“I am slipping. I am dying. The ring must return to it’s master,” a voice called in the darkness.

Arathoniel turned again and again, trying her best to clear her head. To see in the darkness. The voice was familiar. She’d heard it many times over. Why was it not coming to her? Why could she not clear her head enough to see who this voice belonged to?

Pain. Sudden pain. A white, blinding light and pain. She felt herself drop to the ground with the weight of that pain. She grasped at the ground around her until her fingers found a flesh covered arm. Not just flesh, no, there was hair as well. Her lids were heavy as she did her best to pull them open. By the God’s, no. NO.

She crawled forward as quickly as she possibly could, the pain racking her tall, slim frame. She rested a hand on the wound just above her dearest friend’s heart. “Frodo,” she whispered, “Frodo, no. What has happened? How has this happened?”

“The ring. It must return to it’s master. The master of the One Ring calls forth for it’s return. The pain, the ring, the pain,” his words trailed into naught more than meaningless gasps.

Wraiths. The Nazgul. How had they found Frodo? Why was Gandalf not protecting this halfling? And where was Strider?

“No, Frodo, hear me. Hear my words, my voice. You called to me, my friend, in your need and now you MUST hear me. You must hold strong. The ring has no power over you. It holds no sway. You have the strength to defend yourself against it’s power. And you must. You mustn’t allow this ring to destroy who you are, what you are. Give me the pain, Frodo. Send the pain to your old friend. I can take this pain. Simply give it over to me.”