~ 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