༺ fiionan Continued from X
A time would come for when even the unlikely or unreasonable
would occur as though normal to the ring bearer. His deepest
fears would come to face him, and now was one such time, as
he came to face with death itself. In the form of a friend it
greeted him, and no less betrayed was he than if his own
servant had turned their blade on him.
Frodo had thought their small talk rather queer, but had not the
wit to predict a sword pointed hastily at his throat. His eyes met
theirs, wide at first with surprise, and then with hurt. He looked
to them betrayed and feared any subtle movements, yet his
hands tensed with a sudden urge to grasp for the ring.
He had thought himself unable to be so TEMPTED by
the call of the Ring: and yet, here he was, BLINDED
by all else but the foul whisper in the back of his mind,
the echo that somewhere DEEP he knew Isildur once
heard to t a k e i t..
The blade lowered, hovered, point nicking over folds of
cloth until it found that chain ( dull clink of fine metal
against BATTLE-NOTCHED blade ). He said nothing.
His brow furrowed, jaw tightening, a certain LIGHT in
his eyes that was not himself: something profoundly
troubled, the CURSE of being the heir with DARKNESS
in his blood.
The point wavered. A breeze blew. It stirred the ranger’s
( the betrayer’s? ) cloak ‘round his feet, his hair into his
face. The hilt felt COLD against his calloused hand, the
sword HEAVY. And for the briefest of moments, SENSE
broke through his mind, enough to cause the blade to
jerk back a little.
HORROR snapped through his mind, as cold as ice down his
spine. And in that moment of clarity, he gritted out tight and
almost begging: