Another day, another chapter. As usual, up a bit later than I was hoping – had family staying and it's all been a bit hectic (I write to you all from my basecamp on the lounge floor. Tomorrow, I will try for the summit known as "the couch").

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooo

"I'm not giving up on him."

It was a cool morning, and those left behind were trying to decide what to do. Although no one mentioned explicitly what had happened the night before, it hung grimly over the camp. Sam's statement was plain and simple, and came as no surprise to his companions. Although none present wanted to admit the seeming futility of their situation, and it was clear certain things were beyond them, Sam's staunch refusal to give up echoed the fondest wish of those he spoke to.

Eowyn sighed, one hand tangled in her hair. "Sam, what can we do? We can't get there, and even if we could, how could we get him out?"

Sam ignored the Shieldmaiden's reasonable reply. "I said I would follow him, and so I will. If he's gone to Barad-Dur, then I'm going to get him, or die trying. And before you say it, I know I probably will, but that's not going to stop me."

"Sam, be reasonable! Would you willingly walk into death, into Mordor, when there is no hope of rescuing Frodo?" Merry's pained words came through his silently falling tears. "We can't lose you too."

Sam's eyes flashed. "There is always hope." He sighed and his voice grew softer. "If we don't have hope, what do we have?"

Faramir rested his fingertips against his lips, thinking. "Sam, we have to look at this realistically – "

"There is always hope. I can still see it, although you might not, or maybe you refuse to, unwilling to put yourself in danger now the matter is apparently out of our hands. I thought you were a man of quality." Sam said it with quiet rage, and the words cut Faramir like a blade. He flinched as the words hit home, knowing now that Sam would not listen to any council, but would go where his heart took him – into Mordor, once again.

Sam saw Faramir flinch, and immediately regretted his words. "I'm sorry, Captain," he said quietly. "I can't give up, just like that, in an instant. I know we are far away from Mordor, and I know even if we could get there, we would all be caught or be killed, but I still refuse to believe that there is nothing we can do."

"Frodo wouldn't give up on us," Pippin said quietly, speaking for the first time in hours. "He'd do anything he could, we owe it to him to do the same."

The truth in Pippin's words settled over the morbid camp. After a moment, Eowyn looked up, her eyes brighter than they had been. "We could head south and meet up with the massing armies. King Elessar and Mithrandir are the most likely to be able to help – perhaps we could use the battle as a distraction to mount a smaller attack against the Dark Tower to rescue Frodo. It could be our chance." There was silence as the others mulled over her words. Sam nodded and turned away to face the southeast.

"In any case," said Faramir hesitatingly, "Mithrandir needs to be informed about Frodo's–about the change in circumstance."

"And if we can't get to the tower?" asked Merry, quietly. The brief silence that greeted his words was deafening. No one wanted to think about the possibility.

"We will," Eowyn said simply. They had to keep hope. Even if it was the only slim chance they had.

Clearing their camp, or what was left of it, the five walkers resumed their southward trek in silence. The weight of the events of the previous night was stifling, taking over every thought and movement.

"Faramir, is this in vain?" Eowyn asked quietly, watching the hunched backs of the three hobbits who walked before her.

"I know not, best beloved," Faramir replied with a sigh. "The only clear thought in my mind is to take further council with Elessar and Mithrandir. They will be at the Black Gate, so we travel there."

"But we are weeks–"

"I know, my love. I know the distance is vast. But what else can we do?"

The two walked on in silence, before Eowyn spoke again. "I'm worried that our three friends will do something irrational. Try to get to Mordor before we have a plan or something of the like. They all love Frodo dearly, and would to anything for him. I only pray they realise the severity of the situation we find ourselves in."

Faramir smiled grimly, more to himself than to the Shieldmaiden walking beside him. "I believe that would be the first thought to come to their minds – but the seriousness has also had effect. Do not forget, my love, that they have seen this before. They are not as fool-hardy as they once were…" He paused, suddenly deep in memory. "As we all once were."

In front of them, Merry and Pippin walked together in silence. Each knew the other well enough to recognise that stillness was needed – time to reflect, to contemplate, and to lament.

Frodo had always been more serious than the two of them – he was, of course, their elder. Their trusted, compassionate, wise friend, and beloved cousin. To lose him was unfathomable – one moment here, the next…

Pippin was still trying to make sense of it all. Inside he was numb – the full realisation was beginning to sink in, and although he fervently wished he could dismiss and disbelieve it, his heart knew it was true. The knowledge threatened to drown him in despair – so he focussed on his feet and the steps they were taking towards help, and wished for a miracle.

Beside him, Merry was thinking of his earliest memories of Frodo at Brandy Hall. There had been no shadow, no Ring, no Enemy then. The days just came and went, spent reading, playing, not caring about tomorrow very much. He missed those days of simplicity, when Frodo was the older, somewhat intimidating but always kind cousin that had known him since birth. Always there to help, always humouring him by joining in on games he was too old to play…

Beyond them, Eowyn and Faramir, Sam walked alone. He was deep in memory, thought and pain, as he re-lived some of his terrible experiences from Mordor. Never did he think he would be willingly walking back towards it, desperate to get there. He tried not to think of what might be happening to Frodo, what torture or pain he might be enduring even now, and wished for a horse, to cover more ground.

His feeling of helplessness aggravated him most. Mordor was so far away, so many long days of walking, so many miles. Would there be time to reach Frodo before the unthinkable? Was he going to lose his friend, his brother, forever?

Hold on, Frodo. Hold on.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooo

It was darker than the deepest places of the Void. He couldn't see. Couldn't move. Couldn't speak. The darkness pressed in around him until he was drowning in it, lost within its pull. Paralysed by the shadows, his only company was fleeting whispers, taunting him, chilling his blood– almost lost from hearing, stifled by the darkness, but at the same time clear as a bell's chime. They murmured words of guilt and shame, assaulting his wearied soul.

Memories began to flicker before him, though if they were in the darkness around him or within his mind's eye he could not tell. Evil memories, visions from his shadowed past, came to life before him. The weight of the Ring returned, as did the torment to his soul. The darkness continued to taunt and mock him, chilling him to the bone in his isolation.

(It's such a weight to carry, isn't it? Wouldn't it be better to just lie down and die?)

(You knew you weren't strong enough. They all knew. Knew you would fail. They expected you to die. Expected Sauron to win, and the world to fall to shadow. They expected it to be all your fault.)

Scenes flashed before his eyes, as if illuminated by unseen lightning. Boromir's cries that he, the Ringbearer would take the Ring to Sauron and betray them. Falling under the manipulations of Gollum. Seeing the way the Fellowship looked at him, like some hated creature. The darkness was warm and beckoning to him, promising to care for him and make those who doubted him pay.

Indistinct corpses were seen, horribly mutilated and tortured, people who had been driven to the edge of life, and sanity, and hope, before their slow and painful death. The extent of their suffering was clear.

The bodies became clearer, familiar. Frodo stumbled away from the bodies of the Fellowship…mangled corpses of his friends…pained death-masks of his family…

It was evident they had been tortured before their deaths: the darkness forced him to look closely although he tried to turn away. Burn marks and bruises covered the bodies, inflicted with skill and precision to cause the most pain. Each had been eventually killed with specific one stab – wounds that never killed outright, but allowed the body to lie, sometimes for hours at a time, still alive as their blood, that precious essence of life, drained from them painstakingly slowly. Their blood mingled together and covered the image, tainting it in a red light.

Frodo was suddenly aware there was someone behind him. The figure was holding a bloodied sword, a wheel of fire shining on their right hand. They advanced, the shadows fawning around their every step as they approached.

(You claimed it.)

Sudden light, from an unseen source, illuminated the figure – himself. Wearing black armour and holding a naked sword covered in the crimson glow of blood, the mirror-image smirked and held up his right hand. There the Ring glowed, the gold band shining brightly, its power and malice unleashed. The image smirked again, nothing like the figure he was tempted with by the Ring; nothing like the song and music of Frodo King of Kings. Instead it was a corrupted and perverted image of himself, himself had he become like Sauron and taken Middle Earth for his own. Frodo felt ill staring at his shadow twin, full of guilt and shame.

The distant, dark voices began to laugh. Frodo watched as his corrupted self was obscured by shadow and transformed into another vision. Sauron was suddenly before him, in his full power, wearing the Ring. The Witch King stood to Sauron's right, and Shelob to his left. They surrounded him, advancing on him. Death was on all sides.

(Won't you join us, little Lord? Help us to slay the innocent? You have nothing else. You are one of us. Do not deny it.)

His corrupted self was before him again, offering a hand. Frodo backed away, not letting this perverted vision touch him. When he found he could go no further, his shadow twin came ever closer, wanting to pull him down to the depths of darkness…

Frodo opened his eyes.

The images vanished, the lasting vision of his corrupted self fading. Frodo took a few deep breaths, willing the ill-feeling of the nightmare to vanish and leave him be. After a moment breathing deeply and reassuring himself that was not what he was, Frodo took in his surroundings.

Dark, inconsistently shaped stone made up four walls around him. A large wooden door was set into one wall, it's bars letting in flickering torchlight from the passageway beyond through the iron bars in the top. One other high window let in a reddened, dim light and a dull noise of iron and industry. A prison cell – more than that, a dungeon. The dungeon of Barad-Dur.

The darkness of the nightmare lingered upon his mind, as did the cold feeling of death and failure. He may have escaped Barad-Dur's grip once, but no longer. He had failed again; and there was no way out – he would die here and Middle Earth would fall into shadow. He had doomed them all; he would perish alone and helpless, so far away from those he loved.

Moving slowly to one corner, and drawing his knees up under his chin, Frodo reflected on what had happened. He had been caught by the Nazgul, cast into a dungeon in the stronghold of Melkor. Yet, he was not dead. But for how much longer? How much longer did he – no, not just he, how much longer did Middle-Earth have? How much time, before the world was covered by darkness because one hobbit was fool enough to allow himself to be captured?

It was all his fault. If he had just…had just… had just what? There was no answer he could think of. If he just wasn't a fool, maybe this would have been averted, somehow. Although he could not give himself proof of his own fault, he was sure it must exist. How else could this have happened if he had not been so foolish?

If he wasn't so weak, wasn't such a failure. The memory of his fall to corruption in Mount Doom was at the top of his mind, like some re-opened wound of a memory, hurting him, punishing him, reminding him. He had fallen, weak as he was, into the spell of the Ring and let it consume him.

There was nothing that could be done. He would have to fight the abide the darkness alone and hope he was strong enough to bear it.

Amidst his personal shadows that lingered in mind and memory, Frodo thought of Sam, of Merry, of Pippin. His three dearest friends in the world. He wept to think he would never see them again. No. This cell, this embodiment of despair, would be the last thing he saw. He would never see Aragorn, or the White City, or the Tree of the King. Never see Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli…the Fellowship. Or Eowyn and Faramir, who had become trusted and valued friends of him in the past weeks. Never see the Shire again.

Bitter tears fell as he thought of them – of what would become of them because of him. Of what would happen. There was no stopping it. Hope was gone, smothered by shadow and doubt, and Frodo was alone in the darkness.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooo

Bit shorter than usual, but needs must.

Next chapter: The First Confrontation.