I hope she's creepy. XD That's what I designed her to be. Hope you like!

They traveled to Weathertop the next day. Delamarth allowed Frodo to rest, for although Strider left them, the other hobbits were still nearby. She tried to whisper to him, but he fell asleep too fast. The past few days had been the most uncomfortably chilly and confusing of Frodo's life, and he needed rest when he could find the peace of mind for it.

He awoke to the smell of bacon, perhaps a bit of sausage . . . and the smell of smoke. His eyes shot open wide, and he turned over in place only to see his companions gathered around a small fire.

"What are you doing?!" he cried, grabbing at the Ring. She cackled at him triumphantly as he rose from his cloak and put out the fire, frantic and a little disbelieving. He didn't dare to respond to her, much less tell her to quiet.

They've doomed you! And you call me 'amarth.' She laughed. You've brought me my salvation, love; I thank you.

Nazgul shrieks filled the air. Delamarth began tormenting him, prodding him as he raced up the stairs with his companions. Sweat pricked Frodo's forehead; she thudded against his chest, making his heart speed up unnecessarily.

Run, little hobbit. It's a dead end . . .

The hobbits huddled while the Nazgul approached them. Delamarth didn't call to the riders; she didn't have to, for they would either kill Frodo if not at least search him. Sam tried to attack them, as did Merry and Pippin, but all three were easily thrown aside. The Ring shoved her strength into Frodo's hand, and his sword slipped away from his fingers. She slammed against his chest, and he collapsed to the ground, scrambling away from his brooding enemy.

Bring me to the open, Baggins, she hissed; the dark energy of her former glory swallowed every desire for Frodo she had. Frodo subconsciously slipped her out of his pocket, holding her up. The five Nazgul gathered within the Weathertop ruins all looked to Frodo, and the Witch-King—not the only one Delamarth could pick out from the rest—stepped forward with a Morgul blade in hand. She trembled excitedly; Frodo would become more than simple to conquer as a wraith.

Why did that unsettle her just a little?

She longed for his warmth suddenly.

Put me on, love, she said unusually gently. Put me round your finger . . . that's it . . .

She turned him invisible, although she knew it would do him more harm than good. The wraiths appeared before him, more ghosts with ruined crowns than kings of men. The one at the head of the group reached out for the Ring.

Her initial nature reached back. She dragged Frodo's hand up with her, however much he strained. His strength impressed her, and only surprised her more when he let out a grunt and yanked his hand completely away from the Ringwraith.

The Witch-King jolted away, perhaps surprised by Delamarth's lack of resistance to Frodo's strength. He abruptly reached forward and stabbed Frodo square in the shoulder with his Morgul blade. Delamarth anticipated Frodo's scream at first . . . but when it truly came out, it sickened her. She remained, frozen with horror, on his finger as he cried out helplessly. His voice twisted, agonized by the sudden, crunching chill that invaded his body. He yanked her from his finger the moment the blade left his shoulder, heaving to breathe beyond his blinding pain.

Delamarth listened to him, felt the tremors in his lungs, the chill spread throughout his once perfect body. She slacked almost guiltily.

If she didn't act quickly she would lose him.

Arwen was not fast enough. Delamarth tried to cry out to her, tell her that she wouldn't make it in time for Frodo to be healed. He would never really be healed, although they could keep him from passing into the shadow world . . . but only if the cursed horse hurried.

Delamarth did her best to interfere as little as possible, but the elf would not hear her, and so she had to act on her own. As the wraiths pursued them—not by the Ring's call, but by tracking alone—she drained the blackness from Frodo in as big of chunks as she could stand. Somehow she felt some panic at letting him go, at letting this creature of light take on a crushing identity that he never deserved or wanted.

Elrond finished his healing process. Delamarth waited for Frodo's eyes to open, but she was not present when he awakened and greeted Gandalf and Sam: Frodo's clothes were thrown aside during the healing process, with her still in the pocket.

Finally, when everything quieted, she slipped out of the pocket, morphing into a woman. She approached him gently. When he saw her, he stiffened in place and scrambled away from her. Then he winced, pulling at his Morgul stab.

*She sat down on the side of his bed. Everything hurt her here: the elves were too bright and ornate for her taste, but she had no choice at the moment.

"Leave me," Frodo managed.

Delamarth shook her head. "You are hurt."

He lifted an eyebrow, glaring a little. "You care? Or you can help?" Frodo shook his head. "I doubt either."

"You would be surprised, halfling," she snapped. "You were rather close to gone, and are too close to the shadow world to be issuing orders to the Mistress of Mordor." She reached forward for his Morgul stab; he tried to force her away, but she grabbed both of his wrists with one hand and latched them down onto the bed while she fingered aside the white bandage with her free fingers.

She shook her head, trying not to summon any feelings in remembering how his helpless sobs throbbed in her ears. She bit her lip, then fingered his wound again. Frodo squirmed at her touch; while it did not hurt, she frightened him.

"They really got you deeply, love," she murmured, turning up to stare into his eyes. They were so blue, not like the sky but more crystal. She reached up and traced his jaw—he wrenched away from her fingers, but could only do so much. "I'm sorry."

Frodo swallowed. "I know you're not," he whispered fearfully. "Were it not for the stories of old I wouldn't understand why you feign pity for me, but I know better than that. And now I have seen how you can scar a man. I bear one now, a sign that you care for your reunion with your lord Sauron and nothing else." He set his jaw. "If power is what you seek that is the one thing I cannot give you."

She gripped his face with her hand, and her eyes darkened. Frodo's own gaze doubled in size, waiting for what she would do. She leaned close to him, and he tried to scramble away from her. "You can give me power over you," she hissed. "Power over how you think, power over the weak resolve of mortals that currently resides in you." She cocked her head. "So many have given it to me; why do you shy away now?" She traced his cheek. "Why you, the most desirable of them all?"

Frodo broke away from her hands, yanking back with his torso. His wrists remained locked in place despite his efforts, but he managed to twist the rest of himself farther from her. He didn't want to know why she thought him desirable; it disturbed him greatly, and he attributed it to her nature. She had likely told this to all before him.

"Perhaps that question will never be answered," he managed, breathing hard, "for the elves are having a council in a few days to decide what will happen to you."

"And you will carry me until then," she said darkly. Then she softened her gaze, but Frodo could see the intensity growing behind them. "That doesn't give me much time, does it?"

Frodo's eyes widened.

"I do not know what your intentions are . . ."

She laughed. "I only intend to make you my own, Baggins." She paused, and her voice lowered. "Like I have so many—and yet you are different. I think I like a challenge." Delamarth glared into him until he slackened from defeated fear, but he was not remotely conquered yet. She could see the defiance simply retreating until a moment came when he had more strength.

She entwined her fingers with his and trapped one of his hands in her lap. He struggled, but he was no match, injured as he was. She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it slowly . . . but instead of burning and chilling him with need to have her, it did the reverse. Tingles attacked her, and she allowed the kiss to stay unusually long while her eyes sank closed and her lips pressed deeper against his skin. Frodo bit his lip, now completely afraid: she did not look livid anymore, but whatever she felt right then would mix with her ruthlessness and do its best to destroy him with however little time it had. He shuddered at the way her lips brushed his knuckles repeatedly, cold and more than accepting of him.

Delamarth broke away very carefully, feeling a bit dizzy. She obviously couldn't break into Frodo this way, for he was strong enough that the kiss changed course—he broke into her.

She blinked hesitantly, shifting her gaze up to meet his. Frodo swallowed, too exhausted and terrified to back away. She cocked her head; she wondered if most that met her felt this way about her, so incredibly attached to something so dangerous and so desirable. He looked more amazing than anything she'd ever seen in her life, and she wanted nothing more in that moment than to have him for her own.

Yes, she decided: this was exactly how she was meant to make one feel. The tables were turned, but no matter which way fate faced, Delamarth could use it to her advantage.

His skin was soft, and she kissed his hand one more time, now gripping it with both of her own. With his free hand Frodo braced himself against the bed, dragging himself back from her suddenly at the horrifying touch. She smiled up at him.

"Rest now, love." She peered down at his shoulder, then touched the wound again. The black poison came up in a sticky liquid, one she recognized. Frodo watched, horrified, as she licked her finger, and her eyes rolled back. She grinned down at him.

"Darkness that comes from you," she murmured before condensing into a Ring. "What could be better?"