Diem Kieu: *GASP* It could have been! Well, he was blessed to be the sexiest man alive, in the words of one awesome person I know. ;) He could very well have healing abilities.
Oh, absolutely! You know, I'm going to leave Legolas to the fangirl majority; I don't have the desire to tell them what they're missing and be flooded. :D
Silly as she knew it seemed to mortals, that meant more to her than even giving away her first blessing. Dragons simply did not feel that level of affection; they felt their equivalent, but for her it had a heavy impact. She often thought of that kiss, of Frodo's gentle touch and tender lips, whenever she looked at him.
When they took her back to the castle, she feared Smeagol no longer. She stood more defiantly against him, cared not what he did.
Frodo could not care for Delamarth, not like he thought he did. Her kisses were empty; greed flooded them. While it was not easy to avoid an innate perception into her character as a true creature, Frodo at least could avoid some of that inner deceit. As a little bit of an outlet for them both, Frodo pulled Sev back into the dungeon and kissed her every night.
Sometimes Sev would come down, her lips raw and bleeding. The first time that happened Frodo nearly ran right back upstairs to find Smeagol—that was all he specified, however, and Sev didn't want to know what he would do to that creature.
"It's all right, Frodo," she managed, fingering the blood away. Usually there were only a couple of droplets—easily taken care of—and that night such was the case. "When he kisses me it's worse."
Frodo's eyebrow shot up.
Sev shrugged. "I gave my first to you. But he has more impact on me than I would like; Smeagol is rather relentless." She shook her head. "Something is going wrong. He's more aggressive than he was before."
Frodo stood beside her and tipped her chin up. "I can imagine why," he murmured; his fingertips brushed her mouth, which was hot with friction to the touch. Despite the icy relief the contact offered, Sev didn't like to be vulnerable, and she turned away from him.
Frodo cupped her cheek and moved her back to look at him. He slowly lowered his lips to touch hers, and Sev swallowed when he pulled away.
"Does that help at all?"
Sev bit the inside of her lip and nodded—the pleading in her eyes was all too obvious despite her need to conceal it. Frodo reached down once again, kissing her softly and urgently. Sev conceded to let him hold her, squeezing her close as he kissed her, letting her know that she wasn't alone and despite all that surrounded her he stood with her, loving her more than anyone else ever did.
It clashed with her draconic instinct to let him protect her, but with what she'd been through so far in her life she forced herself to permit it. As for Frodo, it was a relief simply to be away from Delamarth and with Sev.
He didn't know how long Delamarth would last.
She found him as often as possible, and somehow managed to be miraculously torn away either by overexcitement, trouble with the orcs, or Sev fighting Smeagol's growing aggression that his connection to Delamarth injured her in some way before she could harm Frodo.
It all started to come back to him, the pain he'd known in Middle Earth. He grew dreary whenever he saw her, confused by his innate attraction to what her personality might have been, his greed for her power, and his terror at what he knew she could do to his mind.
Once he slipped down carefully to the dungeon to see Sev, but found Delamarth in there instead. He abruptly turned on his heel to walk away, but she heard him. She'd been admiring his bow, and pulled it back with ease. Oh, how she loved it. It was very beautiful, very draconic in style—that was a rare feat in such a weapon. Dragons loathed archery with a passion, and it was blasphemy among their kind to be associated with archers. She admired dragons, save this dragon-halfling that had been kidnapped by the Ringwraiths.
"Frodo, love," she whispered. He forced himself to keep walking away, and she irritably sent chain links after him. He heard them slinking along the floor, and he began to run. That did no good: as he frantically scrambled up the stairs, the chains caught up easily and wrapped in his cuffs, yanking him back. He froze—he did not wish to resign, but had no choice. He calmly stepped down the stairs as his arm cuffs sealed together. Delamarth met him halfway, stroking the bow.
His eyes widened when he saw her.
"Where did you get this?" she asked, glancing up at it. "It is very fine." She nonchalantly allowed his chain to drop to the ground; she covered the end with her toes, and it began to shrink, forcing him down the stairs towards her.
Frodo stared at the ground, struggling against the chain. She shifted her gaze to him as he shuffled towards her, and then she grabbed the bowstring. Frodo wondered how she would react when she realized she couldn't pull it . . . until she pulled it all the way back without so much as a strain. He swallowed as she casually relaxed the string.
"Well?"
Frodo swallowed when the chain brought him to her feet. He glanced up at her fleetingly. "It is not mine," he muttered. "It belongs to Sevanaan."
Delamarth barked a laugh. "Sevanaan . . . reject? Is that her name?" She shook her head. "A wonder I thought that creature a valuable bargaining chip."
Frodo stared up harshly. "A bargaining chip for what? What did you plan to do with her?"
Delamarth shrugged. "I was admiring your bow—pardon, her bow—because it is very draconic. I admire all dragons. They are very pure, wise, powerful, like you." She knelt down before him and teasingly brushed her lips against the corner of his mouth. He tried to jerk away, but she grabbed his jaw and forced him closer to her, so that her kisses covered his cheek. "I want them," she whispered as she kissed him, spreading her touch from his cheek to his forehead and jaw. "You may not have realized this, but I'm somewhat of a . . . possessive soul, and having a royal dragon's daughter, even if one of her parents was a hobbit, means I can have dragons." She grabbed his hands and brought him to his feet. He realized then just how powerful she was: Sev's bow was no struggle for her, and perhaps Delamarth did not even recognize the fact that it should be. "I like bright and beautiful things that I can admire. If you recall correctly, it was your light that I first loathed in you, then grew to love." She wandered back into the archery room and set the bow down. "I thought of you as glass, for you are beautiful and fragile." She paused, glancing back up at him. He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.
She smiled somewhat. "I apologize; this is not why I came to look for you."
His eyebrow cocked. "Then what did you come for?"
She bit her lip excitedly, then motioned for him to follow her. He didn't have much of a choice. She dragged him out from the dungeons, up the stairs, through an endless maze of hallways, and to perhaps the biggest window Frodo had ever seen in the entire palace. He gawked at it; while it was not remarkably monstrous, it was large enough to fit two people. There was a grid of bars blocking access in or out, but Frodo imagined he could figure out the bar problem if and when necessary. He wished he could remember what turns they'd taken to get here.
"I came to ask you what you know about Sevanaan, besides her name," Delamarth said coolly. "Then I wish to take you out of the palace, when I feel you are finished."
Frodo glanced at her. "Are you threatening me for information?"
Delamarth shook her head. "Nonsense; I want to give Smeagol a bit of a hand, and I want to see if your fascinations with her match up with what I can offer you."
Frodo's eyes bulged. "Fascinations?" he managed. He prayed Delamarth did not know how much he cared for Sev.
She nodded. "Smeagol says you interact a great deal, and I simply wish to know why."
Frodo bit his lip, then exhaled slowly: she didn't sound horribly sinister. "She is capable of flight," he said finally, "and that interests me a little. She knows how to fight with a bow."
"Certainly a feat amongst dragons," Delamarth muttered. "That is all I needed to know, and now I can show you."
Frodo lifted an eyebrow. "What more could I possibly just have told you than the exact words I said? What information did you delve from that?"
Delamarth laughed. "I was not trying to trick you, Frodo; I only wanted to know what about her interested you, as I said." She waved a hand, and the bars suddenly vanished. He perked up, trying to forge a plan in his mind. "And I don't mean to give you an outlet of escape." She held up his chain. "You cannot get away."
Frodo settled with understanding, and she stepped out the window. He lifted an eyebrow; they were at least six floors up, tall floors, hundreds of feet above ground. She gestured for him to follow, and when he did not she yanked on him. He stumbled over to the window, resisting a yelp when he tripped over the stone border. When Delamarth grabbed his torso to keep him upright, he was certain she'd done that on purpose.
They stood on a huge, black balcony, on the opposite side of the palace from where he'd come. Nothing but empty sea stared back at them.
"I asked about her," Delamarth said softly, "because I want you to fly with me, and I suspected that might be in your interests."
Frodo's eyes widened. "You can . . . ?"
Delamarth brushed it off. "Don't act so surprised, Frodo; I was reincarnated as a sorceress coming out of these towers," she said, gesturing to the various fume outlets around the palace. "And a little bit more than that, I suppose."
Frodo frowned at that. "What do you mean, a little more than that?"
Delamarth didn't respond. Suddenly she began to morph, her entire body from the neck down shifting from a black dress and pale skin to dark feathers. Frodo blinked at the change; he hadn't thought she could become more attractive, but suddenly she looked better in a hypnotizing sort of way.
"What are you?" he breathed.
Delamarth stared up at him. He noticed then that her legs became those of a bird. She flapped her wings gracefully, then reached forward and scooped him up off the ground by his chest. Frodo sucked in a breath at the powerful way her dark, sleek claws surrounded his entire torso. He grabbed on to one of her legs with his hands as she silently broke into the sky.
She then began to sing a song, a song in the dark language of Mordor. Frodo didn't understand the words, but he also didn't care to attempt translating: despite the harsh hiss of the language itself, Delamarth's voice tickled the wind with tantalizing softness, beckoning and soothing with a clear tone and gentle inflection that melted his mind. He settled almost to sleep in her grip; they soared only over dark waves and through passive clouds, but he felt like he was in the most beautiful valley in the world.
Delamarth continued to sing, delightedly staring down at him: he looked so rested, so perfect, in her grasp. She slowly lowered down towards the island designated for her kind, or at least the kind she'd been reincarnated into—skeletons of unfortunate sailors lined the shore, as did the sleeping, feathered bodies of those that she'd been associated with. She continued to sing, and soon the others joined her. When they spotted Frodo, they all began to crawl towards Delamarth as she landed.
The gentility of their voices bombarded Frodo, and he could no longer think. The bird women gathered, cocking their heads as Delamarth slowly lowered Frodo to the ground, allowing him to rest. She spread her wing out over him.
The song drifted to a halt, and Frodo's eyes flickered open. He gasped when he saw the women around him: some were blonde, some had brown hair, some had red eyes and others green, but they all shared nigh flawless facial features and surreal, aesthetic figures.
It only took a moment or two of surveying before Frodo turned back to Delamarth.
"You're a siren," he whispered.
Even as she nodded, one of the other sirens reached forward to bite him. When he flinched the siren backed away, glaring up at Delamarth.
"Well?" Her voice sounded like the tinkle of crystal. "Aren't you going to share him?"
Frodo scrambled to his feet, and the entire group of sirens reacted, swarming each other. Delamarth hissed loudly, and they all stood erect, waiting for her to continue.
"I did not bring him here to eat him," Delamarth snapped.
One of the sirens slowly cocked her head. "Well, then, what did you bring him here for?" She licked her lips with a forked tongue, and Frodo shuddered. "My, but he looks juicy. How have you resisted?"
A murmur of agreement stumbled through the crowd, and Delamarth's eyes sank shut. "He's the Ringbearer. Frodo Baggins of the Shire."
Suddenly the sirens grew quiet, and Frodo shifted on his feet. They all watched him with renewed interest, and some crept forward to touch him. Frodo jolted back, and Delamarth gripped his waist with one arm.
"You could still share," one of the sirens hissed.
"He doesn't need his legs," another pointed out hungrily. "We could eat those."
"Delamarth . . ." Frodo managed.
Delamarth waited there only a moment longer before clenching him in her claws again; he swallowed painfully as she lifted him into the air.
The sirens did not follow them, but Delamarth kept glancing back worriedly. She growled to herself; she'd often told the sirens about how much she missed him, about how sailors were perhaps only good for eating, but that Frodo meant more to her than just food. It pained her to realize that she had been born to a kind that would not change . . . and perhaps she never could either.
She set him down on the balcony, and he turned to rush inside the moment she released him. But the bars were back in place.
So much for an escape in or out that way.
He glanced back at her. "Why did you take me there?" he breathed.
She slowly grabbed his arm and sat him down. He hesitated to do so, on the railing by her side. She stared into the distance.
"I wanted to show you what my world is like." Delamarth shook her head. "I attract and devour everything. I can only see myself in those sirens; you know what I'm like." She spat out most of her statement. "That's why it's so amazing for me to look at you." She turned her gaze to him. "Imagine living like one of those creatures, Frodo, if you can. I don't believe you could, but do your best." She paused a moment. "Now imagine one of them finds a diamond. Only it's better than a diamond, for it is just as bright and precious, but it can speak for itself, a rare gem . . . and it can care for her." She gripped his arm, and Frodo stiffened as she neared him. "He can love her. She wants him more than anything." She filtered her fingers through his hair; his breath moved in gasps, and his limbs trembled. "Marry me, Frodo."
Frodo swallowed, staring at the ground.
"Delamarth, I don't know if I love you." He bit his lip. "I cannot say yes."
Delamarth paused, then wrapped her arm around his waist. He attempted to back away, but she snapped his chain taut. "You don't have to." She cupped his cheek, turning him to face her.
He shook his head hurriedly. "Please, no . . ."
She cocked her head. "This other girl that you love—," She stopped, an idea suddenly coming to mind. Her gaze grew triumphant and cold. "I believe I know exactly who she is, Frodo. Do not let her come between us; you cannot possibly care for her."
Frodo thought she was bluffing until Delamarth's lips touched his ear, and her hiss slithered through his mind: "She's just a misfit."
He glanced up at her fleetingly. "I will not yield, Delamarth. She is not the only reason I recoil from you. You have admitted you are a siren, and that is all you have ever been. If you ever change, it will not be because of me. I only stir your need to keep going in the dark way that you do." He stood abruptly and spun to face her. "I demand that you let me go, for my sake if not for your own."
Delamarth acted as though she did not hear him. She trailed her fingers along his chain, then up to his neck band. He flinched, but felt he needed to stand his ground otherwise.
"I've let you go once," she whispered. "Is that not proof enough? Frodo, I do love you." She righted herself. "You will yield; you will yield soon enough. There will be nowhere for you to run." She paused. "And Sevanaan will be dead."
Frodo's gaze sharpened, and he glared. "You wouldn't."
"I would," Delamarth challenged ferociously, slamming him up against the wall. Frodo's eyes shot wide open as her voice dropped. "If I find you with her, I will kill her right there in front of you, and I will not give you the opportunity to agree with me before I take you for myself." Her harsh glare gained a frightening gleam of longing. "You have until then to decide if you want her dead or if you want to be with me."
She set him down and spun away to open the bars of the window. Frodo paused, then turned to stare at her. He did his best to keep the shiver out of his voice.
"And if I do agree to marry you? What will you do with her then?" Frodo almost didn't want to know.
Delamarth turned back to him, a sly grin on her face. "Then it works out for us all." She stood upright. "She wants to be healed, doesn't she?"
Frodo halted.
The Ring laughed. "Of course she does, and of course you know that. Well, I suppose if you agree to marry me the next time I ask, I will heal her, turn her into a dragon." She paused. "Admittedly, I would be content having only you. I was thinking I wanted the dragons, but I need them not if I have Frodo Baggins of the Shire, my Ringbearer." She nodded assertively. "There you have it, love." She stepped inside, but before he could follow she sealed the bars shut. "I'll leave you out there to think. The bars will open up in an hour or so; Sevanaan should be safely in the hands of Smeagol by then."
Frodo glared at the bars, then banged against them. "Delamarth! You cannot keep us here much longer!"
Her laugh chilled him. "I'll have you forever, love. I can still extend your life, you know."
He shuddered; that night when Bilbo reached for her in Rivendell came slamming back into him.
I am all that awaits you.