To The Ruin Of All

Sam opened his eyes and tried to look around. He was dazed and blood was streaming from his head and dripping into his eyes. He wiped at the sticky liquid in a vain attempt to clear his vision, but it was of little use. He groped forward and tried to piece together what had happened. He remembered that wretched creature attacking him from behind, and Mr Frodo; he had run on to the very Crack of Doom to destroy the One Ring. But he hadn’t done it, Sam recalled with a jolt. He had stood by the fires of Hell, his body wounded, his spirit broken, yet had called out in a strong, clear voice: ‘I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine’. Sam stood up carefully and made his way slowly to where Frodo had stood before he had put on the Ring and vanished from sight.
Sam tripped over something warm and wet and fell on his face. He struggled back up and saw what he’d stumbled over. It was a body. Almost hobbit-like in appearance, but it was too skeletal and too ghastly looking for any hobbit.
It was Gollum.
Sam didn’t need to examine him too closely to notice the fatal wound, which slit the figure from his neck to his naval. A terrible cut had opened the poor soul like a piece of meat and entrails lay around him in bloody heaps. Sam backed away, horrified. He did not understand fully what Gollum’s death would mean to the success of the Ring Quest or the survival of Middle-Earth, but he knew the miserable beast was dead. And whatever had murdered him could well have killed or hurt Mr Frodo. A sudden terror seized Sam’s heart and he turned and cast his gaze around the chamber, frantically searching for his master.
“Fr…Frodo?” Sam called tentatively as around him the fires roared to imitate Sauron’s fear and anger. When no reply came, his voice took on a more urgent tone. “Frodo! Mr Frodo! Where are you? Are you hurt?” Sam’s voice was drowned out mostly by the noise of the fire. Then Sam felt it; a presence beside him. Nervously he turned, not knowing quite what to expect and finding only seemingly empty air.
“Mr Frodo?” he said in what could barely have been called a whisper, “Are you there?”
“Yes, Sam,” said Frodo’s disembodied voice, “I am here.” Sam felt a shiver travel up his spine, which made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Frodo’s voice sounded different; low and menacing.
“Mr Frodo?” Sam said. “What’s going on? Why are you wearing the Ring?” Frodo laughed and Sam involuntarily stepped backwards, feeling very afraid.
“What’s wrong Sam?” Frodo taunted. “Samwise Gamgee. Samwise the fool. What were your parents thinking when they named you so? They must’ve had high hopes for you. And you let them down.” Sam felt the air move around him as Frodo began to circle the hobbit; heard when Frodo mockingly scraped the blade of Sting against the stone floor. “What a pity you never lived up to your namesake. Instead, you followed me, like a dog, all the way across Middle-Earth on some ridiculous and pointless errand to destroy that which I love above all else in this world. You see, it has become precious to me, as nothing else before it has been, and nothing which follows it shall ever even come close. It is my own…”
“Frodo?” Sam cried desperately. “Can’t you hear what you’re saying? Gollum used to call the despicable thing ‘precious’, remember? Or have you already forgotten? Gollum’s dead, Frodo, because of the Ring! Do you want that to happen to you?”
Frodo stopped. “No…Sam…I don’t want that.”
Sam’s heart leapt into his mouth, for at that moment Frodo had sounded more like the old Frodo than ever.
“Frodo, the Ring will turn you into a slave. That’s what happened to Gollum, and he became unable to bear neither sunlight nor moonshine. Do you really want that?”
“…I…” Frodo’s voice sounded strained, as though he were fighting some inner battle, whilest trying to focus on the sensible words of Sam. Sam pounced on his masters silence, and used it to his advantage.
“Frodo, I can help you,” he pleaded, “if you’ll only give up the Ring, we can–”
“No!” Frodo snarled. Sam had touched a nerve. “I’ll never give it up, never! You cannot make me!” Sam’s heart sank. Frodo was back under the Ring’s spell.
“But Frodo–” Sam choked out, tears forming in his eyes.
“Be quiet, Sam!” Frodo shouted, and Sam heard him slam Sting onto the ground loudly, which made him jump. “I want to keep it and so I shall. And you needn’t worry me with threats of death and slavery, for my will is stronger than that of the precious!” Then Frodo’s voice changed subtly. “I can feel him. I can feel Sauron. I fell his great…his great fury. But I also feel his dread and his horror. He knows I am here and that I have won and that he has lost. He, for all his massive armies of Orcs and Trolls and evil things, has lost to Frodo Baggins of the Shire. I am now the master of the One Ring! And all shall bow before me, for it is MINE!”
Sam turned and ran blindly, filled with sorrow for his lost master, but what spurned him onwards was the sheer awfulness of the situation and the thought of what Frodo would do to him if he allowed himself to be caught. Sam heard his cruel laugh and then Frodo began to chase his erstwhile servant and dearest friend. Tears started to pour from Sam’s eyes and merged with the still oozing blood from his head wound and the ash, soot and smoke on his skin. He suddenly burst out of the gloom of Orodruin, but even the new dull light did nothing to calm his frantic heartbeat.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
Sam ran, but the exhaustion and anxiety from the past year seemed to catch up with him all at once. His brain knew he had to keep on running if he wanted to live, and the fear kept his legs moving, but with every stride they seem to fell heavier, as though he were wearing iron boots. He felt himself slowing down. Then he caught his foot on a rock.
As Sam lost his footing and came tumbling down to meet the hard ground, his mind sent him images of those he loved and cared for, but would never see again. His mother and the Gaffer were there, standing in the garden that Sam had nurtured and adored, surrounded by his many brothers and sisters. All were smiling and waving. Then the pictures changed to Sam’s new friends, and old, who had made up the Fellowship of the Ring. Strider; so grave but quick to laugh, Legolas; pure and beautiful, but deadly also, Gimli; as solid and sturdy as the living rock, but so moved by the love of the Elf-Queen of Lothlórien, Boromir; the brave and noble man, who had lost to his temptations but valiantly atoned his sins. Gandalf; the fatherly wizard, the healing hand, the great friend. Then to Merry and Pippin; always prepared with a joke and a laugh, but who were deadly serious about the survival of their friend and cousin. They, who, like Sam, would have quickly and easily given their lives so that Frodo could live.
Sam rolled over, a great aching in his heart and soul, and heard Frodo’s laboured breathing close by and felt nothing but sadness for his master and for those who had loved him the most. They would be heart-broken to hear of Frodo’s descent into darkness, and Sam hoped they would at least survive this war. He knew now that he would not.
Then the blade of Sting came rushing down and Samwise felt only pain, as the eagles swooped overhead.

At The Black Gate

“The Eagles are coming! The Eagles are coming!”
This was the third time that call had been raised, but the dwarf covered in disgusting Troll blood paid no heed to it. He had but one agenda on his mind, and that agenda was currently lying in his arms as he ran as fast as his short legs could carry him. He dodged to avoid the skirmishes surrounding him whilst the battle raged on and on and seemed to be never-ending. He was not totally overlooked however; two Orcs caught sight of him and sought to take him out at an easy target. They were fools. Gimli was known for being irate and ferocious even when removed from battles, but when any delay could mean the death of his young friend he was unstoppable. Gimli lay Pippin’s still form down as gently as the circumstances allowed, and quickly drew his beloved axe. Two sharp hits made a pile of meat out of the first Orc, and one hard swipe at the seconds head took him out. Not bothering to wipe the blood from his weapon or his face and torso–after all it would only mix with the troll blood–Gimli scooped up the hobbits and made for the healing tents again. He swerved to dodge an elf that fell dead into his path, giving the warrior a quick, but anxious glance to set his mind at rest. It was a stranger to him, whose death saddened Gimli, but at least he wasn’t Legolas. He had seen neither head nor tail of his elf friend, nor for that matter had he seen Aragorn or Gandalf either. He had only come across Pippin by chance; having seen the monstrous troll and having decided to take him on; Gimli had spotted a small figure stabbing his sword upwards and into the foul beast. The troll had toppled forwards onto Pippin who’d not had chance to get away, and Gimli had made it his mission to rescue the brave hobbit. Now he was running for dear life; the life of his good friend Peregrin Took.
Gimli reached the healing tents on the outer sides of the battlefield and opened his mouth wide to call for assistance.
“Help!” he cried, breathlessly, “I need some help here!” A harassed looking healer stepped outside the tent, and came to the dwarf’s aid.
“Bring him in here,” she instructed briskly and lead the way.
The tent was a nightmare of colour. The white canvas walls were stained, for the most part, with blood; the brightness of the blood contrasting with the stark whiteness of the walls. For that matter, so was the attire of the healers and when Gimli’s assistant reached down to help him lift Pippin onto a makeshift bed, he noticed that she was tainted with blood and viscera from her fingertips to her elbows.
Gimli looked around, stunned. This was madness. How anyone could be healed in such a blood-spattered place was beyond him. Everywhere showed signs of death and its stench hung in the air like a macabre perfume. He noticed a young man on the bed beside Pippin. The two must’ve been the same ages, or equivalent ages, and the man, or boy he supposed, was in a bad state. One of his arms had been badly hacked through and his face bore a cut, which ran from his right ear to his left collarbone. He would bear a scar til the end of his days. However long or short that might be.
The healer was checking Pippin for vital signs. Gimli watched in agony for a few seconds before bursting out “He is alive, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but it will be touch and go from now on in.” The healer explained so matter-of-factly that she almost sounded rude. “There’s nothing you can do master dwarf. I’d suggest returning to the battle–if such a thing might be suggested.” Gimli’s shoulder’s sagged–not at the prospect of returning to the fray of the mêlée, but at the though that pippin might not survive, and there was nothing he could do to prevent that fate. Then he steeled himself to leave the hobbit lad.
“Very well,” he said, brashly, “but you had better make sure that that hobbit lives–or you’ll not only have me to answer to, but you’ll have to face up to Aragorn and Gandalf the great wizard, and I for one would not like to have to break any bad news to either of them.” The healer heard Gimli, but chose to ignore him and focus all her attention on keeping Pippin alive. Gimli left the tent

Upon Gwaihir’s Back

Gandalf searched the ground from high up on Gwaihir the great Windlord’s back, the sight of small figures, which he knew would be hard to find. Gwaihir and two other great Eagles were circling and swooping precariously around the mountain of Doom, even as the Nazgûl made their way towards the same destination and were set upon by the Eagles of the North. Gandalf started to despair as he looked and strained his vision but could not locate his young friends. He feared the worst. The sight of Orodruin’s mighty geysers of fire and ash had been witnessed by all on the battlefields, bar the dead and dying, but the act had not signalled the allies’ victory. Rather it had confirmed Gandalf’s worst nightmares–Frodo had failed somehow. He had asked for Gwaihir’s help, but had left before anyone could read the outcome of the war on his face, and he had not told a single soul, not even Aragorn, so no-one could yet know. Gandalf still held on to a fragment, a delicate shard of hope that he might find Frodo and Samwise alive and that there was a rational explanation for the dreadful fury of the Dark Lord. But deep down in his heart of hearts, Gandalf knew he would not find such reassurance that day.
He heard a cry in the distance and knew the Ringwraiths were being overcome by the Eagles, even as Gwaihir called to him.
“There Gandalf, what do you make of that?” Gandalf gazed on as the Eagle dropped his altitude. Gandalf could make out a dim shape beneath them and saw it to be that of a hobbit, laid out of his back, with a dark mark covering his torso and the ground around him.
“That is one, but where is the other?” Gandalf asked aloud. “Gwaihir, my friend, we must pick him up. Perhaps he can shed a little light on this mystery.”
The Eagles descended and as they drew closer Gandalf felt a cold chill creep over his body as it became more and more evident that the dark patch was blood and not just dirt.
“Oh no…” he murmured as Gwaihir set Gandalf down. Gandalf fell to his knees beside the still hobbit, getting more blood on his already dirty, once white robes. “Young Samwise, what has happened to you?” The old wizard reached out his hand and brushed Sam’s cold cheek with his fingertips. Sam coughed. Gandalf started and his hand snapped back.
“Alive?” he gaped. Without stopping to think he picked the hobbit up gently and climbed, with some difficulty back aboard Gwaihir. Sam stirred as his burning side throbbed in pain from the lift and he uttered a small sound of distress.
“Shh…” Gandalf soothed tenderly. Sam opened his eyes and looked into Gandalf’s face.
“Fr…Fr…” Sam attempted to speak. He couched again, and a spot of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. “Fro…do…the Ring…taken…him…” The hobbit fell silent again as blackness took him.
“Be at peace young perian,” Gandalf whispered. He stifled a sob as he pieced together the words of master Samwise with his own suspicions.
The Ring had beaten Frodo.

The Three Hunters

Aragorn and Legolas fought side by side on the battlefield before the black gate of Mordor. The future king wielded Andúril expertly and smote his foes quickly, and sternly. The Mirkwood elf, his bow momentarily forgotten, fought with his twin Elven blades, twirling and gliding like an angel of death amongst the devils of Sauron. Both were tiring, and things were getting confusing. The Orcs, bound to Sauron and his Ring felt the absence of Saurons great power and his despair and fear. And like sheep dumbly following their Shepard, they too felt their masters’ confusion and were falling to pieces before the Western allies’ very eyes.
Legolas ducked an ill-aimed blow from a large and foul smelling Orc and swiped at its lower abdomen. A gash opened across its belly and blood gushed out. That Orc down, he turned in search of another foe, his keen elf eyes scanning the nearby fray of combat. He caught sight of someone far more pleasing to the eye than an Orc, and gave his friend Gimli a quick check over to make sure that he was not hurt. Gimli battled his way towards his two companions, a severe look on his face. Legolas called out to him. “Gimli, why so grave? Are you wounded?”
“No, my friend,” Gimli sighed, decapitated an Orc that was about to interrupt their discussion and chose to break the news to his companions. He made sure that Aragorn, who had just fought two Orcs at once and eradicated them both, was also paying attention, before he spoke. “Master Peregrin has been seriously injured.” He paused to let the message sink into his crestfallen friends. “He may not survive. I thought it best that you both know before…just in case anything happens.”
Aragorn and Legolas let the shock hit them fully, although neither said a word. Inside they boiled with rage and felt the loss of the young hobbit even before he was actually gone from their lives. They exchanged a look, and the anger won.
“Gurth gothrim lye !” Legolas snarled reverting back to his native tongue, and both he and Aragorn turned back to the mêlée with renewed fervour. Gimli joined them and the three hunters fought together once more.

Master Meriadoc

Merry was thoroughly miserable. He was stuck in Minas Tirith with nothing to do but fight away images his spiteful psyche kept throwing up of Pippin lying torn and twisted at the foot of some grotesque fiend of the enemy. Or mutilated beyond recognition with terrifying Orcs looming over him. Or kept alive, but being tortured by the sadistic enemy. Or….
Stop it!
He clutched his head with both hands so quickly and violently that he scratched his scalp and forehead and pulled out several curls. Tiny rivulets of blood trickled down his face. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the images, but the seemed to have been imprinted on his brain.
Stop it! Stop it!
He stood up in one motion. Wringing his hands he paced quickly to the window, which looked out to the West where everywhere was safe and comfortable. For now.
Merry stared out of the window, and almost felt like he could see across the vast distance to the Shire…
The scents and sights and the touch of home hit him full in the face and it overwhelmed him. He breathed in deep and caught the smells of grasses and flowers and freshly baked bread and the scent of his mother from when he was a hobbit child clinging to her skirts as she gossiped with her friends. The smell of his fathers’ pipe, and then the whiff of Old Toby as he smoked it with his cousins. Frodo. And Pippin.
Images flashed fast and vibrant. Merry and Pippin as young lads messing about in fields. Pilfering mushrooms from framer Maggot. Chasing squirrels before they knew better. Climbing trees. Splashing through streams and shallow brooks. Grazing knees. Growing older and still stealing vegetables. Going to pubs and getting tipsy. Smoking pipes together after dinner. Smiling. Laughing.
Stop it stop is stop it!
Merry felt the tears on his cheeks before he actually registered that he was crying. What if Pippin never returns? His mind asked him cruelly. Stop it. Who will you have then? Stop It! You’ll be all alone. STOP IT!
Merry sobbed aloud and brought his tightly clenched fist down hard on the window sill. A dull pain spread from the point of impact, but Merry did not notice.
“Pippin,” he gasped, “Oh Pip…”
He sank to his knees and trembled from curly head to curly toe. His body was racked with silent screams and his malicious and taunting brain sent him more sights of Pippin dead or dying. He let them into the forefront of his mind, giving up the fruitless battle of willpower. He was too weak with grief to fight himself anymore and shivered, the same feeling as the Black Breath washing over his limbs once more.

Pippin shivered restlessly in his deep sleep.

Old Friends, New Enemies

Samwise had been borne away by Gwaihir’s brother Landroval, leaving Gandalf and Gwaihir alone on Mount Doom. Alone, that is, save for the dark presence that lurked in the shadows. Gandalf knew he was there, but wanted to give him chance to offer himself rather than be dragged out. Finally he could stand it no longer.
“You needn’t hide yourself away, old friend,” he said quietly, “We both know that you have nowhere to go, even with your magical Ring of invisibility. It cannot transport you from this accursed place, nor will it make you go unnoticed if you tried to steal a ride from my companion Gwaihir, for he would feel you scrabbling about on his back or talons.” Gandalf almost thought he could see a shape moving, but of course, it was only in his imagination.
“You cannot stay here forever Frodo Baggins,” Gandalf said, using Frodo’s name for the first time that day. “Hunger and thirst will, if anything, drive you out of this place sooner or later. You may as well step out now.” Gandalf passed his white staff from one hand to the other and lent upon it once more. Here, at the very heart of Middle-Earth’s evil, he found he was wearier than he had ever been before in his lifetimes. “Why not show yourself and courteously request a flight back home from my good friend here? Otherwise you’ll basically be stuck here until the end of your days, won’t you? Even if you were to escape Mordor, I doubt you’d be able to navigate the Dead Marshes without your helpful guide to lead you.”
The shadow defiantly moved now. It slunk away from Gandalf, further round to where the Eagle was perched impatiently. “Come now, Frodo,” Gandalf coaxed him softly.
Gandalf heard the sound of a sword being unsheathed, and resisted the urge to reach for his own weapon. Then Frodo surprised both the wizard and himself by taking off the One Ring.
The first thing Gandalf noticed was how different Frodo looked. The last time he had seen the hobbit had been in Moria, just before he fell from the bridge of Khazad-dûm, and his friend had looked dirty, worn out and thin, but still like himself. Now Frodo was barely recognisable. His face was a mass of dirt, sweat, blood and tears, his neck and shoulder were crusty with blood and sores from the chain of the Ring and his clothes were filthy rags, not the finery he had set out in. His legs bore equal amounts of scars and fresh wounds and his feet were cut up and swollen. The hands that held the Ring and the sword were grazed and red. But the most striking difference was Frodo’s eyes. There was a coldness behind them that Gandalf had never seen before, a smouldering fury and hatred that made Gandalf’s blood freeze in his veins.
“Oh my dear, dear hobbit,” Gandalf murmured, “What has happened to you?” Gandalf felt new tears well in his eyes at the sight of his old companion, changed for the worst by the evil power of the Ring. “I am so sorry my friend, for letting you bear the burden of the Ring. I should never–” he broke off, and tears fell from his sorrowful blue eyes. Frodo looked on with all the compassion and empathy of a snake about to strike its victim down.
“The Ring is no longer a burden, Gandalf Greyhame.” Frodo said and Gandalf heard the change in the hobbits voice. Gone were the light, friendly tones he was so used to. These were replaced with a scorning, scathing and all-round disdainful sneering voice. “I fully embrace the power of the One Ring and so feel myself becoming stronger. I do not need your pity, nor do I crave it. It is you that I pity, for being so deluded for so long that the Ring is an element of evil. It is not so.” Frodo turned his sword in his hands. Frodo brought it up to his eye level. The blade was gaining a slightly blue tinge around the edges. Gandalf noticed as well and his breath caught in his throat, but Frodo looked unperturbed.
“They’re coming,” he muttered serenely. Gandalf looked into Frodo’s face. He showed no signs of shock or distress at the thought of Orcs making there way towards the two figures stood atop Mount Doom. “They’re coming to kill you, old man.”
“Frodo Baggins, don’t be a fool!” Gandalf shouted, suddenly angry at Frodo’s insanity. “They are coming to take the Ring from the one who keeps it from their master! They are coming to kill the one who carries it! Let it go and come back with me!”
Frodo looked up and met the wizard’s eyes. Even now he showed no signs of fear. Only arrogance and confidence.
“Frodo, you will be killed if you stay here!” Gandalf yelled at him. “You will be killed and Sauron will take back what it his and Middle-Earth will fall into ruin!” None of this was working but now that Gandalf had begun, it seemed he could not stop what he was saying. “None who tried to claim the Ring for his own has lived long thereafter! Think of Isildur–shot in the back by Orcs for taking the Ring. Boromir–died to atone for his sins when he tried to steal the Ring. He almost killed you! And Sam, are you so stubborn that you have forgotten your dearest of friends Samwise Gamgee? He’s badly hurt; he could well die. And would have sacrificed himself in a minute so that you and your quest would succeed. As would anyone fighting for the good of this world. Your cousin Meriadoc was nearly killed by the Nazgûl leader. Your cousin Peregrin is at present fighting for his life in a battle outside the Black Gate of this dreadful region. Your friends are fighting so that you can survive. So that you may live to carry out the task appointed to you by the free peoples of Middle-Earth!” Gandalf paused to recover his breath. Frodo remained very still, staring at the sword in his hand, which glowed ever brighter.
The screams of the Orcs were close.

The Cavalry Arrives

Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Éomer flew on the backs of Eagles in the direction of Mordor, surrounded for the most part by a selection of warriors of Elves and Men riding Gwaihir’s companions. Landroval had landed on the battlefield, wounded by a Ringwraiths winged steed on his journey out of Mordor. His wing was broken and his breathing strenuous. Legolas had lade his way to the great bird and had discovered the body of Samwise. The hobbit had been taken to the same healing tent as his kin and now beside Pippin as healers attempted to save their lives. Aragorn had left Halbarad of the Rangers in control of the dwindling battle and had decided to fly to Mordor to Gandalf’s aid.
The vicious mountain drew closer.
Legolas and his Elven folk looked with their superior eyesight and noticed the white figure of Gandalf stood seemingly alone but for Gwaihir who was nursing a cut on his leg. Orcs were attacking in droves and Gandalf was losing.
“Quickly now!” Aragorn yelled, “We must help Gandalf!”
The Eagles landed as swiftly as they could; only allowing a few seconds for their riders to dismount before taken to the air again to aid the battle from an aerial position. The three hunters immediately ran to Gandalf’s side. He had a deep gash on his forehead and one of his arm dripped blood. He was parrying blow after blow from the Orcs, being too overwhelmed to do anything but defend himself. Aragorn strode forward and killed several Orcs before they even knew her were there. Legolas shot many arrows before he was close enough to fight with his Elven blades. Gimli stomped towards Gandalf, hacking down any enemy that dared stand in his way. Gandalf looked around quickly at the cavalry springing into action against Sauron’s Orcs.
When the Orcs had come Frodo had slipped the Ring back onto his finger and disappeared. Now Gandalf cast his gaze hither and thither to try and locate the hobbit. For a few moments, the wizard had believed he was getting through to his friend–but that was probably his fancy conjuring up images of what he wanted to see.
“Gandalf?” Aragorn called as he hewed off the head of a nearby Orc. “Where is Frodo?” Gandalf hesitated.
“He’s…oh, he’s taken the Ring.” Gandalf cried back despondently. Aragorn’s face fell, but he did not stray from his position in the thick of the action. “He’s vanished with the Ring.”
At that moment Gandalf felt a blow to his side, and his legs buckled. His knees hit the ground and a sharp pain burst in his torso. He dropped Glamdring and gripped the ache with his hand and felt warm, gooey blood seep through his fingers. There was no Orc close enough to have struck him and Gandalf knew that Frodo must have been the culprit. The invisible blade flashed once more and Gandalf received a matching wound on his other side. This one was much deeper and blood gushed out freely. By now he looked more like Gandalf the Red, not White. He tried to stand, but even leaning on his staff didn’t help him.
“Gandalf!” Aragorn cried in agony for his friend. Gandalf heard Frodo’s breathing next to his head, almost felt the warm breath on his neck.
Without warning, Gandalf suddenly stuck out wildly with his staff. He connected with something solid and fell back. The solid nothing fell, too, and the Ring slid off his finger and Frodo reappeared. Gandalf pushed pity and guilt to the back off his mind and hauled himself up. Frodo, finally showing something other than confidence in his eyes, backed away, frightened. Gandalf hardened his heart and struck again with his staff. Frodo was too quick for him and dodging the blow, got to his feet again. Before he could put the Ring on again, Gandalf aimed another hit at the hobbits upper body. He struck him square in the chest and Frodo toppled backwards. His foot caught on a rock and he fell onto his back again. He didn’t attempt to stand; instead he just scuttled backwards as quickly as he could. Gandalf followed, tears pouring from his eyes, blood from his sides and a voice screaming at him in his head to dispose of the threat of the enemy. Frodo got closer to the Crack of Doom.
Gandalf fought against the voices inside him.
“Frodo, my lad, my friend,” he said loud and clear. “Please give up the Ring. I beg of you.” Frodo looked up, a wild expression on his face
“NO!” he screamed and stood up shakily. Gandalf struck out with lightning speed and his staff’s aim was true. Frodo wobbled and tried to save himself. He realised his fight was all in vain and snapped his head up to meet Gandalf’s eye. Gandalf refused to break his stare as his old and dear friend slipped and slithered all the way down into the Crack of Doom. Then he collapsed and gladly let the enveloping blackness take him.