The Redeemer: Chapter Two
Bind Yourself to Me
Rating: PG-13 (for intense thematic material, explicit description of "depressing" scenes, and what not). May increase to an R.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of this stuffand as for the stuff that I made up, well, it technically owns itself.
A/N: My appreciation to all those who have read and reviewed. In answer to their requests, I present The Redeemer, Part Two, and I have scrambled as best as I could on it. I am dearly sorry if I took too long, too, because I am simultaneously working on other fics as well (check my bio, and you'll know what I mean). Regarding Chapter One, everybody, you have not seen anything yet — that was only a scene, a vignette, which induces the main plot of this fic. The fun begins here, for in Chapter Two we officially start the real story.
And so, let the madness commence once again
The Redeemer, Part Two
Bind Yourself to Me
A harsh stab of pain sliced through the confining blackness and the blue eyes snapped open. Light flooded into Frodo's swimming vision, blinding him, burning him — and despite being riddled with unimaginable fatigue, he blinked, once, his long black lashes grazing his cheek. It was impossible for him to think, for his mind was as if reduced to a think, dumb glue. He couldn't feel any part of his body, either — feeling, quite practically, as if he were reduced to only two eyes, able to see, but able for nothing else. And if it weren't for the tortuous stabbing that still ravaged what was felt to be his midsection, Frodo didn't see any reason for believing that he had not already forsaken his limp corpse, and had fled to Heaven above.
Heaven. That one word, instead of lingering for only a mere moment and slowly draining away from his ears, stayed, as a ghostly echo — and that ghostly echo at length refused to leave. It resonated throughout his blemished body, rebounding and ricocheting, getting louder, louder, louder, and ever louder and clearer every single time it recycled itself — until it repeatedly roared at him, with a voice equal to that of the Rauros Fall's thundering, shout after shout after shout after shout. And every time that word was screamed, Frodo's thought-to-be unfelt and unseen body went riddled with unthinkable agony. And suddenly, a terrible weight was suddenly dropped down onto his finger — a searing — and Frodo finally remembered, and contracted an unheard gasp. The Ring was still on his finger.
No way could it have been Heaven that awaited Frodo Baggins. Everybody, everybody that he knew and recalled, and had known of the Quest and his peril, had wanted him to destroy the Ring — and that assessment held few exceptions. And Frodo would have wagered anything, without thinking, that they would have allowed him to go to any lengths, just to accomplish that task. Even if that meant sacrificing their lives, any of their lives, all of their lives. And Frodo had betrayed them all. For the Ring still survived, and was still upon his finger, now in his formal possession — and Frodo did not even know whether he was still at the Cracks of Doom, or someplace worse. Most likely, he had been taken by the Nazgul — who knew? perhaps even into Sauron's stronghold — and indeed, the only afterlife he deserved was Hell, and an eternal Hell. He was sure that Sam would most certainly condemn him to such an eternity, if Frodo's fate was ever his to decide.
But why was it all light and brightness, instead of the shadow and flame it was supposed to be?
Frodo sat bolt upright, and as soon as he had curled up he uttered a howl of pain and sank back down onto his back, one arm clutching his chest. The feeling rushed back into his body, his limbs, and the logic into his head — and, with both indescribable relief and resentment, he realized that he was certainly not dead at all. Not yet. And just as he had awoken, the blinding brightness, the light, the airiness, fled, leaving a dark and foreboding surrounding.
A shaking hand slowly lifted itself up, and Frodo twisted about to see the band of gold, burning as bright as if the light of Iluvatar itself shown from it, the swirling Elvish runes etched into its surface shining out from an unfathomable depth. It was so, so heavy upon his hand, making his arm muscles ache in the mere act of sustaining it while holding it up. Frodo bit his lip, and a single tear appeared in the corner of his eye and slowly dropped down his face, so pale that blue veins streaked their ways up and down his cheeks. What was the Ring supposed to do for him? When he had first put it on, yes, he had felt its power, coursing through his little body, making him feel simply invincible and unbeatable, able and willing to stand up to anybody that dared pit himself against him — but now, he only felt loss, a horrible emptiness inside him, a feeling of dejection and lowliness. Where was the inexhaustible power and might it had promised to give him?
And at that moment, something slowly entered back into Frodo's mind, and he took a deep breath. What was he supposed to do with the Ring? He had no idea to use it, and he was at an utter loss, whether to leave it on or to take it off. If he left it on, why, Sauron would know exactly where he was, no matter how far he fled; and if he took it off, he would be technically powerless, vulnerable and completely unprotected from all the forces and fury of Mordor. Then what? But suddenly, the Ring, as if reading his indecision, became even hotter — and without warning it contracted, gripping Frodo's finger with an iron grasp, like a walnut stuck in between the jaws of a wrencher — and a sudden worry seized him. The Ring had never clung that tightly to him.
So, Frodo reached over with his other hand, and tugged at the gold band. When it refused to yield, blind panic overtook him, and he grasped his finger hard and pulled, relentlessly, mercilessly. And still the Ring did not come off — and Frodo was perhaps closer to dislocating his knuckle, nay, tearing it off his hand completely, than to making the band slip off.
It had fused itself onto the Halfling's finger.
Frodo slumped down again, and panted. He did not know whether to be shocked or frightened — wasn't the Ring supposed to still possess a yearning for its maker, Sauron, even while it tried to seduce and ensnare others that were drawn to its power? And nobody had ever told him that a Ring of Power sometimes chose to cling to its bearer, and refuse to be removed. But — could that mean — between Sauron, the Dark Lord of Barad-dûr, and him, Frodo Baggins, a halfling of the Shire who had only possessed it for two and some years, it chose him?
The sudden, strange encouragement caused energy to flood back into Frodo's body, just as its feeling had returned a moment ago — and slowly, stiffly, Frodo climbed into a kneeling position and stood up, on one foot and then the other. He was standing in a chamber — a dark chamber, with menacing walls of black that were hewn out of what seemed like obsidian, carved and etched over completely with strange, evil-looking symbols. The spot he stood on, and the spot he had been lying on, was a circle, bordered with gold lines — and from it, in all directions, on the black ground, extended streaks, geometric patterns also bordered with runes, giving the central circle an unnerving, terrible, yet obvious significance. Then Frodo realized — the runes and markings were some sort of dark magic - and he had been held under it. And then he realized also — only after the Ring had awoke on his finger, had fused itself on and had seared, did the spell slowly lose its grip on him. And though he did not even notice before, the pain that formerly racked all of his body was now completely gone. Frodo lifted his hand, which was shaking — and looked once more at the object, shining so beautifully upon his long, slender finger. So the Ring had helped him — and, taken by an unprecedented rush of unexplainable fondness — no, it could not have been fondness, for it was too powerful, so overwhelming — it was love — Frodo lifted up his hand, and inclined down his handsome head, and kissed the Ring with his pale pink lips.
He was too sunken and intoxicated in this sudden new lust that the ethereal sensitivity the Ring had given him failed to kick in. With a blast and a shake that rocked the very ground of the chamber, nine tall figures entered from nine separate portals, hirtheto unseen, and advanced upon Frodo in an ever-tightening circle. Frodo felt his heart give a sudden sharp palpitation, and he looked up, whirling 360 degrees upon the spot he stood at as the Nazgul drew closer. It was not fear that motivated the pummeling in his chest, but surprise — for they were unhooded and uncloaked, and now revealed their true forms to his eyes. It was certainly the Ring again that made him see. They were not black, as they appeared when they had pursued him and rode upon black horses so long ago while in the Shire — they were now white, a white that was only possible for a ghost or a phantom to possess; and their faces, rotting, scabbed, skins clinging to a deformed skull underneath, leered at him, fangs glinting and bottomless eyes glaring. And in their hands, they carried swords — the exact same swords that Frodo had remembered seeing them carry at Weathertop — points facing him.
Finally the terror blossomed within him, and Frodo breathed, in and out, in and out, sharply and heavily, wrapping his arms about him as the demons drew closer and closer. The Ring twitched upon his finger — and before Frodo knew, against his own volition, he was extending his arm out, and drawing his tiny body up to a fuller height than he had ever imagined — and the Ring glared brighter and brighter, emitting a sphere of white light that completely surrounded him. And a throbbing momentum began building up in Frodo's body — slowly at first, but gradually faster and faster, stronger and stronger, as if he were hurtling towards some climax — and, just as the Nazgul poised their weapons, and thrust the long swords at him, the heat within him exploded and the Ring caught fire upon his finger. Ripples of white, ripples of searing light, with a great rushing and roaring, whirled and rolled outwards from the trembling Frodo; and with a detonation that rocked the very foundations of the chamber they stood in, the Nazgul were pummeled by the shockwaves and hurtled with unthinkable force and speed back against the throbbing black walls. The Halfling's lungs seemed to collapse, then re-inflate again violently, and with a great gasp, a hand shooting up and clutching at the outstretched throat, the waves rebounded, crashing back in upon the bearer, and with a final rock was concentrated and sucked back into the band. Frodo swayed slightly, wide eyes gawking at his precious — and, as suddenly as the Ring had given its outburst, or, rather, fueled Frodo's outburst, its heat vanished and the runes disappeared off its face.
The Ring would not let the Nazgul touch its Bearer.
The Nazgul were no less shocked than Frodo; and as they staggered up, they did not even advance upon the Halfling anymore — they simply stared at him, all the menace gone from their decomposed faces — almost as if they, incredibly, feared him. That outburst from Frodo, had, frankly and truly, equaled Sauron's power in its intensity and might — and as for Frodo Baggins, he stared at the Ring — his Ring — and he finally knew that the Ring had not lied to him, when it had begged for him. Truly, it had given him power — and with it, it had given Frodo a courage, a daring, that had quickly reinstated itself. And, even surprising himself, he threw his head back, his brown curls dancing about his face, and he laughed, laughed and laughed, his high, clear, and oddly, terrible yet beautiful, voice, rose and filtered up throughout the lofty chamber, echoing and rejoining its many reciprocals in a grand symphony — washing throughout the air, streaming through the dim shafts of light that filtered from the unseen ceiling. And the Nazgul, overwhelmed, terrified at last, retreated to the far extremes of the room, as far a distance they could place between themselves and the Halfling within the black walls.
"The shadow shall not avail you!" Frodo cried, and his voice soared and seemed to come from all directions at once. "Your Ring does not respond to Sauron anymore. It has chosen me, it has decided to serve me, and not your master — and so I, not Sauron, now have power over you. And approach me not again unless I wish it so — lest you wish for your own destruction!"
And Frodo's eyes glared so bright and furiously, the flush of his cheeks returning so lifelike and red, the Nazgul shielded themselves from his gaze, falling prostrate on the ground — they had submitted themselves to their new master.
Yet almost, as if feeling the foreign and near-dangerous presence within the walls of the chamber, one of its doors burst open yet again, this time with so much force that it sent the Nazgul sprawling again and nearly succeeded in knocking Frodo off his feet. Then a darkness engulfed the entire scene, and a reeking evil entered, extending endlessly from it like the infinite rays of Arnor — and a terror like none other suddenly put its grasp on Frodo. Slowly, shaking, he pivoted around on his bare hobbit feet, to face the new intruder — and as his glittering cerulean eyes lifted up increment by increment, to look and see what the new presence was — the Ring gave another jolt and burned again to life. And when Frodo finally locked his gaze, upon the presence, all his senses fled him, and he stood, arms limp at his side, in both total horror and total awe. The sight before him was both horrendous, and beautiful — beautiful in such a horribly cruel way, its sight felt worse than the stab and icy plunge of a Morgul-knife — and the two red catlike eyes, shining from their depths and shroud of foul shadow, swept aways and gazed back upon him. Finally, Frodo truly had ascertained what had happened to him, where he was, and who he faced — and he swallowed.
He had been taken deep into the bowels of the Fortress of Barad-dûr, left in the evil chamber, its spell holding him as fast as any dungeon lock could ever contain him. Yet he had woken, and had defied and defeated the Nazgul, and had managed to break away from the enchantment completely with the help of the Ring — alerting and drawing, as if by a summons, another one into the chamber. And before him stood Sauron the Maiar, the Dark Lord of Mordor, Liege of Barad-dûr, in all his black, terrible glory.
End part Two
A/N: Riiiiight, now l lied, the story still didn't go anywhereWell? Did you like this? I know it is extremely illogical for the Ring to have spontaneously fused itself to Frodo's finger, but that actually sets up a viewpoint for him that will be crucial for the plot's development. There is a reason (and a scientific explanation) behind that phenomenon, though I don't think it'll be revealed anytime soon — perhaps at the very, very end of this story. No, probably at the end of its sequel. Yep, I've already planned a sequel, aren't I crazy? But then again, it's up to you reviewers to decide whether you want this story to have a follow-up at all not. Hell, a trilogy, anyone?
But if you're really observant, and you've read my two chapters carefully, perhaps you may pick out the reason why the Ring helped Frodo.
A/N: And for those of you who were confused on why the Ring did not originally protect Frodo from the Nazgul's spell at the Cracks of Doom, he had not been afraid then — and the Ring kicks in only when it senses unease in Frodo. And Frodo was scared when they tried to kill him in Barad-dûr.
Final A/N: f you've enjoyed this, please do take a look at my other LOTR fics — The Carnival of the Sovereigns, A Tale of Lothlorien Woods, and A Game of Chess. Next chapter coming soon. Until later, Kudos! ~Verok