Diem Kieu: My thoughts exactly; I love going off-canon; I'm glad you liked it. :D Psychologically it gets even more grey . . . the next chapter is my favorite. X) But I decided to save that part for next time, 'cause-well, 'cause it's the best part. Oh, providential! I watched RotK this week too, funny that. XP
Sad. :( Well, the muse will not be rushed. *GASP* Another Frodomance? Hey, I'm all over that. :D

Delamarth didn't know what changed: maybe Sam was less careful, or the road was more treacherous, or Frodo was too tired to notice, or perhaps a combination of elements, but somehow Frodo managed to get in danger far more often. She ended up grabbing him just before he would tumble down the side of the stairs or give him food when he couldn't walk anymore for lack of sustenance. She asked him once if he was doing anything to stay alive . . . and he told her he did not care to anymore.

That troubled her. She hung rather worriedly around his neck; she didn't know if she could manage to see all of his needs. Surely she could see them better than Sam, for she had insight directly into his body even when he did not voice his need to stop walking or anything to that effect.

She spoke to Smeagol one night, told him that she wished him to keep Frodo alive. But he needed to drive the "fat one" away. It was the first time she had appeared to the creature as a woman since leaving him, and he eyed her very greedily. After being with Frodo, this frightened Delamarth. She managed to gush out a rather decent performance, but Gollum couldn't have cared less. He enthusiastically agreed to her every command, and then she let him sleep. More she forced him to sleep; he wouldn't stop creeping up on her, reaching out to touch her. But she didn't want him; she wanted Frodo.

Frodo lay perfectly still nearby. She crept over to him and shook his shoulder. Well, she'd intended to: she managed to shake him only for a moment before she got lost in the slope of his jaw, of his neck, of his back. She admired him as one would a glass window, as a valuable statue of gold . . . not as a living creature. Her fingers slithered over the Lorien cloak, down his arm to where his shivering hand lay on the ground. She entwined her own with his, laid her head on his shoulder. Only then did she realize how much more substantial her desire for him felt—how much more she needed him in a way she could not control, how much more she wished him to be well than since the last time she'd done this.

Frodo awakened to her touch, but could not scramble away. He hadn't the strength or capability anymore.

"Please, no," he moaned.

Delamarth shook her head. "Frodo, love, I'm not here to—," It was perfectly useless. She threw it off; he would either believe she was here to hurt him or not. "Frodo, you're killing yourself. Don't do it."

Frodo eyed her balefully. Purple rims surrounded his eyes, and guilt stabbed her for a moment. "I'm killing me?" He sat up more, his voice cracking slightly. "I simply make no effort to keep my body going. I think that's better than you've done."

Her eyes flamed. "Done when?!" She stood abruptly, and Frodo had the initial sense to cower a little as she stood over him. "Frodo, over the past few weeks you've done nothing but nearly die and leave the quest to that dense Samwise!" Frodo glared darkly at her with this and scooted away, but she ignored him and kept going. "The only reason he isn't skewered by orcs and I'm not in the hands of Sauron is because I've kept you alive in all those moments, and the least you can do is take my attempts to keep you safe and perhaps keep the Ringbearer of Middle Earth alive!"

"What makes you care?" Frodo stared at her, his eyes flooded with hurt confusion. "I would have thought you'd be pleased to be back in Sauron's hands."

Delamarth again shook her head, furiosity bubbling up within her. Her fists clenched. "He is not my master," she seethed. "I've always been my master . . . and I am a slave or servant to none. I was always the dominant force."

Frodo lifted a quivering eyebrow. "I can see that."

She knelt down. "Please, Frodo, I need you to live." She swallowed, cupping his cheek desperately. Her thumb quickly smoothed his jaw, and he turned in an attempt to break contact with her. "Don't let me go back. Please."

Frodo sighed, glancing at the ground. "Delamarth, either you will be back with Sauron or in the Crack of Doom," he said slowly, "and it will certainly be the latter if I survive this." He didn't continue, didn't tell her he didn't want to watch her destroy Middle Earth or melt away slowly into the flames of her origin. He swallowed and looked at the ground.

"Please," she said again, as though she didn't hear him.

Frodo clenched his eyes shut.

"On the condition that you leave me alone on the days you wish me to live," he whispered. He didn't want her to leave him, not after she'd been saving him, but now he could save himself. Or so he thought.

Delamarth exhaled slowly. "Of course, love." She'd been hoping for a loophole; it would not be difficult to work around. She grabbed his hand again, reassured by the pulse of his blood and the soft friction of his flesh in her grasp. Frodo weakly attempted to rip his fingers away from her, but she would not let them go. She brought his hand to her mouth, brushed her cheek across it gently until her lips came around to his knuckles. She pecked the back of his hand a couple of times, then kissed it more fully. She let out a deep sigh, and Frodo strained to have his hand back. So her kisses were tender, but Frodo did not trust the gentility of her touch.

She released it when she wished to and no earlier, partially to prove a point and partially because she didn't want his negative opinion of her to matter to her. She slipped back up around his neck, then prodded him slowly to sleep. He staggered back into lying down until his eyes closed, allowing him into fitful rest.

Even as the days grew darker, Frodo grew more and more ambivalent to the concept of dying and carrying Delamarth with him. At this point he wished to jump in after her, envied her ability to slip away from this world. As he walked along with a stubborn but weakened conviction, Delamarth heard an ear-splitting crack from above him. Leastwise it was earsplitting for her, for she could feel the very fibers of the land surrounding Mordor.

But Sam and Smeagol were oblivious, walking too far ahead, and Frodo did not care. She stared up frantically as the cliffside began to crack deep down, a breach in the mountain soon to surface. A huge boulder stood, ready to fall right into the path. She melted suddenly, grabbing Frodo's shoulders, his chain, anything.

"Frodo, wait!" she cried. "Frodo, there's a—,"

Frodo threw her off, struggled against her every effort. "Delamarth, I haven't time or energy for this," he managed, blinking as much of the exhaustion as he could from his eyes, which was not a substantial amount. He tore away from her, still walking forward.

"Frodo, you'll die if you keep moving. Stop here, please!"

"I've been aware of that since I started this quest," he murmured.

She grabbed his shoulders again, but he was adamant. "I mean it! You will be crushed! There's a huge bo—!"

The crack surfaced, the boulder splitting from the mountainside just above them. Delamarth let out a cry and barreled against Frodo's back, shoving him out of the way. She leaped after him, but not soon enough. The boulder slammed into her legs before bounding off the other side of the mountain; she collapsed to the stony ground with a shocked moan. She'd never felt mortal pain, had never been in such circumstances. She was a Ring, a treasure of the earth, not meant to feel pain. Luckly she could not be destroyed out of Mount Orodruin, but as a woman could be wounded. She gasped for air as her legs screamed in agony. Frodo raced back to her side, scrambled to drag her away from the clouding dust that had arisen in the boulder's wake.

"Delamarth!" Frodo brought her up into his arms, and she suddenly realized why this was all worth it, understanding that Frodo was still alive. She wrapped herself furiously against his torso, gripping his shoulders. "Delamarth, are you all right?"

And he was concerned for her. She allowed her eyes to sink closed, taking in the feeling of this hobbit in her embrace. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I am."

"But your legs . . ." Frodo's countenance fell as he surveyed them through the ripped fabric of her dress. Bruises were already beginning to form, and she might have fractured a bone. The boulder also cracked into the skin, allowing molten, golden blood to trickle to the surface of her flesh. He fingered the liquid away as best he could. "We must get you bound up."

She shook her head vehemently. "If I remain a woman long enough my injuries will heal themselves," she said. "Sauron promised, and if I call upon him to do it he will heal me." Instantly, but you do not need to know that. "Just remain here with me," she said softly, running her fingers through his hair. She reached back and kissed his nose. "You're alive," she added in a whisper, allowing her eyes open to survey him.

Frodo nodded slowly, a little perplexed and feeling somewhat invaded. He abruptly changed his tone.

"But I must carry on," he said. "Would you not heal better as a Ring?"

Yes. "No, I'm afraid not." She bit her lip. "It would freeze my healing progress to no longer be in woman form. I must remain like this."

Frodo gently scooped her up off the ground. For being strong, Delamarth was also strangely light. He glanced at her as though asking if he could carry her, and she nodded forward, subtly tightening her grip on his neck. She laid her ear against his shoulder; Frodo was such a strong, sweet hobbit, despite everything she'd put him through.