Diem Kieu: Sorry, I was going to warn you at the end of that chapter . . . :P Not much in it. I didn't realize it was that short, though. XP
Not senior year; I just went with the seniors, because they're nice to me. :) And I meant three years in reference to your Inu Yasha obsession. XP I think I was having communication issues that day. :D
Yes! It's amazing how many analogies there are in those stories. And there you have it; the stories are fantastic. :D I hope you enjoy this chapter. The next one is my favorite, I think.

The War of the Ring

OR

One Love to Break Them

Frodo grew distant from her, and she couldn't abide it. He felt much better, letting his concerns fall away from the burden around his neck. She had nothing more to try than to attempt attracting him again.

But, as she worried would happen, Frodo again began to eye her possessively, as though she were nothing more than a trinket. She didn't know how to convince him otherwise to care for her. She hoped there was another way to appeal to him, a way to make him want her in a real sense. So he'd admitted he liked her, wanted her, but she thought it was only her powers.

Couldn't it be something about her?

Frodo thought he truly felt something for Delamarth, but it was difficult to see beyond the clouding of her powers in his mind. He felt guilty every time he pulled her out of his shirt to stroke her, to look at her. He wished she would appear as a woman to him, but that wasn't a part of what he initially felt from her influence over him. That felt more natural, as though he cared about her. But he constantly dismissed it as fake, knowing that a creature incapable of feeling more than malice could stir something within his actual mind. He felt like falsehood and truth had been meshed together in his mind, and he could no longer discern the black from the white.

One night as Smeagol led them along the side of the Ash Mountains she confronted him about it. He stroked her gently; Smeagol had run off some five minutes before to find food, so Frodo did not fear being watched.

Patience thinned within herself, the Ring melted into her womanly form before Frodo. He paused; he'd told Sam he didn't think he would make it back home. Right now he didn't want to make it back home. He felt so confused, so broken, irrepairable. He just wanted to perish when she did. He would never have to live with his scars; he was losing the motivation to move on. Nothing made sense anymore.

"Frodo, love . . ." Delamarth paused as his eyes grew tired, hurt, perplexed. He swallowed, burrowing into himself. She reached for him, but he scrambled back.

"You've hurt me enough," he managed. "Why must you continue?"

Delamarth sank to her knees. She'd been telling herself the exact same thing endlessly, at least since they'd left Gondor if not longer. She didn't want to hurt him, but she realized perhaps she could never convince him of that.

She laid her hands over his chest, rubbing them up to his shoulders. Frodo complied only for a moment before cowering from her.

Delamarth sighed, biting back sorrowful emotions she'd never bared before. She didn't want to start now, not if it would require a lack of weakness to carry her through this situation. "I must continue because I want you more than anything." She tried to bite back her candor, but it escaped too quickly . . . and more followed. Against her own will she grabbed his cloak, bringing his body to her. He writhed and squirmed helplessly, as if unsure of even what he wanted. She traced his jaw with the back of her hand. "You can run—," She cringed at her own words. She sounded no different; she knew not how to say what she felt. She didn't know the language of truthful affection. "But I will always be there for you."

"Leave me!" Frodo cried, his own soul at war with itself. He couldn't decide what he wanted, but he knew in the face of this woman he was terrified. She could only drag him deeper into the depths of what Frodo thought was wrong. But he could not rip himself from her grasp—taking her to Mordor only made her more powerful. Leastwise, it made the form of her Ring more powerful.

She refused to let him go despite the warning she felt: it would be wiser to let him be, to sacrifice a few moments with him to have his love in the future. But she needed him so much. It was a desire she never had felt before, one no creature in the world ever had, perhaps an exemplified covetousness for one to have a great treasure that had sentimental value. She grabbed the back of his neck and desperately kissed his pale, flawless forehead, then trailed kisses down the side of his face to his jaw. Frodo wrenched away from her, slamming back into the rock at his sudden need to keep her affectionate contact. It was not a typical desire for him either. It was a greed for treasure, prestige. It almost seemed nothing to do with a man loving a woman, but a king lusting for his throne, willing to slay in cold blood to maintain power.

He shook his head wildly. "Please, no," he managed. "You are a tool of evil, and I will never truly want you."

Delamarth pursued him, and he stood to run. She yanked back on the cuff around his wrist, and he struggled against the closing gap between them.

"You will," she insisted darkly. "You will. You will want me, Baggins. I will be Precious to you; you cannot destroy me."

"I must; it is my quest!" Frodo nigh yelped for the terror and pain that clambered through his spine. He collapsed to the ground, writhing to get away from her.

She shook her head, her eyes narrowing with distraught perplexion. She didn't want to hurt him; what more could she do? Her need to have him overwhelmed every other feeling in her. "You cannot destroy me, for I will not watch you be ruined." Her eyes grew fiery, and Frodo cringed under her heated gaze. "Turn back. Go to the Shire; I will save you from Sauron. I only wish to be with you."

"You are not yourself," Frodo said under his breath. His eyes doubled in size while he surveyed her.

Her gaze hardened. "No," she hissed, reaching down. She clutched his shirt and dragged him to his feet. "I am more myself than I have ever been before."

She would find a new freedom, a freedom from Sauron, from loneliness. She would force Frodo to take her back, torture him as she must until he subjected to saving her and himself.

Gollum led Frodo and Sam to the stairs. Delamarth ensured that Gollum wanted her again; she heard him talking to Smeagol, and after Frodo's "betrayal" with Faramir the creature was more than pliable. She could work out a deal with him if necessary to keep Frodo alive, or at least command him until he couldn't think anymore.

Every night she appeared to Frodo when Sam was asleep. She hissed in his ear, kissed his cheek, held him by the shoulders and whispered what she thought of his strong mind and his attractive face until he cried out for her to stop. He begged for Sam once, growing more exhausted in this ever-increasing nightmare. She dragged on the cuffs of his chain, commanding him to turn back, take her to the Shire, let them run to the north where Sauron would not know to follow.

Her words, repeated for Frodo and only in her mind, grew more convincing and enticing for her. She needed Frodo to avoid Mordor. She started pacing circles around him as he stumbled towards the stairs of Cirith Ungol, and up them. She wrapped the chain loosely around his neck, tugging back on him.

"Turn around," she whispered. "Turn around, go back!"

Then she would change her mind when he finally had to stagger, weakened and unable to move more, against the stair wall.

"Your quest, Frodo love," she hissed, dragging forward. "Destroy me, if you can."

His eyes flickered tiredly. She had to harden herself to that exhaustion, to the tears that occasionally trickled down his face. She rationalized that if she got him torn down enough that he would eventually either give up or fall unconscious long enough for her to get him lost, or far away from here. Far enough that he would not destroy himself.

But her pressures on him even plagued her in a way she scarcely wished to recognize, and so ignored as long as she could.

It made her more conflicted, although gave her an outlet to her frustration. She found her paining of him to rub back on her, making her raw and broken. She maintained a vicious air; Frodo wouldn't have guessed at her transitioning from malice.

That is, not until Sam and Smeagol were both gone one hazy afternoon. Smeagol left to find food, but Sam grudgingly admitted that chances were excellent that "the little stinker won't bring back more than a raw piece of fish tail." He lightly kissed his master's forehead—receiving a subsequent slap to the psyche from the Ring—and left to find food.

But food was not what Frodo needed. In his irritation at Smeagol Sam had dismissed that Frodo needed no sustenance other than lembas, was convinced that a hearty meal would help Frodo's constant exhaustion. But Delamarth knew better. She'd sensed it in Frodo, tried to warn him, but he ignored her every word, begging her to leave him alone no matter what she told him.

He hadn't had water in almost three days.

Not that he could do anything for it: Sam's waterskin was constantly full, and Frodo never filled his, much less drank from it after it emptied for the first time. He never had the motivation or desire to do more than just drag himself forward one step followed by another.

Finally he fell unconscious. Delamarth happened to be glaring at Sam while he walked away when Frodo's head slacked back against the rock, lacking so much in water that his body began to fail. Delamarth felt his heartbeat slow . . . and panicked.

"Frodo!" She melted, kneeling before him desperately. "Frodo, love," she pleaded. She grabbed him by his shirt collar, testing his pulse, feeling his cheek. Her heartbeat sped up, and she dragged him from the ground. "Don't die on me, please! Frodo, please." She lifted him into her arms—she was not a weak creature—and dragged him as quickly as she could away. She listened intently, but could hear no water no matter where she looked; she walked a great distance, searching frantically. She finally stopped, kneeling down in desperation. She bundled Frodo up against her neck, cupping the back of his head for a free hand. She buried her knuckles in the ground, feeling the earth so close to Mordor, to what had been her home.

Blackness seeped through the ground, rumbling down through the rock until she found a small stream of water far below the mountain, down where life wouldn't dare to grow. She strained with everything she had, dragging it up through the stone. It strained and fell, eroded with angry power against the rock barrier above it. She finally clenched her fist with one last throttle of effort, and the water broke the soil surface. She swallowed with relief, trembled with sudden weakness. She'd never been so distraught or exhausted before; she was giving up more for this hobbit than she'd ever bargained for.

She lifted Frodo over the spring and dug through his pack for some kind of dish or container to help him drink with.

"Frodo, love," she whispered desperately. She was surprised to find herself almost out of breath; she'd never felt that way before. She swallowed and cupped his jaw, kissing his nose hopefully. She could find nothing and was running out of time. Delamarth rounded her hand tightly under the spring she'd created, and the water splashed against her fingers. She brought her fingers to Frodo's lips, tipping her cupped hand back at least to wake him up.

But he did not awaken to her touch. She let the water fall away to the ground, then gently prodded his mouth open. She fingered his dry lips longingly, wondering if he would ever kiss her, if she could ever call him hers. Perhaps it would be if she kept him alive.

She hurriedly scooped more water from the stream and carefully allowed it to trickle into Frodo's mouth. The chill scattered through his itchy, dry throat, and his eyes bulged open with the sudden icy caress. His eyelids settled again with exhaustion; he was too dehydrated to process.

Delamarth gasped and shuddered when she realized Frodo was alive, then finally located the skin in Frodo's pack and filled it to the brim with water. She tipped the vessel, brought it to meet Frodo's mouth. After two or three skinfuls he regained full consciousness and hungrily bent down for more water. She held him by the chest and back while he swallowed continuously until he managed to halt. Her fingers twitched against the muscles in his shoulders—she didn't understand what more she could do to have him. At least he was alive.

Frodo breathed hard, then backed away to glance up at her. His vision cleared, and he sat back worriedly.

"Delamarth . . . why . . .?" He swallowed. "Why did you do this?"

"I wasn't about to let you die," she said matter-of-factly. She trembled, wanting to tell him that she was afraid she'd lost him. "Sam didn't know, and Smeagol was gone."

"Did they leave us here?" Frodo asked dizzily. He glanced around at the bare rock; while the last few weeks had been like this, the particular formation didn't look familiar. "This place doesn't seem right." He pointed up at a nearby cliff. "That wasn't there . . . Sam left me somewhere lighter than here."

Delamarth nodded slowly. She'd been hoping she could get Sam and Smeagol lost, just be alone with Frodo. "It wasn't here." She stopped, but Frodo stared at her expectantly. "What?"

Frodo nodded, prompting. "Aren't you going to take me back?"

She snorted before allowing her gaze to settle intently. "I've been waiting to get you alone."

The hobbit scrambled to his feet, his eyes widening with fear. "No," he insisted. "You will take me back or I will leave you here and go back myself."

"You'll never find your way back."

Frodo's eyes narrowed with exhausted conviction. "I'll die trying, then."

Delamarth almost didn't want to test if he was serious. She crossed her arms and eyed him carefully, not willing to let him go. "I'll take you back, but you are weak," she said stubbornly. "You must let me carry you a little."

The hobbit cocked an eyebrow. "There is nothing you can do that would let me allow you to carry me."

She sighed. "Then at least put your arm around me, and I can help you. I am stronger than you are, after all." When he gave her a disbelieving expression, she rolled up her sleeves. "I did bring you all the way up here."

Frodo finally subjected, laying his arm around her shoulders. She wrapped her arm solidly around his waist, squeezing him close to her. He flinched slightly, but soon he had no choice but to rely on her as his body succumbed once again to weakness. They walked for close to an hour before they reached a place that Frodo thought looked a little familiar. He stared down at Delamarth, who did not even look at him. She felt relieved if nothing else, remembering her terror sitting in that little clump of rock.

"You were dying," she whispered fearfully.

"Mr. Frodo!"

Delamarth quickly pecked Frodo's jaw and slipped into place around his neck. He stood, stunned and without support. He shakily sat down as Sam approached, grabbing his master's shoulder.

"Mr. Frodo, are you all right?!" He rubbed his fingers over Frodo's face, and the Baggins nodded, weakly throwing Sam off.

"I'm fine, Sam."

"You were gone!" Sam swallowed, choking up just a little bit. He continued to muse over his master's condition, but Frodo's thoughts were stuck on Delamarth, on how far she'd carried him just to get him water, as though she wanted him to live. He couldn't possibly conceive how or why she would deceive him in such a way, what dark intentions she could have in doing what she did.