Author's Note: I've been way distracted lately. Thanks for sticking around.

Warnings: violence

The Stations of the Cross:

Third Station, Part Two

Why are your clothes red, and your garments like those of the wine presses?

"The wine press I have trodden alone, and of my people there was no one with me. I trod them in my anger, and trampled them down in my wrath; their blood spurted on my garments and I stained all my clothes. I looked about, but there was no one to help, I was appalled that there was no one to lend support; so my own arm brought about the victory." (Is 63:2-5)

"I am not perfect, and nor are you, but he is. He is perfectly malicious, unfailingly cruel. You would do well to start to learn to fight with the intent to kill, and not simply to survive."

These were the words Harry had spoken to Frodo when they had rested after Harry's long tale. He tried to teach Frdo to fight, to defend himself against multiple enemies and to deal fatal blows. And now, days later, Harry had finally lost his patience with the Hobbit.

"Do you understand that when you're fighting the Orcs, they will not give you a moment to recover if you've lost your footing? That there will be no friends by your side at your direst moment to protect you?"

"You can't expect me to learn to wield a weapon so well within the span of a few days," Frodo insisted, panicked as he was at the images Harry put into his mind, reminders of the Orcs closing around him, hearing the man he had thought his friend fall -

"BUT YOU MUST!" Harry roared, "Parry the blows, attack at the slightest sign of weakness, never hesitate - you haven't the luxury to make mistakes in the midst of battle! If they gain even the slightest advantage over you, they will kill you, and He will win."

He had stormed off after this outburst, leaving Frodo at the campsite. Frodo had leaned early on that Harry was nothing like Aragorn. His temper flared quickly and he didn't hesitate to leave Frodo alone, whether it was to find food or, as in times like these, in a rage. Of course, Frodo knew not that when he stormed away, it wasn't a petty, selfish gesture. During one of their first few days together, Frodo had tried to follow, uncertain of whether Harry would return. That is, he had followed until he saw the trail of destruction - fire, fallen trees, beheaded Orcs, and the unmistakable figure of Harry ahead, beating the corpse of an Orc even as another bush beside him crackled suddenly in the magical flame.

He never tried following Harry after that, but Harry always came back before nightfall.

Except for tonight. Frodo didn't dare rest while he knew Harry was away. He knew Harry could fend for himself just fine, but that wasn't what had Frodo worried. He felt that as long as Harry was around, no harm could come to him. That's how it always seemed, at least. Perhaps it was the sense of power he felt coming from Harry, foreign yet entirely familiar, comforting him, keeping the nightmare at bay, allowing him to think back on the old wizard without a constant pang in his chest. So he knew that, even if he tried, he wouldn't get rest.

He sat with his back to a tree, facing the only opening in the trees to their camp. His hand gripped the hilt of his blade, ears straining to hear the sound of footfalls, irregular rustling in the leaves - any telltale signs of an enemy. All the while he knew that wouldn't be enough, that his ears were not as Aragorn's or Legolas', and that Hobbits weren't the only ones who could move without making a sound if they do desired.

So he waited, and wondered if Death would happen upon him this night.

He drifted and had difficulty pulling himself from the dark of sleep. He clutched to the grass under his hand as if it was the very brink of reality, until finally, the murmurs of Orcs jarred him into complete wakefulness. The sun had just started its mount into the sky. Breathing deeply to quiet his fiercely beating heart, Frodo pushed himself up from the ground slowly, unsheathing his blade as he did so.

There were not one or two Orcs, no, there were six of the foul creatures walking into the clearing Frodo had kept watch over for the entire night. As soon as they caught sight of the little, armed Hobbit, they gave a moment's pause.

Then, quite suddenly, their swords were in their hands, and they started towards him in unison.

Soon, the gentle silence of the dawn was filled with the stomping of heavy boots, the sharp note of blades flying in the air, the wet sound of bodies being pierced, and the thump of finality of the defeated.

Frodo only heard their groans and saw the light of their eyes being to fade as he took down one Orc after the next. He would not let them take him again - because if Harry was gone - if he truly had no one left -

Finally, he allowed himself a moment to breath when he counted the six bodies scattered around the clearing. He saw one of the Orcs on the ground twitch; he drove his blade through its throat, and to be sure, he went to each one, giving them the same treatment.

And what was he to do now? A small part of him told him he had to find Harry… Hadn't the man saved him? But what tools did Frodo have at his disposal? No… perhaps these Orcs stumbled across him by chance, but there was sure to be more roaming these parts. He had to run, he had to -

"Frodo?"

The Hobbit spun to face the source of the voice, his arm already extended so the blade reached Harry's chin - because, yes, it was Harry!

He dropped the weapon aside and ran into Harry, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in the dark tunic.

"I was afraid you'd - They - they just came - I don't know how -"

Though he knew it was a daily possibility, he couldn't bring himself to face the idea that he could have lost the one person who truly understood his burden, the one person who he could trust implicitly because their ultimate desire was the same - to end the Dark One, to be rid of the accursed Ring.

"Frodo, listen to me," Harry gently extracted Frodo's arms, held his small face in his coarse hands. "I led them here, Frodo."

His heart, which warmed at the sight of the familiar green eyes, iced over. He dove to the ground, grasped the hilt of his blade, and reared his arm back, ready to watch it disappear into the same body he had just held so tightly. The sun was no longer a beautiful beacon in the sky, but a brash light exposing the ugly truth of the matter.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"… You?" he croaked blankly.

He couldn't trust even this man, who knew Frodo even deeper than any of his kin.

"You're learning," he said gently. "I did this not against you, but for you… Do you see what you are capable of, Frodo?"

He turned his back on Harry looking at the wreckage of the camp, seeing what he had done for the first time. The bloodied blade was still in his hand. When did this happen? Frodo threw the blade away from his person, and Harry came behind him and put his hands on the thin, shaking shoulders.

Oh, yes, he saw… And his own ferocity, this ability to kill, it frightened him more than the thought of dying.