AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS
Chapter Six: Out Of Mind
Author: Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings
Rating: R for allusions of sexual violence and graphic imagery, this one's darker, proceed with caution. THE RATING FOR THIS CHAPTER IS DIFFERENT THAN PREVIOUS ONES. Please don't read if this might be disturbing to you.
Genre: Angst, horror
Setting: After Bilbo leaves but before Gandalf returns to the Shire
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
POV: Frodo
A/N: I wrote this chapter before the previous one, and before I saw TTT. I've been feeling rather poorly of late (I have a chronic pain syndrome, and the crazy weather patterns of the Midwest and the stress from work have been taking their toll). As a result, this chapter is quite dark, has torture and sexual violence, which I had not planned exactly, but that is how the story unfolded. Thanks again to Ariel, who has been the only reader to diligently review all chapters. Your comments are appreciated.
Is there no way out of the mind?
~Sylvia Plath
Two days pass, and I take to keeping long hours in the study, so terrified of hearing the voices I am determined not to close my eyes. Reading helps to occupy the time, but tonight I ache so badly I cannot concentrate. Retiring to my bedroom, I am almost asleep when I hear it. My name whispered in that low, menacing drawl. I do not wait for more, I abandon my bed and flee into the hall, dragging myself along with the staff.
A hand reaches to claw a slithering rake between my shoulders. I whirl and scramble back with a frightened shout, hopping frantically on one foot, bumping against the wall where I can retreat no farther. Instead of a monstrous vision from my nightmares, I see it is only Sam. Still greatly upset, I cry, "What do you mean by sneaking around like a thief in the night?!" I try to catch my breath. My hands shake so much the crutch slips from my grasp. It falls to the floor with a loud clatter, causing us both to jump.
"I heard footsteps treadin' softly in the hall," Sam protests, drawing a step closer to where I quake against the wall. "I though you were still in yer bed. That somebody 'twas here uninvited."
"A staff and a hobbled foot make for quiet footfalls?" I echo derisively. When he frowns and leans in as if to touch me, I jerk away. "Don't fuss!" I snap. "Just leave me be!" In the flickering torchlight, I see Sam's eyes glisten a liquid amber, and feel a stab of guilt at my harsh tone.
"I only was goin' ta check you for fever, Mr. Frodo," murmurs Sam, a slight catch in his voice. "Yer sweatin' somthin' awful, or hadn't ye noticed?"
Now that Sam has called attention to it, I find my nightshirt is sodden and clinging to my chest and arms. I grimace, dismayed to discover my garment is not the only victim to this bleak disturbance. Pain convulses around my right hand, stealing away my breath. I see that somehow in my panic, I have managed to curl my fingers into a tightly clutched fist. I quickly release my hold, but the damage has already been done. Even in the dim light, I can tell my bandage is soaked not just with sweat, but fresh blood.
Only this morning, Sam's gaffer had debrided my wound, slicing through scab and skin to reach the unhealed portion of tissue lying beneath. Every morning it has been the same, and every time it hurts just as badly as the last. And now I have torn the scabs loose again. Twice in one day, it is too much. I cannot face having my cut abased such tonight.
My knees suddenly buckle, and I slide down the wall until my bottom hits the floor, my head slumping to rest upon my knees, knuckles grazing cool tile as my hands fall open at my sides. I feel brittle and terribly weak, like the slightest jarring could break me in two. I sniffle, nose beginning to run from the wash of tears brimming in my eyes. Too enervated to fight this any longer, I allow them to fall.
"Frodo.Frodo." My name cackles like dead leaves blowing across an untended grave. The sound jerks my head up so fast, I hear my spine pop. ".do my bidding, and all you yearn for will be delivered."
"NO." I glance frantically from side to side, eyes darting to search every corner and every shadow of Bilbo's favorite sitting-room, but there is nothing here, no one except Sam. Approved servant and gardener, now my friend, he will not desert me. "Stop this," I demand, "you must stop!"
"Frodo, what's wrong?" Sam is staring at me, no doubt wishing he were somewhere else, but he remains beside me, steadfast.
"Nothing." Spots dance before my sight, my back rigidly pressed to the paneling, carved wooden edges digging into my ribs. "It's n-nothing," I gasp, straining to breathe.
"He cannot be trusted.your wealth is too tempting, he will betray you."
"No, you're wrong!" I want to cover my ears, except my hands seem trapped by my side. "It's a lie. It is you who cannot be trusted!"
"Little fool!" The voice swells with power, becoming a foul wind that shrieks across the arched ceiling above, snuffing out every light. "You think you are strong, that you possess the will to oppose me, Halfling?" There comes a laugh, evil and dark and sinister, like nothing I have ever heard before. "You are but a sack of bones to crush beneath my feet. Soon I shall rule them all, even the forgotten lands, the realms of men and elves, and yes, scrawny little hobbits.you all will be mine, to torment as I desire."
I feel my blood run cold, body trembling in desperate fear. Unexpectedly, a slender thread of strength I didn't know I had cradles my terror, bringing a quiet to my tremors. "No, we will not."
A growl of malice cracks above my head, raging anger striking out to curb my impudence. I was wrong. I lack the valor and endurance to wage this battle. I should have held my tongue. Why did I not run? My ankle.lameness damns me to this fate.
"Stupid, stunted, pathetic creature," the voice hisses. Gandalf's voice. No, it can't be. "You have no idea of the languishment yet foretold. You will beg for death, and even that will not grant you release. Witness now but a taste of the fate you lay claim to."
From far away, another voice tugs at my attention. "Frodo, say somethin'! Yer scarin' yer poor Sam. I don't know what to do!"
My lips move, though no sound emerges. Bag End has fallen to darkly purpose. I cannot see anything at all. Only eyes.eyes glowing in the dark. No, not this, please. "Make it go away! Make him be silent" I shudder. "Please, Sam, take me from this place."
I am caught, sharp, fierce claws delivering my dread to the accompaniment of squealing grunts and gnashing teeth. They sound like animals, and I crouch low, wishing to remain small and unnoticed. But a hideously large hand drags me up by my hair, pulling me kicking and screaming to a wooden rack, where every bit of clothing I wear is ripped away. I am thrown on my back with such force, I choke on nothing but the air I breathe. Their abhorrent, ugly faces leer at me while my arms and legs are stretched apart and shackled, in cuffs that tear my skin as the screws are plied brutally tight. I shiver, pain already beginning to breach my defenses. It is very cold, and gooseflesh prickles every expanse of my bare skin as I lie there naked and exposed.
"Hoy, maybe this'll loosen yer tongue, little squeaker."
Eyes, those glowing eyes that frighten me so badly shine in luminous wait as they examine my body. Stained, deformed teeth are bared in a wicked grin as one of them lowers its mouth to my waist. The sensation is obscene, its scaly-rough tongue licking along my hip, tasting me. I shriek in disgust, twisting and yanking my wrists until blood flows from the wounds and I can't feel my fingers anymore.
"Can you feel it reaching for you, my dear hobbit?" croons Gandalf. If only the voice wasn't his, I feel compelled to listen. I can't shut it out. Sinewy talons proceed to tickle the mound of hair between my thighs, claws scrabbling lower to paw more sensitive flesh, and I throw my head back and scream, over and over, terror scraping my throat raw, the back of my skull banging uselessly on wooden slats. Light and fire descend to brand my ribs, pushing my screams into shrill wails of agony. Pain spirals my breathing faster, oh Elbereth, it hurts, it hurts! Why is this happening? How could Gandalf leave me this way?
Cold fingers capture my chin, forcing my eyes slowly to the right. Gandalf himself scrutinizes me, his eyes glittering black coals that burn brightly over skin as gray as his cloak and beard. "So much pain and suffering. This can all be avoided if you heed my counsel, Frodo."
Mouth open, I am making whimpering, mewling noises, trapped in the back of my throat by my convulsive draughts for air. Tears stream freely down my cheeks. "W-Wh- What do y-you m-mean?"
"It is fairly simple-bring me the Ring. Deliver it to me, and you will be spared this torment."
"This is merely a d-dream," I stammer. "I am n-not truly h-here."
"Are you certain, Frodo? Place it upon your finger, and your path shall be clear."
"Gandalf said to keep it safe." My words at least sound brave, despite how I am shaking. "You are not he. I do not believe it will be safe in your company."
"Quiet, sniveling halfling! Do as I command, or suffer my wrath!"
"No! You are not Gandalf the Gray-" My voice falters when a sizzling crack rents the air, and I feel a stinging lash over my ribs. Pain twists a raging fire along the length of split skin, and I gasp. "You aren't real, you don't belong here!"
"You hurt, don't you, Hobbit? The pain is as real as if it were of the flesh, is it not? Another lash tears across the smooth, tender skin of my belly, making me writhe. I want to curl into a tiny ball of misery, only my bonds won't allow it. My muscles are stretched to the point of cramping, and it's getting harder to breathe. The next lash strikes, and I am drowning in my own cries. The leather makes a wet, slurping whistle each time it rips into my skin.
"Frodo, dear boy, listen to Gandalf."
I turn my head, lost in the pain. "Mama," I sob, almost too far gone to care. "I've done what you asked of me. Please, help me, stop the pain."
"How much can you hope to endure before your mind snaps, young Mr. Baggins?" asks Gandalf. "When your thoughts and actions are no longer your own, and you lie in the endless squalor and filth of insanity."
Thrashing against the shackles binding my wrists and ankles, I gaze at him, my heart pounding as my fear devours me whole. My mind, I despair, I could lose myself to this horror, be trapped forever in a fractured shell between life and death. My panic runs so deep I can think of nothing else. Then the lash from the whip rips a hoarse cry from me. With no warning, a clawed finger slips between my spread legs and fondles me roughly, razor- sharp nails stroking and pricking, leaving horror to strangle me mute. I jerk my wrists until they bleed again, the hurt not sufficient to overshadow this awful attack. Digging, grubby hands part the cheeks of my bottom. I shriek hysterically, loud and long and hard, falling into a place where there is no breath or voice left.
"This is what will happen, Frodo."
"No, Mama, no." I am braced for the blistering weal that comes, a narrow strip of agony that cuts through the thin skin covering my ribs, the second blow opening a gash in my stomach. I howl in pain.
"Only you have the power to alter your course. You must choose, Frodo."
More lashes feed on my chest and thighs, scouring off skin, pain chewing my flesh into a flayed rawness. "Mama, it hurts," I sob, "please make it stop now. I've been good, Mama. I promise.please, I've been good."
"Choose."
A sheer wall of alluring blackness looms in front of my eyes. I teeter there, perched on the edge of a knife. It doesn't seem real, but another voice calls to me. Weaving through the agonized fog in my mind, it pulls away layers of tortured moments to whisper a new and different purpose.
"The Ring 'as to be destroyed. 'Tis the only way out of this foul snare." It's Sam this time. Dear old Sam. I can no longer hear the whip, yet my wounds burn like flaming embers from a well-stoked fire. I badly want to trust him, trust this is real. Can I be sure?
"Sam?" My voice is cracked into a hollow whisper, barely audible. "It is y-you?"
"You 'ave to cast it away, afore it's too late."
Do I dare hope to believe? Am I home again? During this treacherous seduction, I have been harshly prodded to put on the Ring, never to destroy it. The fall of the whip stuns me, making me yelp, snatching away any thought of where I am. Tiny smelts of fire meld. Dancing over my skin, shocking nerves that have felt too much already. My belly is a searing crucible of constant agony.
Hopelessness descends to leave me sobbing anew. I believe this to be the end. I would rather die than endure one more minute of this torture. Please, let it end. But something remains, perhaps a fragment of my soul refusing to bow and be extinguished. I cannot give in. I cannot let It win. A strange calm envelops me, the darkness eradicated by a growing curtain of light. It is bright and warm, and I feel drawn to this small measure of comfort.
"Frodo! No!" Sam's frantic voice shouts right in my ear, causing me to jump, my chin striking the floor to rattle my teeth together. At once, my only instinct is to flee, to scrabble forward on hands and knees where I reach the fender, huddling around it with a gasp. I gaze around wildly. The faint, woven pattern of the hearth-rug stretches before my eyes, a piece of home I recognize, given to Bilbo for his one-hundredth birthday. Bag End.I am home.I am free from this nightmare at last.
Lured to the glimmering in the fireplace, the flames mesmerize me as I continue to stare, gradually making out the scorched envelop lying forgotten against the side of the chimney, charred paper slowly dissolving to reveal a shining band of gold. The Ring! I must destroy It! Sam told me so, it will release me, banish the horrid dreams forever. Oh, bless me, grant me strength. I crawl closer, ignoring the fierce heat blasting in my face.
"Frodo, you can't! You'll be burned!" Considerable weight knocks me flat. Sam, clinging to my back, his breath fast and hot on my neck.
"I have to destroy It!" I shout, reaching out my hand, struggling to clasp the jewel that has caused me such pain. I kick furiously, feet connecting with the poker and shovel, sending them flying with a terrible racket. "It can't hurt me again, I won't let It!"
My left hand is grabbed and wrenched to my side. I feebly inch forward with my right, extending my bandaged fingers. My reach draws even to the stone buttress of the chimney. The Ring is so close, if I can just reach a little farther.fling It into the flames and let It burn.
"No, I won't allow ya to do this!" I am suddenly yanked to my feet and spun around. The change is too abrupt, my vision tunnels into a black nothingness, and I feel myself falling. Nonono! I must be rid of It! I'm turned upside down, and blood is sent rushing to my head, pounding behind my eyes, and all I can see is cloth and the rounded rim of the door-step to Bag End. Then Sam is lowering me gently to the ground. My head spins, and I feel weak and dizzy.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo," Sam says breathlessly, still holding onto my forearms. Brown eyes lock with mine, the fading daylight catching on his tears where they cling to his lashes. "I couldn't let ya do it. Stickin' yer hand in the fire would 'ave burned ya 'orribly. I couldn't let ya 'urt yerself that way."
I try to speak, am only able to muster a thick, choked cry. My chest is heaving, my gut twisted into a gnarled loop of fear and remembered pain. I start panting harder and harder, my cheeks sweaty and stinging from the heat of the fire, and when I look at my hand, the bandage is darkened by blood and soot. I shiver uncontrollably, prompting Sam to pull me close, adding the warmth of his body to mine. It is not enough. Cold gnaws at me from the inside, breaking down the last of my defenses.
I begin to cry, great wrenching sobs tearing free from where I had buried them deep, threatening to split me in half. I am alone, there is no one to help me. Sam has a good heart, but no amount of bravery can fight this evil. Even the voices have forsaken me. Moments ago, I yearned for nothing but their silence; now, I mourn their parting.
"Shhh," Sam soothes, rocking me in his arms. "It'll turn out all right, Mr. Frodo. Everything'll be better by morning's light."
"B-but it w-won't, Sam," I stutter, weeping bitterly. I shut my eyes, though it does not halt the steady stream of tears. "Things will n-never be t-the s-same. No matter w-what happens, I've s-seen where I'll e-end up one d-day." I curl against him, but cannot stay warm. I can still feel the whip's bite as it flays off my skin, feel the groping, violating fingers as they touch me. "The Shire is l-lost to m-me now, I can n-never go b-back. It's a-all g-gone, don't y-you s-see? Every-th-thing is l- lost!"
A heavy cloak of despair weighs upon my shoulders, and things begin to slip away. I think I hear Sam murmur more words of intended comfort, but I am fading quickly. Still aware enough to sense the lingering fingers on my forehead, and I hear Sam say, "He's in a bad way, Sir."
Someone asks, "How long has he been ill?"
"Just a few days," Sam answers.
Briefly, I wonder whom he is speaking with. And how he got so strong, that his arms lift me effortlessly. Then the blessed relief of fainting sleep claims me, and I know nothing more.
To Be Continued.
Chapter Six: Out Of Mind
Author: Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings
Rating: R for allusions of sexual violence and graphic imagery, this one's darker, proceed with caution. THE RATING FOR THIS CHAPTER IS DIFFERENT THAN PREVIOUS ONES. Please don't read if this might be disturbing to you.
Genre: Angst, horror
Setting: After Bilbo leaves but before Gandalf returns to the Shire
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
POV: Frodo
A/N: I wrote this chapter before the previous one, and before I saw TTT. I've been feeling rather poorly of late (I have a chronic pain syndrome, and the crazy weather patterns of the Midwest and the stress from work have been taking their toll). As a result, this chapter is quite dark, has torture and sexual violence, which I had not planned exactly, but that is how the story unfolded. Thanks again to Ariel, who has been the only reader to diligently review all chapters. Your comments are appreciated.
Is there no way out of the mind?
~Sylvia Plath
Two days pass, and I take to keeping long hours in the study, so terrified of hearing the voices I am determined not to close my eyes. Reading helps to occupy the time, but tonight I ache so badly I cannot concentrate. Retiring to my bedroom, I am almost asleep when I hear it. My name whispered in that low, menacing drawl. I do not wait for more, I abandon my bed and flee into the hall, dragging myself along with the staff.
A hand reaches to claw a slithering rake between my shoulders. I whirl and scramble back with a frightened shout, hopping frantically on one foot, bumping against the wall where I can retreat no farther. Instead of a monstrous vision from my nightmares, I see it is only Sam. Still greatly upset, I cry, "What do you mean by sneaking around like a thief in the night?!" I try to catch my breath. My hands shake so much the crutch slips from my grasp. It falls to the floor with a loud clatter, causing us both to jump.
"I heard footsteps treadin' softly in the hall," Sam protests, drawing a step closer to where I quake against the wall. "I though you were still in yer bed. That somebody 'twas here uninvited."
"A staff and a hobbled foot make for quiet footfalls?" I echo derisively. When he frowns and leans in as if to touch me, I jerk away. "Don't fuss!" I snap. "Just leave me be!" In the flickering torchlight, I see Sam's eyes glisten a liquid amber, and feel a stab of guilt at my harsh tone.
"I only was goin' ta check you for fever, Mr. Frodo," murmurs Sam, a slight catch in his voice. "Yer sweatin' somthin' awful, or hadn't ye noticed?"
Now that Sam has called attention to it, I find my nightshirt is sodden and clinging to my chest and arms. I grimace, dismayed to discover my garment is not the only victim to this bleak disturbance. Pain convulses around my right hand, stealing away my breath. I see that somehow in my panic, I have managed to curl my fingers into a tightly clutched fist. I quickly release my hold, but the damage has already been done. Even in the dim light, I can tell my bandage is soaked not just with sweat, but fresh blood.
Only this morning, Sam's gaffer had debrided my wound, slicing through scab and skin to reach the unhealed portion of tissue lying beneath. Every morning it has been the same, and every time it hurts just as badly as the last. And now I have torn the scabs loose again. Twice in one day, it is too much. I cannot face having my cut abased such tonight.
My knees suddenly buckle, and I slide down the wall until my bottom hits the floor, my head slumping to rest upon my knees, knuckles grazing cool tile as my hands fall open at my sides. I feel brittle and terribly weak, like the slightest jarring could break me in two. I sniffle, nose beginning to run from the wash of tears brimming in my eyes. Too enervated to fight this any longer, I allow them to fall.
"Frodo.Frodo." My name cackles like dead leaves blowing across an untended grave. The sound jerks my head up so fast, I hear my spine pop. ".do my bidding, and all you yearn for will be delivered."
"NO." I glance frantically from side to side, eyes darting to search every corner and every shadow of Bilbo's favorite sitting-room, but there is nothing here, no one except Sam. Approved servant and gardener, now my friend, he will not desert me. "Stop this," I demand, "you must stop!"
"Frodo, what's wrong?" Sam is staring at me, no doubt wishing he were somewhere else, but he remains beside me, steadfast.
"Nothing." Spots dance before my sight, my back rigidly pressed to the paneling, carved wooden edges digging into my ribs. "It's n-nothing," I gasp, straining to breathe.
"He cannot be trusted.your wealth is too tempting, he will betray you."
"No, you're wrong!" I want to cover my ears, except my hands seem trapped by my side. "It's a lie. It is you who cannot be trusted!"
"Little fool!" The voice swells with power, becoming a foul wind that shrieks across the arched ceiling above, snuffing out every light. "You think you are strong, that you possess the will to oppose me, Halfling?" There comes a laugh, evil and dark and sinister, like nothing I have ever heard before. "You are but a sack of bones to crush beneath my feet. Soon I shall rule them all, even the forgotten lands, the realms of men and elves, and yes, scrawny little hobbits.you all will be mine, to torment as I desire."
I feel my blood run cold, body trembling in desperate fear. Unexpectedly, a slender thread of strength I didn't know I had cradles my terror, bringing a quiet to my tremors. "No, we will not."
A growl of malice cracks above my head, raging anger striking out to curb my impudence. I was wrong. I lack the valor and endurance to wage this battle. I should have held my tongue. Why did I not run? My ankle.lameness damns me to this fate.
"Stupid, stunted, pathetic creature," the voice hisses. Gandalf's voice. No, it can't be. "You have no idea of the languishment yet foretold. You will beg for death, and even that will not grant you release. Witness now but a taste of the fate you lay claim to."
From far away, another voice tugs at my attention. "Frodo, say somethin'! Yer scarin' yer poor Sam. I don't know what to do!"
My lips move, though no sound emerges. Bag End has fallen to darkly purpose. I cannot see anything at all. Only eyes.eyes glowing in the dark. No, not this, please. "Make it go away! Make him be silent" I shudder. "Please, Sam, take me from this place."
I am caught, sharp, fierce claws delivering my dread to the accompaniment of squealing grunts and gnashing teeth. They sound like animals, and I crouch low, wishing to remain small and unnoticed. But a hideously large hand drags me up by my hair, pulling me kicking and screaming to a wooden rack, where every bit of clothing I wear is ripped away. I am thrown on my back with such force, I choke on nothing but the air I breathe. Their abhorrent, ugly faces leer at me while my arms and legs are stretched apart and shackled, in cuffs that tear my skin as the screws are plied brutally tight. I shiver, pain already beginning to breach my defenses. It is very cold, and gooseflesh prickles every expanse of my bare skin as I lie there naked and exposed.
"Hoy, maybe this'll loosen yer tongue, little squeaker."
Eyes, those glowing eyes that frighten me so badly shine in luminous wait as they examine my body. Stained, deformed teeth are bared in a wicked grin as one of them lowers its mouth to my waist. The sensation is obscene, its scaly-rough tongue licking along my hip, tasting me. I shriek in disgust, twisting and yanking my wrists until blood flows from the wounds and I can't feel my fingers anymore.
"Can you feel it reaching for you, my dear hobbit?" croons Gandalf. If only the voice wasn't his, I feel compelled to listen. I can't shut it out. Sinewy talons proceed to tickle the mound of hair between my thighs, claws scrabbling lower to paw more sensitive flesh, and I throw my head back and scream, over and over, terror scraping my throat raw, the back of my skull banging uselessly on wooden slats. Light and fire descend to brand my ribs, pushing my screams into shrill wails of agony. Pain spirals my breathing faster, oh Elbereth, it hurts, it hurts! Why is this happening? How could Gandalf leave me this way?
Cold fingers capture my chin, forcing my eyes slowly to the right. Gandalf himself scrutinizes me, his eyes glittering black coals that burn brightly over skin as gray as his cloak and beard. "So much pain and suffering. This can all be avoided if you heed my counsel, Frodo."
Mouth open, I am making whimpering, mewling noises, trapped in the back of my throat by my convulsive draughts for air. Tears stream freely down my cheeks. "W-Wh- What do y-you m-mean?"
"It is fairly simple-bring me the Ring. Deliver it to me, and you will be spared this torment."
"This is merely a d-dream," I stammer. "I am n-not truly h-here."
"Are you certain, Frodo? Place it upon your finger, and your path shall be clear."
"Gandalf said to keep it safe." My words at least sound brave, despite how I am shaking. "You are not he. I do not believe it will be safe in your company."
"Quiet, sniveling halfling! Do as I command, or suffer my wrath!"
"No! You are not Gandalf the Gray-" My voice falters when a sizzling crack rents the air, and I feel a stinging lash over my ribs. Pain twists a raging fire along the length of split skin, and I gasp. "You aren't real, you don't belong here!"
"You hurt, don't you, Hobbit? The pain is as real as if it were of the flesh, is it not? Another lash tears across the smooth, tender skin of my belly, making me writhe. I want to curl into a tiny ball of misery, only my bonds won't allow it. My muscles are stretched to the point of cramping, and it's getting harder to breathe. The next lash strikes, and I am drowning in my own cries. The leather makes a wet, slurping whistle each time it rips into my skin.
"Frodo, dear boy, listen to Gandalf."
I turn my head, lost in the pain. "Mama," I sob, almost too far gone to care. "I've done what you asked of me. Please, help me, stop the pain."
"How much can you hope to endure before your mind snaps, young Mr. Baggins?" asks Gandalf. "When your thoughts and actions are no longer your own, and you lie in the endless squalor and filth of insanity."
Thrashing against the shackles binding my wrists and ankles, I gaze at him, my heart pounding as my fear devours me whole. My mind, I despair, I could lose myself to this horror, be trapped forever in a fractured shell between life and death. My panic runs so deep I can think of nothing else. Then the lash from the whip rips a hoarse cry from me. With no warning, a clawed finger slips between my spread legs and fondles me roughly, razor- sharp nails stroking and pricking, leaving horror to strangle me mute. I jerk my wrists until they bleed again, the hurt not sufficient to overshadow this awful attack. Digging, grubby hands part the cheeks of my bottom. I shriek hysterically, loud and long and hard, falling into a place where there is no breath or voice left.
"This is what will happen, Frodo."
"No, Mama, no." I am braced for the blistering weal that comes, a narrow strip of agony that cuts through the thin skin covering my ribs, the second blow opening a gash in my stomach. I howl in pain.
"Only you have the power to alter your course. You must choose, Frodo."
More lashes feed on my chest and thighs, scouring off skin, pain chewing my flesh into a flayed rawness. "Mama, it hurts," I sob, "please make it stop now. I've been good, Mama. I promise.please, I've been good."
"Choose."
A sheer wall of alluring blackness looms in front of my eyes. I teeter there, perched on the edge of a knife. It doesn't seem real, but another voice calls to me. Weaving through the agonized fog in my mind, it pulls away layers of tortured moments to whisper a new and different purpose.
"The Ring 'as to be destroyed. 'Tis the only way out of this foul snare." It's Sam this time. Dear old Sam. I can no longer hear the whip, yet my wounds burn like flaming embers from a well-stoked fire. I badly want to trust him, trust this is real. Can I be sure?
"Sam?" My voice is cracked into a hollow whisper, barely audible. "It is y-you?"
"You 'ave to cast it away, afore it's too late."
Do I dare hope to believe? Am I home again? During this treacherous seduction, I have been harshly prodded to put on the Ring, never to destroy it. The fall of the whip stuns me, making me yelp, snatching away any thought of where I am. Tiny smelts of fire meld. Dancing over my skin, shocking nerves that have felt too much already. My belly is a searing crucible of constant agony.
Hopelessness descends to leave me sobbing anew. I believe this to be the end. I would rather die than endure one more minute of this torture. Please, let it end. But something remains, perhaps a fragment of my soul refusing to bow and be extinguished. I cannot give in. I cannot let It win. A strange calm envelops me, the darkness eradicated by a growing curtain of light. It is bright and warm, and I feel drawn to this small measure of comfort.
"Frodo! No!" Sam's frantic voice shouts right in my ear, causing me to jump, my chin striking the floor to rattle my teeth together. At once, my only instinct is to flee, to scrabble forward on hands and knees where I reach the fender, huddling around it with a gasp. I gaze around wildly. The faint, woven pattern of the hearth-rug stretches before my eyes, a piece of home I recognize, given to Bilbo for his one-hundredth birthday. Bag End.I am home.I am free from this nightmare at last.
Lured to the glimmering in the fireplace, the flames mesmerize me as I continue to stare, gradually making out the scorched envelop lying forgotten against the side of the chimney, charred paper slowly dissolving to reveal a shining band of gold. The Ring! I must destroy It! Sam told me so, it will release me, banish the horrid dreams forever. Oh, bless me, grant me strength. I crawl closer, ignoring the fierce heat blasting in my face.
"Frodo, you can't! You'll be burned!" Considerable weight knocks me flat. Sam, clinging to my back, his breath fast and hot on my neck.
"I have to destroy It!" I shout, reaching out my hand, struggling to clasp the jewel that has caused me such pain. I kick furiously, feet connecting with the poker and shovel, sending them flying with a terrible racket. "It can't hurt me again, I won't let It!"
My left hand is grabbed and wrenched to my side. I feebly inch forward with my right, extending my bandaged fingers. My reach draws even to the stone buttress of the chimney. The Ring is so close, if I can just reach a little farther.fling It into the flames and let It burn.
"No, I won't allow ya to do this!" I am suddenly yanked to my feet and spun around. The change is too abrupt, my vision tunnels into a black nothingness, and I feel myself falling. Nonono! I must be rid of It! I'm turned upside down, and blood is sent rushing to my head, pounding behind my eyes, and all I can see is cloth and the rounded rim of the door-step to Bag End. Then Sam is lowering me gently to the ground. My head spins, and I feel weak and dizzy.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo," Sam says breathlessly, still holding onto my forearms. Brown eyes lock with mine, the fading daylight catching on his tears where they cling to his lashes. "I couldn't let ya do it. Stickin' yer hand in the fire would 'ave burned ya 'orribly. I couldn't let ya 'urt yerself that way."
I try to speak, am only able to muster a thick, choked cry. My chest is heaving, my gut twisted into a gnarled loop of fear and remembered pain. I start panting harder and harder, my cheeks sweaty and stinging from the heat of the fire, and when I look at my hand, the bandage is darkened by blood and soot. I shiver uncontrollably, prompting Sam to pull me close, adding the warmth of his body to mine. It is not enough. Cold gnaws at me from the inside, breaking down the last of my defenses.
I begin to cry, great wrenching sobs tearing free from where I had buried them deep, threatening to split me in half. I am alone, there is no one to help me. Sam has a good heart, but no amount of bravery can fight this evil. Even the voices have forsaken me. Moments ago, I yearned for nothing but their silence; now, I mourn their parting.
"Shhh," Sam soothes, rocking me in his arms. "It'll turn out all right, Mr. Frodo. Everything'll be better by morning's light."
"B-but it w-won't, Sam," I stutter, weeping bitterly. I shut my eyes, though it does not halt the steady stream of tears. "Things will n-never be t-the s-same. No matter w-what happens, I've s-seen where I'll e-end up one d-day." I curl against him, but cannot stay warm. I can still feel the whip's bite as it flays off my skin, feel the groping, violating fingers as they touch me. "The Shire is l-lost to m-me now, I can n-never go b-back. It's a-all g-gone, don't y-you s-see? Every-th-thing is l- lost!"
A heavy cloak of despair weighs upon my shoulders, and things begin to slip away. I think I hear Sam murmur more words of intended comfort, but I am fading quickly. Still aware enough to sense the lingering fingers on my forehead, and I hear Sam say, "He's in a bad way, Sir."
Someone asks, "How long has he been ill?"
"Just a few days," Sam answers.
Briefly, I wonder whom he is speaking with. And how he got so strong, that his arms lift me effortlessly. Then the blessed relief of fainting sleep claims me, and I know nothing more.
To Be Continued.