Disclaimer: As stated earlier: LOTR is not mine.
Chapter 7 - Return of the Ring
A dark shadowy figure stood before him; their face a featureless black pit underneath their hood.
"Who are you? What do you want?" demanded the hobbit.
"Mr. Frodo?" came Frodo's companion, Sam's, voice. There was the patter of bare hobbit feet on the stone floor and another, much rounder, hobbit appeared at Frodo's side.
Sam immediately stepped in front of Frodo when he saw the hooded figure, in what seemed to be an attempt to protect his friend.
"Go, Mr. Frodo," Same whispered, putting up his fists.
Suddenly the other two hobbits, Merry and Pippin, came laughing and singing into sight. When they saw Sam standing there with his fists in the air, they rushed over.
The dark figure took a step back, hissed, and left.
"Cursed midgets," Black muttered as she stalked off down the hall. She had wanted to catch Frodo alone so she could return the Ring to him privately. Those other bumbling idiots would only foul it all up.
She'd worry about Frodo later. She needed to find that wizard.
Black roamed the halls of the Elven haven for hours into the evening to no avail. The wizard was always with Aragorn or some fairy, and every time she tried to get to Frodo, the other hobbits were gathered around him.
She took refuge under a large tree in a courtyard somewhere, watching the night sky. She slipped into a trance, where bits and pieces of old, worn out memories played through her mind.
Blood ran down her face, filling her eyes, nose, and mouth with the cold, metallic taste. She couldn't see, it was all a blur. Overcome with the taste and smell of her foes' blood as well as her own, all she could glean from the battle raging around her were the high, pitiful screams of women and children; the sound of flames as they ravaged the wagons' canvas and wood. She was grabbed from behind, one man on each arm, and they dragged her away, kicking and screaming.
She was on a platform. Chains dangled from her wrists and ankles. She glared out into the surrounding crowd with her one good eye as they gazed back, looking her over as if she were a piece of livestock.
She was strapped down onto a wooden table; her head held in place by a thick leather band. An old, wrinkled man with wispy white hair and gray beard walked slowly over to her, some type of needle in his hand. He stuck the shot into her arm. She screamed and strained at her ties. Two burly men quickly cam over to hold her down and suddenly she was aware of an intense heat overcoming her body; she was on fire.
There was a four-foot midget man standing beside her. The visions vanished.
Black turned to face the hobbit that had approached her and gave him a mocking grin. "Ah, the thorn of my side, you have wriggled your way free at last?"
Frodo looked upon her face glowing in the moonlight with no hint of disgust or fear anywhere visible. It was still somewhat of that wide-eyed look of shock he had on all the time. "What were you thinking, milady?" he asked.
"Lady?" She hadn't heard that in a while. "Nay, I have been no proper 'lady' for quite some time, if ever" she replied. The hobbit made no move.
Enough of this, Black thought. She took out the plain little wooden box she had made to keep the Ring in, and kneeled to be eye-level with the hobbit.
Black reached to grab Frodo's hand. Was that a flicker of fear in the little man's eyes? No, 'twas only a shadow. She grabbed his wrist and pulled it, palm up, toward her. She placed the box into his hand and curled his fingers around it.
"There. I have returned it to you," she said. "Now this thing is your problem. Good luck." Black left.
The next morning Black roamed about the Elven halls in search of the wizard. She was on the verge of giving up when the Ranger, Aragorn, came to fetch her.
"Come with me," he said.
Why, she was about to ask, but she held her tongue and followed.
The Ranger led her to a courtyard of stone, where a ring of elegant chairs encircled a small, empty pedestal. A wise, dark haired elf stood beside what seemed to be the head of the circle. He was deep in conversation with the old wizard.
So this is where the old bat's been hiding, Black thought.
They cut their words short as they saw Aragorn approach with the woman behind him.
"My Lord Elrond," he nodded to the high-eyebrowed elf, "Gandalf." They nodded back.
Fairy formalities, Black silently sighed.
"May I present, Aegnor," Aragorn said, for lack of a better name. Black had no objections. She liked the name Fell-fire. "This is the woman I spoke of earlier," he added. Black, rather Aegnor, pushed back her hood; the shadow it cast over her face no longer needed.
She nodded to the two males, passing quickly over the Elven lord despite his commanding presence, and holding the wizard's eyes intently.
"So you are the one who stole the Ring from Frodo in the wood?" asked the wizard in slow, deliberate phrases.
"Yes," Black answered. "Though had I known at the time of the trouble it would cause me I never would have even dared to look upon it."
They all gazed at her now with expressions of concentration. Black had seen similar looks before; they were trying to understand her 'essence' or 'significance' or something to that effect. She was familiar with the One Ring lore: no one was able to resist its corrupting effects for very long, and most certainly not those of the race of Men, as she appeared to be. Oh, these Middle-earthians, they were so confined to their own little world. She came from a place far, far away; from a time long ago forgotten, and had long since stopped being 'of the race of mortal men.'
"You brought this thing back freely?" the wizard asked. "You have no desire to use this ring for yourself?" The Elf shot him a look, but the old man paid no heed.
"Oh gods, no," Black replied. "That thing has done nothing but cause me trouble since I first slipped it out of that hobbit's pocket. My business resides in a distant realm, where a piece of chanting gold jewelry holds no sway over anything. Except perhaps a gold-digging merchant or two. But I know how vital it is to you...people. I know that whoever holds it decides the fate of your world, and I did not think it my place to do that. So here I am, thanking you for all the kindness you all have shown me, despite my being the hopeless thieving wretch that I am, and asking for your leave to leave this realm, promising to thieve no more whilst I reside in it."
She hadn't strung that many words together in one thought for so long, Black felt herself become sloppy in her speech.
"You are granted it," replied the Elf, "as much as I can give it."
"However," added the wizard (oh no, thought Black), "perhaps she should sit in on the council?"
That sent them into another heated discussion as Black waited by patiently, planning on how to slip away unnoticed, she'd given up on talking to the sorcerer privately, until they reached the conclusion that perhaps she should attend the Council. Aragorn must have told them about the flame-throwing, Black thought. Otherwise what importance would she have?
It took days of sitting around, talking. Black tuned most of it out. They didn't need her help, and she didn't care to give it. Time was slipping by and she desperately needed to return to the others, not that she wanted to, she just had to.
After the last meeting, and the fate of the Ring and its bearer (poor little one-expression Frodo) decided, the wizard came to Black, asking her for a word.
"What are you?" he asked. Black was somewhat taken aback by the bluntness of the man's question, but blunt was good, made things quicker, easier. "You are no Istari, or any thing of Sauron's as I believe it, yet you produce flame from your fingertips. How?"
Black hesitated. Never before had she openly confessed to another being her mutation; her 'uniqueness.' But this is what she had wanted - to talk to this wizard, to see if maybe he could reverse this curse burdened upon her for so long...She told him; but the abridged version.
"I cannot help you," the wizard told her. Black's hopes shattered, and her temper flared.
"Fine," she hissed through gritted teeth. She felt the heat rise in her hands and face, and before she exploded she turned on her heel and stalked off.
Black rolled her cloak up into a ball and hooked it onto her back, and set off from Rivendell, muttering. No one followed.
"Incompetent old fool," she mumbled. "Not even capable of a reversal spell... 'not my type of magic.' Pft." She fried a small patch of grass.
As she ran across the plain, Black brooded on her disappointing meeting. Well, she wasn't really expecting help anyway, she told herself. That was what she was on her way to do now, as a matter of fact. She would find that horribly misguided witch doctor and order him to undo what he had done. Black's passion and anger coursed through her body, spurring her to run even faster. The Old Man. She would find that old man. She could see his face, he would not escape her this time.