"I should like to save the Shire, if I could - though there have been times when I thought the inhabitants too stupid and dull for words, and have felt that an earthquake or an invasion of dragons might be good for them. But I don't feel like that now. I feel that as long as the Shire lies behind, safe and comfortable, I shall find wandering more bearable: I shall know that somewhere there is a firm foothold, even if my feet cannot stand there again."
A strained series of breaths, a sagging of the shoulders as he feels the weight of it pressing down –
..and he quickly goes to whatever bush he can find at the coming intruder. All the while his fingers tremble towards the golden band, on his finger by now if not for an iron will.
As the shadows grew long, and darkness enveloped the forested slopes of the Carpathians, Vlad went out to hunt. The terrible necessity of this had increased since he had drunk of Mirena’s blood and changed forever.
He was sunk still in his feelings of guilt and despair over the loss of Mirena, and baulked at taking another innocent human life, but would seek out the wicked, or the enemies of his people, for it assuaged his own guilt in the act somewhat. His vampiric vision picked up the heat of living creatures, and in a subtle way, the quality of their life force, carried in the blood, which pulsed with light. He flew, shape-shifting into a cascade of small batlike forms down over the mountainside and towards the lights of villages below. On the lower slopes his attention was caught by the sight of a single very strong red - glowing aura, close to but not on the main road. Someone alone in the forest after dark was most unusual, especially since news of vampires being abroad had spread. Dracula descended almost silently through the canopy of the trees and alighted on the forest floor. A darker shadow in the gloom, he approached the lone traveller. As he got closer, he was astounded to see this person crouched over a campfire upon which a small kettle steamed. At the same time, Vlad became aware of a strange phenomena, which emanated from this small male, who was perhaps only a head taller than his son, and yet had a sturdy adult body. It was a thrum, not the heartbeat of this strange personage, but something more, a pulse that called to him, that caused the demon inside to uncoil in recognition of it.. it was power, and darkness.
Vlad was instantly wary, but he would find out what this thing was, and who it was that had brought it into his domain. He stepped out of the lee of a tree and moving towards the traveller, said casually.
“ It is not wise, my friend, to be abroad after dark in these parts, these forests are full of dangers.”
He was either going mad or he had somehow been taken from the road to Cirith Ungol by a magic — or power — that he knew too well. That was destroying him slowly but surely. Gone was the innocence of the middle-aged hobbit who sought only adventure and tales worthy of being told. Like Uncle like Nephew —…but he reminded himself bitterly at times that he was nothing like Uncle, could not be, the burden he chose to bear had been in part out of his wish to protect him from the Ring’s stain. IT had already done so much by their parting.
Our last parting, no..I do not feel I shall return again. But Samwise..I have cursed him to think it the wise choice to follow me into darkness and death, and now I have left him by no choice of my own from heaven’s know what. Alone with Smeagol they are bound to quarrel — even..
A shaking breath escaped him, shoulders far too thin beneath his elven cloak shaking with the weight of his burden. Since coming to wherever these woods were, he had little option but to find a camp, make the smallest fire possible, (for it was too cold and if he were to die —) and try to warm bones that would never strengthen as they had.
Even so, even feeling in his heart, a spirit near shattered, a body breaking from the weight — Frodo knew he had to continue. Even if caught in a detour. It was his immeasurable strength of will that kept the hobbit even conscious. Or else the pain would have swept him away long ago.
And that’s when he felt it.
Without much of an option, Frodo had noticed that when darkness and danger grew near that the Ring gleefully clamored towards it, pressing down on his shoulders, around a neck already carved with welts and it’s indention on the chain. He felt it keenly now, enough that his grip on his tea trembled, sucking in a breath.
It is getting..so heavy..—-
With a sip that felt useless granted the pain, the Hobbit set it down, hands fumbling for Sting, wondering if it would shine for him and tell him if orcs were near. Or…if it were a far greater thing to fear.
By the time the voice was heard he’d already turned his head in that direction, meeting the gaze of a pale man who seemed to come as if from nowhere.
The Race of Man, glorious but of Isildur..who was taken by the Ring.. He could almost feel Gandalf’s cautionary words wash over him, and his own body was rigid with pain — and that caution.
Lifting his gaze, the visitor might have been startled to see eyes that did not belong on such a small body, let alone any’s. They were old, near see-through as if something was tearing the little man apart..but in them was also wisdom, a strength that had yet to be strangled. Those eyes watched, hand removing itself from Sting.
“No, but I find few places that are.” A man’s voice came from a small body, wary and cautious — Frodo had a feeling he was right to be so. “But I am lost — cold. There is little option left to me then making what provisions I may and hoping I survive the night before seeking out the familiar.” For a moment his renewed grip on the cup seemed to shake, not out of fear but pain. A part of him was numb to fear — just as it was aware of it.
“….Who are you, sir? Have I disrupted you in some way?” Please, leave me in peace. What I carry could mean your doom, and many others. I will not risk that and so I will risk the wood.
He saw small fingers go to the hilt of a sword, whose metal glowed in his sight, blue as fox-fire. Some unknown metal, or magical protection mayhap? Vlad did not react, knowing he would be faster by far than any blade, should he have reason to strike. The traveller was merely excercising caution at his approach, as any but a fool would.
As the eyes of the stranger met his, Vlad was struck by their pain-washed lightness and within the gaze the weight of sorrow, which he felt as a palpable thing, heavier even than the grief filled organ in his own chest.
They were the eyes of one who had seen too much, made wise through trials that had pared away the innocence his frame spoke of still, for he was no ancient, nor by his looks a seasoned warrior.
The man was indeed strange, small of frame but yet not like those made so by accident of birth that he had seen as novelties in the courts of Hungary and Adrianople. Closer now, Vlad could see that he was thin in the cheek and his shoulders hunched, his body curving protectively around whatever it was he carried. Vlad’s senses sought answer to the riddle of this being, whose scent was like a human’s but somehow sweeter, as if fresh earth or flowers clung about him. The blood that ran fast below the pale skin, was rich he would guess, but it’s life force was being drained all the while by the thing upon his chest.
That..what in hell’s name was it? He had never felt the like, though he knew that it was something born of evil. Not even the presence of his dread sire held such a dark power. His vision could not aprise it, other than as a burning coal wreathed in shadow above the other’s breast, in the same approximate place as his own silver wedding ring lay, upon it’s cord, a reminder always of the love he had lost, and when he touched it, of what he would not allow himself to become. The object seemed to extend shadowy tendrils towards him, and thoughts of seeing it, no.. of taking it came unbidden into his mind.
NO! The part of him that still held onto his humanity cried out. However sunk in darkness he was, he would not become as the one that made him. He gritted his teeth against it and drove the desire out of his mind.
The voice, when it came, was certainly a man’s, and it made Vlad focus. With an effort of will he pushed the clinging draw of the darkness back. He had so far resisted becoming nothing more than the ravening thirst that clawed within, he would resist this also. Vlad nodded at the other’s reply.
“ You are right, even among friends, one may not be safe in this world.”
The vampire did not yet know the reasons, but he felt a sort of empathy with this man. He was curious also, and though the thirst nagged at him, he could summon the will to push it away. This one was not the sort he would unthinking take from the world in any case.
“Who am I ?” His dark green eyes glanced away under furrowed brow, as he summoned an answer. Bringing them back to bear on the small man, his mouth twisted a little as he spoke, with self disgust, and the creases around it deepened
“ One who is also lost in many ways. I am a Prince without a throne, one who should be dead, yet walks still. I am Vlad Dracula, once ruler of this land, and now his shadow only. Still, I guard it for my son, who wears the circlet after me, and so I cannot leave you be, if what you say, and what I perceive is true. “
He looked the hobbit straight in the eyes.
“It is hell’s fire and darkness that you carry, and I am one already doomed to damnation, so fear not for me. I will not let this thing bring harm to my people, for dark as I am, I yet have care for them. Let me propose to you something better than camping here.”
Dracula pointed up above the canopy of trees.
“Upon the crag above stands a fortress, now half in ruins, where none will come for fear of me. There you may have a dry bed, the heat of a proper fire, and my word that I will not harm you this night. You may be very sure that nothing else will do so. In return, I would know the story of how you came by such a thing and why you carry it, when it grieves you all the while. Now, since you have my name, I would also know yours, bearer of sorrows.”
He was half-tempted for his hand to stray to the blade again, but only a fool would do so. This was…a Man and yet he was not. By appearances he seemed fairly young, around Boromir’s age, while the Hobbit boasted of fifty years of age. He did himself little credit by appearing out of the shadows. Not to a tired wanderer who had seen more than enough horrors for a lifetime’s worth. Every sense in him told him that this was danger, this was wrongness, but something in those dark eyes moved him to something akin to pity – compassion.
Do not be so quick to deal out death and judgement. Can you give it to them, Frodo..?
( No, Gandalf, I cannot. I cannot judge anyone –I..no longer have the heart or the soul to. )
It was almost like an exchange of stories then, in that moment they locked eyes. A silent question passing between each other.
‘What happened to you?' Was the thing they asked, from Hobbit to Vampire.
Quietly, he listened to his words. "Then am I to call you Lord? I am unfamiliar at times, with the titles of Man. But you claim you no longer are one – you are one of the very things that would suffer most from me, from what I know you see….or why else would you be here?” Worn eyes closed briefly, lifting again to lock with his.
“I will fear for you. Just because you are in darkness does not mean it could not cause you further suffering – and you would be the most susceptible to it, with respect – and I fear that greatly.The fact that you know does not give me anything by which I can trust. It is with grave discretion that I bear this burden – and of which I will continue to bear it.” His voice is impossibly heavy, the ghost of a white smile on his lips.
“You describe only a fraction of what it is, what it can do. You…you cannot fathom it. No one can – no one should…I would not risk it. Forgive me, for I do not think you cruel, nor so dark that you would not offer shelter to a weary traveler far from his road. But I am separated from dearest companion and a lone guide, and until I meet with them I cannot accept. I will keep it beneath my cloak, and I will remain here. For the sake of home and kin, I beg you not to impede me, lord. I swear on what little I own that I have no intention of wandering from this camp until my path is clear, far, far from here.”
A sigh seemed to rattle his very shoulders, listening to that description of his title.
“Yes…I suppose I am. And of great evil, though I have no intention of bestowing it. But yes…I..my name is Frodo Baggins, of the Shire. I am a Hobbit who is far, far from home – and the road which he has chosen to walk. There is one of my height like me, Samwise Gamgee – golden-haired, round of face. A small creature who keeps to the darkness as you do, coughing out the name 'Gollum’. He goes by Smeagol. They are my companions – and I take responsibilty for them. I cannot go without them, for Samwise has followed me of his own will into death and danger, and I will not abandon him by wandering where he cannot find me clearly."
The wariness never left his eyes.
"But mostly…I am called only the 'Ringbearer’ – and my tale is grave and unfinished…why further darken your heart? I must destroy it from where it was forged, and after that..I cannot say.” It was an unspoken sentence of 'I will not likely return from it’.
By the time he finished speaking, he sounded drained, voice worn and fragile, setting the empty cup down and staring blankly at the fire.
“I am no fool. I cannot overpower you in any form, much likely a lesser Man. If you wished you could kill me, but you have been courteous. I thank you, for your offer..but I cannot leave. I can only promise that I am skilled in hiding, and will pose no danger to this son of yours."
He looked up at him again.
”…I fear you, yes, as I must all. But I do not think you will harm me. I take you at your word. To distrust…would only further darken my shoulders. I will not be a person who has forgotten what it means to trust another – it will do nothing, and make nothing.“
”…I am sorry to have brought this to your home – and I am sorry I cannot give you what you ask in full..there is no safe place to share anymore, not for me. I fear I’ll have no choice but to ask you if you are familiar with where I am to go.“
As the shadows grew long, and darkness enveloped the forested slopes of the Carpathians, Vlad went out to hunt. The terrible necessity of this had increased since he had drunk of Mirena’s blood and changed forever.
He was sunk still in his feelings of guilt and despair over the loss of Mirena, and baulked at taking another innocent human life, but would seek out the wicked, or the enemies of his people, for it assuaged his own guilt in the act somewhat. His vampiric vision picked up the heat of living creatures, and in a subtle way, the quality of their life force, carried in the blood, which pulsed with light. He flew, shape-shifting into a cascade of small batlike forms down over the mountainside and towards the lights of villages below. On the lower slopes his attention was caught by the sight of a single very strong red - glowing aura, close to but not on the main road. Someone alone in the forest after dark was most unusual, especially since news of vampires being abroad had spread. Dracula descended almost silently through the canopy of the trees and alighted on the forest floor. A darker shadow in the gloom, he approached the lone traveller. As he got closer, he was astounded to see this person crouched over a campfire upon which a small kettle steamed. At the same time, Vlad became aware of a strange phenomena, which emanated from this small male, who was perhaps only a head taller than his son, and yet had a sturdy adult body. It was a thrum, not the heartbeat of this strange personage, but something more, a pulse that called to him, that caused the demon inside to uncoil in recognition of it.. it was power, and darkness.
Vlad was instantly wary, but he would find out what this thing was, and who it was that had brought it into his domain. He stepped out of the lee of a tree and moving towards the traveller, said casually.
“ It is not wise, my friend, to be abroad after dark in these parts, these forests are full of dangers.”
He was either going mad or he had somehow been taken from the road to Cirith Ungol by a magic – or power – that he knew too well. That was destroying him slowly but surely. Gone was the innocence of the middle-aged hobbit who sought only adventure and tales worthy of being told. Like Uncle like Nephew –…but he reminded himself bitterly at times that he was nothing like Uncle, could not be, the burden he chose to bear had been in part out of his wish to protect him from the Ring’s stain. IT had already done so much by their parting.
Our last parting, no..I do not feel I shall return again. But Samwise..I have cursed him to think it the wise choice to follow me into darkness and death, and now I have left him by no choice of my own from heaven’s know what. Alone with Smeagol they are bound to quarrel – even..
A shaking breath escaped him, shoulders far too thin beneath his elven cloak shaking with the weight of his burden. Since coming to wherever these woods were, he had little option but to find a camp, make the smallest fire possible, (for it was too cold and if he were to die –) and try to warm bones that would never strengthen as they had.
Even so, even feeling in his heart, a spirit near shattered, a body breaking from the weight – Frodo knew he had to continue. Even if caught in a detour. It was his immeasurable strength of will that kept the hobbit even conscious. Or else the pain would have swept him away long ago.
And that’s when he felt it.
Without much of an option, Frodo had noticed that when darkness and danger grew near that the Ring gleefully clamored towards it, pressing down on his shoulders, around a neck already carved with welts and it’s indention on the chain. He felt it keenly now, enough that his grip on his tea trembled, sucking in a breath.
It is getting..so heavy..—
With a sip that felt useless granted the pain, the Hobbit set it down, hands fumbling for Sting, wondering if it would shine for him and tell him if orcs were near. Or…if it were a far greater thing to fear.
By the time the voice was heard he’d already turned his head in that direction, meeting the gaze of a pale man who seemed to come as if from nowhere.
The Race of Man, glorious but of Isildur..who was taken by the Ring.. He could almost feel Gandalf’s cautionary words wash over him, and his own body was rigid with pain – and that caution.
Lifting his gaze, the visitor might have been startled to see eyes that did not belong on such a small body, let alone any’s. They were old, near see-through as if something was tearing the little man apart..but in them was also wisdom, a strength that had yet to be strangled. Those eyes watched, hand removing itself from Sting.
“No, but I find few places that are.” A man’s voice came from a small body, wary and cautious – Frodo had a feeling he was right to be so. “But I am lost – cold. There is little option left to me then making what provisions I may and hoping I survive the night before seeking out the familiar.” For a moment his renewed grip on the cup seemed to shake, not out of fear but pain. A part of him was numb to fear – just as it was aware of it.
“….Who are you, sir? Have I disrupted you in some way?” Please, leave me in peace. What I carry could mean your doom, and many others. I will not risk that and so I will risk the wood.
His eyes look to the east. But more appropriately towards something that approaches. Their most logical solution has ever been to hide. They are small, and not strong of arm, what option do they have. Glancing over to the face looking as keenly as he, the Ringbearer queries in a whisper,
*sends a flower symbol and puts a flower crown on your head*
“I believe this is the second time today I have been crowned by a King.” The hobbit mused, marveling at his circumstances. He tried to think of all the parts of his journey full of the lights that never faded, of beauty and goodness, but the traumas of war ran deep, as did a task that lay unfinished.
One that may very well may be his last. For now his time was suspended, perhaps granting him a bit of peace before he, as far as he knew, lost his life in the fires of Mount Doom.
( It was hard to see any other option for himself. But he had accepted this. He had accepted that he would most likely die at the end. It only grew more agonizing if he thought of Samwise — who he wished desperately of ways to which he at least, might live. )
Peering at the gladiolus in his hair, he fingered it with soft, humble little smile.
“The flower of strength, honesty and sincerity. You think highly of me indeed. I do not know what Kings see in me, that they see fit to grace the smallest of folk with their kindness, but I am honored for it."
The only way of favor he thought to give him, was a low bow, the flower set upon his head.
Uncle Bilbo, you wished to show me such things..such goodness, you hoped I would have such an adventure. Where lights such as these never faded…
Do you suppose..some might last? Some might never fade, ever?
"I checked basically everywhere. I don't know Frodo, I think someone took him."
”..Someone took him? That’s a serious accusation Merry — and if that were the case we’d need proof. Could you tell me the last place you saw him?” Well he certainly wasn’t going to abandon his cousins, but the idea of anyone stealing a hobbit in the Shire was unheard of — at such a time in his life as this.
"Well, we were getting some pints and he said he was gonna go outside for a quick pipe and I haven't seen him since."
“I’m sure it’s nothing to be too worried about, Merry. Have you tried looking at the usual spots? It isn’t as if he’d leave the borders of the Shire, you know.”
“Quite frankly, Your Majesty, neither have I.” Said the little one, standing quite bemusedly in the midst of the frolicking creatures, his pipe to his lips.
“I don’t suppose you’d mind helping a fellow out with them? I think with my respectable size that I’d be limited to only carrying one or two. I’d hate to leave the littler folk to themselves.” Frodo’s knowledge of Kings had almost entirely come from Aragorn. Aragorn was the epitome of humility, unafraid to sully his hands and remained ever gracious, ever willing to help. The softness of the King above him drew one thread between the two — surely he would help him!
