Diem Kieu: Hey, one good turn deserves another. XD Well, I understand the curiosity, but that was a rise I broke through, partially because I've been raised to believe that . . . well, that mature content is something I don't want to tamper much with, reading or writing; I guess it's just too important to me. But hey, I'll let you to what you want to do. :)
I'm glad you think he's attractive too. He makes Sev so happy . . . . X) The eyes, and the curls . . . and the intellect . . . I think I'm a little bit lost . . . O.o!
Oh, it'll be interesting; I hope it pleases you, it'll get better. :)
I'm going to use that quote later; One Ring to Rule Them All . . . One Hero to Save Them. O.O! Indeed; hail Frodo! ;)

Thus things carried on. Uncomfortable conversation sprouted between them, but soon that turned into actual talk. The Ring did not admit she was confused, and neither did Frodo. He began to understand more about her character, and while she already knew everything about him it intrigued her to hear it straight from him.

By day Frodo walked with Sam. Delamarth lightened her yank on Frodo slightly, but he found that attempting to appreciate her as a person only made the weight of killing her heavier.

It impressed her, and in fact pricked her heart a little, when Frodo tried to shield her from Gollum. The creature attacked one night, only to be trapped by Frodo and Sam. Frodo told him to lead them to Mordor, and Delamarth's hopes crashed. He still wanted her dead, and nothing she could do would change that. Although it took a little bit of self-convincing from Frodo, he knew he had to finish this quest. Perhaps his confusion would melt away with her curve of perfect gold.

The Ring's handle on him, sincere as it was, began to harden and chill into the spells originally cast on her, molding into Frodo's mind first as real affection. That was the only way to crack into him, and her subconscious powers recognized it, filtered through Frodo's barriers against temptation with sincerity to start.

Now, her inner soul devised, he would be sucked in. Her powers began to snake into his mind, disguised as protective care for a woman that he traveled with.

Gollum led them to the marshes. Delamarth refused to emerge from her Ring form when Gollum arrived, for fear she would transition and perhaps disgust Frodo. It didn't entirely occur to her that Frodo wasn't so shallow: his attractions were based largely on what was inside. He'd never particularly been interested in girls, and only found the desire to court Sev from befriending her long before.

So his interest in Delamarth bothered him greatly: he knew all of her wickedness, all of her greed . . . or so he assumed. One simple transition from her typical aggression shouldn't have been enough to change him, but it offered him hope that this traveling companion would somehow be able to turn from her initial, dark persona into a real person . . . a real woman he could find it within his heart to love.

While in the marshes, Frodo only grew darker and more confused, more distanced from Sam than usual. Delamarth accounted it to the weight of Sauron's influence, but she wondered deep down if it had anything to do with her. She admitted that since the rainless night Frodo had been a little off.

He wondered what he would do when he lost her, when he gave her up for the better of the entire world. Then his perplexion grew: she shouldn't matter to him. She should do the opposite. She had never done anything but harm and threaten him . . . save that one night, when she asked about his well-being and sounded honest about it. More nights followed, nights when the Ring's power pressed Frodo's mind into a bit of a mush. He found himself now beginning to touch her just a little, at first aggressively to keep her back. But he softened soon, and Delamarth grew almost to believe that perhaps Frodo might care about her someday. It was small, however; he managed to keep himself from more than squeezing her hand or patting her shoulder.

Frodo shook his head as he stumbled through the marsh. He couldn't think about this now. She still dragged on his neck, but not as heavily as before. She still didn't know entirely what to think. She began to lean one way, but then flipped around and decided upon the other. The dragging was a result of her desires conflicting: one wished to root him in place and kiss him until she couldn't breathe or feel, and the other wished to burden him with everything she had.

Neither ended up winning out.

Frodo's sudden lack of conscious control came to a peak in the marshes when Sam pointed out dead faces in the water. Gollum warned them, told them that there had been a war here, and that to fall in would be to join the corpses.

But something about the pale, peacefully unrested creatures intrigued Frodo . . . in an insanely twisted sort of way. He tried to rationalize with himself, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from the faces down there. Some feeling had been creeping into him for a while, a feeling settled with the darkness and the darkness alone. Everything in his initial nature pulled back on him, but everything natural was gone from his gaze in that moment.

Delamarth yanked back on him, then stilled. Did she want him to drown? No, of course she didn't—but if he drowned, she would be found by the Nazgul any minute. Did she want to go back to Sauron? No . . . yes? She found herself lost in that moment as well, unable to halt Frodo's swaying on his own legs.

Sam glanced up, having realized that he no longer heard Frodo plashing in the swamp behind him. He turned, stared horrified as Frodo lingered on the shore. His master stared—blankly interested—at the water before him.

"Frodo!" Sam cried. Gollum leaped around the hobbit, racing for Frodo.

The elf that particularly caught Frodo's attention opened his eyes suddenly, staring up at the hobbit with a pale, sinister gaze. Frodo lost his strength suddenly and crashed headfirst into the murky, warm water.

Delamarth attempted to shift, to drag Frodo out of the water, but in this this murk she couldn't move. Dark spirits swarmed the hobbit, shrieking and reaching for him. She hissed loudly at them, almost to the extent that Frodo could hear it. But she couldn't hold them off much longer. She started calling to the Ringwraiths, then stopped herself: did she truly want to leave him to drown, become another cursed corpse in the marshes beside her own home?

Frodo struggled against the water, but he could hardly move. The demons surrounding him began to stifle his breathing, easily trapped him tightly around the lungs and squeezed harder than Delamarth ever had. He began to succumb . . . until a powerful hand wrapped around the shoulder of his cloak and dragged him up right out of the water. He sputtered and gasped when the demons released him, straining for air and dripping from head to foot.

It shocked both Delamarth and Frodo to see his rescuer.

"Gollum?" Frodo voiced disbelievingly. Sam was nowhere in sight.

Gollum bent down close. "Don't follow the lights," he hissed before turning away. Sam raced to Frodo's side to bring him to his feet, but Frodo continued to stare after Gollum. He remembered Gandalf telling him that Gollum had a history of sorts, that his life was a tragic one after having stumbled across the Ring. Delamarth, Frodo realized; the girl he thought he'd begun to want, the destroyer of the world that would bind all in the darkness—including Frodo. He jolted back to reality: she couldn't care about him. He was just one more creature to her, and probably not even that. Her voice, her words from Rivendell, echoed in his ears: "You're just a halfling."

Sam brought a stunned Frodo to his feet, asked him if he was all right. Frodo could only hear Sam in the back of his mind as he stared back at Gollum, and only responded in a mumble of sorts. Fortunately that seemed enough for Sam; the gardener carried on, flicking his gaze periodically back to Frodo as they walked.

Frodo studied Gollum just a bit while they continued through the marshes. Perhaps the creature did really have a heart deep down . . . and perhaps Delamarth did as well. Both had tried to harm him, but with both of them attempting to help, he wondered if either could or would ever truly change.

Frodo waited for Delamarth to appear that night, but she didn't. Gollum was still awake. Frodo did not sleep, believing she might not come. He grew fidgety, finally removing the Ring from within his shirt. Delamarth conceded to melt into place, facing Frodo while lying on her side.

*You refuse to sleep, love. What is it?

Frodo bit his lip. He dared not speak, for Delamarth silenced his subconscious. He didn't know why he did not say anything, but he didn't feel the need to understand his own silence just yet. He edged toward her, reverently cupped one side of her face in his hand. He inhaled shakily; his processes numbed at her nearby power. He drew her closer, traced his fingers along her jaw. His eyes flickered open and shut, not entirely sure what he was doing, but not caring either.

Delamarth blinked away her ecstatic shock and locked her fingers around the back of his neck. It unsettled her for a moment that he did not look loving, but possessive alone . . . like the others had. She threw the thought away, convinced herself that this was progress. She stretched out her powers to his mind, rubbed them against the inside of his mind. His gaze sank even more, his eyes almost closed. Tingles traveled through her like they had when she kissed his hand the first time, and she pecked his nose slowly.

I am your Precious, love. She brushed her cheek against his, taking in all that was Frodo, all that part of her wished to destroy and all that part of her wanted to love more than anything. Your Precious. And she meant it this time, at least to some extent. She pulled back to look at him, stare intently into those icy blue eyes of his.

Her sincerity ignited a flame in Frodo, deep within his chest, surreal and uncomfortably false as the feeling was. He leaned forward when she did, and her heart raced. It struck her as odd, for she had never had such a disarming feeling before. His lips eased within an inch of hers—

"So beautiful, so bright," Gollum whispered. Frodo jolted back suddenly, and Delamarth transitioned again into a Ring. Frodo slipped her into his shirt, then sat up to watch Gollum. "My Precious . . ." the creature continued, stroking an imaginary Ring in his palm. He faced away from Frodo.

Frodo's consciousness suddenly cut into him as he watched Gollum, watched the creature that had also been obsessed with the Ring a long time ago and continued to be haunted by her. "What did you say?" Frodo whispered. He almost couldn't comprehend that he would become like Gollum if he kept succumbing to her, as though wanting her felt right.

"Master must rest," Gollum said mockingly. He sounded like Delamarth, just for the way he spoke. "Master needs to keep up his strength."

Frodo narrowed his eyes and stood, approaching Gollum from behind. "Who are you?"

Gollum didn't even look at him. "Mustn't ask us; not its business."

Frodo knelt down behind the creature. "Gandalf told me you were one of the River Folk." Gollum ignored him, reciting a poem to himself absentmindedly. Frodo circled the creature, trying to catch his eye. "He said your life was a sad story!"

Gollum hissed the remainder of his poem, staring at the ground.

"You weren't so different from a hobbit once, were you?" Frodo's voice softened, and Gollum finally lifted his eyes from the ground. Frodo could see a trace of a real person in those eyes, of a man once not unlike himself who fell to the same struggle but refused to fight it. Frodo leaned close to him. "Smeagol."

Gollum's reaction assured Frodo that Gandalf was right. His eyes doubled, and he stared up at Frodo. "What did you call me?" he whispered.

"That was your name once," Frodo persisted. "A long time ago."

Gollum's expression lit up. Delamarth watched wonderingly, amazed at the connection Frodo had made with such a loathsome creature. She felt a slight pang of possessiveness: she was Gollum's only "friend," and soon Frodo's. If they formed a bond without her, it would certainly cause her to lose both. Her doom would be sealed only sooner.

Gollum began to smile. "My name," he whispered reverently. "My name! Smeagol . . ."

Delamarth's heart thudded cautiously. She would have to set them against each other, but she didn't quite know how to do it. They were close enough to the Black Gate, but she didn't think she could do it before then. She would have to appear to Gollum and convince him to betray Frodo; then she could betray Smeagol. Maybe he could get Sam away . . .

She felt a slight aching in her curve, as though Mordor was insanely close. Then she realized she felt the throbbing of a Nazgul. She reached out instinctively, yanking on the Nazgul.

The Ringwraith's shriek split the air moments later, and Gollum cried out. Sam scrambled, awakened, to a sitting position. Gollum leaped away for a nearby bush.

Delamarth had a sudden, rash realization: if the Nazgul took Frodo, he would be separated from Sam as well as Gollum—and she could force Sauron to let Frodo live. If she conquered Middle Earth for the Dark Lord, nothing would stand between her and Frodo.

"Black Riders!" Sam shouted. He turned to pursue Gollum, and Frodo moved to follow . . . but the Ring saw an outlet to keep him, and she yanked back hard, stinging and burning against his chest. Frodo collapsed with a strained moan to the ground, clutching her. He strained against her, needing to move on. His Morgul stab snapped suddenly with cold, and he gasped with the sudden pain. He lay trapped in his agony.

Delamarth searched the skies. A Nazgul on a dragon searched the marshes, and she dragged on him. But then Sam reached out from behind the bush where he and Gollum situated themselves, hurriedly assisting Frodo to cover. Then the Ring realized how silly her impulse had been: the Nazgul would kill Frodo before they even got back to Mordor. She released the Rider suddenly; she didn't want to go back to Mordor in that moment, and refused to change her mind despite the fickle nature of her preference ever since she thought she liked Frodo.

Frodo lay gasping for breath when the sting of the stab faded away. He clutched Delamarth again; the Nazgul began calling out to her, but she didn't want them: she wanted Frodo. And in some twisted, dark sort of way, he wanted her too. She didn't care how he accepted her as long as he did it.

Anger bubbled within her when Sam grabbed Frodo's hand away from her, holding it tightly in both of his own. The Ring did her best to keep Frodo's mind numb, and it certainly worked. Frodo stared blankly up into the air, tucked into himself for fear the pain would return, and for fear that he indeed wanted to maintain the Ring.

Not soon enough, but after a few minutes, the Nazgul turned and flew away. Delamarth released Frodo, who dizzily attempted to get up. Sam helped him first to his knees and then to his feet before Smeagol hissed again.

"Hurry, hobbitses," he said. "The Black Gate is very close."

They couldn't go through the Black Gate. It was too soon. Delamarth began trying to work up excuses in her mind, reasons to get them away from it. She could summon orc armies to the front, drive Frodo away from Mordor by force, or she could convince him to turn back.

Frodo, love.

Frodo paused as he walked, but then continued on with decent force. He still walked at the back of the group some feet away, but the Ring wished he'd given up a long time before.

Yes, Delamarth?

She tsked, rubbing slowly on his shoulders in his mind. Frodo staggered, but kept moving. My love, I'm your Precious. Don't forget that. Then she paused. As much as I wish to return to my master, somehow I doubt you will survive past the Black Gate, and I will fall dormant just outside, buried in rock, with no one to take me in. I don't think going to Mordor is the smartest thing you could do for the moment.

Frodo halted.

She tried to continue, but he shoved his way in.

One could not put it past you to try and deter me from my quest, Frodo said patiently, but I hope you are aware that you can say what you will; I know the risks. I've known I could die any day. But the circumstances remain the same: the world is in danger, and I can save it. This is the only way. He hesitated, realizing that she would melt away into nothingness. His eyes squeezed closed, as though he could hear her final screams on the air.

Delamarth assumed a pitiful tone. No, it isn't, she said gently. You don't have to destroy me, Frodo. Don't I mean something to you?

Frodo waited, then shook his head wildly. He had to shake these growing feelings for her if he ever wished the Shire and all those that he loved to be safe. "No," he hissed. "No, you don't."

Had she been in human form, she would have frozen in place. He didn't care for her? Didn't even believe he did? After all she'd done for him, after all she thought of him, after all the threats she issued, he still wished to have her destroyed.

Suit yourself, Baggins, she growled. Her voice took him aback, and he stumbled again. You will not go through that Gate, or so help me, I will break Sam's neck.

Frodo's eyes narrowed. You'll have to break mine first.

He didn't speak to her after that. Much as Delamarth wished she were livid with him, but his desire to sacrifice for everyone else, much less for his best friend walking just ahead of him, amazed her again and again. She didn't understand what sort of person had that conviction for something that wouldn't do the most benefit for them.

As they neared the Black Gate, she crept into Smeagol's mind. She didn't speak directly to him for fear he would turn around and attack Frodo.

Smeagol. The Precious is not safe going to Mordor.

Smeagol began muttering to himself. Delamarth could only hope he was listening, going along with her. She knew he was bitter with a great deal of things, loved and loathed her much as he did himself. She pressed a little bit harder.

The Black Gate is close; save the Precious, she hissed. Keep Master from going into Mordor.

Smeagol shook his head wildly.

There are orcses, she whispered. Many orcses, and they will rip the Precious away! Smeagol shifted, stiffening and stumbling. The Precious! We must has it! Delamarth persisted. They will take it to him, to the Great Eye! The Great Eye will keep the Precious! She aroused panic in Smeagol's mind, then softened her voice. She is beautiful, Precious. She loved us.

Smeagol's shoulders stiffened and locked with conviction, and Delamarth knew she had him. She settled, satisfied, against Frodo's chest and allowed Smeagol to continue convincing himself that the Black Gate was not safe.