Title: A Virgin of Choice, Part III Author: Veronica Author’s E-mail: vast_cool_and_unsympathetic@yahoo.com Pairings: F/S, F/OC Rating: NC-17 (Warning: includes non-con, coercion, etc.) Summary: Part three of my story, based on a plot bunny sent forth by Nienora; Sam and Fatty arrive in Bree to be followed by Pippin and Merry after their release from the healer. They work all over the town to seek out Frodo any way they can; meanwhile, Frodo is doing his best to survive his captor’s madness and tries to seek out ways to escape. Author’s notes: Again, very graphic. Murder does occur, again yuck, yuck, yuck. Don’t read if you love fluff!!!! Read if you’re a twisted lil’ sadist like myself. ;) ***Author’s FURTHER notes (upon nearly finishing this section)***: All joking aside, I’ve seriously scared myself here… How hobbits lived here was a mystery to Sam as he and Fatty walked the streets of Bree together, their ponies tired from the weary trip. His feet weren’t accustomed to streets littered with sharp pebbles and tiny glass shards. He’d somehow managed to avoid them yet Fatty was having some trouble. He’d already gotten slightly punctured by a large piece of tin, cutting the heel of his foot. But they walked on after mending him, Fatty just as intent at finding Frodo as Sam was. They soon arrived at their starting point, 14 Grimmle Way. Merry and Pippin would be meeting them here in the afternoon and the four of them would begin their first tried and true planning. The boarding house, meant as a temporary home for travelers looked about as inviting as finding Lobelia naked in the bath. It’s doors looked as if they were about to fall off, along with the windows; Sam could hear yelling, arguing children and lustful noises coming from within the building. He groaned deep. “Well, here we are,” he said. Fatty didn’t look very pleased himself. They tied their ponies, Sam promising his pony he’d bring him something nice to eat later. They entered the foyer of the building, careful to not have the heavy door with it’s flaking paint slide off their place and crush them right then and there. Once inside they found an old woman who looked rather unpleasant, holding a small toddler who squirmed against being fed something that by just it’s looks, Sam wouldn’t feed the grubs in Bag End’s garden. She saw them arrive at the shabby looking desk, unmoved. “Yea?” she gruffly replied. “Kin I help ya?” “Yes. We need a room with four beds.” “Four, eh?” she said, looking slightly amused. “Two ain’t enough fer you lads?” “We’re being met by two others,” Sam said in a rush. She shrugged. “All the same, costs more,” she said. “Three coppers for each two, six for two more,” “Right,” Fatty said, digging into his coin bag. He pulled out the money and pushed it along the desk, the woman taking it eagerly. She slid it into the desk’s drawer and pulled out a key. “Second floor, two doors down on t’right,” she said blankly, returning to her child who’d now climbed off her lap. “Come back here Harriet, I still gots the strap y’now!!” Sam and Fatty hurried away from the gray lady and her yelping child, glad to be rid of them both. They walked up the decaying staircase to the second floor. They passed down to the right, hearing banging of beds into walls along with loud moaning, directly next to their own room. “Won’t be sleepin’, it’d seem,” Fatty sighed with despair as they got the door open, with great difficulty; Sam wished he’d brought an oil can along to make the rust in the keyhole slide easier. No matter however. Despite the looks of the place there were in fact four beds, and they looked somewhat decent anyways. Two small tables were set betwixt each set of beds, lined in a crammed manner against each side of the room. Sam shut the door, locking it. “So, what now?” Fatty asked, unloading his bags on one of the beds. Sam did the same, taking the book of maps out first. Before thinking of even the food they’d gotten in a small ragged store near their boarding house, Sam opened it and peered at each street to their corners, building and house markers. “We’ll wait for Pippin and Merry. First let’s get all this down that we can. We got to familiarize ourselves enough so we don’t look too much like wayward travelers,” Fatty nodded, grabbing an apple for each of them. Sam took it and began eating as Fatty sat next to him to peer at the map. Sam pointed to a long row of what appeared to be permanent residences. “See here, houses. I’m taking a stab that our scoundrel in question has one. He couldn’t very well hole up in something public with what he’s doing.” Fatty nodded. “Yea, that’s a good assumption.” Sam nodded along with him. “But we can’t very well hide in a bush somewhere, lest we get caught,” Sam said. “From what I’d heard of, the permanent residents here are really wary and don’t like the travelers to go within their neighborhoods. We’d have to make a quick stroll, see if we find anything out of place. Tonight we’ll scavenge around in town, see if there’s any talkin’.” Fatty nodded more then sighed. He looked out to the small, sooty window that faced the roads below. “Do you think he’s all right, Sam?” he asked. Sam looked from the map to Fatty, whose face was calm but worried. “I hope so.” “It’s so… dark around here. Did you see just one tree even, coming up past the borders?” Sam shook his head; he’d noticed the lack of life here quite clearly. It was one of the first things a hobbit so well versed in the green things of life would. “No.” “Maybe it’s because we were spoiled by… the good things. But I can’t see any one of us finding anything here but despair.” Fatty was already letting it get to him; Sam didn’t want to think on sending him away. “Fatty, if you can’t do this…” he said, his voice trailing off. Fatty’s head jerked back to face Sam. “I can. I’m just… so worried.” “I am too, Fredegar.” Frodo awoke to the new day not knowing what time it was… or what day. How long had he been here now? He couldn’t really decide if it’d been three or four days, but it felt like forever nonetheless. The ache in just his neck turning his head made him cringe. He preferred sleeping on his side, something that always had seemed so trite of preferences. Now it would have been a Godsend to do so, instead of being strapped down on his back as always in this horrid room. His thoughts were so dark, dimmed by this new and disgusting reality he dwelled within. He felt like his head was moving in circles, though he knew it was still upon the pillow. His nose itched, but he didn’t dare try to force his hand down to scratch it. The pain above him warned him to keep his wrists still. He instead turned his head as carefully as he could, ignoring the sore aching in his head and neck, and scratched it upon his shoulder. It wasn’t much since the cloth was so thin and paper like, but it did enough. That’s when his nose caught the scents of something warm and inviting; yes, that was bread baking, and it smelled so sweet and kind. It made Frodo’s stomach grumble loudly, making him wince. He hadn’t eaten in so long. He wondered when he would in fact have the reward of simply eating one bite of whatever they offered… ‘But at what price?’ he thought. For what he’d had to do for just a few sips of water the last few days it made him cringe deeper. Perhaps it was better to starve. There were footsteps coming up the stairs now; he put his head back and blinked slowly. He waited until his door opened and Wesley stepped inside. He carried a small tray with him; Frodo couldn’t help lifting his head, trying to force a sight of whatever it was to enter his eyes. Wesley grinned sadistically as he placed it on the small table next to him. A small loaf of bread never looked so good. Frodo’s mouth filled with saliva at the sight, and he had to seal his lips as if glue were upon them to keep from drooling. Wesley sat on the bed next to him wordlessly and cut a slice with a butter knife. Steam rose in small wafts above his hands; oh it was still so warm… Frodo watched with unwavering eyes, wanting nothing more than Wesley’s hands presenting him with just one bite… Instead, the hand that had finally cut through the hardened top brought the small slice to Wesley’s mouth, not Frodo’s. He stared with desperation as the soft white insides mashed onto Wesley’s lips, breaking it with his teeth. He didn’t turn to see how Frodo looked, as if knowing exactly what Frodo’s face was doing. He felt like crying; the simple act of watching someone eat not an arm’s length away was torturous, almost more sadistic than inflicting a wound on his skin. The bread in his hands disappeared shortly. Frodo saw the knife go to the bread again. Now he turned his head away as Wesley worked slowly but surely on another slice, the grinding of his teeth being enough for Frodo to sigh shakily. A few moments passed; Wesley stood up, licking his thumb and forefinger of the crumbs that lay upon them. “Master will be in to see you shortly,” he blankly said as he left the room. Frodo watched until the door shut then turned to the table, seeing the rest of the bread lying on the plate. He knew it would be ridiculous and futile to try and move towards it; it was a short distance away from him but he’d barely breathe its scent never mind get just one crumb to his lips. He simply lie there and stared at it, wondering if his eyes could fill his stomach enough with just its sight. A few minutes later he heard more footsteps. It had to be Griffin… “Oh please, just feed me already,” Frodo said, feeling like a punished dog in the words. Soon enough Griffin was most certainly in the room, closing the door behind him. He looked upon Frodo in the dim sunlight, smiling and shaking his head. “You’re one of the most wondrous sights just lying there like that,” he said softly. He walked over and sat where Wesley had been, putting his hand deep into Frodo’s curls. “I do wish you hadn’t made me put those bruises upon your face. You’re more beautiful without them,” Frodo said nothing to this. “Am I to eat?” “What? No, ‘good morning, Sir’?” “Good morning sir,” Frodo stated blankly. Griffin beamed, patting his head. He moved to the remaining loaf, more than half of it still on the plate. He cut it into four large slices, the knife looking white with moisture from the inner part of the bread. Frodo felt an odd relief. “But we’re to make a game of it,” Frodo blinked. Too good to be true it all was, he should have known. “What kind of wretched game then.” “I’m to relieve to of the burden you had when I was rudely departed from you back in Bag End.” He said, taking his hands from the bread and putting them on either side of Frodo. “Gardener or no, his mouth cannot do what mine can,” Frodo knew of what he referred to. His lips parted, jaw set. Griffin shook his head, his smile widening. “Surely your hunger has gotten to the core of you. No hobbit can go very long without a good meal.” “I’ve gone a good time without one,” Frodo told him, trying to sound firm and convicted, even if his nostrils burned in protest of his words and from the smell beside him. “I judged that by the shape of your body,” he said, his eyes now moving to Frodo’s stomach. He let a hand slide over it; Frodo went rigid as he moved, his snake of a hand swirling over his navel. “So rare a find you are. So gracious and lithe…” “The game.” “My, you are eager!” Griffin laughed out, turning his eyes back to Frodo. His head dropped slowly to his stomach, nostrils flaring as he breathed in deep. He nuzzled into his as he began speaking again. “Like I’ve told you… I want you to learn how to want me. To crave me… to beg for me. I figure with a little encouragement, you’ll find out how to do so quite easily.” Frodo stared at him coldly, trying hard not to react to his touch. Griffin put a hand over his groin and let his fingers droop lightly, touching him as light as mist. “We’re going to play… my most treasured fantasy is watching you come to my will. If you do so once, then it’s a slice. Twice and it’s two. Three, three. And four… it’s all yours.” Frodo blinked hard. This was incomprehensible; how was he to do anything like that, even just once? No desire resided in the visage of this nasty creature. The thought of his mouth on him in the most intimate of places was more like torture rather than pleasure. Yet there his stomach was, nagging at him, making him ponder possibilities… what could he do? Be a whore for bread? For one second he remembered a silly game that he’d started with Sam just a month or so ago, where they gave kisses for good aim, grapes being tossed across the room to catch in mouths. Each one caught got a kiss, and oh what fun it had been… “So?” Sam. “Go on.” He closed his eyes now, feeling the sheer fabric at his waist being lifted; he tried blocking out the sound of Griffin moaning as his hot breath met his tender skin. He felt his hands grasp his nightshirt tight, fists pushing into his belly. Then… “This is one of my favorite things…” Frodo managed a weak smile in memory; sometimes he’d have to physically force Sam’s head back up, giggling madly at his wanton lust to have Frodo’s cock in his mouth. So there he was, very simply doing what he loved. He arched his back up, letting his hardening flesh move into his mouth closer and tighter, the mouth at him moaning. It helped, surely, making his skin shudder in delight. Frodo pulled at his wrists, wincing only once back into reality… oh, this was horrible, his eyes flinching open. It wasn’t Sam. It wasn’t Sam. It wasn’t… Closed eyes again, remember? Oh, do I… he thought… He loved to make noise for Sam, not that he would ever have a choice. His noises grew louder, and he wondered what Sam’s face looked like. So he’d open his eyes, but not now, he knew the look well enough. Eyes as slits staring up Frodo’s pale flesh of his belly and chest, the smallest twitch of a smile at the corners of those rounded, gorgeous lips… Frodo moaned deep and long then cried out suddenly, the heat betwixt his legs gone into fire, liquid and wild. The sound of swallowing and moans upon him, drawing out of a long tongue as his back eased. Frodo panted heavily, trying hard not to smile. “Oh love…” Griffin was at his face now, his gray hair hanging over it. It made Frodo twitch and open his eyes. Griffin stared upon him with a bleary look, his brow covered in sweat. “How you’ll tire me out, and how I’ll love it,” he moaned out, kissing him lightly at his dry lips. Frodo allowed it, trying to not reciprocate. “Kiss back.” Griffin demanded. Frodo let his tongue lash out a little, touching Griffins. Fine then, enjoy it. Love it, crave it, and know I want none of it. And Griffin did as he gasped, feeling Frodo move below him. “You love this, I know you do… I know…” ‘I don’t.’ “Again, this time with my hand. I want to be up here with you. Open eyes now, m’dear. Open eyes.” Frodo opened his eyes as an eager hand grabbed him firmly, yet not hurtful like the night before. It began pulling at him, gently at first. For one moment Frodo’s head tilted slightly, but Griffin shook his own. “Look at me.” He told him. Frodo forced it back, feeling the swelling grow once again. There was no escape to find Sam in his thoughts to replace Griffin with, but all the same he smiled for reasons Griffin didn’t have to know… ‘You want me, you sick pig…’ Frodo thought, shivering. ‘But I don’t want you. Not one bit, for one small moment would I have you in my own bed.’ These thoughts climbed over him, making him feel a small power of will… ‘Sam’s hand moves much better than this, yes it does… oh the things he says… ‘sweet Frodo… oh, you’re like a garden,’… yes, my sweetest Sam…’ Griffin leaned on his elbow as he panted along with Frodo, making his hand go over Frodo’s brow. He caressed him gently, taking small kisses to his cheek. Frodo allowed it, felt his eyes rolling back; his small moans made Griffin’s fingers grasp his hair tight, yet didn’t pull. He moved his own body to Frodo’s motions, sliding his leg over onto him just underneath his hand and what it held. He made his hand work faster now, rubbing a thumb at the sensitive head. This finally delivered Frodo a second release, his eyes closing, mouth open wide to scream more. This time the wet went nowhere but upon his and Griffin’s skin, sliding him into oblivion as Griffin slowed, letting the last drops of lust expel themselves in a choked array of white. He put both hands to Frodo’s cheeks and kissed him madly, pushing his uninvited tongue to his, forcing Frodo to move and lash back. It was out of anger and hatred, wishing the inside of his mouth could suddenly become barbed to ensnare Griffin into a bloody and painful kiss. He left him and looked down on him. “You… are so good at this,” Sam stared out the window, bringing a mug of stale tea to his lips. He’d wished he’d had the presence of mind to pack some of the tea he’d made himself from the herbs that grew at Bag End, but hadn’t thought of much more than clothes and a few things of food. He should have known that this town wouldn’t have anything but shipments of cheap and unnourished tealeaves. Not to mention anything that reminded him of home would have been a great comfort to him… Home. Where was it nowadays, he wondered to himself? He always thought of home as waking to Marigold’s fussing in the kitchen, his brothers tromping through the house with their big stomping feet. His Gaff was there of course; pipe in hand as he readied himself for work. Sam would come out of his room and meet them all for breakfast, then off to his own work at Bag End, his second home since being a child. Now he was grown, and he’d dream of not waking to anyone else but Frodo. It didn’t matter if they were at Bag End and its opulence or a one roomed hole living in squalor, fighting to keep gardens of just food, no flowers, alive so as to not starve. People joked often on who would be the mistress of Bag End, or if there would ever be. Sam had asked his Gaff so many years before on why everyone made it hard on Frodo, putting pressure on him by ways of gossip of taunting. “Master Frodo is an odd fellow,” his Gaffer had told him, puffing his pipe with a knowing look on his face. “I don’t see the lad ever getting’ hitched up, mind. He ain’t meant for that, he’s meant for something else. It won’t matter t’him what anyone says, I’ve seen. He just smiles ‘bout it, and it’s not the kind that means to drive it away and then woe over later when he’s by hisself. It just don’t matter t’him, whatsoever,” Sam lost himself here; he’d never marry, never have children of his own. That much seemed so clear to him as he grew up, listening to either his wise Gaff or those loose lipped others. Sam had known nothing but the normal, hobbit life; grow up, work, marry, kids. Things so simple and true to heart, and Frodo was against the grain, pushing back notions in his lonely hands. Why, Sam wondered to himself? What did Frodo want? Before he could go deeper into these thoughts Fatty returned from using the privy. Sam turned to him, sighing. “How was it?” “Well… it’s only used by Hobbits, made our size. Didn’t see any bugs.” Sam smiled. “That’s good.” “I suppose, depends on yer standards,” Fatty said, returning a small grin. He went to his bed and lit a pipe, easing himself. “So… I’ll have to admit, it seems strange that we’re here.” “How so?” “We’ve just come so long, and we might not even find him, Sam,” Fatty told him, his words coming out slow. Sam blinked a few times, looking back out the window. “I don’t want to make out like we’re doomed, and this is all for nothin’. And I know that nothin’ bein’ done was what brought this on. But… what if it doesn’t work?” Sam sipped the last of his tea, feeling woozy. His eyes stung; he pushed his fingers into them, forcing the tears away. Not now. “Fred?” “Yea?” “Even if we don’t find ‘im… and there’s no good reason that we did come out here… we’re closer to him here than back home.” Sam explained. “Even if he doesn’t know it, I do. We all do. We’re sitting in this blasted room in this blasted town, surrounded by unfamiliar things, but… can you imagine… what things he has ‘round him?” “No.” “Neither can I,” he said softly. His eyes looked down suddenly, seeing two familiar hobbits coming up the road. “They’re here,” “Merry, Pip?” Sam nodded, going away from the window and out the door, heading down to greet them. He felt safer now having two more trusted companions there, waving to them. They caught him in their sights and rushed over, trailing their own ponies behind them. Sam beamed. “You two look pretty good for ones who’d been knocked off a cart then traveled more than a day’s worth of roads,” “Same for you… minus the cart bit,” Pippin said. They all entered the building, snuffling their noses. “What’s that smell?” “Men most likely. Try to block yer ears going by our room,” Thankfully, the noises next door to them had stopped. Sam didn’t bother explaining the reasons behind his warnings, intent on only getting their plans started. Before he could bring out the map and his own written paths, Merry emptied his bag. He frowned. “You brought all that…?” he asked, going closer to see the large pile of random things littering the bed. His eyes went wide. “Where did you get THAT?” he asked, pointing to the small, sheathed dagger. Merry picked it up and took off the leather sheath, showing him. “First thing I bought when we got here. Just in case there’s a scuffle.” He said. Pippin was working on his own bag, revealing his own dagger. “I… I hadn’t even thought about that,” Sam said as Fatty looked over the items, intrigued. Merry shrugged, taking out two more. He threw them to Sam and Fatty, making each of them jump back slightly. “Knew you wouldn’t,” he said. The door shut now, a blissful Griffin gone from the room, leaving Frodo. His breath seemed calmer now; his stomach was full of the delicious bread, fed carefully to him by Griffin’s fingers, shaky from the things they’d done. Frodo should have felt like passing out; the most he’d ever done with Sam was twice, and four was oblivion. He forced his mind to stay alert however, as the last things Griffin had told him rang in his mind. “I’m having Wesley prepare a wondrous feast for us tonight. One we’ll have… before anything I’d request of you. This means of course, that I’m placing much trust in you, m’dear. But you’ve given me so much… I want to give you something. Soon I know we can be together without these binds upon you… in fact…” Frodo’s legs were free. He would have much preferred his hands be undone, but he didn’t argue against it. Just as silence reigned in his head, voices from down the stairs were heard. Griffin had left the door a crack open to let new air blow through, and the speaking downstairs was clearer than he’d heard since he’d gotten here. “Mr. Miller… I’m only asking for one night-“ “Rubbish. I know you Wesley. You’ll get a taste of something and take what you want from then on, not heeding orders to stop.” “Please, sir,” he said. Frodo thought he heard a faint clinking sound. “I’ve saved up the last few months. I’d even be willing to pay for it.” “You have NOT been listening to me, Wesley. You’re beneath him, don’t you understand?” Griffin’s voice became louder now as Frodo’s ears perked more and more. “I took him because I wanted him, AND because I wanted him to learn of how one’s station needs to be kept after I’d heard of what he’d been doing with that gardener. If you think for one moment I’ll expose him to the likes of another hired hand, you’re mad.” “Sir…” “No more, Wesley. Now go upstairs and let him do his business, then give him another bath-“ “After what I’ve asked? You’re still having me do these things??” “Wesley.” A silence followed now, Wesley’s name being spoken with a cold, hard tone. “All right, sir.” Frodo waited to hear more, but only heard the footsteps coming up the stairs. He blinked slowly as Wesley emerged, his face flushed then the sound of a door downstairs being slammed. “Come then.” Wesley said, undoing the knots at Frodo’s hands with shaky hands. Frodo slid free and allowed Wesley to bring him to the- no; they were heading downstairs. The intensity of the light as they moved to the bottom level of the house nearly blinded Frodo; he brought one arm to his face, allowing his other to be pulled along, bringing him off the stairs and into the back part of the house. He tried taking quick notes in his head… small living room area, hallway, and closet, kitchen then the back door. Frodo knew his feet were too sore to run, and didn’t bother trying to with Wesley’s firm grip on his arm. Once soft grass slapped his burning ankles he almost passed out. He kept his composure however, going to a small privy. Wesley got him inside and shut the door. Frodo stood a moment in the darkness, though sunlight crept through the cracks of the boards. “Do you business, then a bath,” Wesley told him from outside. Frodo nodded to himself and felt around a moment to get his bearings. Once through he stepped to his shaky legs and went to the door. He opened it slowly and was immediately met by Wesley’s awaiting hand, dragging him back into the house. They clambered back through and up the stairs, Frodo trying to relish what he could of the light below before it disappeared once again. He wondered if he’d been meant to wear a blindfold, it would only make sense. Looking to Wesley again he figured; he must have been too distracted. They got into the bath, Wesley leaving the door open a crack. He rushed the both of them to the tub and stopped dead. Frodo didn’t know what he meant to do now; he simply stared into the tub and the contents lining the sides; a sponge, towel, and soap. Sam’s soap. He closed his eyes a moment then looked to Frodo. “Do this yourself.” He coldly told him. “I’m sure even a little prissy like you could if forced to.” “I… always do it myself.” Frodo said blankly, staring back at Wesley incredulously. “Oh?” Wesley sneered. “You don’t have the gardener wash the loam off his filthy hands to touch your blessed skin to wash yer?” Frodo shook his head, making Wesley shake his. “Hope for yer yet then,” he scoffed out. He turned to the basins and stacked them. Frodo slipped off his nightshirt shakily and stepped into the tub. Wesley’s hands fumbled in the small closet, finding towels and other items. Frodo began sliding water over his arms, leaving the sponge aside a few moments. His eyes didn’t leave Wesley’s back, suddenly feeling pity on him. “You… don’t need to stay,” he told him. Wesley chuckled. “And have you run off? ‘Fraid not, boy.” “I know how impossible that is, thank you for reminding me.” Frodo said coldly. “Do you think you’re the first, eh?” Frodo blinked. “What?” he softly inquired. Wesley stood straight now, turning to him; his eyes seemed to gaze above Frodo as if avoiding looking at him. “He’s had many lads. Mind, you’re the first that’s come not of his own will,” Wesley said, crossing his arms as he spoke. “Most of them boorish and sad, looking for a bit of his pockets to drop whatever coins he had to pick up when ‘e’ ain’t lookin’. All of them ‘tirely foolish and downright dense. And there you are, soft spoken and book-like, why ain’t it you haven’t just been stunned into nothin’ is beyond me.” Frodo kept silent. He didn’t want to say how all his ‘book-like’ ways had simply kept a good face on, and he felt like dying. He depended on simple actions and motions now, nothing else to provide him with true comfort. Wesley sat on the edge of the tub looking at Frodo now clearly, one firm hand on the porcelain. “’Course… I could just take you right now. Leave this ruddy place and not come back. You think ‘e’s bad, huh… wait ‘til you’ve ‘ad me,” “So go ahead.” Frodo blankly stated, stopping his washing. Wesley frowned, making an odd smile cross Frodo’s lips. “Of course, why not, Wesley? GO on and take me. Prove to me what a strapping, malicious lad you are, JUST like Griffin. Only be much worse. Much, much worse.” “I should smack you dizzy for that, y’now.” “Oh, but what of the Master then? What would HE say, finding me all bruised and bloodied?” “I could say you tried to get out.” “I could say you wanted me too badly to stop.” “And who would he believe??” Wesley roared now; Frodo didn’t flinch as his eyes narrowed. “Me.” Wesley’s eyes roared with furious flame. Frodo didn’t avert his eyes for even a flinch. “Yes. He’d believe me. Wouldn’t he, Wesley?” Frodo said. The eyes calmed slightly, though Wesley’s grip was so hard his knuckles went white. Plans flashed in Frodo’s mind; sick and stomach turning plans, but plans all the same. So Wesley wanted him then? Well… Wesley looked to the hand Frodo extended, going to his leg. With all he could muster Frodo smiled. “Seems he’s made me the whore he wants, eh?” Frodo spoke. “But I don’t want some old nasty hobbit with his paws on me. How old are you?” Wesley shook, watching Frodo with intense eyes. “Twenty-eight.” He barely spoke, voice cracking. It was working, already. “And you call me boy? I’m of age.” “Yea. And?” “I’d say you’re the boy, boy.” Wesley shook his head. “So I’m not of age. Don’t matter with the things I’ve seen and done.” “Oh? What things, do tell.” Frodo said, letting his hand slide off his leg as he languidly put his body back to the tub, easing his neck up in a slow arch. If his body would be used, he would be the one using it right now. “I’m older by you in centuries, boy.” He sneered, though it wasn’t an angry look; more lustful and driven by want. “Read all them books you like. There ain’t a book out there that can describe me.” “You must think highly of your exploits, then.” “Not highly, boy. Not very high a’tall.” More thoughts raced in Frodo’s head now; the more enticement, the better. “Have you ever heard of Brandy Hall?” “A bit.” “Mmm, grew up there. Not as dark as this place with exploits, but… enough. I knew growing up I wasn’t like the others, and they let me know it. But a few understood anyways, and let me indulge in… well, I shouldn’t really say,” “Why all of a sudden, you being so talkative on things like this, eh?” “Like I’d said. ‘Brought out the whore in me’, he has,” Frodo said. “Not a moment ago you were quivering like a leaf after being sucked dry,” Wesley said coldly. Frodo’s eyebrows rose. “Really? And how would you know, Wesley?” Wesley’s face went pale. “I… heard you.” “No, I don’t think that’s right,” Frodo said, shaking his head in deep thought. “Me quivering like a leaf can’t be heard, Wesley. Wait… oh yes, I’d noticed the door being opened a crack. After Master there had closed it tight.” Frodo slowly drawled out, using words as effect. “What’d you do in Brandy Hall, boy?” Wesley shot out with. “Did you like watching him, Wesley? Or me? Which?” “Both. What’d you do.” “No it’s not both, Wesley.” “What… did… you do?” Frodo sighed deeply; it took all his courage he had, never mind strength to put his arms along the tub, moving his body closer to Wesley’s. He moved slowly along the top of the water, making sure every movement was precise and exact. He saw Wesley’s lips part, taking in a low shaky breath. He had him. “I’m not telling.” Frodo murmured to him as he edged up onto his knees, moving up from Wesley’s legs to his chest, until finally he met his face. Wesley’s eyes darted for only a second downward, his eyes blinking madly, then up again to Frodo’s eyes. Before he could rethink it all he clenched the nausea in his stomach, binding it down as he put his lips whisper soft on Wesley’s. “I’m showing,” he purred. “You are a delightful lil’ whore. Aren’t you.” Wesley said, not bothering to hide the obvious cracks in his voice. “Always have been. Never found good reason to show it, until now,” Frodo said, finally planting a firm kiss on Wesley’s mouth. Wesley breathed deep, the hiss going into his nostrils flaring Frodo’s own. He would make it good for Wesley, making sure to fully have Sam’s image on him to delve into the kiss to make it worth Wesley’s while, sure to make him mindless with lust. “You want me, don’t you?” Frodo said in the corner of his mouth, still tugging on Wesley’s lips. “Ready to… fight off your Master’s denial of it, weren’t you?” “Yes…” Wesley breathed out his answer, now taking Frodo’s back firmly with his arms, pressing into him. He moved away from Frodo’s lips and began devouring his neck, biting as hard as he liked. Frodo scowled, trying not to make noises of distaste. He turned a cry of pain into a deep moan, swirling around in a solid echo, making Wesley work harder into him. “When does that old bastard come back?” Frodo asked breathlessly. “I want to be sure… we have enough time together, just so when he takes me for himself, I’ll have more recent pleasure to think on,” “Not… for a long time,” Wesley groaned out. “Off to the post… what not,” “Mmm…” Frodo moaned in satisfaction, yet not to the reasons Wesley thought on. Frodo managed to move upwards as his eyes opened fully, letting Wesley be distracted on his chest. Ignoring his hungry tongue he began scanning behind him; as if the Gods had finally granted him his greatest wish, a heavy porcelain basin lie on the basket behind Wesley. Frodo took in the distance, then pushed his knees up further, pretending to be in a mindless lust. “OH! Yes… Wesley yes, right… there… further dow- oh… Wesley, take it in your mouth… please…” he forced out. Wesley did as he asked, moving down to his navel. Frodo made a heavy landing at the rim of the tub, crying out in implied passion. He was a flexible lad, bending his torso down further to reach between his legs. Wesley was almost there; Frodo flinched, hopefully seen as pleasant reaction. The basin was right there, the tips of his fingers reaching it. He managed to pull it along the cloths it lay upon until it met his palm; he gripped it hard until he knew he had a firm hold on it. He slid back slightly as Wesley, still delirious moved him. Just fine, Frodo thought maliciously… a note of darkness filled his heart, well needed as his hand lifted the basin… then in one swift motion brought it crashing down upon Wesley’s head as hard as he could, smashing it into countless pieces into the bath and all over the floor. Wesley let out a high pitched yelp, his body thrusting backwards; Frodo slid back immediately, feeling a rather large and sharp chunk of porcelain meet his back, making him howl. In opening his eyes, trying to rid himself of the new pain he looked on in horror as Wesley struggled to get to his feet; the water that had splashed on the floor made one slip. Frodo’s breaths came out in shocked gasps, hoping and praying, wishing and desperately pleading. “You… “ A drunk sounding drawl emitted from Wesley’s mouth at the word. “El… Elvish… whooorre…” Frodo clenched his fists under the water, awaiting the worst as Wesley found his stance. He hadn’t regained his composure however as his feet slid entirely out from under him as he attempted to step to Frodo; Frodo cried out as his head smacked into the edge of the tub in a sickening crack, making Wesley lie completely motionless on the floor. Frodo knew what time passing meant; anything lost, no, he had to go. He had to… he didn’t want to see what he’d done. He couldn’t breathe without wailing, high-pitched and desperate. Had he killed him… oh Elbereth, no, please… “Just close your eyes… don’t open them until I say…” “Sam…” Frodo cried out feebly, clenching his lids shut. He moved his chest to the side of the tub, sliding upwards. He had to get out of here. Now. His hands gripped the side of the tub, his eyes refusing to guide him, not wanting to see whatever mess he’d made of Wesley lying on the floor. He managed to pull himself up and get his legs over in movements so shaking he felt as if his body may collapse. “Keep yourself… its all right… just keep… crawl out, you know the way…” he mumbled to himself. Frodo got to the floor, letting his hands guide the way. Pieces of porcelain and its powder gently cracked underneath his weight, making him falter until he reached the doorway. He pulled at the bottom and eased it open then crawled out. He dropped only once, forcing himself to regain strength to get up and crawl hastily away… “All right… open them,” Frodo opened his eyes in a flash and scrambled to his feet. He stumbled into a room across from the one he’d been kept in, seeing it as a bedroom, most likely Wesley’s by its simple décor. He looked around in a panic; clothes, he needed clothes. Not caring to whatever he pulled out of a nearby bureau he threw a plain cotton shirt on wet skin, tugging it down then a pair of rougher cloth pants. His head spun then he nodded in a strange way to himself. “Out…” he mumbled, looking towards the door. “Wesley??” Frodo’s eyes went so wide they hurt. He nearly fell over; instead he twirled in a maddening panic about the room, his breath faltering as they came so fast he barely registered them. The bed… under the bed… “Wesley, can you hear me, where are you?” Frodo quickly rushed over to the bed and dove underneath, pulling the covers from the bed in a small tug, covering the small space that could reveal him. He’d gotten it done just in time as footsteps came up the stairs. “Wesley?” Frodo watched underneath the tiny space the covers left with bated breath, swallowing hard as he saw Griffin now at the top of the stairs. He turned to the door across the hall where he’d left Frodo, expecting to find him… Griffin stepped back from the open door, staring into the room. “WESLEY??” he yelled so loud Frodo almost yelped. He stopped abruptly in his steps, looking down. “Oh… my…” What was he looking at? What was he looking at? Griffin now rushed down the hallway and into the bathroom. A dead silence replaced his yelling a moment. Frodo’s eyes stayed open, unblinking, until… “WESLEY!!!” Frodo covered his mouth as Griffin continued wailing in deafening cries. He panted heavily, being hidden under the howling from Griffin and his hand that felt so wet. He tried to look at it as he removed it, feeling a sticky, sick sensation as he did. It was shaking, he could tell by its silhouette. The screaming in the bathroom ceased suddenly. Frodo managed to shock his breaths still as he waited. ‘Go look for me. I’m gone. I’m back home with Sam.’ He thought erratically, wanting to see Griffin rush down the stairs and out of the house. Instead, he heard Griffin leaving the bathroom in slow steps, coming down the hall. Frodo watched as he moved into view by the doorway. He expected him to keep going, but he paused, looking down again. With a terror rising up in him Frodo watched as Griffin turned into Wesley’s bedroom, the steps still slow and methodical. He moved away from the edge, hiding in the darkness. He waited… go… go back downstairs and try to find me wherever I am in Bree… “Frodo?” No. He hadn’t seen him, how could he have… Frodo turned to see a pair of toes only an arm’s length from where he was. He was standing by the bed. Now… he was kneeling by the bed. Now his hand was lifting the sheets, and his face peering underneath; his eyes fixed on Frodo’s face, but he couldn’t believe it. He could not believe it. ‘Maybe he doesn’t… see me…’ Frodo irrationally thought. “Frodo. What did you do?” Frodo closed his eyes. No, he couldn’t accept this. He was gone away from here, heading home. Nothing could stop him now. “Frodo.” He shook his head, forehead banging into the floor, tears spilling onto his hot cheeks. “Come out, now.” Frodo saw stars in his lids; he moved a hand forward, trying to brush it away. That’s when Griffin’s hand found him, grabbing his sore wrist. As if gone completely into madness Frodo screamed, trying to jerk himself free. He pounded the floor with his entire body, crying out in quick and hard yelps, fighting it with everything he could. It wasn’t enough, it only added to the grip that now had gotten him completely out from under the bed. “YOU KILLED MY SERVANT!!!” Griffin bellowed, dragging him on the floor as he pulled him further. Frodo screamed as he saw what he’d been looking down at in the hall; blood red handprints, leading a trail from the room and now into the hall, his hips smearing them as Griffin pulled him along. He burst open the doorway to the bathroom and took Frodo’s hair in a rough hand, forcing his upper half up slightly off the floor. Frodo’s eyes now fell upon one of the most gruesome sights he’d ever laid eyes upon… …All done by Frodo himself. “LOOK!” Griffin yelled, pulling his chest from the floor, making Frodo’s body go into a painful back-bend. Wesley’s skull looked as if it had smashed, a large crack of a wound going across the side of his head. Blood oozed from the wound and onto the floor, pooling from large drops coming from his eyebrow. Griffin now knelt down next to Frodo, his face red, eyes blazing uncontrollably. “You… tell me why… you killed him. TELL ME!!!” Frodo lashed out in his blurred brain for anything… how… did it happen… “He meant to have me!!” he finally screamed out. Griffin eyed him, his chest heaving heavily. “Why are you dressed in HIS clothing??” “He… he… he took me to… t-the bath, then to his room. He… dressed me…” Frodo said, swallowing. What could he say… “I thought you’d told him… to dress me, but after he’d gotten me dressed he grabbed me and said we were leaving. I told him… th-that we COULDN’T leave!! We couldn’t go away, but he tried dragging me out, saying… saying he’d gotten me dressed so we could leave, together!! I told him… I told him, ‘No, Wesley, we can’t leave Mr. Miller! No!!’ and he yelled at me… grabbed at me, but I fought back, and we scuffled into the bathroom… he reached for my throat to strangle me and I got him off by kicking him… he fell…” Griffin stared Frodo deep in the eye, his anger starting to slide off his face. “He tried to take you away from me?” “YES!!” Frodo wailed out, sobbing heavily. He watched as Griffin stared at Wesley’s lifeless body, his frown growing deeper into his face. He turned back slowly to Frodo, the frown being replaced with a sad look of despair. “He’s… been begging, all along, to have his way with you. I knew he’d… get himself wrapped up and not be able to tear himself away I should… have known better than to leave you with him alone. Frodo… oh, my love, m’dear…” Griffin’s face crumbled into tears as he now grabbed Frodo by his chest, pulling him to him close. “I’m so sorry, darling… I’m so sorry he did that to you… I’ll never, EVER let anything like this happen again…” Frodo’s eyes could not shut, allowing more of Wesley’s mangled body to be seen over Griffin’s shoulder. He was pulled away by Griffin’s embrace now as his hands clasped firmly over Frodo’s shoulders. “Are you all right?” he asked of him. Frodo stared back, his head swaying. He didn’t understand anything suddenly… where was Sam? Why hadn’t he come for him yet? Why wasn’t he… home, right now? Hadn’t he gotten himself free? “Let me take you to bed, m’dear…” Before Griffin could stand Frodo immediately bent over; what had been threatening him for days now came forth. He turned his body away from the scene and lurched over itself. He choked a few times as he saw his hands, covered in Wesley’s blood slap onto the floor in front of him. He began vomiting, his stomach ceasing control to whatever it held, until Frodo spit saliva, moved upwards in a sickened jolt and fell backwards, hitting his head on the floor before passing out completely. Sam and the three others met up again from their separate walks at the corner they’d designated to meet at after two hours time. No one said a good word, no “We saw that nasty thing, he had Frodo with him but we couldn’t get too close…” to pass along. They walked into a small pub, ready for something to drink. So far, it hadn’t been that bad. They’d gone and scruffed themselves up a bit, but he knew it was useless. They still gained odd looks and whispers from the large men around them. But the surroundings at least, despite the ominous presence of large, boot- clad giants, weren’t as bad as when he’d first set eyes upon them. True, there were no gardens or even much grass even alongside houses, but if he were to have to stay here with his three best friends (minus a very important fourth) he’d not have as much discomfort as expected. Merry, the boldest of them went to order them drinks. Sam got them to a table and they sat, all looking at each other with sad eyes. “Did you notice anything on your walk?” Pippin asked both of them. They shook their heads together. “No,” Fatty said solemnly. Merry returned shortly with their ales, all of them sinking low into their chairs. The clamor around them grew louder it seemed, everyone laughing, joking and playing card games. Sam searched around, desperately wanting to hear any sort of clue, even just a whisper of Frodo’s name. His eyes set themselves suddenly on a figure nearby, sitting at a table. He wore a thin cloak over his body, shrouded over his head so he could only make out the tip of his chin. He looked like a resident of Bree, for sure. Dirtied up and smoking a long pipe, smoke spilling from it in great piles covering his face. He didn’t know why but it intrigued him enough to stare, until Pippin moved in front of his gaze. “Sam?” he asked. “Do you see something?” Sam nodded towards the man now behind Pippin’s head. All of them turned to look, making Sam groan. “Don’t make it obvious we’re lookin’!” he hissed to them. They turned back. “He’s definitely odd. But… why are we lookin’ at him?” Fatty asked. “It’s hotter than hell out here. Even we ditched out cloaks, despite our need of keepin’ secret,” Sam said in a hushed voice, though loud enough to hear over the various bursts of talkative voices and laughter. “Why does he have one on then?” “I’ve seen others in cloaks, Sam. I think you’re getting on the wrong track,” Merry piped up. “Besides, every around here seems to be keepin’ secrets. It may seem pretty jovial, but something’s going unsaid.” “Aye,” Pippin said, nodding in agreement over his ale. “I didn’t hear anything of Frodo… but as I’d passed by a market, two people were speakin’ of everyone being nervous about new faces around these parts. I was trying to listen to see if they’d meant Frodo or the people who took him, but they spoke of men,” “You too?” Fatty spoke up. Everyone looked at him. He frowned. “Well, I had. Only the ones I heard talking seemed all right with it, to a degree. Said that if there were any dangers, whoever these new folks were could handle it. They weren’t throwing themselves a party over it, were wary and all but I gather that’s the sort of thing that goes on here, don’t you?” “Wish I knew more about this dratted town.” Sam lamented, twirling his fingers over his mug’s handle. “I think it was a mistake to come here. I’m getting’ on thinkin’ that more and more.” “But nothing is being done about it otherwise,” Merry said in a frustrated hiss. “I haven’t seen any signs that Frodo is being sought out, nothing!” “What can WE do, though? Oh, Frodo…” Sam said, covering his face with his hands. He removed one to drink down more ale, slamming the mug down hard. Awhile later… well, they hadn’t moved. Sam was on his fourth ale, drinking it down into his fluttering stomach. He was truly growing helpless; what had he been thinking, leaving without even saying goodbye to his family, leaving some pitiful note behind? Did he honestly believe that a few maps would do them any good? He didn’t know this place from any other place outside of Hobbiton, what good did having a map serve? Frodo could be held captive right next door and he wouldn’t have the faintest idea. His head swam from both confusion and impending drunkenness, thoughts meandering on everything from the gardens of Bag End to Frodo’s smile. The three others weren’t drinking nearly as heavily as Sam but looked just as pitiful. What had he drug these poor lads into with him, what would come of this? “Let’s… go home tonight,” Sam blurted with a belch, putting his empty mug down. “What?” Pippin said incredulously. Merry was mid-sip with this declaration said, Fatty staring at Sam with wide eyes. “Sod to this. NOTHING is going to COME of it,” Sam drawled out, waving his arms in a mess in front of him. His face fell into tears. “I just want him home. I want him to walk… in here and laugh at us, claiming it was the best prac… practically… best joke he’d ever pulled on us…” “Sam, stop it. You’re just deep in your cups,” Merry offered. Sam whined loudly, slapping the table. “I am NOT, I JUST want my FRODO back!!” “SHHH!!” all of them hissed at once. Fatty looked around in absolute panic as heads turned to see the poor drunk hobbit wailing and crying out. Sam stood up suddenly. “I need air. I need to breathe, I can’t BREATHE in here…” he said, stumbling away from the table. The three others fought to catch up with him as he frantically made his way out, being blocked by a few men stumbling around, drunk themselves. One man seemed to rush past them, halting them even further. Pippin stubbed his toe on a chair that had seemed to leap out from nowhere, yelping out and hopping on his other foot. Fatty stopped to help him as Merry clambered past the large legs, managing to get through enough to find the exit. He got outside and looked from side to side. He nearly jumped; Sam was sitting on the muddy ground, and kneeling in front of him was the cloaked man they’d seen inside. He looked to be talking to Sam though Merry couldn’t hear what he was saying. Panicking for his friends’ safety he reached past the waist of his breeches, pulling out his dagger. With all the bravery he could muster he sped towards them; before he could unsheathe his weapon the man suddenly stood and faced him in one smooth liquid motion, brandishing his own sword; Merry stopped before he impaled himself upon it with his own running. He stared at it, seeing it inches from his face. He breathed in hard and long, trying to compose himself from the shock. “What are you doing?” he asked the man angrily, glancing to Sam who sat crying still, wailing Frodo’s name. The man drew back his sword, peering at Merry past his cloak. He said nothing as Merry felt his face grow warm. “You leave him be! He’s done nothing wrong, and I’ll see no wrong comes of him!” The man put his sword to the side and turned to look at Sam. “You’re with him then?” he asked in a low, husky voice. “That’s right! And two more inside! Perhaps we’re not as big as you but we’d put on a good fight for one another!” Merry said defensively. The man seemed to smile at him, a corner of his mouth revealing it. “Very brave all of you are, then. Still, your foolishness can trip you up. I’m here to see that it doesn’t.” “Foolishness??” Merry blurted. “Precisely.” “What foolishness? You don’t know what we’re doing here, and I could care less to what YOU’RE doing here,” “I can prove to be useful, if you’ll let me.” The man said, his voice growing firmer. “If you don’t then I’m afraid it may be too late for the one you seek,” Merry’s jaw dropped. He tried picking it back up as Pippin and fatty came bumbling outside, finding them. “Sam! Merry! What’re you-“ Pippin yelled out. They both stopped seeing the presence of the man standing there beside them. “He has a sword Merry, step back!” Merry rolled his eyes. “I’ve SEEN it, Pip.” “Your friend, Sam? He isn’t much of help right now. I’m going to have to rely on you three for the time being,” the man told them. Pippin swallowed as Fatty stepped forward, his body trembling with fear. “What do you mean?” he asked, his throat spasm making the words to sound blurred. “I’m one of a large group settled in Bree to watch over it. There are many things that have come to our notice which, by chance happen to involve who you’re looking for.” All of them except Sam, now murmuring quietly to himself with his head in his hands looked to each other in confusion. “Do you… know of Frodo then?” Pippin asked haltingly, causing Merry to gasp out. “PIPPIN! We don’t KNOW him!!” he bellowed. “No matter, I’m to be trusted.” The man told them softly. Merry rounded on him angrily. “We don’t know that! You have no idea the troubles we’ve faced! If you must know our cousin was stolen away by some… some madman filled with horrible intentions! Me and Pippin over there fell victim to it, nearly losing our lives, and we’re expected to trust some stranger who happens upon us like this??” “Would it surprise you to know that this stranger happens to know exactly where your cousin is?” Everyone went dead silent. It turned out Frodo had been wrong. Very, very wrong; he had not known pain before this day. Neither the day before nor the day before that had he experienced the searing, flesh tearing, mind-bending pain of what his head was feeling, his back, and every part of him. He was moving. He knew that much. It wasn’t day anymore as his eyes opened in a small flutter, seeing slight moonlight creeping from the tiny window above. It went back and forth… what was happening right now, he wondered to himself… His arms and legs were free; his body was slowly recovering from the numbness he’d climbed into. Though he could twitch them freely, feeling no binds at either end hands were upon his chest; that he could feel now. A stabbing motion seemed to move inside of him way below… he was moving to it as if welcoming it. Looking up in a daze he saw two long silhouetted, moving forms. It took him a moment to realize they were in fact his own legs, lying upon something moving. Something moving, and now also, ears gaining sound past the blood pounding within them, grunting and moaning. He cocked his head in confusion as he forced his eyes to make out the face in front of him. ‘Oh it’s you,’ he thought, seeing Griffin clearly now. “All mine… you’re all mine… sweet, wonderful boy, all mine…” Who was this sweet wonderful boy? His voice sounded desperate as Frodo began gasping against his will. His body tensed as full realization crept in inch-by-inch… something was there, inside of him, moving in hard thrusts. He began whining in soft, long chords, stretching out to feel what was happening, to regain any sort of real sense to what was going on. He suddenly wished, somewhere where his mind sighed past the delirium that he hadn’t tried to figure anything out at all. Griffin’s mouth moved along his leg, making every nerve fire off wrong. Frodo shook past the clouds in his head, trying to sit up. A hand forced his hip down hard, pressing into the soft flesh of his stomach. “Don’t move m’dear. I’m almost… ready… I feel…” Now Frodo made a sudden scream. His hands went slapping crazily about him, aiming for whatever lie past his body, cradling it into formation of sick lust. The pain reached him then, his howling allowing everything to come in a flood over him. He felt as if he was being torn apart from the inside, forceful blows slamming into his back, sending shockwaves to his head, bursting behind the eyes. Rough hands forced his wrists down, the crazed face of Griffin coming clearer as it fell upon Frodo’s. Frodo’s teeth snapped, wanting him to leave him, stop touching him, “STOP FUCKING ME!!!” “You WANT this.” “STOP!” A tongue reached his face, defiling his skin with hot, acrid smelling saliva, nearly burning his nerves into nothing. The mouth moved quickly to his neck, wild and grunting its way there, the tongue being replaced by hard teeth gnashing into soft, sensitive skin. His screams were cut off by nothing but a choke, his mouth wide open, neck arched as a heat filled him, the grunts going to moans upon him, teeth still planted deep into his flesh. His mouth shuddered closed as the movements pounded further and faster, chaos filling his body… The mouth opened- “ELBERETH!!!” A loud howl of sick passion, one hard thrust after the other… “ELBERETH!!!” Legs falling hard on sudden cushion, hands ripped to the side then free, wet, escaping gush underneath, screams and yells not his own, eyes moving back, a splashing he’d never heard before and his mother’s gasping as water fills her lungs- ‘Help her father, don’t sink, get back in the boat’- endless, insurmountable, incomprehensible pain… Nothing… at all. Sam’s face twitched, feeling cool air tickling his nose, wafting up to his eyes. He knew he felt sick, and he slowly remembered why… but how he’d gotten back from the pub into the boarding house, finding himself in the bed after opening his eyes; he hadn’t the slightest clue to. He lifted his head from the pillow, feeling as if someone had replaced his brain with boulders. He caught it with his hand before it fell to the side, wincing in pain. He made out the forms of his three companions; they huddled together on the bed in front of him. It wasn’t cold in the room, they couldn’t possibly be trying to find warmth. Seeing as the temperature had grown quite hot even for early morning he stretched his eyes to find the real reason they all lie there together. Each one Sam found, was desperately weeping into the other. He stood straight up, forgetting his own pains. He stumbled over; they all turned to him now, looking with reddened, splotchy faces. “Sam…” “What’s gone on?? What happened??” Merry moved from the group, Pippin’s arms still wound around his stomach. “Sam…” he started, choking back a sob. “They found Frodo.” Sam’s entire core burned, his head starting to shake from side to side slowly. Merry read him as if he were a book. “He’s not dead. It’s worse.”