The boundaries which divide life from death are best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

~Edgar Allen Poe~

Time is immeasurable in this land. I used to count days by how many times I eat: three meager meals of stale bread and moldy cheese with a pitcher of vinegar to quench my thirst. I have lost count. I keep hidden in the corner of my cell, hungry, beaten, dirty. My shackles cut my tender skin. I do not speak, for to speak would earn a lashing from my jailor's whip.

Not that it'd matter whether I speak or not. It doesn't matter that I am beaten or starved (three small meals such as what I am given is hardly enough to give a Hobbit!), nothing they do to me will change anything.

It won't bring Sam back. Or erase the image of my cousins' heads held high on pikes. Or that Aragorn's lifeless body was laid at the feet of Sauron. Or that Legolas was impaled. Or that Gimli was fed to a troll. Or that Gandalf—the only one of the Fellowship other than me who still lives as far as I know—is in hiding.

I will not hold it against him if he abandoned me to my fate. I deserve to be abandoned. I failed. There is no worse fate than living, knowing you are the one who held the fate of the world in your hands and letting it all slip away.

It would be merciful of them to kill me as they have my friends (no matter how gruesome their fate, they do not suffer any more), and let my misery end. But the Dark Lord delights in my sorrow. He will not kill me yet. Not until there is nothing he can take from me except my life.

I was right there. Why did I let it take me at the very moment I could destroy it? After coming all this way, how could I let it take me?

The door swings open, creaking. The cell is filled with light, burning my eyes. Is it time to eat again?

"Get up, Dog!" My jailor shrieks, pulling me to my feet by my hair. I prop myself against the wall as he unchains me from it. He grabs my hair again, dragging me out of the cell.

Are they finally going to kill me? I push aside such hope.

I ignore the leering grins of the Orcs and Goblins who watch us pass by. I'm lead down until we are in the Great Hall. The jailor pushes me down to kneel before the Dark Lord.

Sauron reclines on a throne made of rock. His silver hair is braided back, draped over one shoulder. His elfish appearance is marred by his fire-red eyes.

The Orc leaves, doors banging behind him. I don't bother standing or looking up.

"I am sorry, Frodo." His cold fingers—needles against my skin—press against my chin, forcing me to look up into his eyes. "The last few weeks have not been kind. But it is all well now. The campaign is over and I stand victorious before this world. Until this moment, I needed them to believe that their savior was dying in my prison."

"Then kill me."

"Why?"

"Please kill me. You showed the same kindness to my companions. You have won. What purpose is there for keeping me alive?"

Sauron removes his hand just as I was getting used to the touch. "Stand. Come with me." I obey only because I haven't any other choice.

He leads me into a long hallway and I follow despite how hard it is to walk. At the end of the corridor is a door. Reaching into his robe pocket, Sauron produces a key. It was not a typical key with grooves along one side or a fat head. It was more a wand or a long stick with a sharp round blade. He inserts the oddly designed key into a hole where it fits snuggly, ramming it in, then out. Locks unhinge and the doors swing inward.

The room within is nothing like the rest of the palace. It is almost a Hobbit Hole, not unlike Bag End.

There are windows allowing me to look outside (not that I'd want to. Mordor is still a barren wasteland). There is a bookshelf—three bookshelves filled from top to bottom with books of all styles and shapes and sizes! There is an armchair and a couch, both a light brown color. Warming the floor is a green rug with an oak coffee table on top of it.

A sizeable hearth with proper tools for care—a poker, broom, and dustpan—stand beside it. There are several logs piled up besides it and a collection of matchboxes. A warm fire crackles and snaps embers within it. Above the hearth is a mantelpiece with different memorabilia. Sting is there! It is encased in glass, glowing blue. I doubt its light will ever die so long as I am here. A clock read the time as eleven. But was it morning? Or was it night?

There is a hallway leading to a kitchen and dining room. And perhaps a bedroom and study? I don't know.

"There is no need for you to be any more uncomfortable than you already are," he said, pushing me into the room as a parent would push a shy child. "I hope it is to your liking. I tried to have it become as near a replica of our home in the Shire as possible."

"What do you mean our home?"

"Whether you wish to admit so or not, I lived in Bag End with Bilbo for sixty years. With you for nearly half that time. It was my home too." Sauron smiled. It was such an odd thing to see on his face that I felt taken aback that someone so evil could be capable of such a kind expression. "There is food already prepared for you in the kitchen. Go and eat as much as you are able."

As he spoke, two Orcs stepped in. There was something different about them. They were lithe as some are, but there was some sort of…well, if I were to admit it, something distinctly feminine about them from the way they carried themselves. Their deformed skin was less unpleasing to look upon. Their ears were slighter and their eyes larger.

Until then, I hadn't thought of that Orcs had females of their race. Perhaps they kept their women hidden. Or their women were merely indistinguishable to me until now.

"When you've had your fill, a bath will be ready for you."

I bite my tongue to stop the automatic "thank you" on the tip of it. The refusal to give my gratitude to Sauron left a lingering, sour aftertaste on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I went to wash it off with the food laden on the table with food I normally ate at Elevensies.

Ham slices warmed by stovetop, hash potatoes with ketchup, strawberries and cream, cheese scones….

I swallowed, sitting down. My hand shot out, like a predator on its prey, seizing a scone. Either I forgot I wasn't alone or I simply didn't care that my manners at that moment were atrocious. I dismissed the twinge in my heart and my head telling me to slow down and be proper for goodness sakes! But I would not let propriety get in the way of regaining a proper Hobbity paunch.

I halt, almost choking on a scone, when I feel I press of lips to the top of my head. "Eat to your heart's desire, Frodo. I will join you for dinner tonight and we will talk more."

I don't know what to make of that. My skin is crawling and my appetite is lost. I swallow what is already in my mouth and wash it down with tea before shooing the servants away to bathe. It is awful to even look at myself. My ribs poke out, covered only by my skin. My arms are almost sticks and it's a miracle my legs are still strong enough to hold me up.

I feel sick just looking at my body and I wish I had the courage to end my own life.

Why can't I be more like Bilbo? Why can't I be more like the strong and courageous Bilbo who my grumpy and eccentric Bilbo remembered being once upon a time? What would he do in this situation? Would he wish to take his own life? He probably would…

No. Now that I think about it, Bilbo would say that suicide was the coward's route. He would not take his own life. He'd take Sauron's life and the lives of as many Orcs and Goblins as he dared to if it meant finding a way to get free. He'd be smart about it. He'd only kill if he needed to.

I get out, deciding to try and eat a little more. The clothes left for me hang off my body and it makes me realize how much I really need to eat before I can dare to be strong enough to escape.

Because that is what I must do. Not die, not kill, but escape. Bilbo might still be alive and I have to find him before it's too late. I only hope it's not been.

My poor uncle! What he must think of me now that I've failed! And how many believe me to be dead? All of Middle Earth? This whole world?

I can't fathom it and would they be furious if I still lived or would they be relieved? Would they think we still stood a chance if I lived or would they rather I have died for my failure?

"Either way you look, it's bleak," I remind myself, pouring more tea into a cup. "But you may as well try to get away nevertheless. Better to die trying to escape or die free than to stay alive in this prison."

#

"You are not eating."

Sauron appraises me, frowning. I stare at the food before me rather than at his ethereal eyes.

"I ate a lot during the day since I was taken to…those rooms," I say. I don't know what to call it. "So my appetite is quite sated for now."

I dare to look at him. His lips turn upward and I cannot help but think that he is rather beautiful when he smiles—where did that come from? I avert my gaze from his, tugging at the hem of my shirt nervously.

"I am glad to hear you are sated. I know you have been starved and it is a cruel torture. So eat as much as you are able to. I would have you beautiful again."

I feel warmth seep up to my face, staring at the table again. "I am ill because of you," I hiss.

"Perhaps," he replied, nails clicking atop the counter. "But we were at odds before now, my love. No longer. You are a guest of my house and will be treated as such."

"I am not your love!" Frodo shouted, standing. "You stole everything from me! Your servants tried to kill me! You tried to kill me! Many times! How dare you call me 'your love'?! I despise you! I always will despise you!"

He strode toward the door and barely made it before a hand seized his throat and shoved him against the wall, rising far too high off the ground. Frodo gasped, clawing at the hand and trying to kick Sauron off him. The other hand pinned his feet down.

"You would do well to remember where you are, Frodo," Sauron growled. I gasped for air, tearing at his hands. "After all this time, do you really despise me? Or is that what you want to tell yourself?

"I love you, Frodo. I always have loved you since you first walked into Bilbo's house to live there as though you were his son. You were twenty-one, remember: a mischievous little boy who fancied himself to know more about the world than the adults around him. Save for Bilbo, the only Hobbit you honestly and humbly respected.

"And I loved you the moment you found me and touched me. I could see you then and you were a beautiful child. I could see you would be beautiful even in adulthood.

"You truly think I would have let you kill me? I'm no fool, Frodo. I wasn't going to let you do that. Especially not after all the nights we spent together, as you pet my Ring."

"You're insane," I wrangled out of my throat. I'd like to say I wasn't afraid, but at this moment, I can't seem to lie. "Just let me go."

"Where will you go?" Sauron asked. "The moment they discover you're alive, Frodo, you'll be killed. They won't let you live. You'll never make it back to the Shire. It's safer here." He lowered me to the ground and I fell against the wall, curling into myself. Sauron knelt, trying to pull me into his arms.

"Don't touch me!" I shout, finding my strength again to run from the hall. He does not follow. I manage to find the rooms he gave me and I collapse into the armchair, weeping and tearing at my hair.

I don't want to die here.