Disclaimer: All the characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

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Author's note: This dream is by far the darkest that I have written (and that I will write). There are two parts to this dream, the first part of which is posted below. My plan is to post the second on or near March 13th. While for some, this dream may not seem too dark (indeed, they may wonder what I'm making a fuss about) but for me it seems very dark. I imagine that some readers might be like me (not inured to horror, and subject to overactive imagination), so I do wish to give warning that there is no real happy ending to this one, and that there is some nastiness in both parts to the dream. Please heed this chapter's rating (R, horror) and do not read if you have any doubt about your tolerance levels.

The five lines of verse at the beginning of the chapter are from The Fellowship of the Ring, from the chapter "At the Sign of the Prancing Pony."

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Touched by Evil, Part I

~ * ~

The round Moon rolled behind the hill,

as the Sun raised up her head.

She hardly believed her fiery eyes;

For though it was day, to her surprise

they all went back to bed!

~ * ~

The man chuckled. "What unusual songs you halflings have. But they are merry, and they make me want to dance."

Frodo laughed too, a little out of breath. He sat down in the large wicker chair. "Then perhaps Gondor could do with some foolish songs. But you will find little of high beauty in our tales. Hobbits are peaceful folk, and although we can appreciate them, they do not come naturally to us."

"They seem to come naturally to you though, Ring-bearer. And I have heard your song sung in this city: 'Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom.'"

Frodo smiled and shook his head. "Sam loves that song. And it gives me joy to watch him listen to it. But, if you would forgive me, I promised that I would meet him. I would not be late if I could help it."

"Certainly!" The Gondorian soldier stood. "I thank you, Ring-bearer, for sharing this time with me. Until now, halflings were but a mystery to me, known only recently through oft-repeated and mistaken rumours. You have favoured me with your kindness by teaching me true tales of your folk."

"It was my pleasure," Frodo replied. He bowed and left the stone courtyard.

* * *

Frodo leaned over the stone-work and closed the windows, fastening them tight against the weather. Rain drummed steadily upon the roof. There was no wind. It was dark, and one candle was lit on a small table near his bed. Gandalf and Sam had retired to their own rooms and Merry and Pippin were talking quietly before the fire in the main room of the house they all shared.

Frodo sat back down on his bed, and his cheerful afternoon meeting with the Gondorian soldier came back to him.

Frodo of the Nine Fingers.

He looked at his hand. Four fingers. He held them up against the light of the candle. The flame gleamed around a pattern of three. To the right, it shone steadily through empty space. Finally, it cast a thin shadow of one small finger.

Frodo slowly passed his hand back and forth in front of the flame. His eyes unfocused. Now a triplet of blurry shadows played next to clear empty light and, still, a single indistinct shadow stood, separated from the others.

Ring-bearer.

He unfastened his tunic and put it aside. The soft cotton undertunic followed. He looked down but could not see what he had half expected would be there: a perfect small circle upon his breast. Even now he could feel it: the smooth heavy roundness that had lain against him and that had burned him near the end -- even if the burning were only in his mind.

There was no mark, nor had there ever been one.

Frodo laughed ruefully. If he could bear the mark of one of his titles, shouldn't he also bear the other?

He twisted his head to look at his left shoulder. Ah! There, at least, was the mark of the Morgul blade: a small white mark upon the shoulder. He traced it with the tip of his finger. Unlike the stub of his missing finger, this scar did not hurt. In fact, he could not feel it at all. Feeling in that one spot had never returned even after he was healed in Rivendell. Never, that is, unless a Ring-wraith were nigh. But the Ring-wraiths were no more and the scar was quiet.

He stopped tracing and slowly reached his hand further over his shoulder. His fingers searched out the small rough patch of skin at the back of his neck. He had never seen this scar, nor had anyone described it to him. He wondered, now, what it looked like. So little did he know about this one.

He shuddered. He had never even fully seen the creature that had stung him; the great spider had been only a cluster of eyes that glittered in the light of Galadriel's Phial. He had had only the vague impression of arching legs and the memory of the creature's overwhelming stench. But only Sam had seen the full horror of the sight, and Sam had never described that to him either. Nor had Frodo ever asked.

Now, however, the scar had his attention. What did it look like?

So intent was Frodo on this thought that he briefly considered asking Merry or Pippin to look at it, but some reluctance stopped him. He thrust the thought from his mind and lay down, drawing the covers over him. He closed his eyes.

* * *

Sam shut the door carefully and crossed the room. Behind Frodo, the windows rattled against the casement. The wind howled.

Sam shivered. "I'm right glad we're all indoors tonight. I would hate to have to sleep outside in that weather!"

"Sam," said Frodo softly. "Could you do something for me?"

"Of course, Mr. Frodo. What is it?" Sam sat on the edge of the bed.

Frodo sat up. "Could you..." he hesitated. Sam looked at him curiously. "Could you look at the back of my neck? Tell me what you see."

Sam frowned but nodded. "All right."

So Frodo turned towards the windows and bent his head forward. He felt Sam's hands carefully brush his hair away.

There was silence for a moment and then --

"I had wondered what that would look like," Sam said quietly, "but I never thought I should ask to see it, really."

Frodo could bear it no longer.

"What does it look like?" he pressed.

It was Sam's turn to hesitate. Frodo felt Sam's warm fingers run over the scar. His own skin felt cold.

"Begging your pardon for saying this, sir, but it looks rather like a spider."

Frodo shuddered. "Why do you say that?"

"Well," said Sam and he paused. "There's this middle part, you see. It's dark. Blue-ish black, as it seems to me. It feels rough." Sam's fingers lightly traced patterns over skin that Frodo could not see. "And outwards... there are lines. A bit wriggly, perhaps. Odd looking."

One by one, the tip of a finger traced feather-light outwards from the centre. "But I can't feel the lines. Only see them."

Eight times the finger traced its path. Frodo shivered again.

"Do you think," he said, uncertainly, "do you think that Aragorn... or... someone should see it?"

Sam withdrew his fingers and sat back. "I don't know what good it would do. Unless it is hurting you."

Frodo shook his head mutely.

"Besides, nobody should be out on such a night. Couldn't it wait until morning?"

"I suppose so," said Frodo reluctantly. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, Sam." He lay back down and did not watch Sam leave.

* * *

He could not rightly say what woke him. There was no noise -- even the wind had stopped. Frodo sat up, and the whisper of his skin across the linen bedding seemed loud in the stillness.

He frowned and briefly considered fetching a cup of water. He was suddenly, unaccountably, thirsty. But he was loth to leave the bed or set his feet upon the cold ungiving flagstones. The two impulses warred within him... until a third won over them both.

Once more he reached up over his left shoulder with his right hand. But even before he came to the spot high on the back of his neck, he could feel it: thick ropy tendrils that stretched in all directions.

He snatched his hand away as if burned. Sam's words came back to him: I can't feel the lines. Only see them.

"Sam!" he cried, but the words stuck in his throat. Again he tried: "Sam!" But all that came was a ragged whisper. Staggering from the bed, he caught his foot in the bedding and he fell heavily to the floor. Blindly he fought with the blankets. Free at last, he stumbled for the door and wrenched it open.

The house was dark. Sam's room, he thought. But as he tried to run, it felt as if something was pulling him back. He reached forward, but his legs did not move and for the second time he crashed painfully to the floor.

Lying, face against the stone, he heard the sound of running feet. Gandalf's voice rang out over him. "What happened?"

"I don't know, sir," came Sam's voice. "He's been a bit funny all evening..."

"My neck," Frodo whispered. He couldn't move. "Look at my neck."

"That's what he's been sayin' all evening. I told him..."

"Look at it!" Frodo cried.

Gandalf knelt and pulled his hair aside.

There was silence, only broken by a sudden indrawn gasp. Who it was that made the sound, Frodo did not know, but suddenly he was swept up into Gandalf's arms.

A door slammed behind them and he could hear the wizard shouting over his shoulder. Gandalf shouting? he thought.

"...summon the Healers and send a message to the King!"

Breathing was difficult. He was being jolted up and down. Gandalf was running. I have never seen Gandalf run before. No. I have. In Moria.

They were not in Moria now. And Gandalf, if possible, seemed frightened. A wizard, frightened? Only a Balrog could frighten a wizard.

The ways of the City were empty and still as they swept up from the Fifth Level to the Sixth. Frodo shut his eyes tightly and turned his face towards Gandalf's robes. A cold hard knot of fear was in his belly. He felt dizzy.

Gandalf still ran and it seemed to Frodo that the further they went, the more lights began to appear in the windows of houses and a commotion began to be heard: a swelling of unrest and disquiet.

* * *

He was laid upon a bed in the Houses of Healing. Healers, among them the Warden, surrounded him. Aragorn looked down at him, his brow furrowed. The healers whispered among themselves.

"Can you sit up, Frodo?" Gandalf asked him gently.

Frodo sat and as he stared up at all the eyes looking down at him, he slowly unbuttoned his nightshirt. Filled with shame, he pulled it down past his shoulders and he lowered his head.

For a moment, no-one moved. Finally, someone whispered, "What is it?"

Another said, "I tended him as he slept in Ithilien. It wasn't there then!"

"What does it mean?" asked a third.

The Warden sat on the edge of the bed. Frodo looked at him, then hastily averted his eyes. Suddenly his right shoulder was gripped firmly by one hand. Frodo waited. Then, cautiously, slowly, the Warden touched his neck.

Soft bloated tissue moved. Ripples spread with lightning speed throughout the tendrils. The Warden sprang back, off and away from the bed. Several voices rang out at once. And through the commotion, the King's voice could be heard.

"Gandalf -- do you understand this? I have never seen such a thing!"

Frodo crossed his arms over his stomach and bent forward until his face was hidden amongst the blankets. He felt sick and dizzy. An odd pain was building at his neck.

Gandalf's voice was heavy with regret and edged with something else. "Frodo has been touched by evil. I have seen this before, in ages past." His voice sharpened. "But while it is on him, he is in danger and so are you. It must be destroyed."

Frodo felt someone kneel on the bed beside him and large hands closed around his upper arms. Aragorn's voice, roughened with some emotion, came from nearby.

"And how are we to do that?"

The answer came firmly with no hesitation. "It must be cut from him and burned. Now. As quickly as possible. While we still can."

* * *

The messengers had returned, bringing that which had been ordered by the healers. Frenzied whispering went on among those who remained. Frodo was sitting now, but as he looked around the room, eyes slid away from his glance. No-one would meet his gaze. No-one save Gandalf and Aragorn. Yet their regard of him held little comfort.

Then Sam was there, beside him. Almost weeping, Frodo leaned towards him, as if to fling his arms around Sam's neck, but Aragorn pulled him back.

"No, Frodo. Lest by chance he touches it. That must not happen."

Before Frodo could reply, the Warden knelt before him, holding a cup of what seemed to be strong red wine.

"Drink this, as quickly and as much as you can." His voice was not unkind.

Hands trembling, Frodo took the cup and drank. It was strong and he coughed. But other hands tipped the cup against his mouth and he was given no time to recover. The drink was strong and sweet. It filled his mouth and he gagged. "Drink," voices urged and he drank, rivulets of wine spilling over his chin.

More voices: "Someone must hold him up."

"It can't be done with him lying down. Not with it where it is."

Then Aragorn's firm voice came. "I will hold him." And when there were protests, he overrode them. "It will not touch me. I will not allow it."

The King sat upon the bed and large heavy cloths were laid over his right shoulder and arm. And as Frodo watched this being done, Aragorn looked at him gently. "Come, Frodo. Sit against me. Lay your head on my shoulder. Quickly now."

So Frodo sat against the King with his back to the rest of the room. His legs were wrapped around Aragorn's hips. He trembled as healers' hands stripped him to the waist. More hands took his arms and drew the right over Aragorn's left shoulder and the left under and around the King's right arm and side. His head was pulled forward over the Man's right shoulder.

And as he gazed fearfully over the shoulder at Sam, a healer took his hands, drew them across the King's back and bound them fast together.

"Don't," Frodo whispered and pulled at the bonds. "I will be still. Don't tie me. Please."

Aragorn's arms encircled him. "I'm sorry, Frodo." The arms tightened their grip.

But at the very last, it was Sam who set the thickly folded cloth in Frodo's mouth and who carefully smoothed the dark curls away from the neck now laid bare.

And then, Frodo felt the first thin touch of metal upon his skin.

To be continued...