Good afternoon! I'm sorry for not updating on Friday, but I am getting to a point with other business where it is rather difficult to produce two good quality chapters per week without neglecting other duties. Therefore from now on, I'm going to set Monday as my sole update day. I might pop other chapters up midweek if I am particularly productive, but I just need to rearrange my balance on things. I hope this is okay for you all, and that you enjoy this chapter :)

As ever, please forgive any of my silly typos.

Chapter Forty-Five: The Falls of Rauros

Frodo felt as though the eyes of a thousand people were boring into him.

He felt exposed, he felt watched – as though his every move was being scrutinised and dissected by an audience with the eyesight of elves. As though he had been thrown onstage before the kingdom of Erebor, with but half a song prepared, with a tune, but no lyrics.

In giving an ultimatum on their path, and choosing his road the way he did, Frodo had stepped towards the role of leader – a role that they had ever ignored, and pretended to have no need for. And they had not needed it at first, but as Frodo watched the tensions rise, and heard the ring whisper lies and false promises deep into the night, he had known that a decision had to be made.

He had seen the dissatisfaction of Boromir growing, and watched the suspicion of Aragorn rise to meet it. He had caught the sidelong glances shared between Nelly and Bróin as they debated paths in Iglishmêk, and failed to come to any conclusion. He had seen Merry become more sombre, and Pippin grow quieter, and he had seen the bickering begin. And as Frodo watched, the ring laughed. Something had to be done.

And so he had done it.

It had not been completely spur of the moment – he had been leaning towards the Emyn Muil, but the glint in Boromir's eye had finalised Frodo's decision. It was a glint that flickered, and quickly died, but one that was growing more frequent as time progressed. It was a spark that was quickly followed by a shake of the head, and a frown, a spark that he doubted the others had even noticed. That night, Frodo had seen it twice.

It was a glint that Frodo thought he could recognise.

Gold lust.

The thought of it frightened him almost as much as the Nazgûl did, and had done since he entered his tweens. Since Bilbo let slip that Thorin had fallen ill between the death of Smaug and the battle of the Five Armies. Curious, Frodo had asked what happened, but Bilbo said only the words 'Gold sickness,' his face turned cold, and he refused to say anymore. Kíli and Fíli gave only fleeting descriptions of an obsession with shiny things, and so Frodo had gone to Thorin himself. At first, Thorin had not wanted to tell him, either.

"It can't have been that bad!" protested Frodo, staring up at the king, who had a face like thunder.

"It was very bad, Frodo," he said. Despite his expression, Thorin's voice was nothing like thunder – it was soft and sad, like rain falling on a sunless land. "Why do you want to know of it?"

For a moment, Frodo paused to think about that. Then, he nodded. "I want to know why Uncle Bilbo is so afraid. If it could happen again."

"It could not," Thorin said sharply, and then he sighed, sitting down in his armchair. He gestured to his lap, and Frodo grinned, rolling his eyes.

"Uncle, I'm twenty years old!"

"Very well," Thorin said, with no trace of a smile, nodding instead at the soft rug at the foot of his hair. Half-wishing that Thorin had insisted so he could get away with a cuddle, Frodo sat down cross legged, and waited.

"The Gold Sickness brings nothing but evil, Frodo. It twists your mind the way that other diseases poison your body. It whispers lies to you, in your thoughts while you are awake and in dreams when you sleep. It disguises itself as your own voice, and it eats away at reason, so slowly that you would not notice it."

Frodo felt a shiver run down his spine, and he shifted to lock his arms around his legs. Thorin sighed, and shook his head. He stared at the fire, and did not met Frodo's eyes.

"What starts as a healthy love of beauty and craftsmanship mutates into obsession, and it grows, feeding on your heart like a great spider draining your lifeblood drop by drop, and still you do not see. You've been blinded, blinded so that you do not even flinch when you realise that the value of gold eclipses the value of blood. And you will believe that, Frodo. That a man, that hundreds of men, thousands, might die to protect your hoard, and it would not be a great loss. To lose a soldier is pittance, but to lose a copper penny is a blow that can hardly be fathomed. And all of this, Frodo, I believed. Yet that is not the worst of it. For those that you love…" Thorin glanced at Frodo, and then cut off entirely, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

Frodo swallowed, and his brow furrowed. He waited, but Thorin did not speak, and he did not open his eyes. For almost a full minute, he barely moved, and Frodo cleared his throat.

"Uncle Thorin?"

Thorin's eyelids dragged open slowly, and he looked at Frodo. He sighed, heavily. "I think, Frodo, that there is a reason your Uncle does not want me to tell you this."

"He never said he didn't want you to tell me," said Frodo, though his voice sounded small, and almost whiny. "Just that he would not tell me himself."

For a long moment, Thorin said nothing. Then, he slowly continued, as though he had not broken off at all.

"Those you love become like your possessions. You mistake it for love, because still you wish to keep them safe and close, but it is because you feel you own them. Anything they may do to irk you or embarrass you or anger you becomes a fault you must beat out of them. You do not love them, but the shell of them, and what glory they might bring you, and this 'love' grows so strong you begin to suffocate them. Those you did not love before become nothing, or less than nothing. When I… fell, to the foil of my fathers, Fíli and Kíli were but treasure to me – lifeless gems to embed in a crown. And Bilbo – in my eyes, was a threat." The sorrow in Thorin's eyes was rivalled only by the bitterness in his voice. "A threat, whose life was worth less than a tin cup. I banished him, Frodo. He was wise enough to treaty with the elves, and I accused him of trading Kíli to Thranduil in return for arms. I exiled him from Erebor on pain of death, I ordered Kíli to choose between Erebor and the Shire, demanded that he sunder himself from either dwarves or hobbits. He was so afraid, Frodo, and I did not care to see it. Instead I threatened him, I humiliated him, I hurt him more deeply than an arrow would have… If I did not think that Bilbo had 'bewitched' him, I – I would have attacked Bilbo, Frodo. I would have drawn my sword – the Gold Sickness is so bad, Frodo, that had I died in that battle, I would have fully deserved it."

Frodo felt very cold. He understood, now, why Bilbo had not wanted him to know. To just imagine Thorin, his Uncle Thorin, doing such things, saying such things – to imagine him trying to hurt Bilbo – it was unfathomable, and terrifying.

Slowly, his lips parted, and Frodo was able to speak. "But… you beat it, didn't you? You beat the sickness?"

Thorin nodded slowly. He did not look proud. "I did. But I never should have fallen in the first place."

Frodo did not reply to that. Instead, he stood up, and wrapped his arms around Thorin. "I'm glad that you beat it. And that you didn't die in the battle."

Thorin stood up, enveloping Frodo in a hug and resting his chin on the young hobbit's curly head. "Me too, my lad. Me too."

Later, Bilbo admitted that he did not want Frodo to know of Thorin's madness because he did not want his young nephew to see the king any differently.

"You are close, and it warms my heart to see it," he had said one day. "I would hate for the past to take that away from you."

But it was not Thorin that Frodo came to hate and to fear – it was the sickness itself, an affliction so powerful that it could turn the great Thorin Oakenshield against his kin.

An affliction that he feared was trying to take root in the mind of Boromir. It was not strong – of that Frodo was sure, and he was also certain that the man could beat it. Thorin had, after all. But going into the land of Men less strong and less noble alarmed him. If the worst happened, and Boromir fell as Thorin had, at least Frodo had the others, and strength in numbers.

But Boromir would not fall, he would not betray them. Frodo was sure that he would not.

This was a man they had played with as children, a man they had laughed with and fooled around with as adults. A man who had proved himself a friend, and a true friend at that. He would not betray them

Or do you just hope he will not? a cruel, cold voice whispered in his mind. Trust is for fools, and he will betray you. They will all betray you, and you too will fall.

Shut up! Frodo thought back fiercely, dropping his head into his hands. His fingers wound around his hair and pulled, tightly, and he tried to think of something else. Of anything else.

But it was hard. Because there was nothing for him to do but sit in a boat before Aragorn and Sam.

No one was talking.

Frodo did not regret putting his foot down, but he regretted the silence that it had brought with it. It lay over them all, a thick, heavy blanket of thorns, and the ring laughed at it. The stronger the silence grew, the more likely it was to draw cracks in their ranks, and the more they fought amongst themselves, the better it would be for the ring.

It was growing heavier, slowly, but surely, and the desire to slip it on was building. But Frodo would not try it on – he could do this. The more you used the ring, the more power it had over you. That was what Gandalf had said. Frodo would not give it any more power than it already had.

No – he was supposed to be thinking of something else. He looked around at the other boats, at the emptiness of the lands around them, but then he looked ahead. Something was looming through the mist, great stone pillars like the dwarven statues of Erebor.

Narrowing his eyes, Frodo leant forward, and as they drew closer he saw that they were indeed statues, but even larger than the dwarves who stood guard to his city. Beyond them stretched out a narrow passage that the river ran through, a chasm with walls as high as mountain. Tall and proud, the two carven figures stood on either side, each with one hand holding an axe, and the other held out before them, like a warning.

"Well, that looks a wee bit ominous," Sam muttered under his breath.

"Do not be afraid," said Aragorn, his voice ringing stronger and clearer than Frodo had ever heard it. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the man sat tall and proud, with a smile on his face and his hair billowing behind him in the wind. There was no better word for it. Aragorn looked kingly. "Behold the Argonath! Once, this was the northernmost border of Gondor. Long have I wished to stare upon the faces of my forebears. Isildur and Anárion… Come – keep the boats in single file, steer as near to the centre of the river as you can."

The others signalled their acknowledgement with nods, and Aragorn steered their boat to the front of the line. Frodo gazed up at the Argonath, and awe took his breath away, but when they passed into the chasm, it became very dark, and Frodo shivered.

We enter what was once was Gondor, and at once it grows dark, he thought. I don't much like the idea of that.

Yet the very moment that he finished the thought, an old, familiar voice passed through his mind.

"Ah Frodo, my lamb, if you look for the light you can often find it. But if you look for the dark, that is all you will ever see."

A small smile flickered over Frodo's face. It had been a long time since he heard his mother's voice, and it was a saying that he thought he had forgotten. But it was something that Primula had said a lot, something that she had murmured to him after every nightmare, and sung to him when they sat outside and gazed at the stars.

He glanced over his shoulder at Aragorn's shining face, and at Boromir's awestruck eyes, and then he looked back ahead, at the light at the end of the chasm. It was like a great beacon, tall and bright, and the sun sparkled against the dark water and, the slick stone walls.

Frodo's smile grew a little stronger.

That following day, they reached the Falls of Rauros.

They were louder than Frodo could ever have imagined, and even a league away he could hear it roar. It sounded fierce, ominous and cruel, but he repeated his mother's words to himself and imagined the beauty of sunlight on the spray, and thought of Kíli's playful description of tumbling down small waterfalls in Mirkwood.

As the afternoon wore into its third hour, the fellowship steered towards the Shore, bringing their boats carefully up onto a grey, shingle beach.

Around them, the land was wooded again, and Frodo was grateful for the shelter. Nevertheless, the atmosphere between the fellowship had not much improved, and as they set up camp, Boromir sighed, and let his pack fall to the ground rather unceremoniously.

"I'm going to look for firewood," he said. "We're earlier to camp today, but dark is only a few hours off. I'd rather have it stored than go cold in the night."

Frodo wondered if he had imagined the twang of bitterness beneath the man's tone. For a moment, the hobbit hesitated, but then he smiled. "That makes a good deal of sense to me. I will go with you, unless you'd prefer to be alone."

Boromir's eyebrows rose high, and he shook his head slowly. "I would not."

Out of the corner of his eye, Frodo saw Sam narrow his eyes, but he made the symbol for 'calm' in Iglishmêk behind his back, and Sam said nothing.

"Well, let's go then." Frodo kept his voice light, and Boromir nodded. Together, they walked into the forest, walking for several minutes before they began to collect dried wood.

Eventually, Boromir spoke very softly. "I think you are making a mistake, taking the Emyn Muil. I think it is a foolish path indeed."

"You thought the very idea of our quest foolish," Frodo reminded him quietly. "Did you not?"

Boromir glared down at him, and then Frodo saw it again. That glint in the man's eyes, that yearning. And it flickered for a few moments longer than usual. "I did. But I also said that if it is the only way, I would do what I could to help. Yet I think you are unwise to take that path. What are your reasons?"

"Many," Frodo said, thinking quickly and carefully. "And it was not a decision that I took lightly. Do you think you will leave us?" Boromir's eyes narrowed further, and Frodo elaborated. "I would not judge you if you did – you must be worried about your people, for your home. I am afraid for mine."

Boromir's face softened slightly. "I fear for Minas Tirith. But I do not yet know which road I will take, now. You may carry the brunt of this burden, but you are not the only one with a choice, Frodo."

"I know," said Frodo, sighing heavily. "I know." He bent down, picking up some twigs that looked promising for kindling. They were damp, and he frowned, letting them fall back to the ground. They did not need a smoking fire.

"I still think there is a way it might be used," said Boromir, and Frodo's heart sank into his stomach. "My father is wise, a noble man, he would know how to wield it."

"I do not think he would," said Frodo sharply. "Is he wiser than Elrond? Than Gandalf? With all due respect, Boromir, I think not."

"What would you know about it?" snapped Boromir, turning on Frodo fiercely. The wood tumbled from his arms, and the spark in his eyes fanned into flames. "Nothing! You are just a halfling swept up into affairs bigger than you are!"

Frodo squared his feet and stared up at Boromir coldly. His heart was beating very fast. "And you are just a man who cannot see sense beyond his own pride."

Boromir made a noise like a choked dog, and lunged forward, but Frodo stepped toward him, letting his own pile of wood fall from his arms. The man stopped.

"Do not be a fool, Boromir," Frodo said. "I may be a halfling, but I was raised with dwarves and wolves. And you are not yourself."

"Not myself?" snarled Boromir, his lip curling. "Not myself – I ask only the power to defend my people!"

"It is not a power I can give! No one can; the ring only has the power to destroy!" insisted Frodo, trying not to raise his voice. "As for your father – he may be wise in matters of lore and logic, but in others he is blinder than you. Tell me, does he still treat Faramir like an unwanted ward?"

Boromir stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening. For a moment, all anger and gold lust vanished from his face, and he looked almost vulnerable. "What did you just say?" he whispered.

"You heard me."

Anger returned to crease Boromir's brow, and again his eyes blazed, but Frodo thought he could see confusion lingering behind the man's fury. "How dare you? You know nothing of my family! Nothing!"

Frodo held his ground. If he could just get Boromir to think of his brother, the man might be able to break the spell of the ring. "Yet I speak the truth, you know it. You are slipping, Boromir, it is creeping over you. You are not trying to protect your people – you are lusting over the power you think you could wield! If you wished to protect your people, that would include your brother. By denying the way the Steward treats him, you are doing Faramir a disservice."

"How dare you?" roared Boromir, lunging forward.

Even as he stepped out of the way, Frodo cursed himself. He had gone too far, and he knew it. Already, he could imagine Bilbo scolding him for being so insensitive, and so accusatory. But there was no time to think of what he should have said instead, for when he dodged Boromir's first attack, the man swung a kick from nowhere that knocked Frodo off his feet.

"Stop it, Boromir!" he yelled, scrambling backwards and standing up. He dodged another blow, and blocked another. "I do not want to fight you! I'm sorry-"

"You will be," growled Boromir, his hands landing on Frodo's collar. "You are not worthy to carry it, you are a disgrace!"

Dropping his weight to the floor, Frodo escaped Boromir's hold, but the man was a captain for a reason, and despite the training Frodo received in Erebor, they were not an even match. Frodo trained because he had to, but Boromir loved the sport of the fight, and he was twice Frodo's size. Part of Frodo longed to scream for help as he dodged and scrambled, but he did not want the others to see Boromir like this – he could snap out of it, he would snap out of it –

His leg hooking around the back of Frodo's knees, Boromir sent the hobbit crashing down onto the ground, and pinned him down, his knees either side of the hobbit's chest. Frodo met his eyes, and a thrill of horror ran through them.

They looked black. Dark as Khazad-dûm, as wicked as the Balrog – and not Boromir's eyes at all.

The man tugged at Frodo's collar, trying to get to the ring, but Frodo fought back, jabbing the heel of his hand into Boromir's nose. It broke with a sickening crunch, and blood sprayed over Frodo, over the ground. Howling, Boromir leant back, and Frodo sent another punch to his gut. The man folded over, and Frodo wriggled out from underneath him.

"Snake!" roared Boromir, lunging forward and seizing Frodo's ankle. Frodo kicked at his hand, not wanting to injure his friend any further. His own hand rose towards his neck, to make sure the ring was still there, but then, before he knew what was happening, his finger slipped into the ring.

Boromir let go at once, and then reached forward again with a roar. "I see your heart! You will take the ring to Sauron!"

Staggering backwards, Frodo stared incredulously at the shadowed world around him. It seemed blurred, and the trees rose like white lights. Before him, Boromir writhed on the ground, like a wraith of grey smoke. Breathless, Frodo stared down at his hands, at his feet. His body was covered in a white-grey mist, and he felt at once limitless, and so very, very small.

He looked back at Boromir.

"Curse you! You and all the halflings!" Boromir's shout was cut off by a cry as the man slipped, and fell, and for a moment, he lay panting on the forest floor. Then, slowly, he raised his head, and his eyes grew wider than Frodo had ever seen them.

And tears formed in them, and washed the last of the gold lust away.

"Frodo?" he whispered, and then stared down at his hands. "Frodo? What have I done?"

Swallowing, Frodo steeled himself. Then, he took off the ring, and shoved it down his shirt. "Are you quite done?" he asked.

"Frodo!" gasped Boromir, reaching out and then drawing his hand back. "Get away! Get away! I know not what came over me, I am sorry, Frodo, I am so sorry! Get away!"

"I know what came over you," Frodo said sadly. "And I am sorry that I pushed you as I did. I meant only to show you how the ring was twisting your thought. I did not intend to offend your family, or your father." Though I think he's a rather horrible person, he added in his mind. Then, he hung his head. "I am sorry, too. I did not think of what I said. I handled that badly."

Tears trailed down Boromir's cheeks, and it was a sight so strange that Frodo's own eyes stung. The great man's hair was full of leaves, and his face full of grief and shame, and when he gathered the breath to speak, he sounded utterly broken.

"I – I cannot go with you."

Frodo swallowed, and felt hot tears break free down his own face. "I did not say that."

"But you know it to be true," Boromir mourned. "I cannot – If I am so weak as to fall here, I am a threat to you, to all of you. I have failed you. I am truly sorry, Frodo. You were my friend, and I failed you."

Frodo swallowed the lump in his throat. "Well, if it is your choice to return home, my stance remains the same. I will still count you as a friend, until the end of my days."

Boromir's eyebrows furrowed incredulously. "After this?"

Frodo shrugged, smiling sadly, and stepped forward. Boromir flinched, and Frodo offered him his hand. "Unless, of course, you betray me in true cold blood. Then, it may get a little more difficult. But this…" he gestured to the mess around them, and the leaves still tangled in Boromir's hair. "This is not Boromir, son of Denethor. It is the work of the ring. That is what it does to people. Why I must destroy it."

Boromir's hand closed around Frodo's. "And why I cannot come with you."

Frodo nodded, tears dripping from his chin as he squeezed Boromir's hand, and helped the man to his feet.

"One day," promised Boromir, "I will make this up to you. I will redeem myself, however that may be. If your city needs me, or your Shire, I will bring the might of Gondor down upon their foes. I will, somehow, I swear it."

Frodo nodded, sniffing, and smiling through his tears. "I do not doubt it. You will do great things, Boromir of Gondor."

"As will you, Frodo Baggins of Erebor," said Boromir, his other hand encasing Frodo's. His eyes flickered to Frodo's neck, and he swallowed. "What shall we tell the others?"

Frodo paused. "That we think it is best you return to Minas Tirith. That you know your duty lies with your people, and that your city needs you. They will be content with that, and there is no need to tell them of… well."

Boromir bowed his head, and his hands fell away from Frodo's. "That is more decency than I deserve, Frodo." Frodo said nothing. He was not sure what he could say. After a long moment, Boromir sighed. "I think, if I may, I might take a walk alone. Clear my head – order my thoughts."

Frodo nodded. "Of course. Take your time. If you are not back by sundown, we will look for you. I suspect it would be dangerous to wander alone for too long."

"Of course." Boromir bowed. "Thank you, Frodo."

Frodo nodded again, and trudged away. He thought he was heading back to camp, but after a few minutes he realised that he had been walking in utterly the wrong direction. Lost in his thoughts and his grief, he had wound up lost in real life, too.

"Mahal damn it!" he muttered, looking around. Nearby, there rose a tall hill, and he began to climb. At least if he reached the top, he might see which direction the river was. If he found that, he could make his way back from there. Up and up he climbed, finding that the hill was both steeper and higher than it appeared. When he reached the top, he found a great stone seat, and he paused, staring at it. He stepped closer, running his fingers over the ancient stone. Then, feeling just as small as he had the time he snuck onto Thorin's throne, he clambered into the seat.

Far and wide, the world stretched out before him, broad and beautiful, and far, and if he narrowed his eyes and gazed far into the north, he could just make out the smudge of Mirkwood on the far horizon. The beauty of the world took his breath away, but the ring laughed and grew cold against his chest, and he saw smoke rising from the Misty Mountains, and from Isengard in the West, but he forced himself to remember why he had climbed the hill. The river. It looked to be just below his feet, just a little to the south, and he nodded.

"Frodo? Frodo!"

He frowned at the sound of Sam's voice, coming not from the direction of the river, but from behind him. He hopped out of the seat and walked behind it, only to see Merry leading Nelly, Bróin, Sam and Pippin up the hill.

"There you are!" cried Pippin, breathing heavily and looking rather indignant. "What on earth are you doing up here?"

"Walking," Frodo said, somewhat obviously. "I got lost. What are you doing here?"

"You've been gone nigh on an hour," said Bróin, narrowing his eyes. "Even Bodin doesn't take so long collecting firewood, and he's still a wee child. And we thought we heard shouting, a while back. Where's Boromir?"

"He went for a walk," Frodo sighed, peering down into the woods below. "He has decided that he must return to Minas Tirith, that his duty lies with his people, but the choosing has upset him. I do not blame him."

Sam gave a 'humph.' "I think he oughta've said he wasn't going to be going the whole way before he joined us."

"He did, Sam," Frodo reminded him. "Bilbo was content with that, and so am I." The hair on the back of Frodo's neck stood up, and he frowned. There was something wrong, but he could not quite put his finger on it.

"What is it?" asked Nelly, narrowing her eyes at him. "Frodo?"

"We should be getting back," he said slowly. "Where are the others?"

"Looking for Boromir, and for you," said Bróin. "The river's that way, no point in going the long way around."

"Let Merry lead, Bróin," said Pippin sagely. "With your sense of direction, we'd end up in Fangorn before we reach camp."

Frodo laughed with the others, but then he caught sight of Nelly. There was a tree behind her, its leafless branches stretching out towards them, casting a shadow of a hook over her shoulder. His laughter died in his throat, and the very air in his lungs turned to sand.

"Frodo?" asked Sam sharply. "What is it?"

"I know this place," he whispered, his horror growing. He had not recognised it before because it was just a forest, a forest he had never seen, and he had never seen this hill before, but he knew it, he knew as surely as he knew his own name that this was the same forest he had seen in his dream. "We need to leave, we need to leave now! We need to get back to the boats and cross the river."

"But Legolas said there are orcs on the other side of the river," protested Pippin. "We were to wait for the cover of night and-"

"No," Frodo said. "We need to find the others, and we need to leave. Nelly, Bróin, keep your eyes open. And – oh Mahal…"

"What?" Merry's question rose to a cry. "Frodo, what is it?"

"Where is Boromir?" he breathed, an image of an arrow thudding into the man's chest passing through his mind. Where was Boromir?

"This is the forest from your vision?" Merry realised, horror spreading over his face. Frodo nodded.

Frantically, he wracked his brains, trying to think of how he could warn the others. "Bróin! Your gift, your gift from Galadriel."

Bróin nodded right away, grabbing at the whistle. But as he raised it to his lips, Pippin gave a cry.

"Look!" His face grew paler than a wraith, and he pointed back the way they had come.

Orcs.

They were charging towards the base of the hill, hundreds of them, larger and more hideous than any Frodo had seen, armed to their teeth and laughing in the face of the sun.

"Uruk hai!" he breathed, horror filling him even as he backed away.

Nelly was the first to draw her sword, but she was shaking her head. "We can't fight them, there's too many!"

Two hands grasped Frodo's shoulders roughly, and he jumped, but it was Merry who shook him, and stared him in the eye. "Run, Frodo. You and Sam need to go, get out of here! Get back to the boats and cross the river, now! We'll draw them off."

"What?" Frodo would have felt better if Merry had sent a roundhouse kick to his jaw. "What are you talking about, that's suicide! No, no!"

"No, it makes sense," Nelly said quickly, nodding her head, even as she backed away towards the east. "We'll split up, draw them off – make sure they follow us, and not you. You cannot be caught, Frodo. We'll meet you in a week, at the end of the Emyn Muil, if we don't catch up before then. But if we're not there in a week, you must go on. No matter what."

They were right, and Frodo knew they were. The orcs were drawing nearer, and his heart was beating harder, and to escape unseen he had only seconds. "But-"

"Remember Moria, remember Soren!" insisted Merry, taking Pippin's hand and jogging backwards in the opposite direction to Nelly. "Go, Frodo! We'll catch up."

Feeling his heart rip in two, Frodo nodded, and the ring laughed in his ears.

And he ran.

There we go! I'm quite happy with this chapter, so I hope you enjoyed it too. Also, for those who may have noticed, I did shamelessly quote Uncle Iroh from Avatar: The Last Airbender with: 'If you look for the light you can often find it. But if you look for the dark, that is all you will ever see.' Uncle Iroh is one of my favourite characters, and that is one of my (many) favourite quotes of his :)

Anyways, I'll see you next Monday, if not sooner, so until then, take care, and thanks for reading :D