The Morgul wound

*** i was bored, and half asleep when i wrote this, so if its no good, thats probably why (though it may just be my writing). This story may be kind of confusing to some people, i dont know im not one of them, but im pretty sure you all get the point. I seem to repeat myself in this story, mostly about the swirling darkness etc, but it kinda adds to the whole effect of th story (i think). If you like it please review. Oh and this really doesnt need any warnings, but the thing in the story addition insisted upon it, so i just put in the H/C, though im not exactly sure if it fits this. And before i forget, i dont own any of the characters found in this fic, make no money off of them, and mean no offence to J.R.R. Tolkien, or the people who played the characters in the movies, and am simply writing this for my own, and others amusement. Ok I think that about covers it.***


Frodo watched in horror as the Ringwraith advanced towards him, blade poised, and ready to strike. He had no where to go, they had cut off all his means of retreat, and his sword was to far away to reach. He felt the Ring pressing against his hand, trying desperately to go the Nazgul, who were calling for it to come to them.

The Ring’s call became stronger with each passing moment, until at length Frodo slipped it on his finger, hoping that he would be able to escape once he became invisible. The Ring slid over his finger, though it was terribly loose, and Frodo assumed it must have expanded so that it would slip off and allow the Nazgul to take it. His hearing sharpened as the world around him dimmed into a mass of swirling grey, only this time there was something else there. Something he had not expected, and had never been there before. As soon as he had slipped on the Ring, he had found himself staring at the spot where the Nazgul’s feet had been. Only now, instead of a swirling shape, barely recognisable to him, he found himself staring at a pair of feet, pure white, and clearly visible. He followed up the feet, and found that they were attached to a body, white as well, and giving off an eerie glow in the dark swirling world that Frodo saw before his eyes.

The figures were clad all in white robes, to match their white skin, and they had crowns atop there heads. One of them was standing over him, knife poised at the ready to strike him, and he realised that these creatures must be the Nazgul in the closest thing to there real form that existed. At length the one in front of him spoke, though Frodo could barely tell, and if he did not know better, he would have mistaken it for one of the sounds the world swirling past him made as it went by, like a strong wind.

He felt the Ring pulling at his finger, saw as his arm began lifting towards the Nazgul’s extended one, felt the Nazgul’s triumph, and his own grief at loosing the Ring, and all of Middle-earth. They were so close now, their hands were almost touching, when suddenly Frodo wrenched his hand away from the Nazgul, feeling the spell break, and the Ring start to loose its will to escape, though for what reason he did not know. The Nazgul gave a low hiss, pulling his hand back, and then he brought down his blade.

Frodo had never known such pain as that of which he was experiencing right now. The blade ripped into the flesh on his left shoulder, and dug deep down almost to the bone, causing him to let out a blood curdling cry. He felt blood rushing through his torn veins to the sight of the wound, as it poured out over onto the skin and blade. He knew that he would not be able to fight off the inevitable much longer, as he felt the darkness creeping in around his already blurred vision.

Then the knife was gone. Frodo felt it wrenched from his shoulder, and, barely visible to him, he saw the Nazgul back away, as a swirl of dark jumped in front of him, carrying what appeared to be a torch, but Frodo couldn’t be sure. His vision was clearing slightly now that bladblade was gone, he was dimly aware of the flame striking out at the Nazgul, who, Frodo realised with horror, were still the white kings. *I must take the Ring off!* He thought.

Frodo slowly managed to raise his quickly chilling left hand to his right, though it caused him a great amount of pain, and he fumbled with numbing fingers, trying desperately to find one one the Ring was on. At length, he managed to pull the Ring off, causing his vision to clear only slightly, as he began falling deeper into darkness with the effort, and his hearing to return to normal. He let out a shout, and was dimly aware of Aragorn battling with, what appeared to be shadows with swords.

He heard the sound of hurried footsteps, and then Sam’s voice.
‘Mr. Frodo!’ He managed to turn his head towards his friend, who was now kneeling beside him. He looked so worried, and it pained Frodo’s heart to see him like that, though he expected that they all would be like that until they got rid of this accursed Ring. But right now he wanted to comfort Sam, to let his friend, who had been through so much for him, know that it was going to be alright. But his throat closed in around itself, and he found himself fading back into a world of swirling colors, though he knew that he did not have the Ring on.
‘Oh Sam!’ He managed, as Sam slowly joined the swirling grey shapes. He was not aware of anything around him, accept an increasingly growing pain in his shoulder, and left side, and the call of the Nazgul to the Ring. *They are still alive.* Frodo thought, though his brain did not process it. In fact his brain seemed to shut down to everything but the pain and the call of the Nazgul, and he found himself in a position where he could not really think at all, and, looking back on the situation, he was sure that if he had been able to, he would not have bothered anyway. But after a while his mind seemed unsure of whether it wanted him to think very little, or not at all, and he ended up being able to think for very brief periods of time, often fading in and out between mid thought.

He found himself in a situation where he seemed to fade in and out of the dark abyss that was the world of the Nazgul. Sometimes he could see things from the real world clearly, feel them and hear them as well. He once felt himself being carried, and he could hear Sam’s voice calling from somewhere behind him. Another time he saw statues of stone creatures towering high above him, and heard the small crackle of a fire. But this things never lasted long, and he would soon find himself fading away again.

Constant waves of pain shot through his left side, which now felt as though it had been stuck in a frozen pond and been left there all winter. He was certain that this chill would spread to his right side as well, and then there would be no escape, he would be trapped like this forever. Could he even escape now? Frodo realised that he might already be past recall, and that the quest may already have failed.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a white light, and fear coursed through him. Had the Nazgul returned? He slowly turned his head towards it, and he could hardly believe his eyes. In front of him was an elf lady, clad in a white dress, and riding what Frodo could barely make out as a white horse. She had silky brown hair flowing down her back, and she seemed to glow with white light as she jumped down off her horsnd snd started walking towards him.

Frodo was unsure of whether to be frightened, or happy, as his brain did not acknowledge that this was indeed an elf here to help. She kneeled in front of him, and he felt a large wave of pain and coldness shoot through his whole body, causing him to gasp for breath, more so than he was before. He faintly became aware that she was speaking to him. Elvish. He knew the language, but he could not be bothered to translate it right now. Still the words were soothing, and he felt the chill lessen slightly.

The darkness began growing around him again, and he found that the elf was now beginning to fade from his sight as well. He turned his head weakly away from her, to stare back up into the darkness before his eyes. A sudden burst of pain shot across his wound, and he was certain that this was the end. But no. The pain subsided, and so, slly aly at least, did the chill. He could not figure out why that was, or what had caused it, and did not bother pursuing the matter.

He could not remember moving, or even feeling himself being moved, he just became aware that he was now sitting over something, with his legs spread wide open, and dangling down beside him. He realised that he must be riding on a horse, though he could not place why. The few glimpses of the world he saw in the swirling mass of grey, were now hazy and unfocused, and he longed to be able to see something, anything that had a true shape in the mass of nothingness.

Frodo was not sure how much time had passed, only that now the call of the Nazgul was much stronger. *They’re close.* He thought wearily as the Ring seemed to struggle to get out of his pocket. How he had been so aware throughout this situation, he would never know, only that he could still understand certain things, he could still think clearly, but perhaps that as worse.

At length something pierced through the nothingness around him. A shriek. *The shriek of the Nazgul!* One part of his brain thought desperately. This was the part that was slowly diminishing, the part that was still fighting off the darkness. The other part of his brain longed to go towards that cry, to yield to its call. But he could not move. He was being held onto the horse, and he was sure that even if he had not been, he would not bee been able to make his limbs obey his command.

Something was becoming visible to Frodo. Something white and shining, like the elf maiden, only this one was far brighter, far more piercing than she had been. A white king came flying towards him, appearing to be in a riding position, but with nothing underneath of him, as far as Frodo could tell. It extended its hand towards him, and he felt himself wanting to go to that hand, while desperately fleeing it at the same time. He heard something else besides the whooshing as the world swirled by him, and the call of the Ringwraithes. A voice. A woman’s voice. Frodo was unsure what was going on, but suddenly the King’s were falling behind him.

He did not want them to go, for they were the only thing that had shape in this swirling mass of nothingness, the only things that he could see clearly. Then suddenly they were there again. But they were not rushing towards him as they had been previously, they were now standing in a group across from him, staring directly at him with they’re hollow eyes, and Frodo wondered why he had ever felt inclined to go to them.

At length one spoke, though not to him.
‘Give up the halfing she-elf!’ It called, and Frodo realised that the person behind him must be the elf maiden who had come and spoken to him earlier. Frodo felt another wave of pain shoot through him, and this time it was not only accompanied by cold, but by darkness. Not the swirling grey kind he had seen before, but pure black nothingness, from which there was no escape. He had no means of escaping it, and was tired of trying to. There would be no way out from it once it got hold of him, so why prolong the torture?

Frodo noticed the King’s had disappeared, to where, he did not know, nor did he care. He was in a great amount of pain, and his body was so cold. The darkness was increasing at an alarming rate, and he knew that there would soon be nothing left but darkness. He heard the elf’s voice, but he could not understand it, or make any sense of it.

After what had seemed to be an eternity of swirling nothingness, Frodo gave in and allowed the darkness to consume him.

He soon found, however, that the darkness was not much better than the waking. He was not in as much pain, and he could not exactly feel the chill in his side anymore, but he was troubled by terrible dreams. Dreams of orcs, and the Ring, dreams of Sam, Merry, Pippin, Strider, and Gandalf all of them coming to a horrid and unruly end. Dreams of the Shire, its hills caught up in flame as orcs overran it. Dreams of the Nazgul, the white Kings as they once were, and then slowly becoming the ringwraiths, to be tortured forever by Sauron. He did not think that there would ever be escape from them. But he was wrong.

Frodo was terribly surprised when he awoke. The dreams had been so real, and he had expected them never to end, and when they did, he expected them to be much like the waking reality. He had not expected to wake in a huge bed of soft pillows, and gold sheets, with the sun shining down on his face from its many windows. He had not expected to be staring up at a beautiful ceiling of gold, with carvings clearly done by the elves. And he had not expected to wake to find Gandalf next to him.

Frodo had felt himself waking before he had opened his eyes, and, having no idea whatsoever, had asked the question that seemed to be nagging at him ever since he had felt himself entering the world of the living again.
‘Where am I?’ He had not expected his question to be answered, and he had certainly not expected that voice to answer it.
‘You are in the house of Elrond. And it is ten o’clock in the morning, on October the twenty first if you want to know.’ He assumed that he must have hit his head somewhere along the way to imagine Gandalf was answering, and opened his eyes to confirm his assumption, but had been proven wrong again.
‘Gandalf!’ He found himself saying. Indeed it was. The old wizard was sitting next to him, in a chair that had been pulled up to the bed, smoking on one of the pipes he always seemed to have with him, and smiling down merrily at him.
‘Yes I am here.’ He said. ‘And your lucky to be here too, a few more hours and you would have been beyond our aid. But you had some strength in you, my dear hobbit.’ full remembrance of the Nazgul’s knife came back to Frodo. As well as the memories of the journey they had been on with Strider, and a question Frodo had been longing to ask the wizard.
‘What happened Gandalf?’ He asked, noting that the wizards face seemed to fall slightly. ‘Why didn’t you meet us?’
‘I am sorry Frodo.’ He said, in a mournful sort of way. ‘I was delayed.’ Frodo watched as Gandalexprexpression became even more pained, and his eyes seemed to drift past Frodo to stare at nothing. Frodo had never seen Gandalf like this, he had always been rather cheerful around him, either that or serious, and it made Frodo worry.
‘Gandalf?’ He said, pulling the wizard out of his trance, and back to reality. Gandalf smiled at him, and seemed like he was about to say something, when they both heard a voice.
‘Frodo!’ It called joyfully, followed by the sound of rushing footsteps.
‘Mr. Frodo!’ Sam cried, as he rushed up to the bed, careful not to jostle Frodo’s arm too much, which he realised that, though the pain was gone for the most part, the chill was only beginning to fade.
‘Sam!’ He said happily, looking at his friend in amazement.

At length Gandalf’s voice reached the two joyful hobbits ears.
‘Sam has hardly left your side!’ Gandalf said with a slight chuckle.
‘We were that worried about you weren’t we Mr. Gadnalf!’ Sam said, tears shining in his eyes as he stood next to Frodo, a look of pure ecstasy on his face to see his friend awake and well. If Frodo had been paying more attention, he might have noticed that there was someone else in the room, who had now stood from the chair in which he was seated and had walked towards them, noticed only by Gandalf.
‘By the skills of Lord Elrond, your beginning to mend.’ Gandalf said quietly, and Frodo looked over to see a tall elf standing beside Gandalf, looking down at him. He had brown hair flowing down his back, and he looked not unlike the elf maiden he had seen when he was still falling into darkness.

‘Welcome to Rivendel, Frodo Baggins.’ He said quietly. *Rivendel!* Frodo realised that the elf maiden must have brought him here to get him healing from the wound. *Sam will be so happy to have seen the elves* he thought, and would later be surprised to learn that Sam had barely even talked to the elves, save to ask them about Frodo’s well being, let alone taken enough time to see them. Frodo realised, as he watched the joy on his friends face with a happy contentedness, that he would never be able to thank Lord Elroor tor that elf maiden enough for helping him. He knew now that he was not ready to give into the darkness that Sauron wished to spread over Middle-earth, and that it would have been a true tragedy, for him (an all of Middle-earth, though he did not know that yet) if he had given into the darkness early on, and completely. No he was not ready to give this up yet.

***jeez, 14 readers and no reviews, kinda make you feel like no one likes your writing... Oh well*