Before Gandalf left them to find Saruman, he warned Frodo never to put on the Ring. She scoffed at him from within Frodo's pocket.
We'll see about that, you old magician.
Gandalf glared down hard at her, then turned, mounted his horse, and left the two hobbits with her. She decided now was the time to really get down to mesmerizing Frodo. She did not summon the wraiths for some time.
The walk was simple across the Shire for the first few weeks. While Sam had his doubts about traveling the whole way, Frodo was confident his gardener had the strength and bravery somewhere within him to walk all of Middle Earth, much less simply to Bree. They rested often, ate often from the meats Sam had packed, cooked in his best pots over the fire. Frodo sat up in the crook of a tree reading, and the Ring pondered breaking out of his pocket. She listened to the sizzle of meat and wished Sam would leave her alone with Frodo: she couldn't be quite as effective with an external party watching them.
She would have to wait until nightfall.
Frodo set his book aside. He couldn't take his mind from Sev, much as he wished he could focus on the task at hand. He wondered what she was doing . . . who he could talk to in her absence. He had thoughts cluttering his mind from the past few weeks, from seeing the world so much more open than he ever had before.
As he let his thoughts wander, he thought he could hear a faint, mournful song. He straightened, sitting upright to hear it better. Finally he could hear it more clearly: it neared at a very slow pace. It had a wistful air, beautiful, pristine, and gentle.
It could only be one thing.
He stared down at Sam. "Sam! Wood elves!"
The gardener perked up, and both of them raced through the woods toward the sound. They approached quietly when they knew they were close, for they did not wish to disturb the elves. They ducked behind a huge log, watching as the white train moved slowly forward.
Frodo listened to the elvish song, then translated for Sam. His eyes grew soft and sorrowful as he spoke of what he heard. "They're going to the harbor beyond the White Towers," he said gently, "to the Grey Havens."
"They're leaving Middle Earth!" Sam whispered epiphanically.
"Never to return," Frodo finished.
"Frodo!"
Frodo's head shot up. He heard his name repeated softly, and it echoed through the woods with almost desperation. He wondered if the voice had come out of his head . . . as though a vision of sorts. He could find no source for it.
"I don't know why," Sam said suddenly, "it makes me sad."
They stayed for another moment before turning back. They set up camp not too far away, listening to the song of the elves as it faded into the quiet wood. Frodo heard his name again, more than confused at why he would hear it out here. Perhaps it was the Ring. He shot his gaze to his pocket, but she was still inside, not a woman for the present.
Frodo settled down to bed early. The Ring awaited her moment, listened for deep breathing from Sam. But the two hobbits were far enough away from each other that she couldn't hear Sam at all; she rolled out of Frodo's pocket, clattering to the ground. But Frodo couldn't hear her, having almost slipped into sleep. She moved to melt . . . then Sam spoke abruptly. She remained silent and still, spitting out curse words in her mind at Sam. The faster she got this done the better off she would be.
"Everywhere I lie there's a great, dirty root sticking into my back," Sam said exasperatedly, tossing.
Frodo inhaled slowly to speak. The Ring watched him, intrigued by the way he simply moved, although she didn't understand why he interested her so.
He was too tired to let Sam stay awake. "Just shut your eyes," he mumbled, "and imagine you're back in your own bed . . . with a soft mattress and a lovely feather pillow." He could imagine himself there; that was how he got so close to sleep in the first place. He listened for Sam, but the hobbit had gone quiet, so Frodo felt safe to sleep.
Sam's voice again filled the air a moment later. "It's not working, Mr. Frodo; I'll never get any sleep out here." The Ring waited for Frodo to angrily tell Sam to sleep anyway, but instead a smile stretched across his face. The Ring paused; he had such a lovely smile. She wanted to touch it, and couldn't wait for Sam to sleep so she could.
"Me neither, Sam," Frodo said gently.
The Ring detected no bitterness in his words, despite her consideration that there should be. He sounded perfectly sincere, gentle, caring, if not exhausted. She allowed Frodo's eyes to sink closed and his breathing to become beautifully even before she cracked, then stretched and melted into a woman. Sam eventually fell asleep, but it took at least an hour or so. She watched patiently as Sam's face slowly relaxed, and the embers of the fire slipped into darkness.
She stared down at her hair; dissatisfied with her lack of transition, she shifted back into a hobbit-sized version her original form, the persona she had not been since the defeat of Sauron. Perhaps Frodo had to be awake. She reached forward . . . then slowed. She wanted to savor this moment a little bit, although logic stated that she ought to summon the wraiths or at least start hacking into Frodo's mentality.
But he would be hard to get in to, she rationalized. She had to wait, had to let herself seep in, for to practice impatience on him would only get him to push her away.
The Ring allowed her fingers to slip over his shoulder, and she shuddered excitedly while she fingered aside his cloak. Frodo's initial relaxation faded away as she entered his rest, silently dragged her fingers up the side of his neck to cup his cheek. She'd never touched anything so . . . flawless before. Frodo had an exquisite light to him that she wanted to hold softly until she tightened her grip and her fingers crushed it. She wanted to watch it shatter into a million shards of glass, just so she could look through all of them one at a time. They would be so pretty—the screams of his pain would always echo throughout her mind; she would remember them with sadistic glee.
Her previous encounters with Frodo had not been like her first experiences with most of her slaves, and she intended to change his perspective of her. Fear was a good start, but attraction would work even better. Besides that, the attraction approach would probably work best in the context of a stubborn, bright, handsome lad.
She surveyed him for one more moment before she slid closer to him on the ground. She bent down low towards him, and when she whispered to him her lips touched his ear. His curls tickled her jaw.
"Frodo."
Frodo jolted awake, and she sat up slowly while he regained consciousness. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, yawning rather openly until he spotted her. His eyes shot wide open, and he scrambled back in his cloak. His shoulder tingled, as did his ear and his neck. He swallowed, trying to shake the sensation away. She looked darkly pleased.
"What are you doing here?" Frodo's tone swelled from timid to threatening as he remembered what Sev had told him about warding off the Ring's touch.
The Ring tsked; she hadn't expected such a reaction from him. Apparently things had changed, perhaps at Gandalf's discovery of her identity. "Come, love, I'm not here to harm you. I am but the Ring . . . here to serve the one who owns me." She reached forward, allowing her tone to soften, stretching out her fingers for his hand.
Frodo's eyes narrowed. He didn't believe a word she said; he didn't understand why anyone found her tempting. The way she called him "love," the way she looked at him like a juicy apple ready to be crushed, the way her voice scratched him like ridged fingernails. He shuddered, pulling farther away.
"I do not own you," he muttered. "You work for Sauron alone. And why call me 'love' in a context where that makes no difference to you? I must be nothing more than a pawn in your world."
She laughed, and it chilled him to the core. "A pawn? Frodo, you hold my very life in your hands." She reached forward again, but before he could yank away she collected his fingers in her own, trapping them. She had to have him, had to do it. Perhaps he would be more permeable, would carry her to Mordor, if she kissed his hand. But his psyche was a tricky thing, the likes of which she'd never attempted to breach before. "I am but a servant."
"A servant of the Dark Lord and the Dark Lord alone," Frodo repeated, trying to yank his hand from her. He feared attempting to pry her fingers off; she felt so powerful, and would likely catch his other hand in the process.
The Ring shrugged, slowly sliding closer to him. "Perhaps. But couldn't I be yours?" Frodo backed away as she neared, nearly to the coals of the fire behind him. He staggered against the ground. "I could be your Precious," she whispered. "I am your Precious. I could grant you anything your heart desired, Frodo." She lifted one arm in surrender. "I am not harmful at present; I am not strong enough yet to betray you. Use me, use me while I am here." She reached forward, cupping his cheek with one hand. Frodo strained away from her, and her fingers traced down his neck to his shoulder. "Call me by my name. Call me your Precious."
Frodo's eyes sealed shut as her lips neared his knuckles. She was so close when a word came out of him.
She might have thought it was "no," save it didn't sound like a "no." It sounded different . . . Elvish. But it carried the same dark tone as a refusal.
The Ring paused. "What?"
"Del amarth," Frodo said under his breath. His eyes opened again, and she noticed just how shiny and clear they were. He looked defiant, and that frightened her. "Delamarth. Horror and doom, that is all you are." He snatched his hand away from her loosening grip. "And that is what I will call you; you are not precious to me, but I will not call you the One, nor will I call you the Ring."
She mused over that. "Delamarth." Then she let her head cock almost innocently. "How sweet of you to name me." She reached forward to kiss his cheek, but he braced his hand against her shoulder, pushing her very deliberately back. He rolled over, away from her.
"If you care anything for me," Frodo nigh snapped (only for fear of what she could do to him), "you would allow me to sleep." He trembled a little. He didn't understand what she wanted from him, probably only to convince him to take her back to Mordor. He shivered harder, wishing she would leave him alone. Only to Bree: then he would be rid of her. He couldn't imagine how much terror she'd wrought just by convincing a man that she loved him. "Love" . . . her tone still snaked through his mind like a serpent, harmful and sleek with something caught between a horrible truth and an endearing lie.
The Ring—Delamarth, she could concede thinking of herself that way—watched with a great deal of satisfaction as Frodo shook, curling up tighter and tighter in his cloak. She slinked across the cold ground towards him, and he stiffened when she wrapped an arm around his waist, laid her head down on his shoulder. He strained not to shove her off, although he wondered if to do so would be wiser than to let her stay in place.
"I'm willing to give my new master a chance," she said pleadingly. Her fingers traced over his shoulder, down from her to his jaw. He shifted away from her, but she followed, persistently reaching for him. "Come now," she said. "Don't you find me beautiful, Frodo?"
He stiffened suddenly, then spun around to face her. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He sat up, and she came with him, refusing to let go. The way his eyes flickered over her face she almost thought she had him. She reached up to kiss him, but he turned sharply away.
"Some have mentioned to me that I strike them as a gentlehobbit," he said patiently, staring into her golden eyes, "but for the present I would be more than willing to throw that title away if it meant you would leave me be to rest." Furiosity and fear bubbled inside of him, but he swallowed it back. "Should you become more physically aggressive, Delamarth, so help me—I am not capable of hurting a woman, but you are no woman, and it would not leave a mark on my conscience for all the wickedness you have stored within you if I were but to protect myself from your trickery."
He glared at her hard, and she only blinked in response to his speech. She let her hands slide down his arms, hesitant to leave him, but he had his eyes set in iron: Frodo would not budge. He had to remind himself that he was not chastising a gentle, perhaps well-meaning, lass, but refusing an evil servant of the Dark Lord, who had caused the destruction of millions and would do more if she had the chance.
She could do nothing good for him.
Delamarth shrugged. "Acceptable." Then she paused. Frodo nearly scrambled back at the livid gleam in her eyes, one of hatred and vengeance that stirred deep . . . but passion, longing, lingered below that layer of darkness. She frightened him more than anything he'd ever seen in his life for more reasons than one.
She traced a finger down his jaw. "But remember this, Frodo Baggins . . ." She reached up, and her fingers snatched his collar before he could go anywhere. He strained away from her, breathing hard, as her lips neared his ear. "I have never lost a fight with a man. Not in a thousand years, not in the presence of any adversary in any part of the globe. So they resist, they win their battles,"—her voice sank into a chilling whisper—"but I always win in the end. The Dark Lord, King Isildur, little Gollum, your uncle, are all in my hold. The armies of men, the forces of Mordor, even Gandalf the Grey." She let her lips touch his cheek, and he shuddered. "And soon so will you, little halfling."
Before Frodo could strike her away, she crunched into her Ring form with a triumphant laugh. She watched his terror as he stared down at her, unsure whether to put her back in his pocket or leave her out—to do the first would be to encourage her pursuit of him (potentially), but to leave her be would be to put the fate of the world at stake, assuming Sauron's servants were already on their way.
He hesitantly picked her up, and he shivered when she trembled excitedly in his fingers.
Oh, put me on, great master, she taunted. Slip me over your finger, and perhaps I shall leave the rest of you alone.
Frodo hastily tucked her into his pocket, then gripped the fabric. He sank to the ground, now thoroughly exhausted. She rolled against his chest; she would have him to the end of her time away from Sauron. She wondered if she could hide Frodo for a few hundred years as she had Gollum, or perhaps she could stretch his life as she had Bilbo's, or caress him as she had Isildur.
He needed something more from her, though, for no method she had tried before would convince him to want her.
She conceded bitterly that he was the first slave she had who did not pretend to love her. At least he was right in his head, made his feelings clear.
Frodo had a nightmare about her that night, and he rolled up tighter in his cloak subconsciously. He only had to survive until Bree, two days' travel away at most. Then he could be rid of this accursed Ring and all the trouble that accompanied her.
"Delamarth . . ." he muttered in his sleep.
She smiled wickedly to herself.
