognizant of your own feeling. You are fading, Frodo.”

“Fading?”

“The Ringwraith stabbed you and he used a deadly knife to do that. Now either we head as fast as possible to Rivendell or you slowly turn into them.”

Fading.

Frodo fell silent. Was that the explanation why Sauron had not done anything yet to his half? Here he was fading and the same thing happened to his spirit in Mordor.

Gandalf was worried with Frodo’s silence and pushing a little harder, his mind sent another question to the hobbit.

“The Ring. Is it safe with you?”

The wizard took a deep breath in relief when Frodo gave his reply, but not when he heard it.

“No. It’s with Sam.”

“Sam? Why?” The answer made Gandalf feel uneasy. What had really happened? But Frodo answered it lightly.

“It’s Strider who took It from me and gave It to him. It’s understandable. I was about to surrender It to the wraiths.”

What? Contrary to Frodo, Gandalf did not think it light at all. Frodo wanted to give the Ring to the Nazguls? Had Gandalf misjudged the hobbit’s attitude? That was not possible, thought Gandalf. He knew Frodo very well and he was sure something terrible must have happened to think that the hobbit thought to surrender It to the enemies.

Then Gandalf remembered the vision he had when he was still captive in Isengard. He saw Frodo was captured by Sauron, yet he was facing the hobbit right here and now.

“I have to submit the Ring to Sauron, Gandalf.” Frodo’s voice sounded lost, tired, and defeated. “Otherwise he will torture my spirit he keeps in Barad-dur.”

Now Gandalf felt defeated, too. Frodo’s explanation only caused Gandalf to lose more in a fog, but Gandalf knew whatever Sauron had done was possible to happen.

Gandalf took Frodo and carried him in his arms. The limp form of Frodo’s unconscious body deepened Gandalf’s sorrow. He hoped the mind conversation they were having did not tire the hobbit a lot.

“That makes it more urgent to bring you to Rivendell,” Gandalf added. “We have to heal you so we can safe your captured spirit.”

But Frodo’s instantaneous answer started him so.

“No! Don’t!” And this time Frodo was not only speaking in his mind. The reply thundered out of his small lips and both his hands grabbed tightly at Gandalf’s upper arms. The wizard was surprised, though, to see that Frodo’s eyes were still clenched shut.

Frodo’s explanation to his shocking exclamation sent Gandalf to a difficult situation.

“If you cure me, the part that is in Sauron’s clutches will be visible and that will make it possible to torment me again. I can’t take it anymore, Gandalf. I’d rather die. I’d rather… become a wraith. Let me be. The Ring is safe. I know Sam can manage.”

Gandalf’s heart sank at the heartrending plea.

TBC Chapter 15 – Sauron’s Smile

~ In Sauron’s Chamber ~

It would be a deadly mistake to say anything derogatory about the Dark Lord’s palace and a complete belittlement to underestimate its grandness. For the palace stood erect in the form of a lofty tower in its own elegance and beauty – if such things could be said about the evil structure into which no living being in other parts of Middle Earth had ever intended to set foot.

There was nothing wrong in it or the chambers inside it, above or below the ground, except the fact that everything about it was grimly sable, the walls were assembled by thick, cold plates of steel which served for nothing but the chains and manacles to be easily readied to the previously cast bolts.

Except the fact that too much blood already was spilled and stained the rough ground of stones and rocks, blood of those under Sauron’s dominion that were stubborn or brave enough to defy him or even simply to question his orders. Blood that from the time it left its confining veins had started to spread the coppery tang of its smell.

Except the fact that too many abominations had been perpetrated within the walls of the tower’s chambers.

Some of the agents of darkness, hunchbacked and fearsome, swarmed around the place doing whatever vile things their great lord ordered them to do. The very Dark Lord now floated past them, ignoring entirely what was happening around him even as the orcs ignored his presence. Unless he wished to be seen by them, he would remain invisible in their midst.

Sauron glided back into his chamber through the huge door and advanced to his throne, an enormous black seat with sharp spikes adorning it. The Dark Lord seated his unformed figure, mixed feelings knotting in his wicked heart.

Sauron knew his prisoner, Frodo, was still down there in the dungeon for nobody could escape him without his knowledge. But with the hobbit’s invisibility, Sauron had to step back and reorder his plan. By now, of course, he had figured out what had happened to the other part of Frodo. It was the Nazguls, his most precious army that occupied his thoughts. Their latest acts had been none too pleasing to him.

The air trembled and the ground beneath the seat quaked a little as the twisted Maia seethed.

Losing the hobbit to that foolish wizard, Gandalf, and scurrying away like a bunch of weak Gondorian children! What a shameful scene Sauron had witnessed!

On the other hand, Sauron was gladdened at the sight of Gandalf’s bewilderment as he was facing the fading Frodo. Sauron had followed their inner conversation, for certain, thanks to his ominous eye, and had caught Frodo’s shaking plea to Gandalf for not trying to recover him. What a brilliant little creature. The halfling knew his spirit half would reappear in the dungeon in Mordor should he ever be recovered, and when that happened, Sauron would doubtlessly add to his torments. But there was something the hobbit did not realize. Frodo could never imagine what would happen to him if he was not recuperated either. That would be a longer road to the Ring, Sauron knew, but either way, he would be the one to win in the end.

Once again the air quivered, this time caused by Sauron’s deep huff as he slammed himself to the back of his chair. He would sit back and relax now, watching fancifully with his great eye the clearing in the forest near the Bruinen River. The fog slowly reformed but with a visible change in its demeanor. It looked as if the Dark Lord was smiling.

* * *

~ At the Clearing in the Forest ~

At last, Strider and the two exhausted hobbits reached the edge of the area filled with closely entwined tree limbs and amassment of foliage. The ranger moved at a moderate pace to allow Sam and Merry to keep up with him in their weariness, and Pippin with his injured ankle. Pippin seemed to be faring better now, keeping up with Strider and seeming to have almost forgotten the hurt that he bore.

Pippin cried out in surprise with the rest of his companions as he spotted a gigantic bird standing not far from them, and was even more surprised when recognizing a figure sitting and crouching on the ground with its back facing him. A figure with long grey hair clad in similarly grayish robe. The very one who had caught him and Merry in the act of filching fireworks at Bilbo’s party, causing the near ruin of the event.

Gandalf! Pippin almost toppled over in his haste to reach the wizard’s side. Merry and Sam got there first, but he was right behind. They stopped as one and stared as they saw the precious burden in Gandalf’s arms.

Frodo.

Frodo, looking horrifyingly pale, eyes closed, lips purplish and trembling, and breath short. And he looked as if he was in deep pain.

Merry growled lowly. He now understood why Gandalf had not immediately acknowledged their arrival or their shouts to him.

Sam was not so easily deterred in his path. He stepped forward and stopped before the wizard and the injured hobbit he held. His eyes stung with newly-formed tears and he was almost as breathless as his insensible master. Sam lowered down slowly, getting on his knees, ignoring sharp gravel under them. His right hand extended as if by its own accord, reaching for Frodo’s face.

“Mr. Frodo?” Sam choked, and his hand pulled back sharply as the coldness of Frodo’s cheek almost seemed to burn it. Gandalf eyed him wearily.

“Samwise Gamgee.” The voice sounded like coming from a far away place. “Do not hesitate to reach out to him. He is now in the condition where he needs you most.”

Sam’s face reddened. He looked up at Gandalf helplessly, and turned back to Frodo.

“I didn’t mean to,” he mumbled and once more offered his hand. This time it stayed no matter what. Sam stroked Frodo’s freezing cheek with the back of his fingers.

“What happened?” Sam croaked. Gandalf lowered Frodo gently down to the ground, motioning to Sam to take hold of his master, and rose. Feeling changes in the manner of the one holding him and a sudden gush of coldness, Frodo twitched.

“Gandalf?” He moaned softly. Sam looked up quizzically at Gandalf.

The wizard ignored Sam’s expression but stooped over Frodo to calm him down.

“Ssh, easy little one. I’m not going anywhere.”

Still with eyes closed, Frodo sighed dejectedly and shuddered. Suddenly his breath hitched.

Sam gazed down in terror and automatically tightened his arms Frodo’s delicate frame.

“What has happened to you, dear master?” he sobbed, and unconsciously raised his voice as he glanced around. “Gandalf! Gandalf, tell me what’s come upon my master!”

Gandalf was talking to Strider in such a low voice that Sam could not catch a single word in spite of their close distance. His panicked cry caught the two men’s attention and they were looking at him sympathetically.

“We have to tell him,” said Strider slowly, glancing toward Gandalf, who looked back, full of doubts.

“He will be heart-broken. And the others too.”

“But we have to let them know that this is Frodo’s choice. It –“

“It is a choice made under great duress!” Snapped Gandalf. “He wasn’t even conscious when telling me so, the poor boy. I’m sure there is a wiser way out than that – that is not a way out at all, as far as I’m concerned!”

In his dark, splendid chamber, the Dark Lord roared with laughter.

Frodo writhed in his sleep, his hand reaching toward his left shoulder without realizing it. Sam rubbed at his back, trying hard to offer comfort as best as he could, averting his eyes back to Gandalf and Strider pleadingly. He almost did not see the other two hobbits kneeling before him.

Strider let out a deep audible breath in sorrow.

“And you want to find that other way out while leaving Frodo’s companions in the dark? Do you think it’s fair?” Strider said, his voice sounding hollow. “I fully agree with you not to let Frodo take that road. He has sacrificed himself too much.”

Sam’s breath caught.

“What road? What? Is he dying?” Pippin started to weep when he caught a note of despair in Sam’s voice.

“Of the options available to Frodo, Death might seem the kinder,” remarked Gandalf gravely. He then started relating the events that had happened earlier – the Nazguls that had had Frodo in their keep, Gandalf’s attempt to free him which resulted in a more dreadful situation, the wraith leader’s stabbing of Frodo. Sam let out a muffled cry at the news and Gandalf continued with the tale of how he was finally able to defeat all those living corpses and drive them away.

“Are they dead?” Asked Merry, wide-eyed. The wizard shook his head grimly.

“They are not dead, neither are they alive.”

“Then what? How can we cure Frodo?” asked Merry further. Gandalf glanced briefly at Strider, as if to draw strength from him.

“We will not cure Frodo. It is his own decision. He cannot bear Sauron’s wrath and torture anymore. He knows that the Ring is safe with you, Sam, and so he descends into darkness as a wraith himself.”

It was as if a great spell had come over Sam, Merry, and Pippin and none of them was able to utter a sound.

TBC Chapter 16 – Alive

Those eyes are open, but they have lost their vibrant blue. As a matter of fact, they are not blue at all. They are pallid, blanched, dead and … threatening.

Sam gasps. The figure in the bed appears to be his master, Frodo, yet it radiates an unloving soul completely unlike his dear Mr. Frodo’s in any way. The hobbit is awake, leaning back on piles of pillows, staring hard at the gardener who is sitting straight in his chair, keeping watch over him through countless days and nights. The figure is staring, unseeing.

Sam’s breathing becomes ragged as his master grasps the blanket covering him and tosses it roughly to the side. There are no visible signs of weakness or suffering in the hobbit who now stands erect on the other side of the bed and then starts toward the door at a half – run.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam chokes out. The figure halts, then turns toward him, as if recognizing the name as his own but refusing to claim it. Frodo freezes for a moment, then all too quickly resumes his flight.

“Mr. Frodo, no!”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

~ In a healing Chamber at the House of Elrond, Rivendell ~

“Sam, wake up!” Merry shook Sam by the shoulder again, rather violently this time, as Sam failed to acknowledge his presence. “It was just a dream. Come on, Sam, wake up!”

There was a slight stirring of the body curled up in the oversized bed, apart from the trembling that Merry had become familiar with. Eyelids flew open, revealing eyes not blue, but grey, and filled with fear.

“No, Mr. Frodo. You can’t go away. You can’t become one of them, please!” Sam muttered thickly still oblivious to Merry stooping over him.

“Sam! No one here is going to become a wraith.” Merry’s patience was growing thin. “At least they won’t if you wake up soon.”

“Mr. Merry?” Sam raised himself up on his elbows as he tried to clear the fog from his mind. “What do you mean? You’re not foolin’ me, are you?” Sam saw a mixture of relief and concern in Merry’s features.

“Of course I’m not, sleepyhead! Our Frodo is awake now, but he’s still terribly weak. How could you manage to sleep, Sam? He needs you now, more than he’s ever needed you before.”

Sam flushed, embarrassed. He cursed himself for his carelessness, but Merry’s apparent scorn irritated him. This was the first rest he had allowed himself after several sleepless nights. Merry and Pippin, on the other hand, had been instantaneously overcome by sleep the first night in Rivendell. Sam forced the negative feelings away out of politeness, and because he couldn’t help it. They weren’t a part of him, of Sam, the loyal friend and companion.

To Sam’s amazement, Merry was laughing.

“Ha! Look at your face, Sam! Do my words anger you so?” Merry kept laughing as Sam’s face continued to redden. “Do you think I’m seriously angry with you? Of course I know how faithfully you’ve tended to Frodo, even before he was awake. It was no more than a jest, but you are awake now, aren’t you?”

Sam smiled stiffly as Merry’s apparent impatience returned.

“Hurry, Sam! I don’t want to leave Frodo alone for long!”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Leaving Frodo alone was the last thing Merry needed to worry about, however, since no one was planning to leave him alone. Not now. Not in his unstable state. The mere discovery that he was alive was nearly enough to cause the hobbit to crumble. Frodo’s eyes opened to the sight of Gandalf sitting before the open window by his bed. As glad as Frodo was to see the wizard again and to be free of the appalling pain of the wraith world, Frodo was also in fear of the horrors that would surely follow his waking – Sauron’s torments.

Merry, with Sam and Pippin trailing behind, eagerly pushed open the door of Frodo’s room. All three were ready to burst in and fling themselves onto the bed in glad celebration until they beheld the heart – wrenching sight before them. Gandalf was covering his face with both hands and Frodo lay on his side, his back to Gandalf. Frodo’s hands shook visibly as they clutched at the hem of the blanket. His eyes were open wide, but he did not seem to see. Tears slid down his ashen cheeks freely, but Frodo did not seem to notice them either. He also failed to heed the presence of the three hobbits who stood like mute sculptures in the doorway.

Gandalf, too, seemed not to notice the newcomers as he finally lowered his hands and slowly crept to Frodo’s bed to touch his shoulder. Gandalf could feel Frodo flinch and it tore at his heart. The feeling that he had somehow betrayed the Ringbearer flooded through him, but he knew what he should do. Frodo could ask anything of him, but all he could do was ask. Gandalf might or might not be able to grant his requests, although he was certainly wise and the one appointed to give guidance in resisting the Dark Power.

Gandalf had recounted the tale of how the great eagle, Gwaihir, had borne him on his mighty wings to Rivendell. Gandalf meant it to be the lighter part of the story. The bird had wasted no time at all while Gandalf spoke heartening words to Frodo during the short journey. Gandalf hoped to see the old light of joy and interest in Frodo’s eyes at the mention of such an adventure, but he was disappointed.

“Frodo,” Gandalf whispered in the hobbit’s ear. “You must forgive me. There is still hope while you are alive. We cannot allow you to fall into shadow and become a wraith.”

Gandalf had realized that all hope was not lost as he witnessed Lord Elrond all but bringing Frodo back from the very brink of death with his healing skills. Still, Gandalf felt the need to further discuss the matter with the Elven lord further.

Frodo turned to Gandalf. His eyes shone with renewed terror, but lingering faith as well.

“There is nothing to forgive.” His voice was laced with despair. “I will do anything you say if you think there’s still hope for me.” Silently Frodo prayed that Sauron would not find a way to use Gandalf’s presence to torture him further.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

~ In the Dungeons of Sauron’s Fortress ~

Frodo barely realized what was happening to his body or anything around him. Dimly he remembered a searing pain as if he had been stabbed. Chills washed over him and he felt himself weakening, being drained completely.

The last thing he recalled was the fog floating before him idly, not even inflicting further pain upon him. It almost seemed unable to decide upon further action against him, seeing the state he was in.

The pain diminished somewhat and the chills faded. Frodo’s body warmed and his strength gradually seemed to return. But how? Why?

Opening his eyes with difficulty, Frodo wondered at the absence of all sensation other than the slow ebbing of the pain in his left shoulder. He did not hear Sauron or see the fog. Had the Dark Lord decided to let him be?

Fully awake, Frodo found himself sprawled on his stomach on the cold earthen floor. His mind slowly told him where he was. He was still in the dungeon of Sauron’s tower.

Frodo rose to his hands and knees slowly, shivering as the damp air clung to his bare upper body. Sudden terror overwhelmed him as his eyes locked with the threatening gazes of several orcs. They appeared equally surprised at Frodo’s sudden reappearance.

The orcs had been ordered not to move from that spot, and to keep an eye on something invisible. The order seemed senseless, but they dared not question it. Stranger still than being ordered to guard nothing was the moment when nothing became something and the hobbit became visible to them again! And it was alive, very much so. As the orcs recognized the fact they began to creep toward Frodo, who was shaking in earnest. Frodo stood and backed away, groping blindly at the wall behind him until he felt not earth or rock, but nothing, not even the metal door. His heart leaped with hope.

The door was open, leading into a dark passage. Frodo realized he knew nothing about the place. The opening could lead to freedom, or to some deadly labyrinth for all he knew. It could likely lead to death itself. Then again, could it be any worse than his present surroundings? He knew he had to try.

Casting a fearful look back at the leering orcs, Frodo gathered his determination. It was now or never. Ignoring the churning of his stomach and the whirling in his head, he scampered through the door.

Or so he thought.

Startled exclamations came from the orcs behind him as a small part of Frodo’s mind wondered what they saw, but only a small part. He gave the matter no further thought. He would not.

Or could not.

His mind was suddenly blank as Frodo tried to register why the previously pitch – black tunnel blazed suddenly bright as he turned around again, paralyzing him.

He did not feel the floor under his feet anymore.

He couldn’t find his voice as he tried to scream and a tight grip closed around his throat. His eyes slowly rolled back.

TBC Chapter 17 – A Feast for Frodo

~ The House of Healing, Rivendell ~

Sam shivered as he took in the sight of Frodo’s dejected and hopeless gaze while at the same time he remembered how the same pair of eyes had been staring at him lifelessly, but with something evil stirring behind them. They’re not completely different, are they, Samwise, the gardener muttered to himself. No, not at all. And the feeling that Sam had was not different either. He still longed to reach for that shaking body and rock Frodo into sleep and whisper to that sweet master of his that everything would be just fine.

Oh – and perhaps to return to Frodo the thing Sam had had too long in his keeping. The Ring.

Sam felt his own body to go rigid at the thought. Might he have been party to all the torments that Frodo had to suffer? Had Aragorn’s decision to give the Ring to him to keep worsened Frodo’s condition? Despite Sam’s sudden reluctance to give the Ring back to Frodo, he felt perfectly sure he was responsible for that, too.

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam moved away from the doorway. He repeated his call as Frodo did not seem to hear the first one. But neither did Frodo hear him the second time. What Frodo did was curl up tighter, clutching at the bed sheet, and take a deep, shuddering breath. He still looked petrified. And Sam groaned silently as he realized Frodo had many reasons to do so.

“Frodo –“ Again, Sam tried to make a connection as Gandalf’s troubled eyes followed each of his actions.

And to Sam’s surprise, Frodo did react, but not to him.

Everything happened in such a rapid motion afterwards. Sam stared in shock. Gandalf was ready to release Frodo from his agony. Merry and Pip were holding each other as if trying to draw strength from one another, which each knew very well had been wearing thin.

Yet there was nothing the wizard and the others could do to end the horrifying image of Frodo being in torment in a far away place across the land, river, and the mountains. Down at the south. In Mordor.

Thus for some precious moments, they could only gape, aghast. They were too shocked to pronounce a single word at the sight of Frodo reaching for his own throat with both hands, as if pulling at something while his breaths hitched sharply and his eyes slowly rolled up under his eyelids.

Someone – something was strangling him and the bystanders could only watch helplessly.

Then as abruptly as it had started, the attack stopped and Frodo plummeted into his mattress, chest rising and falling irregularly, face flushed by a sudden gush of blood streaming back into it, and he broke into terrible, fitful coughs. Sam, Merry, and Pippin dashed to the bed and Merry even jumped onto it. Gandalf;s warning to be careful with

Frodo’s weak condition went unheeded. The other hobbits were too relieved to see the fit had passed. Now they could…

But they were too quick to jump into conclusion that Sauron was through with Frodo. They all froze in place when Frodo suddenly maneuvered his hands to both his sides and went cold, as if something was holding him. Then the previously shut eyes flew open and all could see the utter terror in them. Everything – Frodo’s horrified glare and the others’ inexplicable fear for their beloved hobbit – was magnified by the hobbit’s silent scream. Nothing. Nothing came out of that gaping mouth.

But a moment later, as he noticed a small flinch in the corner of his master’s eye, Sam shoved Pippin away from the bedside. It was a mere instant before Frodo let out all previously contained in his stomach. The retch was endless, and Sam began to think nothing would be left of his Mr. Frodo.

* * *

~ Down at The Dungeon of Sauron’s Fortress ~

Dangling in the midst of air by the fog’s sinewy, invisible claw, Frodo had long succumbed to his definite fate – death. Cold he no longer felt despite his half-nakedness and having been confined in a damp, dark cellar. Hunger he long forgot, and he had, for some time, detached himself from the harrowing pain in his neck that resulted from the fog’s bruising grip. Deep in his mind Frodo was certain the pressure would not only leave marks on his delicate skin, but also some fractured bones.

And his body had prepared itself for its inevitable last breath. There was no air passing through his nostrils. All the pores on his skin had become clammy and cold and no air permeated them. If – when – his throat would crack completely all of this would be over.

Frodo had been preparing for his own death to claim him, and it seemed that now his wish would finally be granted. He knew the Ring was safe and that realization made his deliverance feel lighter.

Dangling in the midst of vast doorway of the dungeon, with head slightly tilting back, arms hanging loose and feet and legs swinging by the accord of the fog and not their own, Frodo was prepared to lose all his senses. Let me be, he smiled inwardly. He would not scream anymore, something that he knew had excited the Dark Lord very much, his being such a sadistic and merciless creature. Frodo would not plead, something that Sauron could gladly use to show to all inhabitants of Middle Earth that he was the most powerful one. And Frodo would not shed tears for all the bodily and mental pains inflicted by this abominable thing. In his mind he smiled even wider. He had finally won. The Dark Lord failed to get his Ring back and he would not restrain himself from his wrathful desire to kill Frodo.

Frodo’s body began to stiffen. He could not remember ever moving and the last thing he moved was…

Twitch!

Twitch!

Frodo’s mind snapped back into consciousness. What was that? Did he just feel something on his arms? Did that mean he would not die right now?

Frodo soon got answers to his questions, much to his dismay. Yes, the sensation on his arms was real – and no, he would not die, yet.

What? Frodo gasped, while at the same time he felt his body slide down and thud heavily as it struck the ground. To make it worse, Frodo had fallen sprawling on his back, or rather, on his bound arms. He gritted his teeth to stifle his scream as a loud crack was heard where his wrists collided with the floor.

Understanding slowly seeped in: this was what happened to his arms when he was suddenly alive again, the orcs busy tying up his hands.

Then another apprehension slowly surfaced.

It was Sauron who had replied to his questions. Frodo was to deal with him and his abuse again. The hobbit recoiled in a failed attempt to escape from definite pains. His throat closed in. He could not. No. No. He could not bear that any longer.

Frodo was pulled up by a couple of abhorrent brutes, was made to face the convulsing fog, and flinched when cold air brushed his right cheek. It felt as if the fog had just blown him a kiss.

A voice was hovering in the air, somehow there, and not there. The fog was telling Frodo how glad he was to see the hobbit return to him. But it snapped immediately at Frodo’s protest that he never intended to return. But as it spoke again, the voice was soft.

“Do not tempt me, Frodo Baggins. I meant it when I said I was glad to see you again. Do not try to make me change my mind or you to feel my wrath again. I’m feeling happy now and I want to honor this occasion. We shall throw a feast for you, Frodo.”

In the hands of the orcs Frodo writhed, face contorting as he tried to bear the pain in his hands with great effort. His heart drummed faster when he heard the word feast. If that meant for him to be having rats again…

“RATS?” The place was shaking at the sound of the fog, and Frodo was overcome by his fear. His knees started to give if not for the fast grip on his arms he would have fallen.

A heavy, thick chain snaked around Frodo’s neck out of the blue and he almost jumped. He was prevented from doing so by the orcs gripping his arms. Another length of chain was connected as a leash. Frodo almost slumped down due to the great weight but he was forced to march on as invisible hands wrenched at the loose end of the leash.

Frodo tried to strain against the pull but it was no match for Sauron’s mighty power. With thunderous laughs he yanked at Frodo, treating him as if he were a toy. Once the fog pulled the chain so hard that Frodo was dragged roughly to the middle of the chamber.

Then it loosened its grip, causing the hobbit to droop helplessly to the ground, only to be jerked back and experience yet another long walk in between his stumbles.

“Rats, Frodo? If you think that, you definitely have underestimated what a feast means to me. Rats are for lowly servants, like those brainless orcs! Rats are nothing compared to edibles you will shortly see.” The fog watched fondly at his raggedly breathing captive who gazed dazedly back. “But I see you enjoy my feast already. I appreciate your dance immensely, Frodo, and I think you are very thirsty now. Come. Have a drink.”

Sauron motioned some orcs to bring him a large basin of some kind of brew. Frodo had no idea how he could drink out of it but he did not feel good about things that were about to happen. He squirmed, attempting to get free from the orcs, and pushed backward. But fingers tightened at his locks and pulled them unforgivingly, shoving Frodo’s face into the basin.

Frodo gasped as he felt the liquid seep into his gaping mouth, nose, and eyes. It pierced into him like needles and he started to have difficulty breathing. His chest tightened and he tossed and turned as much as he could with head still pushed down and hands tightly bound and held. Frodo could not help pleading and begging in his mind, screaming at the evil lord to stop, knowing that he could hear him anyway. Frodo was also asking what he had done to deserve such kind of a feast.

“Feast?” Snorted the fog in disgust. “You succeeded in escaping my best men, the Nazguls, and now even have that wizard in hand to help – and you dare to ask for a feast?” Sauron yanked Frodo’s head out of the liquid, and still harried with the attempt to let air into his lungs, Frodo suddenly felt a loud backhand connect to his cheek. He was stunned for a moment before excruciating pain starting to spread. And eventually he could not hold back. The combination of shock after being nearly drowned and the swirling sensation in his head from the beating overcame him completely. Frodo could not care less for whoever stood before him. He heaved and heaved, spilling the meager contents of his stomach while his eyes shed tears, in misery.

TBC Chapter 18 – A Deep Breath Before the Plunge

~ In Sauron’s Dungeon ~

The orcs were drowned in their own jeers and raucous laughter seeing how the little hobbit suffered. They sneered and turned at each other and laughed again at how Frodo had thrown up all over their boss. Sauron would surely be enraged now.

Yet, apparently, it was not exactly what the fog had in mind. It meant nothing, for Frodo practically vomited over empty air. The fog merely watched, pleased and displeased at the same time observing the results of his punishments on Frodo – punishments that were still fruitless for him. The chance to get his Ring back seemed thinning now that the corporeal Frodo was in Rivendell, surrounded by men, elves, his fellow hobbits, and a wizard – all resolved to keep him safe and protected and to take Frodo’s ethereal half back. Yet, Sauron was equally determined to hold Frodo as long as he could until his efforts bore the expected result.

Frodo, whose retching fit had now subsided, was sitting with his legs folded underneath his body, bowing his head and panting softly. The ever streaming tears were still running down his cheeks and he was unable to dry them with his tethered hands. Frodo did not want to think anymore or hope that he would die soon. It was clear that the Dark Lord would not release him as long as he had not got the Ring – not even to death itself. And Sauron would also keep him in torment, because the smallest of Frodo’s thoughts could quickly enrage him. Frodo grimly recalled the wicked creature Gollum’s more fortunate fate. Gollum was only forced to tell who was keeping the Ring at that time and where the person who kept It resided. Once he gave up and told them, he was freed from his torment. But he, Frodo, was asked for something beyond what he could give, beyond what he could speak in words.

The fog hissed in impatience. The hobbit had tired him with his resistance. Just now Sauron had seen in Frodo’s mind that Frodo would not think anymore. Yet what followed was a series of lengthy and winding thoughts. Even Gollum had crossed the hobbit’s mind! Sauron growled and commanded the orcs to take Frodo away from the place.

The hobbit lifted his face up with a questioning gaze. As several beasts grabbed him up, pure terror was in his dazed eyes. No, no! His mind screamed. No more of this agony. Don’t they know I’ve had more than enough of it? But none of them heeded his hopeless silent plea. Frodo was taken away to smaller and darker leeway, cast loose of the chain and leash, but a piece of cloth was tied over his mouth as a gag and his ankles were secured together once he was laid down to the earthen floor. Frodo had never felt so desperate before. Even then, the only luxury he had left – his sight – was also taken from him as another length of rag was bound over his eyes. Frodo gasped. Not a single streak of light was he now allowed to treasure.

Then a loud bang of a thick iron door disengaged Frodo completely from the outside world.

* * *

~ In Rivendell ~

Shakily, Sam held Frodo and rubbed his back slowly, releasing the knots in the muscles while his master agonized over the unceasing heaves. Most of the liquid landed on the floor though some splashed onto the bed sheet and Pippin’s garment. None of the hobbits spoke during Frodo’s ordeal. They just stared, horrified, at the miserable sight. Several times was Frodo almost gagged by his own vomit and when he was finally done, Frodo was nothing but a quivering hunched wreck with gasping breath and sobs and torrents of tears.

“I – I…” Frodo stared down aghast at the lurid sight of his stained bed, trying hard to hide his embarrassment. Nausea twisted inside him. This had never happened before, even when he had been ill as a child.

A hand with a wet cloth started to cleanse the slowly crusting smudge on the sheet and Frodo reached out. He looked up. It was Pippin, also with eyes red and swollen, clouded with tears. Frodo then noticed that his cousin’s shirt and breeches were smeared, too.

“Oh, Pip!” Frodo got hold of the cloth now and he rubbed it on the stained part of Pippin’s clothes. “I’m so – so sorry!” He stammered.

“Frodo!” Merry cried out in anguish and, as if just released from a spell, he sprang to the door and screamed desperately, “Help! Someone, anyone! Please help!”

Pippin could not do or say anything, standing in bewilderment as Frodo continued brushing over him, calling his name repeatedly, almost mechanically. Frodo’s lips trembled but Pippin was certain it was not due to sorrow over his cousin’s present state. Frodo was still in shock, for whatever had happened to him, or rather, to his spirit half that was trapped in the land of darkness.

All of a sudden Pippin felt himself shoved aside. Gandalf. The wizard, although he had not borne witness to the sufferings of Frodo’s captive spirit half, knew he mustn’t delay. He scooped up the dazed hobbit as Frodo’s hand flailed in the air, losing its grip on Pippin.

“Come now, Frodo. We shall see Lord Elrond immediately and settle this matter.”

To Gandalf’s surprise, Frodo writhed in his arms and wailed, letting out a high-pitched, keening sound. His hands flailed wildly and for sometime Gandalf felt he would lose his balance. But once he steadied his hold on Frodo, the hobbit squirmed even harder and screamed, “No!” Frodo leapt out of Gandalf’s arms and, stumbling several times, he made it through the door, dashing past Merry.

Gandalf, Sam, and Pippin were so stunned they could not move for several moments. Similar thoughts crossed their minds, regarding how a person already so beaten up managed to do such a thing. But Gandalf started to blame himself for having frightened the hobbit by grasping him so suddenly.

Gandalf might well have been right in his assumption, but there was equal possibility that he was wrong. Frodo might have been so terrified that he interpreted any sudden touch as a threat. Yet there might have been sanity left in him and he solely wanted to escape all the horrors he had experienced, to run away from them to anywhere he thought he would be safe. He was hiding from the possible reach of those torments. Hiding from Sauron.

Sam watched Frodo’s flight with renewed fear. Ever since Sauron had possessed his master’s spirit, Frodo had behaved strangely. Once he looked to be in great agony just like what he had just experienced. Next he acted oddly, such as when he walked away to counter the Nazguls. And knowing that it was Sam who carried the Ring, Frodo had also alternated between the rage of one possessed and submitting to the knowledge that he could not claim It again.

Blanched and wavering in his place, Sam tugged at Gandalf’s long and swaying sleeve. The wizard started and turned to his side.

“What is it, Samwise?” His voice was a mixture of annoyance and despair.

Sam merely gaped, unable to articulate his thoughts at first.

“Do you – do you think I should give the Ring back to Mr. Frodo?” Sam was on the brink of tears. “I don’t mean that he should surrender It to Sauron, no. But – was he being tortured because I have It with me? Gandalf, sir?”

Gandalf closed his eyes. It would matter nothing for Sauron if the Ring was with Frodo or Sam now. He just wanted It. But Sam with his simple, innocent mind… that just broke his heart.

* * *

Frodo stumbled across the balcony and down the dais, feeling the crunch of dry leaves under his feet as he ran through the grass under the big, shadowy trees. He ran until he felt his lungs were ready to burst and he was forced to halt halfway, sagging on his knees and hands, panting harshly.

Frodo slowly raised his eyes up to the sky and almost shouted in a vented outrage as it seemed to mock him with a clear blue gaze. He almost choked at the unfairness presented before him and he rose, resuming his escape. It was impossible for him to get far due to his unfavorable condition. The hobbit eventually sagged to the ground and crawled to the nearest gigantic tree to crumple against its strong and supporting trunk. Frodo ignored the roughness of the bark as it bit into his back through the thin fabric of his nightdress and simply surrendered, only dimly aware of the soaking tears, angrily wiping them away only to find he could not master them.

Everything had gone terribly wrong and out of control. The cloudless sky was not the only thing Frodo thought had betrayed him. So had all the beauty around him – the lawn, the grand houses, the sculptures, the woods, and if he looked a bit farther, the ethereal elves wandering about the place. Nothing and no one seemed to share his misery – though it was not true, either – and the darkness that had blanketed and clutched his heart, leaving it bleeding in despair. Frodo drew himself inward and curled into a smaller ball. This was one of those moments when he could retreat into himself, when Sauron seemed to have tired of torturing his other half. There was no way of knowing how long such a moment would last or when the next fit of torment would begin.

Pain. Endless pain. Frodo could still hear the devil’s wrathful voice, the orcs’ croaking threats, and feel the pain inflicted by them. Endlessly. He had long been broken. He had attempted to give up the Ring and would have succeeded had Strider and the other hobbits not been there to stop him. He was supposed to be ashamed of that but he could not help it. He was too weak, too small, to defy the one even the strongest of men could not.

Frodo had been so much reduced he even wished for death to claim him. He felt ashamed of this, too.

Thinking of Sam and his cousins’ pained anxiety and Aragorn’s unceasing attention, Frodo suddenly believed himself to be the most insensitive and egotistical creature in Middle Earth. He should have given more thought to his acts and wishes. Giving up the Ring would mean doom to all Middle Earth! How could he even think of doing that?

But… but…

Oh, all the whip lashes, beatings, stabbing, strangling… How could they – all those people – think he had the strength to withstand it? He was not one of the Maia, a great wizard with the power to resist.

A soft breeze greeted Frodo gently, cooling the hobbit’s sweat and tear-soaked face, soothing his troubled mind, though only marginally. Frodo’s eyes wandered dreamily away. Something slipped into his mind amidst all the thoughts of terror. Had Gandalf been right? Was there still hope left?

Despite his open eyes, Frodo had not been attentive to his surroundings. It escaped him that a figure was approaching. And Frodo literally jumped, his body uncoiling, when a voice replied silently to his unspoken questions.

“It was true, my lad. There is something we can do. But it will require the greatest of your courage.”

“Gandalf!” Cried Frodo, now inclining to the tree, both palms pressing into the ground and legs outstretching. “I didn’t see you come. How…” For a moment dread washed over him as recollection of Sauron came back. Gandalf had seen his mind as had the Dark Lord!

“Yes, Frodo.” The wizard hunched into a sitting position. “I can see your mind without your speaking your thoughts aloud. Forgive me, for I did not come earlier to save you.”

“What, Gandalf?” Inquired Frodo weakly. “What can I do to save myself?”

Gandalf contemplated the question.

“It is not what you alone can do, but what we must do together. Though, I will not say this is going to be easy.”

There was a faint strength flickering in Frodo’s eyes, and that was just about the only thing Gandalf needed in response. Frodo had not been crushed entirely. The wizard rose and helped Frodo to stand.

“Let us return to your quarters to talk about this further with the others. We shall need all the help that is available to us.”

TBC Chapter 19 – A Face of Hope

~ In Sauron’s Fortress ~

Beneath the blindfold there was not much Frodo could behold, indeed nothing, to be truthful. It was dark and suffocating, and Frodo started to see the strange splotches that would typically appear in his vision when he rubbed his eyes too hard. Those blots worsened the swirling sensation he had been suffering after being nearly drowned and violently ill. Frodo made an attempt to move his head to shake his dizziness away only to find that moving at all was nearly impossible due to his bonds. As he lay on his side, he could only lift his head a little off the ground. He gave up the effort and lowered it again, sighing in despair. To make everything worse, his jaw felt sore from the tightness of the cloth bound around it to silence him.

But Frodo did not really want to let despondence defeat him. After all, Sauron had finally left him alone and spared him more tortures. He should feel … grateful? The last thought only made him feel even more wretched. Frodo could not hold back his tears anymore. They soaked silently into the blindfold.

* * *

High upon the dark tower the Eye contracted with fury. If Sauron had teeth, he would probably be gritting them in annoyance at the knowledge of what had happened to the corporeal Frodo. It was also infuriating to Sauron that he had failed to foresee what the wizard, the elves and the men had planned in order to save the hobbit. Aggravation gnawed deep into the consciousness of the Dark Lord as he realized that he may not be strong enough to fight them. Defeat at the hands of the alliance of those physical beings was still possible.

Amidst the Eye’s bafflement, the rage and desire to re-posses the Ring were resurging. The Ring must return to him. Those lowly creatures – and the one he held captive in the dark land – must pay dearly for their impertinence in keeping It!

Or, the lidless Eye determined, he might not be able to see what the plan was because…

There was simply no plan at all!

The Eye sent that encouraging thought to each corner of his realm and the bleak land was shaken by the scorching laugh of his high self-glorification. The wizard must only be bluffing with the promise he gave to the hobbit while in fact he knew just too well he could do nothing to fight against the Dark Lord. A merciless rumble of something eerily like laughter emerged from the tower.

Now it was time to send another warning to his foes.

* * *

Being denied of sight had somehow sharpened Frodo’s other senses, including the sense of sharp pain coming from both corners of his mouth. Frodo moaned softly through his slightly parted lips as the pressure from the gag bit and cut more deeply into the tender flesh every single moment. He had lost control of the saliva running down his chin and now he started to taste blood.

Another thing that Frodo began to be aware of was some sounds he initially could not identify. They were a mixture of metal clashing and vapor hissing. Frodo strained his ears to catch some more, warily anticipating the return of the malevolent fog. But he could not sense the presence of Sauron, so it must not be him. What Frodo sensed, instead, was something that made his skin crawl with new terror. His naked upper body started to shiver as the air temperature dropped all of a sudden into a deadly chill.

Just then Frodo realized what he had been hearing. It was the metal door and walls around him that were beginning to freeze and were slowly being covered with ice. Frodo caught his breath. He was only clad in a pair of ragged, thin breeches and his hands and legs were bound. He could not curl himself up to help ward off the freezing air. It was already almost too much to bear that he had been confined and unable to see or flee. Frodo had thought he had endured enough punishment to satisfy Sauron.

The hobbit huffed heavily as the air seemed to get colder. Once his head suddenly tilted up as his nose was suddenly blocked up and he panicked for the lack of air. Then the next thing he knew was his body convulsing uncontrollably – and reflexively – to fight the ferocious chillness.

* * *

~ In Rivendell ~

“I shall not hasten, Frodo. Everything must be considered and re-considered. We must think of every denouement that might spring from any step we take. Every step needs to be thought of carefully, especially since we shall deal with the Ring itself.” Gandalf spoke every single one of his words conscientiously, so as not to alarm Frodo or to make the hobbit’s hope soar too high. Gandalf knew Frodo too well to expect the halfling to get excited too soon and thus would be disappointed or even broken down if everything proved not to work as planned.

But all of a sudden Gandalf felt as if he had been talking to himself. There was no response whatsoever from Frodo and – the wizard realized it suddenly – there was even no sound of the hobbit’s steps that could be heard. Gandalf halted his progress at once, turned to his side, and found to his horror that Frodo was no longer beside him. He extended his sight further behind, and his heart sank.

Frodo was huddled on the ground, wound up in a fetal position, legs raised up close to his chest, arms tightening around them. His eyes were shut tightly as if he were in great pain. An unimaginable shudder jarred his fragile, battered body.

Gandalf made a sound that was unrecognizable as speech in any known language as he rushed to Frodo’s side.

Frodo, the beloved nephew of his dear friend, Bilbo. A brave, young hobbit that had gone through such an ordeal and such pain inflicted by the darkest terror over Middle-earth, the cursed Sauron.

The owner of a pair of the clearest eyes that had shone a moment too short as Gandalf told him about the possible way out of his torments.

Gandalf knelt down to the shaking figure and scooped it up gently yet hurriedly, trying his best to not let his shock overcome him.

“Give him strength, O Earandil. Don’t let him pass before my very eyes.”

Gandalf sat back on his heels, legs folded beneath him. He cradled Frodo and almost broke down at the sight of the hobbit’s deathly pallor. All color had drained from Frodo’s face save for the bluish hue of his lips. Frodo’s quivering eyelashes spoke silently of the pain of the rest of his body. His breaths were labored and in danger of vanishing entirely, and otherwise he made no sound at all. Gandalf feared the worst.

Very slowly, the wizard drew his hand to a chain around his neck and pulled it out of his robe. He knew he was in a safe place, at the backyard of Elrond’s Healing House. No one with bad intentions should catch him with what he was intending to reveal. This was an emergency situation. Even if there were servants of Sauron swarming around, Gandalf would still want to risk it. It was for Frodo’s sake. Frodo’s life.

Hanging on the chain was one of the Three Rings of Power. The one Cirdan himself bestowed upon him. The Ring of Fire. With a gleaming red stone. Narya the Great.

“For this is the Ring of Fire, and with it you may rekindle hearts in a world that grows chill.”

Gandalf drew the Ring out, released it from the imprisonment of the chain, and put it on around the ring finger of his right hand.

“May it rekindle the warmth to set away the chills that are tormenting you right now,” Gandalf whispered into Frodo’s ear and rested his right hand upon the halfling’s brow, starting to chant softly.

At first there was no response from Frodo and Gandalf hummed louder, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration.

Then he sensed Frodo stirring into wakefulness while the shaking became fainter. Gandalf opened his eyes to see Frodo take a deep, exhausted breath. He was no longer panting now. Gandalf’s eyes watered as he saw color returning to the hobbit’s feature. Frodo moved restlessly in Gandalf’s arms and his hands flailed before they found the wizard’s wrist and started to pull it away from him. Frodo’s eyelids fluttered open reluctantly and from the narrow slits of his eyes, the hobbit gazed at the wizard. Weariness and incomprehension shone in them.

“It’s very warm.” His muttering was almost inaudible. Gandalf pulled his gaze away from the halfling’s face – the only thing he kept staring at this whole time – and noticed that the night dress Frodo was wearing was soaked with sweat. A sheen of perspiration was covering Frodo’s arms, neck and face. It seemed to come from every pore in his body. Gandalf kept his hand on Frodo’s forehead.

“A moment, my boy,” said Gandalf in a low tune. He knew it must have felt terrible for Frodo to have an extreme change from icy chill to such warmth, but Gandalf did not want to let go just yet. He had not been sure if the other Frodo had also felt warm as this Frodo did. Some more moments, Gandalf thought.

“Frodo! Frodo!”

Gandalf looked up and saw Sam stumbling toward their direction. His arms were flailing helplessly and his pudgy build seemed to weigh him down. Sam looked miserable and was hardly able to catch his breath at all, calling out repeatedly for his master as he neared. Gandalf nodded grimly to himself, realizing that he could not risk allowing the gardener to see his Ring. He had to have done with his attempt to treat Frodo right here and now. The wizard slowly withdrew his hand, pulled the Ring off his finger, and slid it back onto the chain. He managed to put the chain back around his neck and hide it beneath his robe just in time with Sam halted beside him, stooping and breathing hard.

“What – what happened to my master?” He breathed out the words amidst his gasps. Frodo in the mean time had closed his eyes again and seemed to sink back in unconsciousness. Sam was almost hysterical. Frodo had looked much, much better when he darted away from his room.

“Gandalf!” Sam cried.

“Ssh,” the wizard shushed him. “He will be all right.” But a slight hesitation lingered in his voice. Gandalf put his arms below Frodo’s limp form and he huffed as he rose. Frodo’s arms hung lifelessly at both sides, his head tilting backward. Sam made a low, despairing sound at the sight of his master’s frozen but flushed face and slightly open mouth.

“Come, Samwise. We cannot delay another moment.”

* * *

~ In the Deserted Cell in the Dark Tower ~

It was all beyond his comprehension. At one time he was so frozen he thought he would just let death swallow him, but soon after, Frodo felt so warm he was dying to rip open the blindfold and the gag for they had seemed to plaster over his eyes and skin, sticking cloyingly to him. Even the breeches he was wearing seemed too much clothing with such warmth.

Sweat dripped out of each and every single pore of his skin. But worst of all was his overwhelming thirst. Not realizing that this was all Gandalf’s doing, Frodo could not help cringing at Sauron’s last attempt to hurt him.

The heat seemed to last forever for Frodo before it finally subsided and what was left was just his thirst. Frodo still felt warm but with the chills he suffered before, it felt like heaven now.

The hobbit clung tightly to the comfort, never wanting to let it go, yet he was also waiting with dreadful anticipation. Sauron had never left him alone or let him breathe freely for too long. In the end Frodo was just lying there, his body as tense as a stretched bowstring.

He flinched violently as a noise came to him from what he thought was the door to the cell. Frodo was shaking now. They had returned! They had come back to take him or to torture him further! He listened to the screeching sound of the big metal door being yanked open with mounting terror. He wanted to scream out his trepidation but he could only let out a strangled sob. Frodo jerked against his bonds and got completely, totally, frozen when an oddly smooth hand caught his chin, strangely gently. Frodo knew he had been weeping ever since he heard the first sound from the door and fear engulfed him. But only now did he taste the saltiness of his tears as his blindfold was removed– also with the same tenderness – and tears flowed freely onto his lips and seeped into his mouth as the gag, too, came away. Frodo’s eyes grew wide as he gaped at the figure looming above him. He moaned a little as a hoarse voice he hardly recognized emerged from his sore throat to articulate his bewildered thoughts.

“Gandalf?”

TBC He flinched violently as a noise came to him from what he thought was the door to the cell. Frodo was shaking now. They had returned! They had come back to take him or to torture him further! He listened to the screeching sound of the big metal door being yanked open with mounting terror. He wanted to scream out his trepidation but he could only let out a strangled sob. Frodo jerked against his bonds and got completely, totally, frozen when an oddly smooth hand caught his chin, strangely gently. Frodo knew he had been weeping ever since he heard the first sound from the door and fear engulfed him. But only now did he taste the saltiness of his tears as his blindfold was removed– also with the same tenderness – and tears flowed freely onto his lips and seeped into his mouth as the gag, too, came away. Frodo's eyes grew wide as he gaped at the figure looming above him. He moaned a little as a hoarse voice he hardly recognized emerged from his sore throat to articulate his bewildered thoughts.

"Gandalf?"

Chapter 20 – Into the Light

~ In Rivendell ~

Thrice Merry and Pippin stood aghast as people stormed out of the room. First had been Frodo, then Gandalf and finally Sam. Unsure of what they should do about it and wondering if they should do the same, the two cousins ended up staying in the room. They came to an unspoken agreement that Gandalf and Sam would be able to deal with Frodo in his confused state.

Merry stared helplessly at Pippin, and realizing that Pippin was trying to draw strength from him, deliberately changed his expression. Pippin could see terror in the eyes of another, young as he was. He should not be witnessing all of this. He should have stayed at home, safe in the embrace of his family and should be enjoying the light – hearted company of other lads his age. He should not be standing here in Rivendell, far from the comfort of home. No matter how grand and wonderful the Last Homely House was, it was not grand or wonderful enough to hide the torment of those within.

Merry wept inwardly at the sight of Pippin in his disheveled state. His clothing was torn and soiled, his face ashen and tears stood in his eyes. Merry closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms around Pippin’s shoulders. The dam finally broke and Pippin’s tears flowed freely. Merry ignored the dampness seeping into his shirt and continued rubbing Pippin’s back as wracking sobs shook the young hobbit.

“Should we – should we go find him too, Merry?” he asked in a small voice.

The older hobbit shook his head.

“I think not, Pip. We’ll just be in the way should Frodo’s condition worsen.”

“What do we do then?”

Merry gazed around the room.

“I thing we can start by cleaning up here. Frodo will need more rest when he comes back, and a fresh room will soothe him.”

Merry did not know that he could ask assistance of some of elf maidens. It never occurred to him to do such a thing. When he appeared carrying the dirty sheets and asking for replacements, the elves who were present immediately insisted upon doing the cleaning. Merry objected at first, but finally relented when it was agreed that he and Pippin could also give their aid.

In a short while, they had transformed Frodo’s room into a glowing and inviting chamber. The soft mattress was covered by a pearly white sheet, the marble floor sparkled, and the air carried the scent of roses. Merry and Pippin bowed deeply to the elves as they departed, promising to aid the hobbits with anything else they might need.

As the elves disappeared from his sight, Merry nodded in satisfaction as he patted the soft clean sheet on Frodo’s bed. “Frodo is going to rest comfortably here, Pip,” he said solemnly. “There’ll be no more nightmares.” Beside him, Pippin was standing, gazing from the bed to Merry’s eyes. His lips trembled and was unable to speak. He slowly turned away toward the open window and a tear ran down his cheek.

A quiet sound from the doorway broke the ominous silence in the room. Merry and Pippin turned as one from their thoughts and hurried to welcome Gandalf as he entered. A limp figure lay in the wizard’s arms, head lolling back to reveal ashen, nearly lifeless features. Sam followed Gandalf into the room, tears streaking his face. Merry and Pippin felt their hearts sink at the sight.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Gandalf had been considering as he carried Frodo back to the hobbits’ quarters. He, with his ring, Narya, might help Frodo somewhat, but they could not reunite the hobbit’s spirit in Mordor with his body there in Rivendell. Gandalf needed more, much more help from Elrond, who had in his possession the greatest of the Three Rings of the Elves, Vilya.

As he returned from the garden, Gandalf had asked one of the elf maids to summon Elrond to Frodo’s chamber. Now the wizard needed to speak with Frodo. He glanced at Merry and Pippin as he lowered the unconscious hobbit down to the bed.

“Fine work, little ones,” Gandalf said, eyeing the clean sheets and reassuring the dejected halflings with his smile. “Frodo surely appreciates all that you’ve done, whether he can say it or not.” Pippin sidled closer, his hands trembling as he tried to straighten the coverlet over Frodo’s body. His lips quivered as words failed him.

Gandalf placed his hand on Pippin’s shoulder. “I will give my best effort to return Frodo to you safe and whole.” He looked up as light footfalls approached. Elrond. Gandalf again regarded Merry and Pippin.

“I apologize, young friends, but you must leave Frodo to our care now. I will need Sam to remain, for a while, but he will join you outside soon. You trust me, do you not?”

Gandalf’s gray eyes bored into Merry’s, and he wanted to lose himself in the safety he saw there. He and Pippin both nodded automatically. Pippin reached for Gandalf’s hand and squeezed it. He and Merry then left the room as Elrond gazed after them with a sad smile. He, too, was deeply concerned with Frodo’s condition and wondered what Gandalf had in mind.

“My friend?” Elrond regarded Gandalf expectantly once the hobbits were out of the room. Gandalf raised his hand.

“A moment, mellon nin,” he said, turning to Sam who still waited by Frodo’s bedside. “Samwise, I wish you to place your trust in me as your companions have.” Sam looked at Gandalf with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. The wizard continued, “I need to use the Ring, just this one time. Will you allow me?”

Sam’s face flushed. “It isn’t mine to lend, Mr. Gandalf. I’m just carrying it right now because…because…” Images of Frodo’s angry response when Strider had bidden him to take the Ring flashed through Sam’s mind.

“I understand, young hobbit,” Gandalf prodded gently, extending his hand. Sam reluctantly placed the Ring in the wizard’s palm. “Now you must join the others. Lord Elrond and I will help your master.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Gandalf could sense Elrond’s hesitation regarding his plan.

“Do you not think this will draw further rage from Sauron?” Elrond objected. “He will surely torture Frodo more. Gandalf, I’ve no wish to see him suffer again. He will not survive.”

Gandalf bent over Frodo, brushing soft curls off the hobbit’s forehead.

“He must be free from Sauron’s clutches, once and for all,” the wizard muttered. He turned to the elven lord. “Now I must talk with Frodo.”

Gandalf realized he could not speak with Frodo in the usual manner of mortals. Sauron would surely know. He must speak to Frodo silently, mind to mind.

The grey wizard lay his hand on Frodo’s brow. Warmth still radiated from the halfling’s skin, a result of Gandalf’s earlier ministrations. The wizard closed his eyes in concentration and began to utter a spell.

There was little resistance from Frodo and in moments Gandalf stood in the void where Frodo’s consciousness still lingered. It was dark and quiet.

“Frodo!” Gandalf called loudly, then again more softly. There was still no response.

“Frodo!” The wizard shouted into the darkness. Gandalf felt a gust of cold air and beneath his hand sensed a small shiver. Had Frodo been hiding from him, mistaking him for Sauron?

“Little one, it is I, Gandalf. Can you hear me? You must believe that I am your friend, Bilbo’s friend.” Gandalf could feel Frodo wavering uncertainly.

“Bilbo? Gandalf?” At last, a soft reply in the murky darkness. Gandalf almost wept with relief. In his pain and confusion, Frodo must have been frightened that Sauron would also be able to touch his mind. Not the mind of the ethereal Frodo held captive in the tower, but that of the corporeal Frodo. Gandalf could only hope that Sauron could not.

“Yes, I am here, Frodo dear. I am here to help.” Gandalf caressed Frodo’s forehead to calm him. “There is little time. I must tell you first that I am going to use the Ring. You may not truly need to know this, but I wish you to know it.” Gandalf felt Frodo tense.

”I want to get to your other half, to find out where Sauron holds him. It will be easier for all of us if we know this prior to any attempt to make you one again.”

There was a break in the blackness and Frodo stepped tentatively toward Gandalf. “I have to go there too, don’t I, Gandalf? Can I do that?” Frodo’s voice was small and quivering, but there was also determination in it.

Gandalf took Frodo’s hand in his. “Have courage, Frodo. This is the only way.”

“So be it.”

Gandalf kissed Frodo’s forehead, and drew his hand away. He turned to Lord Elrond, who had been observing silently, and reached for the elf’s hand. Elrond knew what he had to do and what Gandalf wanted of him. He gave the wizard his right hand, bearing a great blue stone set in a gold band encircling his finger. Gandalf took the hand, kissed the ring and rose from his chair.

Standing face to face with the elven lord, Gandalf opened his left hand, revealing a heavy gold ring resting against his palm. The One Ring. It felt hot against his skin, but Gandalf held it nonetheless. He sighed heavily.

“I have you in my hands, mellon nin,” Elrond encouraged with a smile, gripping the wizard’s upper arms. “Vilya shall protect you. Sauron will not feel your presence.” Gandalf nodded, closing his eyes. He opened them again and gazed deeply into Elrond’s. He raised his hands and with great determination, slipped the One Ring onto his finger. Gandalf could feel Elrond’s hands tighten on his arms before everything became a blur and he vanished from sight.

TBC

AN: I really don’t want to do this – vanishing from sight for so long. But things keep coming in between and sometimes you just don’t know what to write. The process of writing is not always smooth. So I would like to ask for apology from any of you, and for those who keep reading, I would like to extend my greatest gratitude.

My thanks also to MBradford and Emma without whom this fic would never exist. Chapter 21 – Light in the Dark

# ~ # Down the Dungeon at Barad-dur # ~ #

The chills and warmth that formerly tormented him slipped Frodo’s mind. The torture-weakened eyes went exceptionally wide as they recognized the illuminated figure above him. It was nothing like the form that had put him under horrific trials. It was so unlike the fog that had come and gone, the fog that had brandished and withdrew instruments of torture. It did not bring fear with its presence. It was not a being that would be invisible at one moment, and the most appalling creature the next.

Frodo blinked. It had to be him. This could not be mistaken as the ruler of this cursed land. It could not be Sauron.

Frodo stared in amazement. It felt like he had never seen this person for a lifetime, the one who looked so familiar in his long, grey hair; kind, smiling eyes; and grey robe. It was this light engulfing his body that Frodo had never seen before.

But how could it be? Frodo knew he had yet to be rescued from Mordor. So how could Gandalf be present here, standing above his shuddering body and releasing him from his restraints?

“Gandalf?” called the hobbit again, trying his luck. Perhaps this was really Gandalf. But perhaps this was just some kind of a cruel tactic for Sauron to try on him. The thought sent another shiver wracking his half-naked body. What if that was true? What if Sauron had grown bored of playing with him physically and decided to play with his mind instead? Frodo realized the Dark Lord would do anything to get his Ring back. Frodo was up to a sitting position and scrambling backward when a soothing voice entered his mind.

“No. Do not run away, Frodo Baggins. I am really him. I am Gandalf.”

It might sound soft and kind but the fact that the figure talked to him through his mind unnerved Frodo. This was how the fog had been talking to him! Frodo cracked down and he closed his eyes, trying to do the same with his mind. His lips quavered as he attempted to shush the creature away. He would not dare to talk back, imagining the ill-treatment he would receive in return.

“Frodo, do not fear. Son of Drogo and Primula, open your eyes!”

Sauron could not have known his parents’ names, thought Frodo gingerly, and his eyes opened slowly. He was frozen in place, a hand flailing up at first intending to send Gandalf away, but now it reached out to touch the wizard. Trembling, the hand reached and reached, and Gandalf welcomed it. He grasped the the small, skinny hand in his strong one. Frodo gaped. He tried to pull his hand back but he could not. The wizard would not allow it.

Frodo was drowning in confusion. Gandalf would never be able to feel him, not in the state he was in. Frodo twisted his hand as much as his could.

“Let go! You’re not Gandalf! You’ll never be able to feel me, never!”

“Ssh! Don’t make a sound. Use your mind if you want to speak.” Gandalf was afraid Sauron would hear Frodo as he had shouted just now.

Frodo flinched. There were so many things he failed to comprehend.

Gandalf lowered himself.

“I’m not what I am although I do kneel down before you. I’m wearing the Ring, Frodo. That’s why I can come to this place.”

Frodo’s eyes opened even wider. Concern filled them. Sauron could come any time! He must have felt Gandalf’s presence.

The wizard tipped Frodo’s chin.

“No need to worry, little friend. Elrond helps me with his elven ring. The Ring of Air put me under its protection.”

The Ring of Air? Bilbo must have forgotten to tell him story about that one. What an incredible piece of jewelry it must be. But… would that mean he could go home soon? Frodo stared at the wizard pleadingly. His big eyes turned glassy.

“Gandalf, I want to go home.”

Gandalf’s heart broke at the plea. Bringing Frodo back to his body – perhaps not his home – was what he wanted to do more than anything. He could only pray everything would go as planned.

“Soon, my boy,” Gandalf went numb for a moment, hands clutching at Frodo’s shoulders. “Soon.”

Frodo took one of Gandalf’s hands and hugged it to his chest. The dam broke.. He wept and wept. He wanted to tell Gandalf anything, everything that had happened to him. All the pains and the sufferings Sauron had delivered upon him, all the torments he had to bear, and all his feelings – alone, despaired, degraded. Frodo could not stand all of them anymore.

He had been ready to die. He could not see a way out of this place. He did not dare to hope to see his friends again. Sam. Merry. Pippin. They were all mere shadows from a distant memory. Death had been his only expectation – and even that was denied by Sauron.

When he had been left alone in the dark, Frodo knew if he was not to die, he would surrender his sanity. He would not want to defy the Dark Lord anymore. Sauron could do anything to him but he would not get what he wanted from this Frodo - the Frodo that was trapped in this forsaken realm. Frodo had been ready to give up the last thing he had left – his mind.

But now hope had arisen yet again as did his fear. What if Gandalf failed to get him out? Frodo’s mind went to Sauron and he went limp as despair and trepidation returned full force.

Gandalf took pity at the feeble hobbit. He lowered Frodo down to the ground, a wordless gaze following him.

“I must go now, Frodo. I never want to leave you. Not at all. But I will return with your half, and we are all going home together.”

There was no response from the spirit Frodo. Not even a question as to why Gandalf did not come with the corporeal Frodo now. He could already picture the answer. He did not beg Gandalf to stay, though he could not imagine having to be alone in this place again.

Frodo merely stared. And closed his eyes. And drew his breath. Deeply.

TBC Chapter 22 – There Is No Life in the Void

~ * ~ In Rivendell ~ * ~

Frodo lifted his lids slowly to the sight of Gandalf taking off the Ring, and he drew a sharp intake of breath, swaying though he was lying in the bed, squeezing his eyes closed again. He felt pairs of hands grasping his arms and shoulders. From their concerned voices, Frodo knew they must have felt him shaking.

“Frodo! Keep awake!”

That was Sam’s voice.

“Cousin, Gandalf has returned. We’ll get you back soon, Frodo.”

That must be Merry.

From Pippin, Frodo could catch only soft sobs.

There were rustles next to him in his bed. A hand smoothed his curls back. Frodo gave up and opened his eyes, gazing numbly to the owner of the big, callused palm. The one that had just been with him not a long moment ago. Frodo shook harder.

“Gandalf…”

“Yes, Frodo. I’m back. We must be preparing for bringing the other part of you back now.”

A tall, slender figure came into sight behind Gandalf. Elrond nodded gracefully.

“That is right, Frodo. We should waste no time.”

Frodo reached for his coverlet and grasped it firmly to hide his quivering. His voice was all pain and wretchedness.

“Why do you leave him, Gandalf? He’s cold. And alone. You shouldn’t have left him there, Gandalf.” Frodo choked. “He – he will return to torment him more!” From the context everyone present in the room understood whom Frodo meant by the next He. Sauron. The Dark Lord.

Frodo’s lips quivered, parting a little as if he were about to say more. Yet nothing came out but silent tears.

Gandalf clasped him gently on the shoulder.

“I must return first in order to save him, Frodo, for I need to bring you there, too.”

Frodo’s eyes widened with terror.

“I’m not going there, Gandalf! He’ll capture me!”

“You will not go alone, Frodo,” Gandalf coaxed the curled up hobbit. “I’m going with you. I’ll shield you from harm’s way as much as I can, just as Elrond’s ring had protected me before. It will again as well.”

Elrond went to the head of the bed. Frodo looked up, eyes still glimmering with tears. I’m afraid… was said there.

“Don’t be afraid, little one. We all here will hold you and pull you back when we feel danger is close. And Gandalf is right. You won’t be alone. He shall go with you.”

“But how?” he asked after some time. Frodo seemed to forget his prior fear. He was no longer trembling. His fists upon the blanket were loosening. His spirit came back to him, with curiosity leading the way. Gandalf sensed this rising of the mettle and a smile spread across his face.

That’s my lad, thought the grey pilgrim. The lad he used to know: strong-willed and inquisitive.

“Come my boy.” Gandalf rose from the bed, taking both of Frodo’s hands, helping him awake. Frodo stepped down gingerly; braver he might be but his body was still weakened as it still held the remnants of the feeling from the tortures his other half had suffered. His two cousins and Sam promptly went to his side, making sure he was standing upright.

Gandalf took Frodo’s hand and took the One Ring from Elrond, who had been holding It since the wizard pulled It off. Gandalf positioned Frodo’s small finger to point upward and his own besides the hobbit’s. Then drawing a deep breath, he slowly brought the Ring to the two small fingers stuck to one another. The others could not help holding their breath, silently whispering whatever prayers they know while clutching at Frodo. Elrond began to chant his spells, his eyes fluttering close.

The Ring got closer and closer and in any moment It would circle around both Gandalf and Frodo’s fingers.

… when suddenly Frodo’s body arched forward, and a bloodcurdling scream was forced out of his throat.

# -- # -- #

~ * ~ In The Black Land ~ * ~

Sleeping. That was all Frodo could think of doing once Gandalf vanished from his sight. He stooped over the freezing ground. Crooking into a feral position, Frodo made an attempt to seek comfort. When he found none, he tilted his head, eyeing the corner of the murky cell and starting toward it.

Step by step Frodo went, dragging his wearied soul away from one stinging cold spot to another. Nothing could placate him here, and he was desperate for Gandalf’s return. The wizard had promised. He had promised to come back- to bring Frodo’s spirit half here. He had promised to reunite them, and to carry them back to…

“BUILDING YOUR CASTLE IN THE SKY?”

Frodo was very, very close to jumping out of his skin – if he ever had one – by the thunderous voice above him. He was sprawling on to his back, his limbs struggling to grasp anything to keep him up, his heels digging into the dirt for the same purpose.

He – It was back. The fog. The dark power that had not yet returned to its corporeal form yet still retained dreadful force. Frodo’s eyes drifted to the thick, metal egress and found in terror that it stayed locked. He did not hear it come. Yet he was not supposed to hear. How could he if it wafted afloat…

“Yes, I’m back,” roared the Dark Lord with more hushed voice than his previous welcome but with slight amusement in it. Frodo crept backward in an attempt to move further away from his captor. “You have not expected I shall overlook your presence and let you stay here in peace, have you?” The hobbit shook his head in despair.

“I – I did not--”

A claw put forth and sent Frodo sprawling even more with a crushing strike.

“Silence! I do not need your answers!”

Frodo wheezed, staring wildly at the faceless, and swelling form. Saying nothing. Thinking of nothing.

“You have not expected I shall know nothing about those plans of that beloved wizard of yours?”

There was a breath being caught.

“You have not expected I shall be idle once I find them out?”

Frodo could not think of anything anymore. Hopes and fears of things that Sauron might or might not do to him rushed into his mind. Not long ago he had wished he could just die so as he could escape this morbid land. But now that there was still hope, Frodo no longer wished that. He believed that Gandalf would come to him again soon. What he needed to do was simply stay alive.

“Stay alive?”

Frodo was jerked away from his muse. Flailing his hands and tossing and turning his head to the left and right, he spluttered weakly, “P-please.”

Only to be awarded with a shriek of heartless laughter.

“There is no life in the void, and you know that. There is only death!”

A horde of orcs broke through the door all of a sudden and grabbed Frodo up after giving him some doses of groping. Frodo could not let them be. He gave as much struggle as he could but all seemed to be in vain. Those revolting fingers gave more pressure on his arms and shoulders and some sneaked through his hair, leaving him limp.

“You have no more use to me - but do not hope that I shall just release you, lowly creature! You tire me and I get nothing from you so I think I shall just throw you into the fire of Mordor. That way you shall remain in the void – dead as everything should be!”

This time it was Frodo who let out the shriek. “You can’t do that! Let go of me! Please!” He was so frantic with his own squirming that he failed to notice a long poker brandished before his very nose.

“Oh, I almost forget,” said the fog with a nauseating gentleness. “I have not punished you properly for sketching an escape.” Then he thrust the smoldering poker into Frodo and jabbed his bare right shoulder.

Frodo felt the need to choke before he was reduced to a gibbering mess of screeching and writhing spirit.

TBC Taken

“Oh, I almost forget,” said the fog with nauseating gentleness, “I have not punished you properly for sketching an escape.” Then he thrust the smoldering poker into Frodo, jabbing his bare right shoulder and sizzling the hobbit’s pale, smooth skin.

Frodo felt the need to choke before he was reduced to a gibbering mess of screeching and writhing spirit.

Chapter 23 – A Breach Into the Void

~ * ~ In Rivendell ~ * ~

Even while guarding their friend, neither Sam, Merry, nor Pippin, was able to grab Frodo as he was slammed back onto the bed. Not even Elrond, directly facing the hobbit, had thought he could scream like that or cast himself down so violently. The elf lord frowned, lines of worry deepening on his face. If Frodo was being thrown about by someone or something unknown, they might never learn its identity.

All of their mouths gapped open at the sight of a broken hobbit under seemingly unending torments. Frodo bucked, twisted, and turned in his bed, eyes squeezed shut, his left hand clenching at his shoulder. The scream died down, interjected by incoherent moans as weariness slowly subdued him, leaving the hobbit breathless, struggling for every gulp of air.

Their own frozen spell finally dissipated and the hobbits rushed to the bed. Three pairs of small hands shook Frodo to wake him up, to force him desperately back into reality. Realizing what was happening, Gandalf ran to the unconscious halfling, gently shushing the others but he dared not shove the hobbits away, knowing how terrified and worried they were. Instead, the wizard scooped Frodo gently up by his shoulders, wincing as the hobbit jerked away. He jiggled Frodo a little, tenderly murmuring to him as if he were a babe. Frodo groaned and whimpered, his eyes tightly closed.

“Ah, no. Hurt… Stop – stop, please.”

Gandalf could barely make out the tormented hobbit’s garbled words.

“Frodo,” coaxed Gandalf, whispering into his ear so the others would not hear. “What is he doing to you?”

The hobbit’s mouth jarred open, crying wordlessly. His breaths were ragged. “Burn…” Frodo’s face contorted in agony. “Mark… He is marking me.”

Gandalf gasped at the hobbit’s chilling words, and although he tried to hide his fear from the others, his lips curved deeply into a frown. This could not be happening. Frodo must not back away or everything would be left suspended again. He had to act for the longer they delayed, the longer Frodo would be in agony, enduring whatever pains Sauron wantonly inflicted upon this little creature of the Shire, hardly even near his par. Anger replaced fear as Gandalf brushed Frodo’s drenched hair. Finally, the hobbit opened his eyes and the wizard flinched despite himself, seeing the halfling’s terrified gaze.

“Frodo, he… he can do worse if we don’t act now,” Gandalf tried to persuade, staring deeply into the hobbit’s semiconscious gaze, “and he will.”

Wild fear flashed again across those eyes, followed by a violent shudder. When he parted his lips, only a faint sigh was heard. Or what sounded like a sigh.

“I – I want to go home, Gandalf,” came faintly out of Frodo’s trembling lips.

And that was all the wizard needed.

# -- # -- #

~ * ~ In Mordor ~ * ~

Frodo reeled and stumbled when his hair was wrenched upward, while at the same time he was being pushed. The remains of his retch dripped upon his bare chest, its smell almost making him heave again. Vaguely he heard a soft, almost compassionate laugh. But as Frodo lifted his head and gazed upwards, he immediately knew it was not compassionate at all, for the thing didn’t know the meaning of the word. Scoffing at him was what the fog wanted. To disgrace him and torment him was its delight.

“You know what’s coming, do you not?” Sauron’s silky-smooth voice made Frodo cringe. “You know where we’re going now?”

Frodo was hanging helplessly between two hideous orcs, each taking one of his arms, while one gripped his hair fast, forcing his gaze forward toward the shrinking and swelling fog. Frodo shook his head weakly as his only answer to the Dark Lord’s query. But no, he could not guess what else Sauron could do to him and no, he did not know where they were going next. And he did not want to know--but neither did he want to provoke any more punishment.

Frodo was not surprised when Sauron laughed again, more loudly this time.

“Clever, clever lad!” The fog hissed.

The two orcs holding him were shaking with laughter.

“Finally you learn your lesson, little halfling?” smirked the fog. “Too bad, it’s too late now since the time for playing with you is over. You cannot deliver the Ring so your value is nil. You will die now.”

Despite his restrained state, Frodo snapped in utter shock. I can’t die now! No! I have to go home. I want to go home!

“Oh yes, you can,” hissed Sauron again, effortlessly reading his mind. “In fact, you should have died a long time ago.”

Frodo could not recall when the rod suddenly brandished in the fog’s hand, and neither did he see when the hand instantaneously angled it towards his face. The metal hit hard against the halfling, delivering a white-hot pain behind his eyes before blackness mercifully engulfed him.

# -- # -- #

~ * ~ Between Mordor and Rivendell ~ * ~

It had all happened before Gandalf’s very eyes. Everyone held their breaths when he suddenly slipped the Ring around his and Frodo’s little fingers – and the trinket seemed to grow, encircling both at once. Gandalf could not keep the shock from his eyes as Frodo’s body grew heavy and the wizard’s arms sagged under its weight. But blessed by the Valar, the grey wizard was ready for any likely situation. He immediately circled his other arm around Frodo’s waist and sneaking a quick look at he halfling, he knew Frodo had lost consciousness. Gritting his teeth vehemently, Gandalf wondered what Sauron had done to Frodo’s other half this time. He tightened his hold on the hobbit’s body as both their souls drifted across the terrain between Rivendell and Mordor.

Moving away from the green, lush land of the elves…towards the foggy realm of the Dead Marshes…getting closer each minute to the barren, dark land of Gorgoroth.

Gandalf shuddered despite himself—for he was untested—both in this undertaking and against this dreaded foe. But he would save Frodo or extinguish his life-force trying.

The distant, murky haze gradually gave ground and Gandalf saw the Dark Tower looming with Orodruin beside him and – Gandalf gasped, almost losing his grasp of Frodo – there, welded in conceit, was The Eye, blinding and mind-numbing and contemptuous.

Evil incarnate.

Gandalf braced his nerves, not thinking of himself but of the valor of the small hobbit at his side, who had been captive so long…yet who still subsisted.

“Hold on, Frodo,” whispered Gandalf, with more bravado in his voice than in his heart. “We are almost to your other half. We will save you both, I promise!”

And to Gandalf’s relief, Frodo stirred slightly in his arms.

# -- # -- #

~ * ~ Orodruin ~ * ~

The place reeked of sulfur and moldy rocky slopes and the erstwhile stretch of time. The heat of molten rocks and blistering fire reached Frodo’s skin painfully as he wheezed in dread. He opened his eyes and while not recognizing the place – knew he was inside a mountain. He wrinkled his nose as the terrible smell assaulted his nostrils and he twisted around, determined to flee.

Frodo only then realized that he was restrained--by two pairs of burly orc-arms. Although a lazy laugh came from behind, Frodo forced himself not to turn around. He fixed his eyes instead on the grim sight before him: a long, rock-strewn path that led to a fiery abyss.

The hobbit was helplessly engulfed with regret and self-pity. So this is what it had come to, he thought bitterly. All his hopes of saving Middle Earth and doing his duty to his friends. His heart sank deeper into despair as he considered what the fire would soon devour: a captured, pitiful soul named Frodo. A failure.

Bile swelled up in his throat and he swallowed back a sob as he wondered if his other half would die as well. He again considered the Ring and the horrendous way he had failed Gandalf and his fellow hobbits. He would die gladly if only…

“Awww.” A mocking sigh came from somewhere above and behind him. Frodo squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting thoughts of Sauron to sneak into him, to be his last living memory. But he was nonetheless helpless, even in this, as the evil Lord grabbed his hair and wrenched his face backward, forcing him to look up at the fog one last time.

“You should not feel sad for your failure, you stupid, little creature.” Sauron knew just how to torment a mortal soul and he didn’t hesitate to send this one into an eternal anguish of suffering. “But you should be ashamed.”

Frodo closed his eyes again.

“Yes, yes, you heard me! Ashamed is what I said!”

“Your precious Gandalf told you to bring my Ring somewhere and even that simple task you could not fulfill. You should have known better and brought It to me, instead!” The imperceptible hand holding Frodo’s hair shook his head unceasingly and violently, as though the hobbit was a worthless rag doll.

“If you had, your friends would have been saved. But for your foolishness and arrogance, now they will suffer—more than you could ever dream possible.”

The hobbit gazed impassively up at his captor, limping in the orcs’ hands, all attempts to struggle drained from him. Nothing Sauron could say was worse than his own self-recrimination.

He didn’t even feel it when the orcs released him for a moment before securing both his arms at his back firmly with heavy chains, looping the end snugly around his neck. In his mind, all that replayed, over and over, was condemnation as Sauron’s words solidified his greatest horror, verified the truth he had long denied.

His friends would suffer terribly for his failure.

Yes, he was a failure. He deserved nothing better than to die down in the red-hot cracks of Doom. But his friends, dearest Sam, his brave, loyal cousins, Merry and Pippin, Aragorn and all the others. They did not deserve it. They did not…they did not…

Frodo pleaded wordlessly to the Valar in one last dying hope, not for himself but for those he loved. He was almost entirely lost when he heard the voice again. Gandalf?

Feeling small and weary, he broke into silent tears as he was dragged, unresisting, to the edge of the opening.

“Hold on, Frodo.”

TBC

Chapter 24 – Snatch

~ * ~ Orodruin ~ * ~

“Hold on, Frodo.”

The voice, though amiable, sounded like thunder, thumping in his heart and banging against the walls of his mind, urging him not to simply snap.

Gandalf.  Frodo’s mind shook.  I cannot hold on.  I do not deserve it.

There was another thunderous sound, but this one was far from friendly.  Mockingly, even, Sauron echoed, “You deserve nothing!”  Then he was gesturing towards Orodruin as he addressed the Orcs. “What are you waiting for, rats?  Throw him down now!”

It was as though rolls and rolls of thick, grey clouds were spinning in Frodo’s mind, swathing it and impeding it from hearing Gandalf’s words, forcing it instead to recall memories from the past—something that usually happened to a dying person.

Pippin sent him sprawling on his back in the midst of Farmer Maggot’s cornfields.

Sam, hesitating to take a step further away from the Shire, accepted his hand.

Gandalf caught him with ease as he leapt into the Wizard’s cart.

Bilbo pulled him into his arms as the thunder and lightning wakened him terrified and trembling in his first night at Bag End.

His mama smiled and placed a tender kiss on his brow before he went to sleep the night before he found out that it was the very last time he ever saw her smile.

It finally came to Frodo that he was indeed dying, and he was not about to defy the will of the Valar.  His shoulders slumped, and his arms surrendered to the orcs’ paws.  The Ring was safe in his companions’ hands; that much was enough for him now.  Someone—anyone—would have to pick up where he left off.  The sound of Sauron’s laughter in the background might as well stay a background; let him laugh at Frodo’s pitiful memories, sneer at the fact that Frodo was giving up.  Because he was not giving up.  He simply wanted this to be over.  They were stalling enough trying to save him, and they did not have to anymore.

Suddenly, a forceful grip closed on the back of Frodo’s neck, shoving him further from the edge of the cliff over the crackling and hissing flames whose scorching heat slapped against his face.  Frodo choked, his head arching backward, and, as much as he did not want to shun his destiny, it was instinct to defend himself that drove him to strain against the orcs’ clutches.  He was a mere spirit here, with no corporeal body that could be reduced to ashes, but the spirit would surely die in the fire.  And if he died here, his other half would follow suit.

He was pushed further and further, and suddenly his feet were kicking air.  This is it.  Frodo sniffed inwardly.  Mama, Papa, I shall finally meet you again.

“Sauron, halt!”

No other creatures ever dared tell him to stop.  Sauron, or the contracting mist, hissed and squeezed Frodo’s neck for the last time before turning around, growling in wrath.  But he welcomed the sight before him with a content smirk.

“Gandalf.” He seemed to nod, and then his gaze lowered. “And the Halfling himself.”

The spirit-Frodo tensed, wrenching himself around.  Then his eyes bulged, stinging with unshed tears.  He—Gandalf—was back, and… and himself.  They had come for him.  He was going home.

~ * ~ Rivendell ~ * ~

Everyone straightened as Gandalf’s command to Sauron reverberated against the four walls of Frodo’s room.  Pippin grasped Merry’s hand, and Merry squeezed it, every single intent to comfort his younger cousin apparent in that simple gesture.  Sam, who was standing the closest to Frodo’s bedside, glanced at Strider, who nodded slightly back at him.

“Be prepared, Samwise,” Strider said softly.  “When Gandalf says something about the Ring, you must do it quickly.”

Sam’s face blanched—he was not used to being the one that others reliant upon.  If he failed, Frodo would die.  He just couldn’t fail…  Sam swallowed nervously but nodded his head nevertheless.

~ * ~ Orodruin ~ * ~

Gandalf fingered Elrond’s ring on his left hand as he turned to face Frodo, who was shaking slightly despite the strong determination on his face.

“Are you ready, my lad?”

Frodo tilted his head up, responding through the flicker in his eyes.  Gandalf’s expression softened, pity flashing briefly through his eyes as he was reminded of the torment and agony the little one had been going through. 

But the question alarmed Sauron.

“You are not setting up something foolish, are you, Gandalf?”

The Wizard kept silent then, noting that some of the orcs that were not holding the other half of the Halfling had positioned themselves around him and Frodo.  Sauron scoffed at the dread on Gandalf’s features.

“I see that you have not become brighter, my friend Gandalf.  You haven’t tried to save that one; you even bring another for a pleasure that shall be mine alone.”

“Release Frodo, Sauron.  All you desire is the Ring, and I bring It to you.”

Sauron laughed with glee.

“I have been trying to make him surrender It to me.” He nodded toward Frodo, dangling hopelessly in the orcs’ hands.  “He is just stubborn to think that he can hold It back from me.  He shouldn’t have had to pay for his obstinacy.”

To his dismay, pride was what came out of Gandalf’s mouth.

“That’s our Frodo.”

“Silence!” Sauron roared, his patience thinning.  “My Ring, Gandalf,” he growled.

“Bring forth Frodo!” Gandalf insisted, “and summon back all your worthless followers here, or else.”

Low rumbles were heard from the contracting fog, and it stirred, eventually complying with what Gandalf asked.  The orcs withdrew, save the two that came forward dragging a sagging Hobbit.  They snarled, as though disagreeing with their master’s decision, but Sauron barked at them, making the creatures cringe and submit at once.  They ditched Frodo none too gently not too far from Gandalf, who had trouble stopping the other Frodo from running to his missing half, and snuck backward.

“Frodo, wait!  It won’t do if you pull yourself out of the Ring,” hissed Gandalf, grasping the Hobbit’s upper arm with his free hand.

“Gandalf…” Sauron whispered, threatening.

Gandalf measured the Dark Lord through narrowed eyes.

“Patience, my friend.”  This time he was the one who was mocking, edging toward the spirit-Frodo who gaped at him full of hope but still not looking down.  “You will get your precious soon.”  Gandalf reached out his hand, and Frodo accepted it gratefully.

“But I have a small problem here, Sauron.  My hands are full.  How about if you help yourself with the Ring?”  Then Gandalf tilted his head up and shouted out, “Sam, now.  Pull It out, lad.  NOW!”

~ * ~ Rivendell ~ * ~

Samwise did not see anything, and neither did his fellow hobbits, the elf, or the man in the room, but they all heard everything Gandalf was saying, thanks to Elrond’s ring, and they certainly heard his urging command.  Sam had stayed close to Gandalf and Frodo when they disappeared after they put on the Ring, and he felt it when Gandalf inched forward by the warm feeling of the wizard’s breath.  Sam did not dawdle; he felt around, and suddenly… that was it—Gandalf and Frodo’s fingers, which were affixed together by the Ring.  Sam felt Its coldness, and he pulled It with all his might.

TBC

Sam almost could not believe his eyes.  How long had it passed since they lost him in that inn in Bree?  Merely days, mayhap, but dreadful must be such an understatement.  His master had yet to awaken two days now after Gandalf had brought him back from Sauron’s clutches in Mordor.

Sam's chair squeaked as he dragged it closer to Frodo’s bed, but that was as far as he could go.  Frodo looked so pale, frail, as if he would fall apart if anyone dared lay hands on him.  Sam leant forward and slowly rested his arms on the velvet-covered mattress, burying his head in his hands and heaving a deep sigh.

His master was alive.  That was all that mattered now.