Title: From Cirith Ungol to Minas Tirith (WIP 3/4)
By: Ithiliana
Overall Rating: Variable, PG in places but as part of overall AU, NC-17
Section Rating: PG
Pairing(s): Frodo/Faramir so obviously, warning for interspecies slash applies!
Feedback: Always Appreciated!

Disclaimer: All characters belong to the Tolkien estate. This story is written for fun, not for money, with no intent to infringe upon copyright.

As with all parts of this series, I blend elements from book and film with AU elements, add water, and stir. Earlier parts here:

THE ROADS OF MIDDLE EARTH

Part immediately preceding this one here: FROM CIRITH UNGOL TO MINAS TIRITH 2



March 25, 3019

Faramir set Frodo down gently on the steep and winding path.

Frodo strained to lift his head, blinked his eyes. He seemed to be in a constant fog, straining to see. His eyes stung, and he wiped them. The burning worsened. He stood, head down, swaying, eyes shut. If he could only rest.

"Frodo." Faramir's voice was hoarse. "A door."

Frodo opened his eyes, looked up. Red light, shifting, but a regular shape. A door into the mountain.

Earlier that day, arriving at the base of Mt. Doom, they had begun the climb. Faramir had insisted they leave everything behind except their one remaining water bottle, half-full, and what they were wearing. All else had been left to lighten the load for the last desperate climb.

The last two marches had left Frodo existing in a state beyond the earlier torment. He felt no thirst, no pain. Dully, he thought the lack of the feeling was worse than pain. He could touch nothing, feel nothing, except the Ring. He was alone. The door was his only hope.

Frodo forced himself to move, one foot at a time.

"Thieffss, my Precious. They wants to kill ussss."

A shadow wavered in front of Frodo's eyes. He forced himself to look down, away from the door, saw Gollum crouching above him on a boulder, hissing, clawing at the air. Frodo looked, but could not move as Gollum launched himself, hands reaching for the throat, his favorite grip.

A blow sent Frodo reeling to the side. Tripping over a rock, he fell flat, breathless. He rolled over onto his back, saw Faramir wrestling with the writhing, hissing dark shape.

As Frodo tried to push himself up, Gollum twisted, hands snaking around Faramir's neck.

Frodo stood, but before he could do anything, silver flashed as Faramir drew his knife, struck.

Growling and shrieking, Gollum rolled off him, across the path, knocking Frodo down.

Breath shaken out of him, Frodo felt the weight on his chest increase, flinched as strong fingers tightened around his neck. Gollum bent over him, breath hissing, one hand at Frodo's throat. The other hand slid down inside Frodo's shirt, groping.

"Miiiine, Precioussssss…Ach!"

Gollum shrieked as Faramir slid an arm around his neck, pulled him off Frodo.

Dizzy, gasping, Frodo saw Faramir kneeling over Gollum, holding him down with one hand, the other holding the knife at his throat. Faramir drew his arm back to strike.

"My Precioussss," Gollum whimpered.

"Faramir!" Coughing, Frodo forced the name out.

A pause, then broad shoulders shifted, preparing to strike.

"Please!" Frodo begged. He knew this was wrong.

"He betrayed us, Frodo." Faramir's voice was quiet but held a note Frodo had never heard before. It chilled him.

"He deserves to die."

The words echoed in Frodo's mind.

Deserved to die. Maybe he did. But they could not know all ends. Gandalf had said so.

Frodo crawled, fearing to see the blow fall before he could force his aching body forward.

Like an image of a time far away, seen in Galadriel's Mirror, Frodo saw Cerin Amroth. Green and blue and gold. Light. Love.

He could not touch it, could not remember what the wind felt like, the touch of the living tree against his skin. But he could see it, darkly. And tell himself he had once known it. More than Gollum had ever had.

He fell forward, across Gollum, feeling the thin body shivering under his, hands locked on Faramir's arm.

"Remember," Frodo said urgently. "On the River? You said you pitied the Orcs who had no choice, that their slavery without end was worse than death. He had no choice. He had to try to get his Precious back. I know what he feels."

"Death is a kindness then," Faramir voice was grim.

"It may be, but that is not why you want to kill him."

A pause, then "Release me, Frodo."

"No. I will not let you kill him."

"Frodo," Faramir's voice rose. "Don’t make me hurt you."

Frodo twisted around, still trying to protect Gollum, but needing to look into Faramir's face. His heart sank when he saw the rage in his eyes, the lines of pain marring the fair skin.

"Would you?" Frodo spoke quietly, almost to himself.

Feeling the arm he gripped relax, Frodo released Faramir who fell back, sitting on his heels, dropping the hand that held the knife, sheathing the knife, closing his eyes. He shuddered, then spoke, so quietly Frodo could barely hear him.

"No."

Gollum lay quiet under Frodo, who pushed himself up on his hands, then, wearily, to his feet. He stood over Gollum who did not move, his eyes half-lidded, hands quiet at his side.

From somewhere, Frodo found the strength to speak clearly. "You have betrayed us and caused harm in your desire to take the Ring. This is the end. Leave now. You have fulfilled your word to me, guided me into Mordor. I repay your help with your life. But if you try to take the Ring or touch me again, I will command you to throw yourself into the fire."

Gollum hissed, but drew himself together, crouching on the path like a black spider. Refusing to look at Frodo, he slunk past him, past Faramir, who did not move, and retreated down the path.

Turning, Frodo slid a hand inside his shirt and grasped the Ring. He held it gently, lifted it up, sliding his other hand under the chain, lifting it off.

He held the Ring in his hand. Looked at it. The gold gleamed, rich and beautiful, shedding light.

He felt himself suddenly strong. Light. He could walk easily. Why had he been so deluded?

Energy ran through him, giving him the sense that he could fly, if he wished, stride forward, command the air to bear him. Why had he spent so long with these weaklings, slowed himself to match their fumbling pace?

He strode up the Mountain. To his door. It took but a few moments to cover the distance. Over his head, molten rock belched free, smoke rising. He drew a deep breath, relishing the feel of power in the air.

This place, so fearful in the stories, drew him. Perhaps the stories had been wrong. They had been about so much else.

There was something important he had to do. And only he could do it. Only Frodo son of Drogo. Without turning his head to look back, he entered the Cracks of Doom.

A cavern opened around him. He walked confidently forward on the narrow spit of rock that led over the River of Fire that ran below.

Heat blossomed around him, wreathed inside, caressed him. The light and fire was beautiful. The most beautiful thing he had ever seen. All else was dark and dreary. Shadowed. Only fire was beautiful. How could he not have realized it before now?

He gazed down, entranced. He had never known such beauty. Molten reds and golds twined together below him, a thousand shades, in constant living motion, the heart of the world beating as one with his.

It all made sense now. He shook his head. With the best of intentions, they had all been wrong. Fatally wrong. Gandalf should not have died.

The Ring was not evil. It was a mirror, a looking glass. It knew and reflected what was in people's hearts. If someone who did not desire power used it, then the Ring could be used for good.

He thought of all the good he could do. Moria for the Dwarves. Help Lady Galadriel maintain Lothlorien.

Those places were pale shadows, ugly and flawed. Perhaps he could make them even better, more beautiful. Bring light and fire to them as well.

Keep the Elves from leaving Middle-earth. Cast down Sauron and Saruman, yes, but help everyone else.

Especially help Faramir heal. Gazing into the gold and red letters twining on the Ring, he could see ways in which even the Shire could be improved.

He could do it. He did not wish to rule. He only wanted to help others.

Turning, he saw a man. Standing behind him. Did he want the Precious? Everyone did. But it was his.

"Destroy it.."

He smiled at him. Faramir. Yes, that was his name. Faramir would understand, he thought, he could make him understand, but not now. Later.

Now, he had to act before it was too late. "The Ring is mine," he said, slipping the Ring on his finger.

The light flickered around him. But unlike the other times when he had put it on, tricked or confused, the air did not darken. Instead, the flames behind leaped higher, dancing, flowing into him.

It was different. He was different. It was his. It was him. He was it.

The man in front of him shrieked out a word, a word he did not recognize, as a dark shape attacked. The two fell, rolling on the ground.

He ignored them. They could not touch him. This time, he would challenge the Eye. And take what was his.

He stepped forward, preparing to leave the Fire, preparing to go forth and challenge Sauron. Dimly, he could hear the shrieking of the Wraiths.

He laughed. They were flying to him as fast as the other's will could push them. Only to serve him in their turn. He would turn them against Sauron. And then they would bear news of his victory to all of Middle-earth.

Another shriek as…something hit him, knocking him to his knees. He snarled, tangled in arms and legs. He was stronger than anyone. He struggled, started to stand, then felt the grip on his wrist, a piercing pain in his hand.

The roar of wind and flame increased, the rock trembling under him.


Frodo fell to his knees, bent double, one hand clasped around the other, feeling the blood welling between his fingers.

In front of him Gollum danced, leaping in time to the flames that rose behind him, holding Frodo's finger, wearing the Ring, high above his head. Light limned him.

"Mine! My Precious! Mine," he sang, then shrieked as the last step took him to the brink. He teetered there.

His eyes darkening, Frodo saw Gollum waver, then fall. A last "Precious" sounded.

A pause, then the rock under him shook. Frodo fell to the ground, curled around the agony of his hand, and saw rocks falling from the ceiling. Felt the heat increase, sucking the air from his lungs.

But Frodo could feel again.

Tears rolled down his face. The pain.

But he could also remember what it was like to sit in the grass on a spring day in the Shire, eating the first strawberries with cream with Sam and Rosie at their wedding. He could die happily now.

He sighed, relaxing. The rock under him felt as soft as a featherbed. His eyes drifted shut.

"Frodo!"

Frodo jerked. Opened his eyes.

Faramir knelt by him, shaking him. "Let me see."

"Let me sleep," he said.

"Your hand." Faramir pried his hand open, examined the wounded hand.

Faramir drew his knife and cut a length from his shirt to wrap around Frodo's hand, knotting the dirty cloth tightly. He fumbled, clumsy, and Frodo saw the blood running down Faramir's arm.

He tried to reach out, touch Faramir, but he evaded Frodo's touch.

"Come, Frodo." Faramir picked Frodo up.

Frodo sighed. It was over. They could rest.

He slipped an arm around Faramir's neck, buried his face against Faramir's shoulder.

"No use," he said.

"Perhaps not, but I want to be under the open sky at the end. Not here in this foul place."

Frodo relaxed, drifting. Whatever Faramir wanted. It hardly mattered now.

Faramir staggered as he left the cavern. Outside, the light and heat were nearly as strong as they had been in the Cracks of Doom. The mountain was shaking itself to pieces under their feet.

Some time later, Frodo felt Faramir stop.

Frodo opened his eyes, saw they were on an outcrop of rock. Slightly higher than the ground around them. Above them, molten rock flowed down the mountain, devouring it, bolts of fire shooting through the sky. The air was hot, the sky dark overhead.

It would not be long Frodo thought.

Faramir knelt, then sat back against a boulder, holding Frodo close, one arm around him.

There was something, Frodo thought. Something he had forgotten to say.

Oh, yes.

"Faramir?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

Frodo felt Faramir touch his head as he slipped into sleep.

"I love you, Frodo Baggins."

* * * * * * *