Author's notes: Sorry, sorry, sorry. I know, I know. It's taken me half a year to get this out. And it's probably not even that great of a chapter. In fact, this chapter is so cheesy in the middle, I felt like barfing as I typed it up. When did I write it on paper, anyway? *shakes head* Well, I hope you'll read it. Arigatou! ^.^
Disclaimer: Shut up and read :P ^.^"
-------------------------
Chapter Twelve: Facing Memories
A midnight steed that carried a black-robed figure appeared on the hill in the East, and Frank urged himself and his friend onward to safety. They only needed to reach Peter's...then they would be safe...
They would be safe...
"Frank!" Peter called from ahead, taking notice of how the eldest boy was falling far behind. Mark turned to look and skidded to a sop, watching in horror as the figure on the hill raced to Frank.
"He's coming! Hey's coming! Frank!" he shouted, pointing to the dark figure as it came closer and closer. Frank struggled to run faster, but the concrete ground felt like sand and his lungs burned. Something was making his escape difficult, but he was going to make it.
"Don't stop!" he shouted to Mark and Peter as he came closer. "Keep moving!"
The two boys hesitated for only a second before taking off again, this time they were to scared to look behind them and didn't see the second horse-rider that came out of the shadows and cut Frank's route off. They didn't know any of this had happened until they heard Frank's shout. Both stopped at once and stared in horror as the two horsemen circled their friend, leaving him with no room to escape.
"Frank!" Peter cried and tired to go toward the dark ring of Nazgûl, but stopped as Mark held him back, pointing to the shadows which grew longer as the day's light became spent. Night was approaching and was reigned by the Nazgûl.
"Go on!" Frank shouted, trying to find a way out but was having to lose what ground he gained as the metal claws of the Riders reached for his neck--for the stone he wore. "Go on! Get to safety!"
Mark shouted, "We aren't letting them have you!"
If the situation hadn't been so dire, Frank would have been touched by how much Mark and Peter cared for him. Since it was so serious, however, Frank shouted, "Just go on! Get Mr. White! Get Andrew! Lena! Just g--"
"Frank!" the two boys cried as one of the Nazgûl gripped tightly to the neck of the third boy, clenching his windpipe and making it difficult to breath as he was lifted off of the ground.
Frank struggled to find solid ground under his feet, but no matter what he did, his feet only met air. He gasped for oxygen but found it difficult with the wraith's hand squeezing his neck. He tried to pry the hand away from his neck, but he was too weakened and was getting weaker from the lack of air.
"Peter!" Frank heard Mark cry but couldn't see what was going on. His lungs burned and his heart strained to beat oxygen into his body. Strength was ebbing away and, soon enough, he couldn't keep his arms up. They fell to his sides and he dangled limply in his foe's grasp.
"...God..." he choked out, not believing this was happening to him. But it was real, it was happening, and it was no dream or memory.
Everything seemed to go silent as Frank gazed blankly at the two hooded and cloaked figures that gave him no mercy. That only wanted one thing from him...
Just as Frank's vision began to get slightly dim, the black figures shrieked with pain and surprise; and the one who held Frank released his sharp grip. Frank fell to the ground with a thud, his head slamming into the concrete so hard that it bounced up once before falling onto the ground again.
The nightmares' shrieks continued, and the sound of running horses showed that the Nazgûl were retreating. They weree leaving. Mark and Peter would be safe...
Frank vaguely felt himself be sat up slightly by someone with large arms. Large hands felt along his neck and then the back of his head. It was then that Frank heard his own wheezing breath that were so shallow that he felt dizzy.
"It's all right, Little Guy," a deep, harsh voice assured the near-unconscious youth, who tried to keep himself awake.
"Frank!" shouted two familiar voices as two set of running steps raced toward the two on the road. "Oh, God...is he--?"
"He'll be just fine," the gruff voice answered tightly. "Might have a but of whip-lash, judging by how his head slammed into the street."
"Why...why's he breathing like that?" Peter's voice asked with a bit of fear and Frank could understand why. He was frightened as well. How much longer would he be able to keep awake?
"Here," the man's voice said roughly. "Call Gary. Tell him what's happened and--"
"Wait," Mark said suspiciously. "Who are you, anyway? Why should we trust you?"
"Oh! You think I like risking my..."
The words faded from Frank's hearing as he was finally over-comed by the pull of whatever dark thing was waiting for him.
Peace and quiet. No one disturbed him while he was in this room, though they never had reason to not go into the room.
But why was there peace? Why was it so quiet?
The person in the room looked up and over, curiously to the door. It was odd that things were so silent. When was the last time there was peace? Not for a long, long time; that was a fact.
The person stood and walked over to the door--which was a barrier, it seemed--and leaned his ear against it, listening for any from the other side. All was silent--
No, wait...there was a noise. Quiet, but still audible.
Brow furrowed, the person turned the doorknob and tried to open the door. His confusion now turned into bewilderment as he tried, yet again, to open the door.
...it didn't dudge.
"Why would someone lock it?" he wondered, becoming worried as he tried--and failed--to open the door for the third time. "Hello!" he called, rapping his knucles against the wood. He paused for a moment, listening closely through the door, and tried again, "Hello? Is anyone out there?"
Silence...
No! A mutter. Indistinct and confused.
"Please! Let me out!" called the person in the room. When he pressed his ear to the door this time, he heard a faint sob and frowned in concern for whoever was outside the room.
"Are you injured?" he asked. "Please! Let me out so I can help!"
The reply, this time, was coherent and the person could make it out throught the wood. "You're not *real*!" the voice shouted, tears in his voice. "I don't want to be! Go away! Stay in there! Leave me alone!"
The person pushed himself away from the door, pain in his expression. "But I am real," he objected.
"No!" shouted the voice.
"Why mustn't it be so?" he demanded and, when there wa a long paused, worried that the one who owned the voice had left. "Are--"
"Just leave me alone!" the voice cried in a tearful demand. The person's mood dropped. He was saddened that this person, whoever it was, seemed to hate him, and not just he himself but just the idea of him!
"Why do you hate me so?" he questioned, becoming upset with this realization.
There was a pause but shorter this time. "You want to know why I hate you so much?" the voice asked coldly, making the person cring away from the door. "Open the door and see."
The person hesitated but did as the voice had said. The door swung soundlessly open, and the person stared into a dark area that hadn't been there before. Where was the fireplace? The pictures?
He stepped slowly into the darkened room, which immediately became bright with light. He blinked and took in the surroundings. Small and quaint, but comfortable. It didn't look like a home he had been used to seeing. It was all cluttered, however, with small notes. The walls, the ceiling--he stepped on something and looked down--why, even the floor!
'Why me? I was happy as an average, ignorant kid living with an uncle whose car keep breaking down!'
The person jumped away from the angry written note, but ran into another.
'I can't be afraid anymore. It's not allowed. Especially--'
"What is this madness?" he demanded, looking around the room and seeing nothing but notes and words such as "can't" or "won't" or "fair."
"I believe I am quite sane," retorted the voice, and the person spun around to see a man--no, he was still young yet--standing as far away from the person as possible. "In fact...you're the only one who's ever gone mad."
The person retreated a step. "That," he said coldly, "was not of my own doing or choosing."
The boy, who stood nearly two heads taller than the other person, watching him with blue eyes.
Very familiar blue eyes.
Again, the person back away. "Who are you?" he asked, confusion and a fair bit of fear creeping into his voice.
The boy sighed and leaned against a wall. "I'm supposed to be you...but I'm not."
"What does that mean?" questioned the other person. The boy's eyes filled with tears and he looked away from the innocent-looking person before him.
"Eveyone expects me to be like you! But I can't be...I'm not you. I'm someone totally different," he took a quick breath, becoming more upset, "but they don't see that!"
"Why would you be me?" asked the person quietly.
The boy's mouth turned into a lop-sided smile. "Because I'm a reincarnation of you."
There was a brief silence.
"Then what am I?" the person, who was slowly beginning to understand, asked.
"A memory," answered the boy. "Or maybe this is what is considered 'Undying!'" He wiped his eyes and swallowed. "And it all hurts. I have every memory and even the memories have come after me because of what I am and who I'm supposed to be."
"Who are you then?" the person asked softly, in an effort to comfort the lad.
Another crooked smile. "Frank Johnson, Frodo Baggins."
The person--Frodo Baggins of Middle Earth and Shire--looked questioningly at Frank, who looked away as the smaller being studied his counterpart. "You resent me," Frodo said slowly, "for leaving behind memories--"
"Not just memories," Frank interrupted sharply. "Nightmares from your world are in my own now. Do you see?"
Frodo flinched and looked away from the dark bruises that encircled Frank's neck. he shivered, knowing what had been the creature to leave behind such marks.
"Nazgûl," Frank continued, "chase me now, but they seek no Ring. They have no Sauron, yet they come for me because I carry something you once had."
Frodo's brow furrowed. "I'm sorry for everything. That bearing my burdens...no one should have to." He looked away. "But...there's a reason you are who you are."
Frank didn't say anything.
"I'm sorry," Frodo continued. "I know what it is like to have my world turned upside-down, and I understand the trouble of such burdens...but perhaps--"
Frank cut him off by walking over and squatting down in front of him, finishing, "Maybe...we aren't as different as I thought."
Frodo gained an amused look and replied, "Oh, we're different but not entirely so. No matter what you may think, I am real and a part of you."
Frank smiled back with a real smile. "I guess I never got a chance to understand that."
"As I never had a chance to accept some things--" Frodo froze and Frank looked upward. Darkness penetrated the ceiling and slowly spread itself outward, a plague of evil ancasing whatever it touched. "What's happened?" Frodo asked while Frank looked at the Darkness with fear, and missed a part that had detached itself from the main part.
Frodo turned to it. And it pounced--
"Frodo!" Frank cried, but he was no longer in the room. Now he was awake in an unfamiliar room, several blankets and quilts stacked on him as he lied in the bed.
Propped on his elbows, Frank waited out the wave of dizziness that came. Where was he? What happened on the street? Where--?
It was then that all the pains came. Frank gasped and tears prickled his eyes as muscles in his neck felt ready to rip away from one another. He tried to keep from crying out, but a shout of agony bursted through his lips. Immediately, the door opened and Mark rushed in--for once, without Peter behind him. "Frank!" he shouted in alarm, relief, and worry.
"Oh, God," Frank croaked, his throat sore, as he reached to his neck, tears falling. "Oh, God. Mark, make it stop! Make it stop hurting!"
Mark looked helpless and took his friend's arm, pushing him into the pillows while Frank cried out in pain. mark winced, but the crisis was passed for the moment. Frank continued to cry silently as his muscles seized up, making the pain worse. Mark watched his friend with worry.
"You shouldn't move too much," he said softly, while Frank looked up at him tearfully. "I'll get Lena. She said to get her when you woke up."
Mark was about to leave when he heard Frank ask, pain still in his voice, "What are the blankets for?"
The younger boy sighed. "The Nazgûl's glove...the claws on the glove...had something in it." He turned to face Frank. "You're just ill. You'll be fine."
A shaky smile was managed before Mark turned and left to get Lena.
----------------------
Okay, I am TELLING YOU! Whip-lash hurts like HELL! Yes, I speak from experience. The worst thing is that I didn't get it froma car wreck or soemthing. No, I got it because my mom wouldn't let me go and my lil sis was pulling on me...then my mom let me go and BOOM...down on the ground like a rag-doll, head bouncing PAINFULLY off of the ground, thus causing my muscles to become over-strained and causing the whip-lash. I didn't even go to the doctor because I didn't feel hurt until the next morning and I never like missing school. I had to check out during lunch, however, because I was getting dizzy and weak. *shakes head* Trust me on this people. Whip-lash = two words: Not. Fun.
I wrote up this chapter right after I recovered from it(which was MONTHS ago, gomen ^.^") so I still remembered how it felt when I wrote this. Let me say this too: my neck hurt so bad I was in tears half of the time I was awake(I was asleep a lot during this time). I couldn't move my head or sit up or go from standing to sitting to lying down. It hurt SOOOOOO bad. I found that rubbing the sore muscles REALLY helped. Thank God my dad is terrific at the massaging thing, though that was just as painful as anything else.
Okay, ranting over. ^.^" Again, I am VERY sorry for not updating this in SO long. This fic is treated worse than my Harry Potter fic *shakes head, disgusted at herself* Oh, well...this chapter is somewhat longer than the others. ^.^" Go me! And no, I won't tell any of you where Sean went! MWAHAHAHA! Well, I hope someone reads this ^.^" Thank you if you do. Ja ne! ^.~!
Disclaimer: Shut up and read :P ^.^"
-------------------------
Chapter Twelve: Facing Memories
A midnight steed that carried a black-robed figure appeared on the hill in the East, and Frank urged himself and his friend onward to safety. They only needed to reach Peter's...then they would be safe...
They would be safe...
"Frank!" Peter called from ahead, taking notice of how the eldest boy was falling far behind. Mark turned to look and skidded to a sop, watching in horror as the figure on the hill raced to Frank.
"He's coming! Hey's coming! Frank!" he shouted, pointing to the dark figure as it came closer and closer. Frank struggled to run faster, but the concrete ground felt like sand and his lungs burned. Something was making his escape difficult, but he was going to make it.
"Don't stop!" he shouted to Mark and Peter as he came closer. "Keep moving!"
The two boys hesitated for only a second before taking off again, this time they were to scared to look behind them and didn't see the second horse-rider that came out of the shadows and cut Frank's route off. They didn't know any of this had happened until they heard Frank's shout. Both stopped at once and stared in horror as the two horsemen circled their friend, leaving him with no room to escape.
"Frank!" Peter cried and tired to go toward the dark ring of Nazgûl, but stopped as Mark held him back, pointing to the shadows which grew longer as the day's light became spent. Night was approaching and was reigned by the Nazgûl.
"Go on!" Frank shouted, trying to find a way out but was having to lose what ground he gained as the metal claws of the Riders reached for his neck--for the stone he wore. "Go on! Get to safety!"
Mark shouted, "We aren't letting them have you!"
If the situation hadn't been so dire, Frank would have been touched by how much Mark and Peter cared for him. Since it was so serious, however, Frank shouted, "Just go on! Get Mr. White! Get Andrew! Lena! Just g--"
"Frank!" the two boys cried as one of the Nazgûl gripped tightly to the neck of the third boy, clenching his windpipe and making it difficult to breath as he was lifted off of the ground.
Frank struggled to find solid ground under his feet, but no matter what he did, his feet only met air. He gasped for oxygen but found it difficult with the wraith's hand squeezing his neck. He tried to pry the hand away from his neck, but he was too weakened and was getting weaker from the lack of air.
"Peter!" Frank heard Mark cry but couldn't see what was going on. His lungs burned and his heart strained to beat oxygen into his body. Strength was ebbing away and, soon enough, he couldn't keep his arms up. They fell to his sides and he dangled limply in his foe's grasp.
"...God..." he choked out, not believing this was happening to him. But it was real, it was happening, and it was no dream or memory.
Everything seemed to go silent as Frank gazed blankly at the two hooded and cloaked figures that gave him no mercy. That only wanted one thing from him...
Just as Frank's vision began to get slightly dim, the black figures shrieked with pain and surprise; and the one who held Frank released his sharp grip. Frank fell to the ground with a thud, his head slamming into the concrete so hard that it bounced up once before falling onto the ground again.
The nightmares' shrieks continued, and the sound of running horses showed that the Nazgûl were retreating. They weree leaving. Mark and Peter would be safe...
Frank vaguely felt himself be sat up slightly by someone with large arms. Large hands felt along his neck and then the back of his head. It was then that Frank heard his own wheezing breath that were so shallow that he felt dizzy.
"It's all right, Little Guy," a deep, harsh voice assured the near-unconscious youth, who tried to keep himself awake.
"Frank!" shouted two familiar voices as two set of running steps raced toward the two on the road. "Oh, God...is he--?"
"He'll be just fine," the gruff voice answered tightly. "Might have a but of whip-lash, judging by how his head slammed into the street."
"Why...why's he breathing like that?" Peter's voice asked with a bit of fear and Frank could understand why. He was frightened as well. How much longer would he be able to keep awake?
"Here," the man's voice said roughly. "Call Gary. Tell him what's happened and--"
"Wait," Mark said suspiciously. "Who are you, anyway? Why should we trust you?"
"Oh! You think I like risking my..."
The words faded from Frank's hearing as he was finally over-comed by the pull of whatever dark thing was waiting for him.
Peace and quiet. No one disturbed him while he was in this room, though they never had reason to not go into the room.
But why was there peace? Why was it so quiet?
The person in the room looked up and over, curiously to the door. It was odd that things were so silent. When was the last time there was peace? Not for a long, long time; that was a fact.
The person stood and walked over to the door--which was a barrier, it seemed--and leaned his ear against it, listening for any from the other side. All was silent--
No, wait...there was a noise. Quiet, but still audible.
Brow furrowed, the person turned the doorknob and tried to open the door. His confusion now turned into bewilderment as he tried, yet again, to open the door.
...it didn't dudge.
"Why would someone lock it?" he wondered, becoming worried as he tried--and failed--to open the door for the third time. "Hello!" he called, rapping his knucles against the wood. He paused for a moment, listening closely through the door, and tried again, "Hello? Is anyone out there?"
Silence...
No! A mutter. Indistinct and confused.
"Please! Let me out!" called the person in the room. When he pressed his ear to the door this time, he heard a faint sob and frowned in concern for whoever was outside the room.
"Are you injured?" he asked. "Please! Let me out so I can help!"
The reply, this time, was coherent and the person could make it out throught the wood. "You're not *real*!" the voice shouted, tears in his voice. "I don't want to be! Go away! Stay in there! Leave me alone!"
The person pushed himself away from the door, pain in his expression. "But I am real," he objected.
"No!" shouted the voice.
"Why mustn't it be so?" he demanded and, when there wa a long paused, worried that the one who owned the voice had left. "Are--"
"Just leave me alone!" the voice cried in a tearful demand. The person's mood dropped. He was saddened that this person, whoever it was, seemed to hate him, and not just he himself but just the idea of him!
"Why do you hate me so?" he questioned, becoming upset with this realization.
There was a pause but shorter this time. "You want to know why I hate you so much?" the voice asked coldly, making the person cring away from the door. "Open the door and see."
The person hesitated but did as the voice had said. The door swung soundlessly open, and the person stared into a dark area that hadn't been there before. Where was the fireplace? The pictures?
He stepped slowly into the darkened room, which immediately became bright with light. He blinked and took in the surroundings. Small and quaint, but comfortable. It didn't look like a home he had been used to seeing. It was all cluttered, however, with small notes. The walls, the ceiling--he stepped on something and looked down--why, even the floor!
'Why me? I was happy as an average, ignorant kid living with an uncle whose car keep breaking down!'
The person jumped away from the angry written note, but ran into another.
'I can't be afraid anymore. It's not allowed. Especially--'
"What is this madness?" he demanded, looking around the room and seeing nothing but notes and words such as "can't" or "won't" or "fair."
"I believe I am quite sane," retorted the voice, and the person spun around to see a man--no, he was still young yet--standing as far away from the person as possible. "In fact...you're the only one who's ever gone mad."
The person retreated a step. "That," he said coldly, "was not of my own doing or choosing."
The boy, who stood nearly two heads taller than the other person, watching him with blue eyes.
Very familiar blue eyes.
Again, the person back away. "Who are you?" he asked, confusion and a fair bit of fear creeping into his voice.
The boy sighed and leaned against a wall. "I'm supposed to be you...but I'm not."
"What does that mean?" questioned the other person. The boy's eyes filled with tears and he looked away from the innocent-looking person before him.
"Eveyone expects me to be like you! But I can't be...I'm not you. I'm someone totally different," he took a quick breath, becoming more upset, "but they don't see that!"
"Why would you be me?" asked the person quietly.
The boy's mouth turned into a lop-sided smile. "Because I'm a reincarnation of you."
There was a brief silence.
"Then what am I?" the person, who was slowly beginning to understand, asked.
"A memory," answered the boy. "Or maybe this is what is considered 'Undying!'" He wiped his eyes and swallowed. "And it all hurts. I have every memory and even the memories have come after me because of what I am and who I'm supposed to be."
"Who are you then?" the person asked softly, in an effort to comfort the lad.
Another crooked smile. "Frank Johnson, Frodo Baggins."
The person--Frodo Baggins of Middle Earth and Shire--looked questioningly at Frank, who looked away as the smaller being studied his counterpart. "You resent me," Frodo said slowly, "for leaving behind memories--"
"Not just memories," Frank interrupted sharply. "Nightmares from your world are in my own now. Do you see?"
Frodo flinched and looked away from the dark bruises that encircled Frank's neck. he shivered, knowing what had been the creature to leave behind such marks.
"Nazgûl," Frank continued, "chase me now, but they seek no Ring. They have no Sauron, yet they come for me because I carry something you once had."
Frodo's brow furrowed. "I'm sorry for everything. That bearing my burdens...no one should have to." He looked away. "But...there's a reason you are who you are."
Frank didn't say anything.
"I'm sorry," Frodo continued. "I know what it is like to have my world turned upside-down, and I understand the trouble of such burdens...but perhaps--"
Frank cut him off by walking over and squatting down in front of him, finishing, "Maybe...we aren't as different as I thought."
Frodo gained an amused look and replied, "Oh, we're different but not entirely so. No matter what you may think, I am real and a part of you."
Frank smiled back with a real smile. "I guess I never got a chance to understand that."
"As I never had a chance to accept some things--" Frodo froze and Frank looked upward. Darkness penetrated the ceiling and slowly spread itself outward, a plague of evil ancasing whatever it touched. "What's happened?" Frodo asked while Frank looked at the Darkness with fear, and missed a part that had detached itself from the main part.
Frodo turned to it. And it pounced--
"Frodo!" Frank cried, but he was no longer in the room. Now he was awake in an unfamiliar room, several blankets and quilts stacked on him as he lied in the bed.
Propped on his elbows, Frank waited out the wave of dizziness that came. Where was he? What happened on the street? Where--?
It was then that all the pains came. Frank gasped and tears prickled his eyes as muscles in his neck felt ready to rip away from one another. He tried to keep from crying out, but a shout of agony bursted through his lips. Immediately, the door opened and Mark rushed in--for once, without Peter behind him. "Frank!" he shouted in alarm, relief, and worry.
"Oh, God," Frank croaked, his throat sore, as he reached to his neck, tears falling. "Oh, God. Mark, make it stop! Make it stop hurting!"
Mark looked helpless and took his friend's arm, pushing him into the pillows while Frank cried out in pain. mark winced, but the crisis was passed for the moment. Frank continued to cry silently as his muscles seized up, making the pain worse. Mark watched his friend with worry.
"You shouldn't move too much," he said softly, while Frank looked up at him tearfully. "I'll get Lena. She said to get her when you woke up."
Mark was about to leave when he heard Frank ask, pain still in his voice, "What are the blankets for?"
The younger boy sighed. "The Nazgûl's glove...the claws on the glove...had something in it." He turned to face Frank. "You're just ill. You'll be fine."
A shaky smile was managed before Mark turned and left to get Lena.
----------------------
Okay, I am TELLING YOU! Whip-lash hurts like HELL! Yes, I speak from experience. The worst thing is that I didn't get it froma car wreck or soemthing. No, I got it because my mom wouldn't let me go and my lil sis was pulling on me...then my mom let me go and BOOM...down on the ground like a rag-doll, head bouncing PAINFULLY off of the ground, thus causing my muscles to become over-strained and causing the whip-lash. I didn't even go to the doctor because I didn't feel hurt until the next morning and I never like missing school. I had to check out during lunch, however, because I was getting dizzy and weak. *shakes head* Trust me on this people. Whip-lash = two words: Not. Fun.
I wrote up this chapter right after I recovered from it(which was MONTHS ago, gomen ^.^") so I still remembered how it felt when I wrote this. Let me say this too: my neck hurt so bad I was in tears half of the time I was awake(I was asleep a lot during this time). I couldn't move my head or sit up or go from standing to sitting to lying down. It hurt SOOOOOO bad. I found that rubbing the sore muscles REALLY helped. Thank God my dad is terrific at the massaging thing, though that was just as painful as anything else.
Okay, ranting over. ^.^" Again, I am VERY sorry for not updating this in SO long. This fic is treated worse than my Harry Potter fic *shakes head, disgusted at herself* Oh, well...this chapter is somewhat longer than the others. ^.^" Go me! And no, I won't tell any of you where Sean went! MWAHAHAHA! Well, I hope someone reads this ^.^" Thank you if you do. Ja ne! ^.~!
