Diem Kieu: I initially try to keep my writing PG, but I guess this one does-even in my mind-linger towards PG-13. I'll have to look into that; thanks! :) I'm glad you enjoy it. Admittedly that isn't the only reason why, but a very powerful reason of them; I don't read mature content either, so that's part of it as well: I won't write what I don't read.
Well, it's finished, or at least the writing of it (it'll all be uploaded pretty soon, around the writing of my other current project XD); I think you're right, it would certainly add intensity to the story . . . I know this is going to sound silly, but it's a psychological intensity that I crave to the extent that I fear it. To write it would be to succumb to it. If that makes any sense; I think your advice is very effective, but I'm using other outlets of intensity that I hope you like. :)
No, but you do know a heck of a lot about this stuff. ;)
Oh, it'll be interesting; I think RotK is about when it gets REALLY hard for the lot of them.
*tears down face* Thank you so much! Movie quotes are some of my favorite things in the world! And to quote Frodo: "I'm glad you're with me."

The Two Towers

OR

An Effort To Claim Him

Frodo suffered often from nightmares. Delamarth did what she could to discourage him from going to Mordor via them: suddenly she felt sick at the thought of going home. Sauron would not be pleased with her, and Frodo's quest would be for naught. The hobbit likely wouldn't survive entering the Black Gate if he ever made it out of the rocks alive, and even if he did succeed, it would mean her death. She'd never felt hopeless in any sense of the word before, but now everything looked so bleak.

Through all of his pain, Frodo wondered at her growing distance. She did not appear to him, and he correctly attributed that to Sam's presence . . . although he didn't know that she was having trouble denying her desire for him.

The hobbits shambled endlessly through the rocks for weeks. Delamarth convinced herself in that amount of time that she could prove Sauron wrong: she began to drag on Frodo's neck, summoning fog to get the hobbits lost. Frodo communicated with her little, too tired to do much. She waited somewhat patiently for a while, but she wanted to talk to him, wanted to touch him. Sure, she was right there by his heart constantly, however with nothing she could do. She didn't know whether to get him to Mordor faster or drag it out—her mood changed at a dizzying rate.

Despite all that, she did know one thing: she wanted Frodo to desire her, at least as much as Isildur and Gollum had, at least as much as Sauron did now. The more stark his need, the better. Whether her intentions were to love him or crush him, she need not know. She also decided to stall his progress to Mordor (which did not take much effort: neither hobbit could figure a way out of the stone), for either she wanted him not to go to Mordor to keep away from Sauron or to torture him further while she worked on conquering him.

But Sam grew to sleep lightly on account of Frodo's nightmares; he woke up every time Frodo so much as groaned weakly, whether from stubbing his toe or absorbing the full terror of night. Delamarth quickly deduced that she would have to conceive some way to keep Frodo awake and Sam asleep. Only if Frodo cried out would it be an issue, so she couldn't press whatever she did too hard. Then she threw that notion off: she could push however hard she wanted. She would scar Sam if he interfered.

One night it rained. She wasn't too excited for that, until she realized that Sam slept through it rather nicely. Frodo wouldn't even close his eyes; the rain beat down on him, chilling him with the reminder that he had such a weight around his neck.

Delamarth caught a movement on top of a nearby ridge, and when she flicked her gaze up to the cliff she spotted Gollum recoil from the edge. Her eyes widened; she almost panicked, but then she calculated calmly how she could use the creature to her advantage—if he could get rid of Sam, or at least separate the hobbits, Delamarth would work on isolating Frodo entirely.

But she couldn't wait on that. She had to convince Frodo to be hers as quickly as possible, Sam or no Sam, Gollum or no Gollum . . . Mordor or no Mordor.

She melted down his chest. Frodo startled from his position, reaching over to shake Sam awake. But Delamarth spotted the movement, and she dragged his hand back over to her. She gripped his other wrist; he struggled to back away from her, then opened his mouth to cry out for Sam.

*She grabbed his jaw and turned him to face her. His eyes widened with terror.

"Wake him up and I slit his throat before he knows what you were waking him up for," she hissed, and Frodo suddenly grew lenient. She grumbled to herself—why couldn't he care for her that much?

Frodo swallowed, and she slowly released his face. She did not, however, release his cuff. He struggled faintly, almost subconsciously. "What do you want?" he muttered fearfully.

Delamarth cocked her head. "To ask you the same question, love." He opened his mouth, confused, but she laid her finger over his mouth. Her eyes rolled back: his lips felt so tender, so gentle, so warm, and as they sealed shut under her touch tingles lit up her skin. Her gaze grew fascinated in a frightening sort of way, and Frodo leaned back. His eyes widened.

She cupped his cheek and stroked his lower lip. He squeezed his eyes shut, yanking his face from her.

"The answer to that question," Frodo managed, "is simply for this quest to be finished."

Delamarth tsked. "I'm certain that's not it," she said slowly, still watching his mouth. He bit his lip self-consciously; she looked strangely predatory. She shook it away and sidled up to him; Frodo moaned under his breath. He couldn't move, for he sat too close to Sam: his friend would awaken and be killed. "You look cold," she mused.

Frodo shook his head frantically. "No, I'm fine. Please, leave me be." Shivers ran through his bare skin, covered with freezing rain, as she crawled around him, slipping into place on the other side of his torso. She did so primarily with the intent of separating him from Sam, but that would only work to an extent.

"Nonsense, love." She threw his entire opinion aside while she distantly studied him. She reached across his chest and grabbed his other hand, stroking the wet flesh. Frodo swallowed. "You're freezing," she said, but an odd level of sincerity accompanied her words. She cocked her head. "I could help you."

That phrase immediately threw Frodo off, and he shook his head again. "I'm sure any way you could help me would not be to my advantage in any way, Delamarth."

She pursed her lips. "Are you sure?"

He nodded emphatically, flicking his gaze away from her.

But she could help. Regardless of how much she tortured him, she wanted him warmer, more comfortable if at all possible. She turned to his hand and focused her energy, breathing gently. Her breath heated his hand, certainly, and he scrambled back . . . but then his blood pulsed slightly with warmth. He stiffened.

"What did you do?"

She shrugged as the warmth wore away. "What I intend to do, only more so." She wrapped her arms around his torso and tugged his hand over her shoulder; she wound the chain trapping his wrist around her fingers. Her neck and shoulders lit up with tingles as she nestled into his side. She warmed her bloodstream, molten gold and lava. It began to heat him immediately.

Delamarth settled her ear against his heart. Frodo shuddered despite the added warmth, and he fidgeted uncomfortably at the way she reveled in being so close to him. His lungs trembled with every swell and fall, shifting against her. He swallowed, unsure where to look. He could not escape her, although he wished with every frightened thud of his heart that he had that chance.

She did not know how else to convince him to stay with her. He kept his legs crossed and his opposite arm as far from her as possible: he would be resistant if she tried anything else, and so she remained content by his side for the remainder of the night. Neither slept; anticipation filled her, and Frodo's eyes refused to close for fear that she would stab him in his sleep.

More nights of similar sort passed, until there were enough rainy nights that soon it became a force of habit for her. Frodo grew to accept it, not fighting on the outside but determined to loathe it. The lack of sleep left him exhausted, but she quickly eliminated that need from him.

Once it stopped raining, she appeared again, and Frodo tiredly accepted her that time. She smiled, wickedly satisfied and reached up to peck his cheek. Frodo shied away, but not too far. Delamarth did not move from her position, leaving her face up close to his.

"You fear me, love," she said tauntingly, "but soon you will think me Precious."

Frodo's eyes narrowed. "I doubt there is anything you can do that will make me think you precious, especially if this is your approach. Someday I know you will push me too far, and I have already counted out how I shall deny you."

She paused. "Perhaps what you think I aim for is not truly what I desire, Baggins."

He flicked his gaze back to her. "I can only imagine where this is going." His heart thundered in his ears, and his face grew hot. He yanked away from her suddenly, and she scrambled in place, finally locking her fingers around the chain on his wrist. He stared at her, accusatory and frightened beyond belief. "You intend to entice me, and I will not have it."

Delamarth gawked at him, and her fingers slackened on his chain. He drew back, burying himself behind a rock. She began laughing . . . and chills scattered up his spine.

"You are absolutely right," she chortled—but Frodo somehow doubted it was sincere. She dragged him out from behind the rock, and he skittered against the stones, resisting her every movement as best he could. "Just not in the way you think." She grabbed his shirt collar, and he twisted this way and that. "I am incapable of physically doing what you believe I would! Frodo, love . . ." She sifted her fingers through his hair. Oh, it was soft, and her fingers ran deeper, faster. "A kiss is all that matters to me as far as what you deem to be my goal; I do not feel as you mortals do. The ensnarement I mean to make you step in to is in your mind." She dragged his face close to hers, and he moaned, trying to break away. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It is one you cannot escape, one you cannot run from . . . one that sneaks up on you and tangles you in desire that you will never be rid of." She realized then that perhaps she was addressing herself: perhaps she was falling into his psychological trap.

Fascination creeped through her, and she glanced down at his hand. He struggled, attempting to back away. She lifted his hand via its shackle to her mouth. She stared at the pale, cold skin, wondering if a kiss truly mattered to her that much. Sauron had not designed her to wish for that above all else, deep down in the direst of her thoughts and emotions, but somehow she did. She wondered if that had been psychologically attained from drained souls, but all mortals she was aware of wanted more.

She brushed her lips against the back of his hand, tenderly at first. Then she pressed hard against it, sucking in a breath. Frodo tried to scramble away, but what she'd told him broke down most of his fears of her physical contact. He found he actually appreciated her touch just a tad, then shivered with that realization.

Delamarth eased away, then glanced up at him.

"Are you warmer, love? Than you were a few weeks ago?"

Frodo stared at her disbelievingly, then nodded.

"Why do it?" he breathed.

She shrugged. "You were cold." She wanted to believe it was to make him fear her, wanted to believe it was for her benefit. But the latter made no sense, and neither did the former, both based on what she'd just told him. "You needed it, and I could do something." A sharp stab entered her heart . . . as though she truly cared about him.

Frodo expected her to demand appreciation from him, to try and kiss him again, but she simply shifted back into her Ring form with a wish of a good night. He stared disbelievingly at the Ring around his neck. She looked confused, but her touch felt completely sincere with no desire to terrify behind it. And now that he knew she had no intentions beyond kissing him as far as physical contact went, he wondered at her arms around his waist, at how she'd expended a slight bit of energy to keep him warm, at how she had not forced him into apparently the peak of her desire despite all these opportunities.

He shook his head; he recalled that she was a temptress, fickle and dangerous. He curled into his cloak—he would be destroying her soon. But now the thought somehow made him a little bit sick.