Pippin and Merry stumbled across them in a cornfield the next day, which surprised Frodo and Sam greatly. Delamarth couldn't abide the addition of two other hobbits, and so she screamed for the Nazgul. She received a distant shriek in response: one happened to be relatively nearby, and he could at least drive the other hobbits away from her Frodo. She wanted to trap the last, make him want her before she broke him for good. What he'd done the night before ignited her fire, her need to have him on her chain and then shatter him. Oh, the satisfaction when he lay in pieces on the ground . . .

The hobbits took a tumble down a cliff near the cornfield where they'd found Pippin and Merry; as soon as they were up, and brushed themselves off, Delamarth yanked on the black rider. He was so close. She just needed to get Frodo off the road, and the other hobbits would be slain before the lad could blink.

She pulled on him to back away from the road.

Frodo didn't know where the thought came from, but he turned to peer down into the main path of the forest. A light breeze stirred in the distance, and a warning arose in his heart.

He turned to his companions, all gathered around a little pile of mushrooms they'd found.

"I think we should get off the road," he said simply.

Delamarth rolled her eyes; he wasn't worried enough. She dragged on space itself until the edge of the forest, from Frodo's vision, began to bend, flattening, as though warning him with its dying breath. She stirred a light wind just before Frodo's feet—the leaves on the ground fluttered dangerously.

"Get off the road!" Frodo shouted, suddenly terrified. "Quick!"

He ushered his companions to a nearby ridge and stuffed them under a tree root. Delamarth growled to herself; of course he would take care of them first. She waited while he settled in place with his friends, then pulled tantalizingly on the Ringwraith.

Chills of familiarity raced up her back as the wraith approached. His huge battlehorse, breathing heavily, stamped its heavy hooves. She played with their minds for a moment.

Oh, how near you feel . . . if only I could see you . . .

Sauron stirred in the East. The rider responded, searching deeply for the Ring, for his will was seared to Sauron's, and his love of the Ring overpowered him every bit as much. He dismounted his horse, and fear began to trickle into the hobbits. Frodo sat back and swallowed as cold terror, not unlike that of Delamarth's very presence, filled him. Having her in his pocket didn't help any: she became a solid, icy weight on his chest, pressing harder as the wraith neared.

Bend a little closer, love. The wraith leaned over the tree root, and his armored fingers crunched against the wood, fruitlessly searching for her. She almost wanted to go back to Sauron . . . but in order to seal her location, Frodo had to put her on his finger.

She shifted her voice to him, trembling a little with anticipation. Frodo, my dear.

Frodo's eyes began to sink closed. She reached into his mind, rubbing and stroking gently. Frodo only grew numb.

Oh, you poor thing, she said gently. You're so terrified and cold, leaving home with the world at stake. I can turn you invisible, remember? Come, slip the metal over your finger. I'm a perfect fit for you, Frodo. Come.

She sent none of her words in concrete sounds to him, for he would not accept them. She sent the general idea of sympathy, as well as the hint that he ought to put her on his finger. His hand snaked towards his pocket, and she pushed him harder: through the chill of his terror he could hardly process his own actions. She slipped into his grip, delighting in the change. He strained as much as he could against her, but it soon grew impossible.

She neared his finger, and the Nazgul's horse shrieked. The rider himself peered past the wood.

You cursed Nazgul, she spat to herself. I'm right here.

She'd almost made it to Frodo's fingertip when Sam noticed Frodo trying to put on the Ring. He grabbed Frodo's wrist, and the hobbit's eyes shot wide open at the realization of what he'd been about to do. He pulled her into his palm, then slipped her back into his pocket.

Cursed rider! Delamarth's voice echoed almost out loud with the force of it. Then she realized this gave her more time to control Frodo: if he'd given up then, she would have wished to go back to Sauron. But she had to conquer this little mountain first.

The Nazgul perked up. She screamed so loudly he couldn't decipher words, but he could tell she was nearby.

Merry, not entirely sure of what had struck such powerful panic in the hobbits but frightened all the same, grabbed his pack of vegetables and frantically threw it over the other side of the tree. It crunched against the ground some yards away, and the Nazgul tore away from the tree root with a mighty shriek, remounting its horse.

Delamarth dragged the Nazgul along as the hobbits ran away through the woods. She laughed in Frodo's mind, and he shuddered: his fear of the Nazgul, of what he'd gotten himself into by accepting her as a burden, was all too obvious in his eyes. He glared down at her.

"We're almost to Bree," he muttered. "Gandalf will take care of you, I'm sure. Now leave me be."

I follow only your instructions, love, she laughed. The Nazgul on horseback sprang out from behind a tree, and as Frodo began to run frantically she laughed again. She twisted ferns and tree roots in his way, causing him to stumble and lose pace with the other hobbits.

"Leave me be!" Frodo cried, racing for Buckleberry Ferry. The other hobbits were already on board, hastily loosening the ropes that connected the raft to the dock. Frightened and hurried, they yelled to him helplessly. He ran down the dock, glancing over his shoulder fleetingly at the Ringwraith pursuing him. He didn't think he would make it.

Delamarth laughed. Go ahead; jump, love, and drown with my arms around you. You'd be a happier little corpse, I can promise you that.

Frodo shuddered, then leaped skillfully onto the raft. The Nazgul halted its horse; the beast reared and screeched mightily at the loss of its target. The Nazgul stared after the hobbits, releasing its own shriek before turning.

The breathless hobbit backed against the wooden planks as Delamarth continued to taunt him. You're no match for them, love. Maybe if you let me be your slave I'll save you from them. She laughed again. Poor little halfling. Look at you, so frightened . . . so naïve . . . so adorable.

She continued from there and sounded frighteningly sincere (in fact felt frighteningly sincere), but Frodo tried to shake her away. "How far away is the nearest crossing?" he asked frantically around her words.

"Brandywine Bridge," Merry said, shoving them away from the shore. "20 miles."

Frodo relaxed; they were close enough to Bree.

You think you've won, Delamarth mused tauntingly. Then she paused, not caring that Frodo could hear her thoughts. Your hair looks so soft. I wonder if it would feel as good to you as it would to me, were I to handle it for a while. I've been told I'm a gentlewoman . . . I'm sorry, I'm not a woman, am I? I'm a gentle servant of the Dark Lord, and no doubt my touch could sink you into gentle rest. Come now, Frodo. Tender fingers sifting through your hair, stroking your head . . . let me give my power to you.

Frodo shuddered, drawing into himself.

"Leave me," he whispered. "And do not speak such things, for I shall never let you."

Suit yourself. She grew distasteful, bitter. Don't forget my promise, Frodo. You will be mine.

Gandalf was not at the Prancing Pony. Frodo sat, helpless, at a huge table made for drunk warrior men, not for hobbit strangers that bore a heavy burden. The entire tavern gave off a sinister air: some men had rats and cats that shared their food, and all the rest guffawed and shouted in a drunken stupor. The lamps were dirty and low, giving the room a dark glow.

Frodo didn't touch his ale. He tried to convince himself that Gandalf would be there; he even told Sam so, but he almost couldn't believe it himself. They didn't know what to do with the Ring.

She did not laugh. She felt too good to laugh; she couldn't have even guessed this would happen. She had anticipated everything going according to Frodo's plans and ruining them herself, but this worked out just right. She did not feel bad, but thought that sympathy would break through Frodo acceptably well.

I'm sorry, love, she said gently. Frodo's eyes shot wide open. I know this must be so discouraging for you.

Shock tingled through Frodo, but he couldn't thank her. It would give her too much of an avenue into his head.

Luckily Sam interrupted her; she asserted that she would get rid of the hobbit if it killed him. He pointed across Frodo's lap to another corner of the tavern. "That fellow's been nothing but staring at you since we arrived," he said protectively.

Frodo hesitantly lifted his eyes to a hooded man, sitting some distance away from them. He smoked a long pipe, not moving when Frodo's gaze fell on him. Frodo learned from Mr. Butterbur that the man was a Ranger named Strider.

He repeated the name to himself, if anything only to distract him from Delamarth's voice in his mind. But she entered again, rubbing on his mind. She could envision holding him in her lap, soothing him into a gentle rest. He felt it as well; he slipped her into his fingers a little subconsciously, turning her over and over as she wanted. His touch comforted her somehow.

But then Sauron broke through, hunting for her. She almost snapped at him to back away . . . until she realized this was her master.

Baggins, Sauron growled. Baggins. Baggins . . .

Frodo's eyes shot wide open when he heard Pippin saying his name. He spun around, not even caring to know why Pippin was discussing him: he recalled that Pippin had probably only heard Frodo referred to as Underhill once. He sprang through the crowded tavern, grabbing Pippin's elbow. The startled hobbit accidentally shoved Frodo back.

Delamarth didn't entirely know what to think when Frodo fell back and she flew up in the air, catching the eye of the Ranger in the corner. Frodo reached for her, but she shifted away. She lighted above his finger and shoved down hard, slipping over his knuckle. He promptly vanished.

A gasp arose in the tavern, but Delamarth cared not. She moaned, caressing his finger: never had an attachment felt so good for the triumph she'd attained and the smooth warmth of this little hobbit as a whole. Even Sauron didn't feel so pleasant. She couldn't believe she'd managed it, but she determined never to let go if she didn't have to.

Frodo scrambled out of view of the men of the tavern, shocked that she'd made it onto his finger. He might have ripped her away if Sauron's voice didn't interrupt him. Frodo's gaze widened as a lidless eye, burning with fire and hatred, floated slowly through the room towards him. Sauron's voice crackled and rumbled with dark energy.

I see you. You cannot hide . . .

Frodo tore the Ring from his finger, and she sighed with the sudden departure of warmth. He stuffed her into his pocket, but didn't have a moment to recover before a hand gripped his shoulder hard. He gasped, thinking it was her, until he stared up into the dark eyes of Strider.

"You draw far too much attention to yourself, Mr. Underhill."

Despite all of Delamarth's calls and cries, the Nazgul did not find them that night. Somehow that gladdened her.

Frodo grew ever darker. Strider told him what the Nazgul were, and told him he would assist them in their quest to be rid of the Ring. She chuckled to herself; this was not going the way planned at all, and she loved it. At any moment she could slip from Frodo's grasp and call the Ringwraiths to her side, but she didn't wish to just yet.

She wanted more sway over Frodo—then she could leave.

They set out quickly from Bree, crossing the rocky country into the wild, or so Strider said. He told them he was taking them to the elves, at the house of Elrond in Rivendell. Delamarth hissed at the mention of Elrond's name . . . but accepted that she could infiltrate such a place of light, such a place of cowardice. The elves were fleeing Middle Earth. They should be fighting the battle; she would be satisfied to see their blood spilled and their pride ruined, watch them driven back.

Perhaps they thought Sauron more than a match for their armies, and for a moment Delamarth was mildly impressed.

Frodo felt no better that night as they lay down to rest. He feared the Ring becoming a woman again, but Strider did not fall asleep, and so she did not appear to him. She listened to the nervous thuds of his heart and wondered if his heart would ever belong to her. She scoffed at the thought; hearts were not stolen, only the foolish aspects of the mind. Her heart carried a deep, dark core, and at the center of every creature (the heart as most thought was stolen by another) lay nothing but selfish desire, no matter how fine-tuned the external character.

Strider soon began to sing. It was a mournful song, lamenting the loss of a woman. Frodo tossed with thoughts of Sev, then slowly sat up.

"Who is she?" he asked softly.

Strider startled, then turned to Frodo.

"This woman you sing of," the hobbit clarified.

The Ranger settled. He told him it was the Lay of Luthien, an elf who loved a mortal that died at the end of her tale. Frodo grew a little troubled, but Delamarth rolled around in Frodo's pocket. The story made her shift a little bit, as though love was worth sacrifice. What could be so powerful it was worth giving yourself up for it?

Then you couldn't have it.

Then she pondered as Frodo's lungs swelled and settled like a gentle tide beneath her: he lived by love. He believed in it.

"Poor, handsome little fool."

Basically the tag at the end of the chapter heading-Sauron, Bilbo, Frodo, whomever it may be-denotes not who holds the Ring, but who is enslaved, if you will. That'll change later; it's not just Frodo for the rest of the story. ;)

A huge thank you to all those that have read, and a MEGA thank you to all those that have reviewed, favorited, and followed! :) As always, reviews are much appreciated.