Diem Kieu: :D I don't think Minah is going to be handling it very well as the near future approaches. XD Either that or she's just unemotional. Thanks! DFTYA!

Me And Not You 1001: SWEET Am ready to read that story! I should study up more on Haldir. O.o I'm familiar with him, but it would certainly give me insights into your stories.
Thanks! :) Yeah, I wanted . . . well, I felt like he came across as dark under irrational influence of the Ring, and I wanted to emphasize that. I'm glad it came across right. :D

Jayla Fire Gal: Thanks so much! X) As promised. :D I hope you enjoy Two Towers! Although Gollum . . . he doesn't get as awkward as Boromir does, thankfully.

EtheGoldenSnitch: XD I'm so glad you appreciate that. :D She doesn't hit people often, but that certainly calls for anyone to bring out a slap. Thanks! There shall be more.

Within hours I know we're lost. I can see Mordor in the distance, but they keep plowing forward as though they know where they're going. Frodo glances back periodically to make sure I'm following.

Night comes quickly, and I realize it was only this morning that we left Rivendell. I shake my head wildly; that makes little sense, but I suppose I understand, thinking back on having no sleep since.

Frodo isn't too exhausted, but when I ask him for the Ring he hands it over easily. He asks first why I want it, and I assure him I want to make sure neither of us are overly attached to it; that will be our downfall, I tell him.

He seems a little skeptical, and I know his protectiveness is only going to help the Ring.

I tell them stories that night; we don't light a fire for sake of avoiding unwanted attention, so I let the hobbits cuddle up against me for warmth. I sink into the opportunity—they grow so tired, and are rather lenient in looking adorable.

Soon Sam rolls away to get some sleep, and I hold Frodo close. I feel his scar for a chill, but there isn't one present.

"Well, good night, Frodo," I say quietly, about to pull away. He clamps his hand over mine on his heart, holding it there. I remain, but despite the fact that he just wants to stay where he is I tell him I need sleep if nothing else.

Frodo glances up at me. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to talk for a minute?"

I shrug. "That'd be wonderful."

After an uneasy minute, Frodo and I ease into analytical conversation. It surprises me just how intuitive he is, the things he notices about the world. I ask him what things matter to him most . . . and he says he's not sure anymore. He used to think travel would set him right, that perhaps at the time friends and home mattered more than anything.

"Now I don't know." He rubs my knuckles, pressing my skin against his scar. "At the moment . . . I suppose what's right here with me is all that can matter. My quest is too much to ignore; I must hold it above all else."

Now I have a new insight: I suppose, then, what broke him was his lack of ability to live up to his own expectation, to what he volunteered to do. No one else did that in the entire Fellowship, not in the entire story. Even Boromir let go of the Ring and his pride in the end . . . but Frodo always wanted it. He invested his all in the destruction of the Ring, being told by so many that he could and would be its downfall . . . and finding out he didn't have the strength to do it.

Initially I breathe a shaky sigh and rub my free hand over his shoulder.

"What of you, then?" he asks at last.

I shake my head. "You're right. What surrounds you is the most important."

"But what about at home?" Frodo asks, glancing up at me. "What mattered to you most before you came here?" He paused. "Who are you?"

My head now tilts to one side, surveying him. I bite my lip as I study his face; suddenly I have the urge to lean closer, feel that face against my skin again . . . perhaps his softly closed mouth against my own. I swallow.

"You've asked me that question a great deal," I manage. "What is it that you want to know?"

He shrugs. "Everything, I suppose; I get the feeling I don't quite understand what you are, or what you stand for."

I sigh and shuffle against the cliff behind me. "Here's what matters most to me, then: I love to write. I love stories. But what matters to me even more—," I don't know how to finish, because I can't tell him, not like this. "What matters, or at least mattered, to me most was finding the love of my life."

He doesn't react for a minute, and I can breathe again.

"Why?"

I swallow; he sounds skeptical. "Because I love consistency. Emotional stability in a mind where consistency is difficult to track . . . that's all I want. And people slip in and out of your life so often." I can't help but swallow again; this is so much to admit, my deepest wish, my greatest desire. But he asked, and currently my greatest obligation is to him. "Friendship is such a priceless thing, and I've always thought of love as powerful friendship . . . romantic love, transcendent friendship—there's nothing I want more, nothing I would fight for more. I want to find him and know what I'm fighting for, be there on his behalf, comfort him in his pain, give him everything he wants and prove to him that I love him more than anything."

I realize I'm ranting . . . saying what I've only ever said to myself before. It takes more energy than is initial to realize that someone is listening this time.

Frodo is perfectly still.

"I'm sorry," I manage at last with a sickened chuckle. "I suppose that's a bit much; I'm sorry, I didn't mean to burden you."

Frodo doesn't move; I glance down, wondering if he's asleep, but his eyes are open.

"Frodo?" I peer closer to him.

He shakes his head; he looks so distant, and I wonder what I've done wrong.

"Are you all right?"

He snaps out of it and stares up at me. "You told Boromir you had no one," he says softly. "How do you know you'll succeed in that?"

I sigh, settling back. "I just have faith that I will, I suppose. I've been promised by many people I love and trust that I will. I can't say all of them know everything . . . but I have at least the strength to believe them, even if I can't do anything else."

Frodo slips his fingers around mine and lifts my hand to his pale cheek. He doesn't look at me, as though I'm material enough not to react, which perhaps I am. But his skin is gentle, and as my fingers brush his face I'm a little lost in the realization that I can touch him, that he initiated it.

"I don't doubt you will meet a worthy man," he says. "And when that day comes I also don't doubt you will know him when you see him." I stiffen with a sharp inhale as he turns, pecking the back of my hand before releasing it. His eyes don't meet mine. "Good night, Minah."

I blink in place, stunned by the soft brush of his lips against my skin. The contact was brief, but it won't leave me, I'm sure.

After a few minutes I at last fall asleep. Heavens, but that will never leave me. I stare at my hand wonderingly, holding it to my jaw . . . as though he would kiss me there. I shake my head solidly, ripping my hand away from my face: but too late, I've already imagined again what it would be like if those gentle lips caressed mine.

Finally a sour chuckle escapes me—curses, Minah, he's a hobbit! You're crazy! He was saying good night to a servant he seems to care a little bit about. Leave it alone; nothing will come of it.

Besides, you're going to go home anyway.

I shudder at the thought and try to get some sleep.

~0~

The Elvish rope stretching into the fog before me doesn't look appealing; Frodo is adamant about not letting me go first, in spite of the havoc that might cause. This is one of the few times I challenge him, and he reminds me that even if his safety is my priority, I'm not the authoritative one in the group at present. I admit that and take a step back.

Maybe a good scare will convince him to let me protect him.

My heart lurches painfully when Frodo grabs the rope and swings over the side of the cliff. I suddenly have an image in my head, of when my sister went rappelling for the first time. I remember having a jolt of fear, although I knew she was all right, as though they could send anyone down but her and I'd be fine, which did turn out to be the case. It was a moment of what I assumed most mothers felt like . . . and later my own mother assured to me that this was true.

Now I felt the same way, only eighty times worse. I don't know what'll happen; there's no harness, no belayer, and I have to go down as well.

I shakily latch Iorhael to my thicker tunic belt—not the one I gave to Gandalf—using Frodo's old sleeve. It's crusted with blood, but I've never cared about blood much . . . as long as it isn't mass blood of somebody I care about. I shiver as Sam goes over the side, and then I slip onto the Elvish rope.

Every process in my body threatens to halt when I gingerly ease over the cliff; I'm holding onto a rope as thin as a needle, and my palms are growing slick—I could fall. I shudder and try to use my feet, probing for safe places to step on my way down.

My boots help; I'd probably fall if it weren't for them.

We climb down for a chilling fifteen minutes before I call out to Frodo.

"You at the base yet?"

His response—although he sounds fine—scares me, just the realization that he could still fall and break his neck. "Not yet!" Then he pauses. "Minah, didn't I tell you to wait at the top until we knew it was safe?"

I glance down at Sam; he's giving me a stern look. A blush creeps onto my face.

"You probably did,"I admit, still watching Sam. He looks like he could chase me back up. "But if you did I didn't hear you. Now what do you want me to do?" I wait wickedly, anticipating that he'll let me just come down with him.

"Stay right there," he insists; his voice is fading farther away. My eyebrows narrow. "That's probably the safest thing you can do . . ."

When I slack on the rope is about when Sam smacks into the cliff face, and I jolt.

He and I call out for Frodo simultaneously, although the wording is rather different between the two of us.

"Catch it! Grab it, Mr. Frodo!"

"Frodo, be careful!"

But I don't hear him slip down. Sam breathes a sigh of relief and continues down; I want to follow and ask what the heck just happened there, but since Frodo seems perfectly fine I don't dare until he's to the ground.

I let out a slight cry, however, when Sam slips on the rope and begins to fall.

"Sam!"

As he falls, Frodo calls out that he's reached the end of the cliff face, and then I hear a clang in the distant fog when Sam collides with the ground. I wince and immediately begin scaling the stone after them, only to hear Frodo again.

"Minah, are you all right?"

My eyes sink shut; I'm not the one we're supposed to be worried about, except that I'm the last one on the rope.

"I'm fine," I call back. My palms slicken again, and I reinforce my grip on the Elvish rope. "Don't worry about me, I'll be down in a moment."

The cliff seems to drag on, and in those moments when I try to move faster I can't get as far for the constant scrambling I do. My face burns—this is a little ridiculous, but I don't have much of a choice. I bounce off from rock to rock finally.

"Am I close?"

There's a hesitation.

"Relatively, yes," Frodo says finally, just as my foot collides with the ground. I stumble back, surprised, and he grabs my arm. My eyes lift; I won't say I'm exasperated, but I am uncertain at how concerned he is. He shouldn't be worried about me.

But he doesn't let go of my arm. I shift my gaze away from him, back to the rope. I notice before my eyes leave, however, that he still has the box of salt in his other hand. Out of my peripheral I see him pass it back to Sam. He shifts around me, transitioning his grip from my arm to my hand on the opposite side.

"We can't leave this here for someone else to follow us down," he says finally.

I decide to leave it to them; it's comical enough to watch.

But after that little conversation, Sam doesn't tug on the rope, and neither does Frodo. They turn to leave it, and I eye them balefully.

"Aren't you at least going to give it a pull?" I ask hopefully.

Frodo and Sam look at each other; the former shrugs as he looks back to me. "Would it come down?"

I shrug after a moment's pause. "I actually don't know . . . but it might."

Frodo eyes me carefully, then reaches over and yanks halfheartedly on the Elvish rope. "We're going to need it later anyway," I say, attempting to conceal my pride as it loosens from the rock and collapses in a pile at Frodo's feet.

The hobbit frantically turns to Sam.

"It was one of your knots, wasn't it?"

Sam nods, speechless, and both turn to me. Frodo glances down when I don't give them a response.

"Real Elvish rope, I suppose," he mutters.

They're both soon over that whole ordeal, and Sam takes the rope from the ground back into his pack as we continue on. As the sun rises and the fog clears, I wonder if Frodo will experience the weight of the Ring under Sauron's gaze. Then a sharp snap cracks down on the back of my neck, like I'm carrying a millstone or something. I wince at the pressure . . . and then remember the Ring is once again around my neck, not his.

I stare up at the volcano, and the Ring drags again. This time, though, it sears against my skin, as though burning into it. I stumble in place, and the Great Eye flashes into my mind. I choke suddenly, sitting down on a nearby rock.

Frodo and Sam are some paces ahead of me, mournfully trying to decide where to go now that they're lost. I don't want them to notice, and I try to gather myself together before I go to join them. But this weight—everything inside of me wants to drop it, to throw it far away, but I must keep it. I grab the chain, itching my neck, and then I think to look at my burden. I lift it out from my black tunic and stare at the little thing: it's actually a burden I suppose I'll have to adapt to, to have this sinister, powerful . . . perfect . . . beautiful circlet of gold around my neck.

Disgusted with myself, I drop it. It thuds again against my chest, and I grip it with a slight groan; much as I'm sick of it, I don't want to give it back to Frodo just yet. But it's so heavy; it's less a complaint of the weight I have to carry and more the uncanny realization of just how burdensome this little thing can be—and how unsure I am if I can truly carry it.

By the time I look up, Frodo is standing above me. I scramble to my feet, but he puts a hand on my shoulder and sits me back down.

"You look like you need to rest," he says gently. I open my mouth to protest; he holds up a hand. "No; you stay right where you are." He turns to Sam. "What food do we have?" he asks, removing his waterskin. He holds it out to me, and when I don't take it he gives me a stern, concerned look. I accept it hesitantly, taking a little from it. I make a mental note to give him some of mine if it ever becomes convenient or possible.

I set the waterskin aside, thanking Frodo under my breath, as Sam opens his pack. "Let's see," he starts, and I begin mouthing the lines right along with him. Frodo catches my movement and barely contains a chuckle. I shiver with laughter myself until I'm finished, just watching his reaction.

Frodo gives me his lembas, and I chip off half of it. One of his eyebrows lifts.

"Frodo, a bite is enough to fill a grown man." I contain my snicker; Frodo doesn't know that line. "I only need a little bit of this."

Although hesitant, he accepts the lembas I give him, and I pop the corner of bread into my mouth. I love lembas; it's dense and it's powdery, but the taste of it is like white bread, exemplified beyond human capacity. It's filling, which would normally be a downside, but we're on a long road with no resources: I'm grateful for what I can get at this point.

I glance up at Frodo. "You guys don't handle rain very well, do you?"

Frodo's brow creases, and then thunder booms powerfully in the distance. I smirk just a little until I realize that they're going to be cold . . . but cuddling with a pair of handsome little hobbits for the whole storm shouldn't be bad.

I shake my head; that was an obnoxious thought of me.

About then Sam makes his comment about Elvish bread not being bad. Apparently he didn't hear me mention the rain, because the conversation carries predictably for a moment until the thunder cracks again.

"Come; we'd better find some cover," I say, gathering my stick up close to me. I wince against the strength of the Ring, and Frodo's eyes are locked on mine again.

He stands to follow me. "Minah, are you all right?"

I reach for the Ring, then throw my hand down. "I'm fine," I manage, but it burns a little again. "No wonder you tired of this," I breathe to myself. I never thought of Frodo as a complainer anyway, but thinking about all those comments on it I ever saw, I can't help but wonder if they would still say that after carrying this Ring.

Frodo shakes his head, grabbing my hand and turning me to look at him.

"Minah, the Ring is my burden," he says sternly, but his voice is soft. He looks very concerned, and I'm almost flattered until I remember that this could kill him. I open my mouth to protest, but he lifts his hand. "I don't wish you to trouble yourself over it."

As he walks away, beckoning for me to follow, I realize perhaps he doesn't remember I'm holding it. I allow my mouth to sink shut and walk after him.

They try to rest behind a canyon wall as night draws closer and the winds of the storm swells louder, but I manage to locate a cavity of rock where at least one hobbit can hide. Sam and Frodo both insist the other take it, and after a moment of protective debate I finally suggest that I'll be the substitute "rock cavity" for whomever stays outside. It only takes a glance between them before Sam slips into the rock cavity.

I settle against the canyon wall, spreading out my cloak. I pat the bottom of it, and Frodo nestles by my side. Then his gaze rises to my neck, and his brow furrows.

"What?" I'm pretty sure the Ring is inside my shirt; he shouldn't be able to see it.

He reaches up, fingering the chain, and my eyes flicker. His fingers slide underneath it; the contact forces me to stiffen as the Ring slides out into view. He shifts his grip, but not his gaze, to weigh the little circlet of gold.

"How did you get this?"

My face burns. "You gave it to me last night," I say. I reach up for the clip. "I said we ought to trade it off so that neither of us get too attached."

Frodo's head shakes wildly as the Ring slips down from my neck, and I hold the chain out to him. He doesn't reach forward for it, just slides closer to me. He nods to it, as though expecting me to put it on him. I move to do so, and he speaks while I move. "Of course, but Minah, I'm worried." I lift my hands beneath his curls, but I can't see the links. I lean forward slightly, shifting the chain so I can hook it together. Frodo puts a hand on my shoulder and pushes me back just enough so he can look at me. "I saw you today." His voice softens, vibrating through his chest just deeply enough that I feel it. His fingers drift across my cheek, spreading to cup my jaw. My eyelids flicker with uncertainty; his touch is slight and tender, nothing short of confusing. I wonder then what the heck he's thinking. "And you wouldn't be so persistent about this if it weren't dangerous. I'm sorry, but . . . much as I wish you could help, you can't. It will obviously do something to you."

I suddenly become conscious of the soft brush of his curls against the back of my hand, as well as how my fingers rest limply against the elegant slope of his neck. I clear my throat and quickly clip the chain of the Ring, backing away.

"I understand," I say; for a moment I don't actually process if I understand, I just need to back away. Then I clear my head and leap right into it. "I'm sure you're very worried. I just hope you'll let me help you, dangerous as it may be. Coming here with Gandalf sold the danger of it." Then I pause. "And I would honor his memory by helping you to the best of my ability."

Frodo muses over this for a long moment.

"Or by staying out of it," he points out, and my subsequent blush spreads furiously. Then he throws off that idea, although why I don't know; it makes perfect sense from what I understand to be his perspective. Perhaps he's giving up on my lack of involvement.

There are no words for a minute, and my gaze grows distant. Today was not a stressful one relative to what it could have been. While I know it won't be much to speak of later, I'm glad Frodo is safe.

How long do we have until Gollum comes? Only one more day, or a week in this rock? How long until Mordor? Until Faramir? I swallow and sit back against the rock . . . and then the rain starts.

Frodo wraps himself tightly in his cloak, and I squeeze him close to me. I get a little bit wet in the effort to keep him warm, but it's worth it. He doesn't really fall asleep, and I'm worried after a while. I glance down at his slightly open eyes, unable to do anything to initiate rest within him, and subsequently within me.