The Redeemer: Chapter Three
To Be Denied a Gift of Men
Rating: PG-13 (I still don't know when to make it an Rpossibly never)
A/N: Thank you profusely for all the big reviews coming in — some of you people also mentioned that you're reading an other fic of mine that sort of ties in with this, "Letters to Ithilien". Chapter Two, titled "Without An Explication," will come along in a matter of three days, tops. And now, with your ever present pleas and demands, I present The Redeemer: Part Three
Let the madness commence yet again
The Redeemer
To Be Denied a Gift of Men
If Frodo did not have a One Ring of Power, clinging to his middle finger as if it were an iron nut fused onto a rivet-head, he would probably have died of his own terror in that moment. Of all situations that were possible as the result of his doings on the Quest, and of all situations he were primed to avoid, he simply had to have run headfirst into the very worst. And indeed, nothing could not have been worse for the Halfling of the Shire — and the dull sear in his sapphire irises told the one who looked at him what mere words could never have.
What Frodo had heard of, and expected to see, was something totally devoid of form — in other words, a spirit, a shapeless, bodiless thing — its only whereabouts marked by abstract shadow, or a total blackness — or, simply, a cold, chilling fluttering of whatever living thing's heart, and the freezing of the blood, when it was in proximity. Yet, before him stood, not a mere formless presence, or even a ghostly likeness to a body — but it was a being, flesh and bone and skin and everything, clothed and wreathed in black robes lined in a bright yet macabre blood color, swirling slowly by itself in some virtual gale. There were two slender feet, clad in ebony-bright boots, its toes culminating in bayonet-like metal points; and the hobbit's gaze slowly dragged itself upward, to the bindings at the knees, seeming both so crude and forceful, yet with even a subtlety to it, and the monstrously sinewy thighs. A thick metal gaiter, with a cruel-looking buckle, held the billowing robes to the being's iron-like form; and Frodo still looked upward, slowly, horrified but inexplicablyawed. Two arms, two slender clubs of steel, its right one holding a long scepter topped with a steel skull — and finally, he studied the broad chest, encased in a silver plate dashed with runes — and, where the head of Sauron belonged, there rested a horrific cast-iron helmet. It had looked no different from the painting Frodo had stumbled upon, in the halls of Imladrisso long ago, it seemed, an entire alien Age awayhorns, slashes and bars, the nose-piece nearly invisible, a work that looked at the same time terrifyingand so cruelly awesome in such a profound sense. But what was most terrifying of all, were the eyes — the two narrow vertical slits in the metal mask — where a fiery red gleamed, or, to better put it, jetted out with furious intensity, as blinding as the rays of Arnor upon midday. And yet, Frodo Baggins, a Halfling of the Shire, barely half the height of the Dark Lordcould look back into his eyes, and train his gaze back. Whether in fright or in defiance he held his stance, though, Frodo never could figure out.
Such red, he had never seen before. Such pure, powerful, burning, searing bright red, swiped with wounds of black. Wreathed in flame, these eyes were, exulting in black powerand the catlike pupils trained back on the round ones of the hobbit's, in retaliation for his mere daring to stare upon the Lord of the Earthin challenge.
And why, and for what, was Sauron the Mighty challenging a mere mortal?
In that moment, to Sauron it seemed, Frodo's eyes seemed to dilate. They were already, even without the Light of the Ring, so unnaturally blueno mortal that he had ever looked upon exhibited eyes of that color — and indeed, no immortal, not even, unbelievably to him, Varda, or Elentari Manwë, or Melkor, or any Valar, had such breathtakingly blue eyes. And, to his wonder — and terror, incredibly — they brightened, and brightened, and became even more blue, and blue, and glaring blue — until they themselves were blinding in their fury, and their piercing luminosity defied that of the Simarils of Morgoth. Pure sky could not have been that blue, that bright. And, indeed, Sauron, staring into that — mere — mortal's — eyes, first felt a warm sensation in the back of his own orbs — but then, it slowly escalated into a stinging, and a burning, and a fizzing, and, finally, an unimaginable, unthinkable searing. A great rushing sounded — and then, Sauron the Mighty, violent passion seizing his blackened body, erupted and spilled forth the fury that had burst within him, and a terrible surge of flame and blood-redness materialized and threw itself with full force upon Frodo, the Hobbit. And, finally as the hurricane leapt forth, a roar that shook the foundation stone of Barad-dûr tore free from the throat of Sauron.
Frodo's eyes were burning, too — and right as the full might of the tempest pummeled into him, he felt a titanic raging and writhing upon his middle-right finger — and, opposed to all free will he had ever possessed, his own voice sounded out, screaming harshly in the deafening din, not in terror, but in well-waged comeback — and his blinding blue gaze went unwavering, and he bared his teeth and gritted his jaw like stone as the winds set his auburn curls and gray garments into furious flight. A white light issued from the gold band — and, from his terrifying eyes — then with a vengeance he wrecked his compelling countercurse upon Sauron.
Barad-dûr groaned and swayed, and the Lord of the Earth staggered under the incredible force and was rammed violently into the back walls of the chamber. The light-plays were killed with a flash; and Frodo uttered a horrified gasp and staggered back himself, talon-like hands clawing on his collar, the whites around his irises visible and his eyebrows seized up in ecstasy - and a single hairy hobbit foot went upon the long hem of his cloak and he was tripped backwards onto the cold stone with an echoed thud.
Sauron uttered a growl of surprise and slowly, with the ping and scrape of metal upon metal, righted himself and staggered into equilibrium. Frodo panted and scrambled up to his feet himself — and, this time, scooping up the hem of his robes, he backed, in the likeness of a sleepwalker in a dream, all the way to the extreme side of the room. As for the Dark Lord, he was utterly shocked — utterly shocked, and shamed — that a mere mortal Frodo Baggins was supposed to be had managed to best him with a spell of his own.
But, waitSauron's flame-wreathed gaze wandered, for he sensed something strong, something powerfuland something familiar. Then he saw it, gleaming with the flash and glitter of well-polished gold. His own Ring. Ah, no wonder.
"Give back what is mine, Halfling," hissed the Dark Lord, and his voice, seeming to have many tributaries and different branches, almost, whirled around the dark circular chamber, appearing to come from all directions. It was a voice that would have sent armies of Men fleeing, the many vultures upon a skeleton tree squawking and flapping away — but it failed to quail the unassailable confidence, and the sheer pride of victory, that had gathered itself in the Halfling's heart.
"If you want your Ring, come and take it from me!" offered Frodo, in a retorting hiss — and his wont had become no less impressive and horrific as Sauron's, because of the Ring. "It belongs to me, now — and it shall serve no other but me ever after."
A low emancipation of air escaped the metal helmet of the Maiar. "I am its Creator, Halfling-fool," snarled Sauron, and he raised his skull-scepter. "And as Creator — only Ican bend it to my will. For I am the one and only Lord of the Ringthe only oneand Ido not share my POWER!!"
The scepter's head was hurled at Frodo.
The Ring, suddenly, seized Frodo's ring-finger again — and, this time, amazingly, acting as if it were tugged or pulled by some invisible string, it shot up, forcing Frodo's arm to careen along with it — and it so burned that the hobbit clawed his hand in pain. Just as the spell came hurtling towards him, in perfect coordination, came the Ring, and his arm and hand in tow — and with a great clashing sound Sauron's curse met some invisible obstruction and rebounded away in the direction it came from. And right as it had come back to the one who had given it life, Sauron beat it back again, and Frodo again swiped it away, sending it once more to Sauron — as if that curse were a bird-ball, and the two were playing a fast and furious round of badminton, whipping and striking it back and forth across the spell-chamber.
"YOUSHALL NOTRECLAIM YOUR - RING!!!" screamed Frodo.
"FOOL!!" Sauron screamed back, and, finally tiring of the preposterous ballgame, he took off with a flying leap, soaring across the chamber in mid-air, hand outstretched to take the Halfling's throat.
Then, Frodo did something that was perhaps the most courageous thing ever to be done by a mortal — and definitely the stupidest thing ever to be done by a mortal. He took a deep breath, and charged straight towards Sauron's oncoming form — and with one magnificent jump he had hurled himself headlong into the face of the Dark Lord. The Ring finger was poised on an outstretched hand — and, with a tremble, a flash jetted out from the band, and struck Sauron straight in between his two slit-like eyes.
The ensuing din was horrendous. Frodo heard the sharp tearing and wrenching of elements, and a splitting crash he likened to the multitudinous shattering of an entire cabinet of china plates that had been toppled over forcefully — and with an explosion, comparable to a fiery belch from Mount Orundin, he saw Sauron's helmet, with his own eyes, break asunder and be blasted into many sharp, black shards.
But, at the same time, or perhaps a split second after he had witnessed the helmet destruct - he saw a green light, surging towards him, and before he could even register it, it had totally engulfed him. A tremendous burst of fatigue consumed his body from fingertips to toes, drowning his voice, stalling the shriek that was about to be borne from his throat — and an icy hand placed its grip upon the insides of his chest, squeezing something — stopping the pulses of his heart. And, as if in extreme, extreme slow motion, Frodo, deprived of any whatsoever feeling, sensed a sudden ethereal lightness overtake him — and, degree by degree, limp arms flailing, legs faltering, he tipped back, and back, and backwards — then, after what seemed like some silent eternity, lingering in this grizzly green world, hovering and hung in the very air, he was cast upon the cold ground with a horrible heavy thud, which gradually echoed away into nothingness. Yet, he had not felt himself be thrown onto the floor — and, quite unexpectedly, he thought, or felt, as if his two eyes slowly turned themselves up — before they drifted, and soared upwards, higher and higher in the chamber, this wonderful floating sensation of nothingness gracing his entire form — and then, a faint realization seizing him, he glanced down. Upon the black stone floor, cloaked in the gray elven-cloth, utterly pathetic, was his own body — and his hair was fanned all about him in a limp attitude, limbs sprawled, mouth now white and set in a severe line. And his blue eyes were closed — closed.
Finally, then, he knew. He, Frodo Baggins, had been subject to a spell of Sauron — and, in his defiance, he had been killed by that spell, which had been that green rush of light. And now, he was most certainly dead, completely and truly dead.
And yet, interestingly, sensation once again seeped, slightly, back into his fingertips. And he saw, upon the hand of his cold cadavre, the Ring — still on the finger — and it had started glowing again, becoming a bright yellow, until it winked like a star at him, far below as he the wraith hovered near the very top of the chamber — then, finally, when the Ring finally had brightened so much that it illuminated the entire macabre scene with a dim, gold glow, he felt a titanic force suddenly tug violently at him, and with an unexplainable magnetism he was drawn back down, towards his cold dead corpse — hurtling with a sickening speed.
A jolt twinged the cold heart to life, and it thumped, once — heavily, like a drum beat. And then, again — thump. Thump, thump, thump. Fire riddled his head, out of nowhere; and an overwhelming deluge of sensations immediately flooded back into the inanimate body.
The blue eyes flew open, and the black eyebrows raised and then lowered themselves. A slight breeze, the faint breath of life, set a few ringlets dancing. Fingers spasmed, then released, stretching convulsively, and a great rush of air sharply inflated the crushed lungs. Then the body gasped, and, a current of tremendous energy coursing through it, it rebounded and sat up — propping itself up on its working elbows. He had died, and had somehow been resurrected.
And the One Ring of Power would not even let Death conquer its Wearer.
Frodo Baggins leapt to his feet, with what energy that was newly given him; yet, when he looked once again upon Sauron, he jumped. His bones were not turning into water, as they were previously — he jumped. He had never imagined that Sauron would appear such, deprived of his helmet — oh, no, he had never expected for Sauron the Dark Lord of Barad-dûr to look like an elf. And a cruelly, stunningly, staggeringly beautiful elf, at that.
Long black hair - plaited — hung down in a waterfall behind two pointed ears — and a light seemed to issue from his deathly white skin. The cheekbones and jaw were impressively obvious — and he had a nose that strongly reminded Frodo of Lord Elrond, and Lord Celeborn — and his former companion Legolas Greenleaf. Two eyebrows were lowered severely, and thick black lashes graced the spinel-red eyes, shining so brightly and eerily — and, as for the lips — they seemed stained with blood, darker even than the eyes in hue — and, almost, so wondrously enticing, like the sugar-coated cherry tarts back in the Shire.
"Sauron," Frodo could only heave, and, gritting his teeth, he stepped back.
The Dark Lord contemplated him through his scathing gaze — and it held, unmistakably, the fire of anger — and the dull luster of resignation.
"And you still live, Halfling," he spat, his low voice menacing.
A cruel smile convulsed at the hobbit's pink lips, and Sauron the Great and All-Powerful felt a faint stab of fear at seeing the cruel, derangedexpression of delightful mockery.
"And I still live," replied Frodo, soft laughter punctuating his short retort — and he raised the hand of the Ring, and held it high and forth, watching Sauron's lust-crazed eyes sweep over what was his. What was once his. "You cannot kill me, Sauron, Lordof the Earth. The Ring has chosen to serve me."
And, finally, Sauron saw that what the Halfling had said was — regrettably, but inevitably — true. He snarled, his voice gurgling, and then, in retaliation, he smiled also — this time making Frodo shake.
"And so I cannot kill you," he echoed. "And yet this is exactly what I have wished for, my dear Halflingfor indeed, in the end, when I am through with you, you shall have damned your own self to Hell for having forsaken your brief opportunity at the Gift of Men. I can make you beg for your deathFrodo Baggins."
Frodo quirked an eyebrow, the smile still lingering upon his face — and he raised his chin, and tossed his brown curls.
"Try and make me beg, Servant of Morgoth," said he.
Sauron bared his teeth — and a low fire came raging into his eyes.
"Nazgul!" he cried. "Take this Halfling and cast him into the dungeons —"
But then, suddenly, a better idea crossed Sauron's mind. He smiled again.
"No" he trailed off. "Show ourto his quarters."
Frodo simply kept the maddening smile on his face — and ere the Nazgul, limping, stumbling, rose to their feet, he simply twitched and raised his Ring finger in a careless attitude of command — and the Ringwraiths cowered and shrank back against the walls. Sauron could not believe his eyes.
"Idiots!" he screamed. "Imbeciles!!!"
"Do not listen to that creature, my Ringwraiths," purred Frodo — yet still smiling. He cocked his head and shifted slightly. "I shall protect you all from him, if he ever thinks of harming my new servants."
Sauron's look of shock turned swiftly into a look of utter hatred — and then, thinking the better of it, recounting the very recent experience that he had just had — he simply cloaked his stormy thoughts with a second smile, and raised one robed arm.
"My" he intoned, and his voice now sounded as gentle and as syrup-smooth as Elrond's. "May Ishow you to your quarters?"
Frodo grinned at the behavior Sauron exhibited, and the hand that wore the Ring closed tightly upon itself. "I would truly be honored," he murmured back — and Sauron captured, with his red eyes, the momentary flash and glitter that had darted in the cerulean eyes of the enigmatic new Bearer.
And so, with the gentle swish-swish of soft fabric gliding upon hard stone, Frodo the Hobbit slowly walked, striding, out of the chamber — and let the Dark Lord Sauron's emancipating aura of power guide him behind his back to his destination within the wings and towers of the Fortress Barad-dûr. And oh, how hethis new life.
End Part Three
A/N: Ha! No short of an inexplicable phenomenonthe will of Eru Ilúvatar himself — nah, forget I ever said that, that isn't true (but the truth IS something close to that!). Once again, the explanation shall be unfolded late on in this fic, or in the sequel. But indeed, if it were possible for Frodo to be killed, why, there would be no purpose to write this story. However, the Ring isn't exactly that powerful, that it denies even death — more like, Frodo has touched upon something he has never encountered before. And it sets the plot up even furtherbut, to people who are really, really very prone to fantasizing — this shall never, ever be a slash Frodo/Sauron pairing. You will have to A.) threaten me with a sword and/or machine gun, or B.) place 1 million USD in cash on the table to make me write of such a pairing. Oh, eww and ick, cannot even think of it without gagging. I have a weak stomach for this sort.
And, oh, if any of you are so generous and kind that you would give a few extra minutes, I would be eternally grateful if you sidled over and took a peek at my newest fics, "Convergence of the Banners" and "Isuëlt, My Isuëlt". The former is a political drama about Legolas, the latter, about Samwise Gamgee and Eowyn (freak pairing!!). And both are somewhat lacking in reviews — I have nice twisted premises all done out for them, just the problem is, without people reviewing them, I lose my desire to expand their plots. If I see your name in both of their review columns, I shall personally honor you with a secondary role or cameo in one of those two, or another fic, "A Game of Chess", for there exists a need for plenty of supporting people to churn up their plots properlygive me your ideal name, review, and I shall fit you in.
Which brings me to say, Melanie and Helga, you girls have already won an appearance. Where, I don't know, butPerhaps you can figure out why :) You two have to give me your ideal names, thenbut no Japanese Anime thingies, like Sailor Sakura, you heard me, Helga!
Eep, ah, evil evil school, I start on the cruddy Third of Septembernext chapter coming in one week!
Verok