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Dark shadows loomed over him. Consumed by a black, empty vastness conveying no light and hope, seductive whispers told him to give up the Ring to the Dark Lord thus be rewarded for his obedience. Tempting promises of a cessation of suffering echoed in his tired, befuddled mind.
But he would not yield. He did not want to submit to the darkness, seeking to take over his soul and mind. Instead he forced himself to think about the Shire, about his dear friends… but even those happy memories were tainted with shadows, seemingly less clear than before....
Frodo woke with in a cold sweat, but waking only brought upon more pain upon his shoulder and impenetrable cold. The nightmare lingered in his mind about salvation, the promise of respite from misery and torment if he put on the Ring. Shivering, he clutched the horrible object with hatred, and his will stirred. He had been foolish once in Weathertop, and was resolute not to yield again. Determined to make it to Rivendell, no matter how difficult it would be, he knew that giving up was not a choice. He would rather endure than submit to the evil desires of the wretched Ring-wraiths.
But even with those thoughts of determination, they could not combat the sense of irrepressible cold and intense pain that seemed to have redoubled with the passage of time. Frodo had lost track of the amount of time that had passed since Weathertop, and even less conscious upon how many more days till they would reach Rivendell… If he could even make it at all.
Their discovery of the trolls and finding out about one of Bilbo’s stories come true was comforting for Frodo. Along with Sam’s song about the trolls and Aragorn, Merry and Pippin’s constant care for him, Frodo was indeed heartened by their unceasing help to him through this difficult time.
Glorfindel’s arrival gave him one last measure of hope that he would make it to Rivendell yet. His voice was like a song out of legends that were only thought to be stories from Bilbo. Yet his presence did make a slight difference to retain hope.
But physically, Glorfindel nor anyone could help with the increasing difficulty of seeing clearly. Things had started fading into a ghostly grey during the daylight hours. He was becoming increasingly desperate and fearful, and he truly wondered at his capacity to endure any longer. Weariness seemed to envelope him, though cold pain radiated constantly from the wound making sleep difficult. Riding upon Asfaloth, he again entered the world of dark nightmares, requiring the need of the sub-conscious to fight off those intangible shadows which sought to further decrease his energy level.
Yet it did not combat his will, his determination to make it, no matter how hard it would be.
A/N-For Iorhael in June 2007
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