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