Frodo woke slowly.

Too slowly.

He knew immediately that he had been drugged, but what should have been icy alarm at the realization felt more like lukewarm fear. He tried to bolt upright, but his weakened muscles spasmed ineffectually. A harsh breath rasped over his numb lips. His thoughts slipped and warped within his mind, making it difficult to get a proper grip on the situation—and, more importantly, on his magic. True panic had just begun to rise when a hand was laid upon his brow.

Frodo realized several things at once. One, he wasn't alone. The twice-born elf was near him, his soul glowing with warmth and familiarity like a spiritual radiator.

(In his hazy state, Frodo couldn't quite remember his name. It started with a G, he was sure. Gold… Golf… Golfhandle? No, that was absurd. What kind of elf would have 'golf' in his name?)

Two, the Ring was a vague, active presence in the back of his mind, but not singing.

Three, his soul was utterly exposed.

"Be at ease," said the twice-born in a soothing murmur. "You are safe and among friends in the house of Elrond Peredhel."

Frodo would later swear that the drugs were the only reason he sank obediently back into peaceful oblivion.

Frodo woke suddenly, and it was a profound relief. His memories came back in a rush.

Waking, screaming, thrashing against hands that tried to hold him down as a blade dug into his shoulder and dark magic pierced his core with chilling claws.

(Cold cold cold, make it stop, this isn't right this isn't right MAKEITSTOP.)

Bright spirits all around him, reaching out for him, and he wanted them to go away, he wanted everything to GO AWAY. The spirits were thrown back with startled cries as he lay screaming in agony to the uncaring gods.

Then the brightest spirit, undaunted, reached out and touched his forehead. Bitterness covered his tongue. 'Sleep, kinsman,' the brightest commanded in an unyielding voice.

He slept

"Gods be damned," Frodo rasped, raising his hands to cover his eyes. His shoulder ached badly at the movement.

Someone chuckled, and Frodo quite suddenly realized that the twice-born was still near him—and his soul was still exposed. He hastily veiled himself, then added another layer, then a third just to be safe. The chuckling stopped abruptly.

"Why do you hide?" Glorfindel asked in a voice that was probably intended to be non-threatening. A chair creaked quietly in protest of shifting weight.

Frodo moved his hands from his face and forced his heavy eyelids up. The ceiling swam before him for a few moments. When it steadied, he turned his head to the side and looked at the twice-born.

Glorfindel was sitting next to Frodo's bed, a book open across his lap. His blue eyes watched the not-a-hobbit with a piercing intensity. Frodo suspected that he had been waiting by his sickbed the entire time.

"Why not?" Frodo countered, the rasp in his voice smoothing down somewhat.

The sharp look became sharper. "You are not what you seem."

Frodo snorted and set about levering himself upright. "You're hardly the first to tell me that. Besides, people seldom are. If someone is exactly what they seem, they're not a person, they're a caricature."

Glorfindel stood, setting aside his book, and came over to help Frodo upright. To the hobbit's infinite chagrin, the assistance was necessary. It was only when he was propped against a veritable mountain of pillows that Glorfindel returned to his seat and continued his interrogation.

(And it was an interrogation, no matter what polite tone he used. Frodo would know, having been interrogated hundreds of times.)

"You do not trust me," the elf said, stating the obvious. His head canted slightly to the side, a glimmer of true confusion in his expression. "Why?"

"Why should I?" Frodo countered bitingly, narrowing his eyes. The Ring warmed slightly against his chest, as if in agreement. Bewilderment twisted the lines of Glorfindel's face, along with surpise, but before he could do much more than open his mouth to respond Frodo added: "and if your reason is anything along the lines of 'trust me because I have pointy ears,' I swear I will punch you in your perfect goddamn nose!"

Glorfindel reared back slightly, Frodo's vehemence taking him by surprise. Then his lips curved into an amused smile. He relaxed, leaning his weight to one side and crossing his legs. "What exactly are you, Frodo Baggins?" he asked after a long pause. "Your soul is twice-born, but to my knowledge I am the only one sent back since Beren and Lúthien."

"Why do you think you deserve to know?" asked Frodo, crossing his arms over his bandaged chest.

"We are kinsmen in this land," the elf said easily. "Kinsmen and allies against the darkness. Is that not enough for a bond of mutual trust?"

Frodo snorted. "No."

Glorfindel switched tactics. "Are you a Maia, or Maia-born?" he asked. "I saw your feat at the ford. No mere mortal can call upon that manner of magic."

"No. If you continue to guess, we'll be here all day," Frodo warned with a grin that was nearly a snarl. "You don't have the imagination to unravel me, elf."

Luckily, at that moment the door opened.

Unluckily, it opened to admit another elf.

Frodo had only been awake for a few minutes and already he was tired of all these damned immortals. The Ring woke a tiny bit, just enough to whisper amusedly what if you had been reborn as an elf?

Frodo shuddered. Gods, don't even say things like that, he answered.

It didn't take much to guess who the new elf was: Elrond, Lord of Imladris. Frodo met his warm, reserved grey eyes with his own cool, irritated blue. "Lord Elrond, I presume," he said.

The elf lord inclined his head as he walked up to the bed. "That I am, Frodo Baggins. I am glad to see you awake and lucid, though I wish we had met under better circumstances." He reached for the bandages on Frodo's chest and it took every bit of willpower the hobbit possessed not to smack his hands away like a petulant two-year-old.

"Yes, having the soul of a Dark Lord around one's neck tends to sour one's day. Or days, as the case may be," he drawled sarcastically.

Lord Elrond looked at him sharply before returning to his task of unwinding the bandages. "That is true," he said noncommittally.

Frodo flinched, drawing in a hissing breath as the wound on his shoulder was exposed to the open air. Physically, it was healing well, but the stench of festering darkness lingered in ways that Frodo couldn't ignore. He probed it, tentatively, with his magic. It would fade in time. There were a few rituals he knew that could speed the process as well.

The elves both startled when Frodo flooded his shoulder with light-magic, Elrond's hand drawing back from his skin in a jerky movement. Frodo smirked faintly in vindictive satisfaction, flaring his magic again just to make them flinch. It was obvious that his secret had been almost completely blown, at least to these two. They might as well get used to it sooner rather than later.

"It is healing well." Elrond spoke as if nothing had happened and began to re-wrap Frodo's shoulder. "Is there any lingering pain?"

"An ache, no more," he responded truthfully.

"You should rest," the elf lord said, gesturing for Glorfindel to rise. "It is nearly supper. I will send someone with food for you, but conversations may be had tomorrow."

Frodo snorted softly and dipped his head in an acknowledgment that was nearly mocking but close enough to pass for polite. "As you say, oh healer."

Frodo rose from his bed at midnight and, veiling himself in shadows and moonlight, eased the glass panes from the window and slipped out into the chilly night. He breathed deeply, reaching out with ethereal, searching tendrils of magic. There. He stole silently along the covered walkways and through the gardens, ascended a staircase, and stopped in a stone rotunda set upon a high cliff.

The moon was high and full in the star-speckled sky above. He could hear elves below, dancing in the glades and singing hymns to Elbereth Gilthoniel. Elbereth, he thought with a snort. Another uncaring goddess in a long line of many. He circled the stone table set in the center of the rotunda, periodically pausing to trace runes into the surface with one finger. These traced runes began to glow softly with golden sunlight.

"Union of Sun, Moon, and Stars," he sang in a whisper, pausing to trace similar veiling runes along the outer edge, so that the light would not attract an unwanted audience. "I call the Holy Light of All to my service in banishing Darkness." He climbed onto the table and shed his nightshirt and the dormant Ring, casting both carelessly to the side. Slowly, he unwound the bandages and laid them to the side as well, until his Darkened shoulder was completely exposed.

Frodo dragged one hand over the runes, picking up magic until his palm glowed golden. He pressed his hand over the stab wound, then over his chest, leaving the golden glow on his skin. The festering Darkness hissed and recoiled, anchoring deeper into his flesh, and he winced. Then, the final touch: he split the skin of his forearm with a tiny spell, collecting the drops of blood that welled up, and painted a spiral of blood runes around the stab wound.

PURIFY - LIGHT - ETERNITY - SACRIFICE - POWER - DEATH

"Union of Sun, Moon, and Stars," he sang again, outright, laying back on the table and closing his eyes. "I call the Holy Light of All to my service in banishing Darkness. My sacrifice was declared sufficient, and by rights I demand this Cleansing. So may it be."

The runes flared until their light rivaled the midday sun and it seemed as if the moon and stars also shone with greater brilliance. Pure, holy light seeped into his shoulder. The Darkness screamed, tearing into him, but Frodo gritted his teeth and rebuffed it, forcing it to stay in the Cleansing light.

The Darkness began to shrivel and fade. Frodo held the enchantment until his muscles trembled and he was coated in sweat. When he finally released it with an explosive exhale, he was panting and light-headed—but the darkness was much less. He sat up, bracing one hand against his aching forehead. The runes and their light faded into nothingness, leaving no trace of the ritual behind.

"What are you?"

Frodo's head snapped up at the unexpected voice. His eyes promptly rolled back in his head as he realized Glorfindel must have followed him—may, perhaps, have even been keeping watch for just this sort of thing.

"Merlin dammit," he sighed in English. "I'm too tired for this." So, he completely ignored the aghast elf, instead gingerly easing himself off the table. His fingers trembled as he re-wrapped the wound. He picked up the Ring and nightshirt but didn't bother to put the latter back on his sweaty, sun-hot skin.

Glorfindel, perennial do-gooder that he was, fell into step beside Frodo and physically supported him as he slowly and exhaustedly began the journey back to his room. The elf's silence hung with the weight of the moon and grew only heavier with each moment that passed.

Finally, Frodo exhaled sharply in frustration and spoke. "What you witnessed was a Holy Cleansing ritual, Mr. Can't-Mind-My-Own-Goddamned-Business," he snapped. "Now, I'm extremely tired from that particularly difficult bit of incantation so if you'd like to keep your judgemental silence to yourself and leave me to shamble along in peace I would thank you for it!"

That was a bit harsh, even for Frodo. Well, a bit harsh for things Frodo allowed himself to say out loud. It was rather mild compared to his internal diatribes.

The large elfen hand supporting his left side relaxed slightly. "Forgive me, Mr. Baggins," Glorfindel said, dipping his head contritely. "I forgot myself."

Much to Frodo's irritation, he was leaning heavily into Glorfindel by the time they reached the healing halls. "This doesn't change anything," he mumbled grumpily as the elf helped (read: lifted him bodily) him up onto the bed. Conscious thought had already begun to fade, even before his head hit the pillow

Glorfindel laughed softly, drawing the covers up and over the half-asleep hobbit. "Of course not."

This time, Frodo woke to Gandalf sitting by his bed.

It was not a good way to wake up.

"So, you finally decided to show up," Frodo said, forcing himself upright. His bare skin glimmered slightly in the rich morning light—a visible remnant of last night's Cleansing.

"I was held captive," Gandalf replied, unperturbed by Frodo's tone as he puffed away at his pipe.

"You!" Frodo exclaimed. There was a small, vindictively gleeful part of him that wanted to laugh. Not so clever, are you? it said. The Ring roused slightly in agreement.

But Frodo also knew the utter gravity of such a thing, and it was that gravity that took precedence, no matter how much he loathed Gandalf's mysterious and superior attitudes. "Then darkness is truly rising, and faster than any of us are prepared for," he murmured, bowing his head slightly. He knew it had to happen soon—after all, he had been born into the body of a Hobbit, not an Elf.

Gandalf offered him a sober look and nodded solemnly. In that moment, even the unspoken illusions between them fell away. "Yes. But you've always known, have you not? You've always known you have a role to play in this."

Frodo laughed once, mirthlessly, and his eyes darkened. "'A role,' yes, if you wish to put it mildly. Perhaps 'the role' would be a better descriptor."

Gandalf's expression became pained. "You are—ah. I see now what was hidden from me, if only by my own willful blindness." He bowed his head, as if in grief.

Frodo smiled grimly. "I know the ways of the gods," he said, gesturing carelessly to the heavens. "They warned you about me, didn't they, o Spirit? They warned you and yet it still took this long for you to connect the dots." He laughed once, mockingly.

"I would not say they warned me about you so much and they warned me for you, dear Frodo," Gandalf murmured, eyes full of pity. "And I am... so sorry, truly."

Frodo decided he'd had enough of pity. "Irrelevant," he said, coldly. "We are better off considering how to banish this darkness than prying into—well."

Gandalf looked at him silently for a long moment, his expression utterly inscrutable. "There is to be a Council," he said finally. "As soon as you are well."

"Today," Frodo said. "I am well enough."

A hint of amusement glimmered in Gandalf's eyes. "That is for Lord Elrond to decide, I am afraid. He has tended to you for many long days." He didn't miss it when Frodo's lip curled slightly at the mention of the elf lord. "You will have to put your dislike of the Eldar to the side if this is to work," he said mildly. "I know you have never liked them, and perhaps for good reason, but they are our allies against the darkness."

Frodo's expression twisted further at Gandalf's echoing of Glorfindel's words, but he waved a dismissive hand. "I can separate my dislike from my dealings when necessary, have no fear," he said.

Gandalf hummed doubtfully.

The worst thing about Rivendell, Frodo decided, was how damn happy everything always felt. It was no natural thing, no aura created merely by good food and good friends. No, it was wholly magical. Good magic, but magic nonetheless, and Frodo, ever inclined toward gravity and cynicism, found it oppressive.

The best thing about Rivendell, he decided shortly after enduring a grand feast (in his honor, damn them), was Bilbo. In the chaos and pain of that last few years, he had quite forgotten that the old hobbit was likely still alive. Thus, Frodo was more than pleased to find him in the Hall of Fire, even if he had to stay most of the evening (enduring the elves) to hear Bilbo's poem.

He was even more pleased when they departed.

They spent a long time together in Bilbo's room, speaking about everything and nothing. Frodo relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time in a long time. The pressure of his destiny was lifted, if only for a short while.

At last there came a knock on the door, and Sam rather politely implied that Frodo should be resting, as the Council was early tomorrow. Frodo sighed, rising and embracing Bilbo once more before retiring to bed.

Frodo lended half an ear to the Council, paying the most attention to Gloín's account of Sauron's messenger. He kept up an impassive, considering mask, using centuries of experience to melt seamlessly into the background. He would have used a bit of magic—just a harmless cantrip, really—to make that a compulsion, but with the elves around he couldn't risk it. Such a thing would probably attract more attention than it was worth.

His attention was very quickly recaptured when Bilbo spoke up, hours into the Council, and offered to take the Ring. Frodo exhaled silently, frustrated and exasperated in equal parts by his uncle's noble offer, and massaged the bridge of his nose. Time to oh-so-selflessly volunteer myself, he thought with a bitter mental sneer as Gandalf swiftly dissuaded Bilbo. The Ring woke at this, flaring to life, and beckoned him softly into his own mind. He hesitated only briefly before following.

This time they were seated in the Gryffindor common room, facing each other with a roaring fireplace to the side. The Ring pressed the tips of Its long, sharp-nailed fingers together and offered him a strangely frank look. You needn't volunteer, you know, It said. You are under no obligation to clean up the messes of the Elves and the Ainur.

Frodo, again in his original skin, laughed once. With a wave of his hand, he summoned a glass of Firewhisky and knocked it back in one go. Needn't? he said with a grin full of fire. On the contrary, I am the most needed. The only needed, perhaps. I am the fulcrum upon which the fate of this world hinges. Needn't? Ha!

The Ring nodded, a cup of tea (of all things!) appearing in Its hand. That is what you are, It said pointedly, but I speak of what you are obligated to do. You certainly owe these fools nothing, least of all your life. They created this mess themselves.

Frodo conceded the point with a slight incline of his head. Be that as it may, I am the only one qualified to do this, he pointed out. Besides, I'm here and prepared. Better I than some other poor sod.

The Ring gave him another look. Is it better, really? Why should you suffer again, after everything you've already endured?

Frodo snorted, refilling his glass and knocking back the Firewhiskey in another vicious motion. And what do you propose I do instead? he jeered. Sit around twiddling my thumbs? Make nice with the Elves? Maybe hurl myself into the Bruinen and end it all?

No, It said, unbothered by his mockery, I propose you either leave me to the others or hand yourself over. My servants could not hurt you even if they wanted to, and once I am returned to my full self I guarantee you a swift and painless—permanent—death.

Frodo paused and stared at the Ring for a long moment. This is a piss-poor attempt at manipulation, he said finally, especially for you.

The Ring smiled, sharp canines glinting in the flickering firelight. Would you believe me if I said it was not manipulation, but my genuine opinion?

He considered this. Strangely, I would believe you. But I still wouldn't do it.

Well then, It sighed, go on. Be noble and self-sacrificing, but don't say I didn't try to dissuade you.

Frodo smirked and inclined his head. Acknowledged and ignored, he snarked.

"I will take the Ring," Frodo said quietly, shaking free of the vision. The Council was utterly silent, making his quiet declaration echo about the space as though he had shouted it at the top of his lungs. "I will bear this burden."

Elrond's eyes flicked to him, piercing in their intensity; Frodo met it head-on, raising his chin higher. "I think this task is appointed to you, Frodo Baggins," he said at length. "A heavy burden indeed. Too heavy for me to lay on any person." His eyes gleamed with something Frodo couldn't quite decipher. "But if you take it freely, I will say that your choice is right—and that your seat may rightfully be among the Elf-friends of old."

Something hot and resentful bubbled up in Frodo's chest, nearly escaping him in the form of a derisive scoff. But he suppressed it, shoved it down and hid it, and instead dipped his head in silent acknowledgment. Deep inside, where even the Ring could not hear, he seethed with loathing. Elf-friend, elf-friend, as if I would want—!

Sam, like a grand cosmic joke, chose that exact moment to pipe up from his corner. "But you won't send him off alone surely, Master?" he cried, leaping up. Frodo sighed and rubbed at his forehead, both relieved and exasperated by his friend's interjection.

"No indeed!" said Elrond. "You at least shall go with him. It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not."

"Oh you've done it now, Samwise Gamgee," Frodo murmured with grim humor.

Sam echoed the sentiment.

It was shortly clear that it would be weeks before they could leave. Frodo stole away, using skills gained over hundreds of lifetimes to fade from the group's attention and retreat deep into the forests that surrounded Rivendell. The aura of oppressive cheer lessened greatly with distance; he didn't stop walking until he could breathe freely. "Fuck," he wheezed, sinking to his knees and bracing himself against the thick trunk of a tree. Black despair rolled over him in wave after wave, until he was trembling and fighting back tears.

(trembling for the first time in a long time, for the first time in so long, and he hated it, he hated himself, he hated this weakness, but most of all he hated the gods that had left him to this—!)

"Again and again and again!" he whispered, slamming his fist into the tree. The skin over his knuckles split under the force of his strike; blood oozed over his pale fingers in thick crimson streaks. He leaned forward, ignoring the blood and the pain, and pressed his forehead against the rough bark. This world was too close, too familiar. Some worlds were easier, being so alien that he could almost ignore his eternal fate, lose himself in novelty.

But not this one.

"And I'm always the stupid sacrificial lamb. Can't you just let me fucking die?" He pressed his damaged fist harder against the bark, using the pain, but it wasn't enough to stop the enraged, helpless sob that escaped him.

No amount of pain could stop the ones that followed either.

Gandalf puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, gazing at Frodo through considering, half-lidded grey eyes. Frodo tried not to snarl like a feral beast beneath the scrutiny. "Well now, my boy," said the Wizard, "We've nearly come to a consensus on the members of the Fellowship, but I thought it best to consult you first."

"How thoughtful of you," Frodo drawled sarcastically, leaning his elbows against the armrests of the over-large chair and steepling his fingers together. It had been a week since the Council. He didn't bother to curb his tongue, nor coat it in honey, since he and Gandalf were alone. "Go on then. Who are these companions you High Lords have oh-so-carefully chosen to accompany lowly, helpless little me, hmm?"

"Sam you know," said he. "Aragorn will accompany you until he must turn for Gondor, along with Boromir, and together you four shall represent the Secondborn." Frodo nodded, relaxing a bit. He liked Aragon and suspected he could get on with Boromir well enough. Sam was… well, Sam. "For the dwarves, Gimli son of Gloin and Borbur son of Bombur." Here Frodo made a deep, appreciative sound in the back of his throat. He liked both, though their acquaintance was brief. Gandalf continued, "For the elves," (the hobbit curled his lip) "Legolas Thranduilion and Lord Glorfin—"

"NO!"

The fireplace roared with Frodo's shout, tongues of flame licking outward in wild conflagration. Gandalf jumped, moving quickly to put out the fire that had mysteriously started in his long white beard.

"Frodo Baggins!" he thundered, matching the hobbit's glare. The shadows in the corners of the room deepened in response to his ire, "There is no need to throw a tantrum simply because you do not care for Lord Glorfindel!"

Frodo seethed, teeth bared and eyebrows drawn together. "I refuse—" he started.

"Lord Glorfindel is, at the least, a valuable and skilled ally," Gandalf said, cutting him off. "Put aside your pride and loathing for a moment and think!"

Frodo growled wordlessly, digging his fingers into the armchair until the fine upholstery split beneath his nails. He trembled with the effort of controlling his rage (and betrayal, he felt betrayal, why? Betrayal only came when you trusted and Frodo did not trust) until finally the flames began to die, leaving the stone around the fireplace scorched black. "And what of Merry and Pippin," he managed to bite out. "I would rather they than…"

Gandalf still looked vaguely irritated, a good bit of his beard blackened and patchy. "They are returning to the Shire to prepare your people for the possibility of war," said he. "We would not leave the Shire defenseless. Moreover, Pippin has yet to reach his majority, and the elves are dead-set against sending a child into war."

The hot rage in Frodo's heart subsided, icing back over into cold bitterness. He settled down into the chair, steepling his fingers again, and considered Gandalf's words for a time. "Very well," he said at length, when the fireplace had long died into smoldering embers. His voice was smooth and dark, carrying an undercurrent that set Gandalf ill at ease. "There will be consequences, you understand."

Gandalf nodded slowly. "Ah, but good or ill?" he asked rhetorically. "I dare say even you cannot know."

They set out in the night, once all the scouts had returned and all the fine details been settled. It was by that time nearly January. Merry and Pippin had (reluctantly and with great effort on Frodo's part) set out for the Shire a month before, intent on warning and preparing their people. "Nine walkers against nine riders," Elrond said as they departed. And one dark lord on a string, Frodo added in his head with a quiet snort. The Ring did the mental equivalent of rolling Its eyes.

I should give you a proper name, Frodo mused a few days later as the Fellowship walked… and walked… and walked some more. The Ring awoke from the dim, trance-like state Frodo had begin to refer to as 'sleep' in his head.

A name? It asked, incredulous at the suggestion. I have a name. And it was not sleep, to correct your misapprehension.

It's sleep-like enough to be called sleep, Frodo countered as he scrambled over a log, close on Strider's heels. But that's not the point. You're not quite Sauron, especially not now. You've become your own person, shaped separately by your own experiences, and therefore you need a name. Besides, I don't want to call you "the Ring" forever, not when we converse regularly. It's weird.

The Ring was silent for a long time, but it was a deep, thoughtful kind of silence. It spoke again just before dawn as the Fellowship made camp. My name is not Sauron, It said, softly. I have never truthfully referred to myself as such, though my followers often use that name for effect.

And this… Frodo hadn't known, hadn't a clue, and he couldn't help but ask the obvious question. What was your name, then?

Another moment of silence, rich with a dozen mingled emotions (and since when did It have such a depth of feeling? Was this Frodo's influence at work?), then, so softly he almost missed it: Mairon. My name is Mairon.

Frodo smiled a bit, shifting on his bedroll, and settled in to sleep. Mairon it is.

It was snowing, which was, apparently, Not a Good Thing.

Gandalf and Strider and Glorfindel had their heads bent together as they bickered. Frodo watched them through half-lidded eyes as the rest of the Fellowship stood and shivered around him. Glorfindel's golden hair whipped about wildly in the freezing, howling winds, flecked with white snow, and Frodo followed the motions in a thoughtful trance.

Finally, Strider threw his hands up with an exasperated noise and a shake of his head. "Onward then," said he. "We shall risk it."

Glorfindel glanced over in time to catch Frodo's considering gaze. An unreadable expression crossed his face before he turned away. What did you see in my eyes, elf-Lord? Frodo mused as they trekked deeper into the hostile, unnatural storm. Contempt? Hate? The promise of future retribution?

He probably saw an upstart hobbit with strange powers and an inexplicable understanding of the world glaring at him, Mairon snarked. The cold made It grumpy, much to It's bearer's amusement. I am a spirit of fire and earth, conceived in the heart of an active volcano! Of course I loathe the cold! It huffed, catching Frodo's stray thought.

There there, Frodo drawled back. You'll be plenty warm by the end of our journey.

If Mairon'd had a face, its expression would have been twisted in offense.

The Redhorn Gate was bad, even for Frodo.

He debated with himself (and Mairon, sometimes) about whether or not to reveal the full extent of his ability to the Fellowship as they struggled upward, wind howling around them like a living thing, cutting through their clothing as if they were bare. Gandalf and Glorfindel already knew about his strange abilities, and both Sam and Strider suspected, but what of the others? Legolas would likely take it well, but the dwarves might not, and Boromir least of all. For all that he got along with the Man (it took only a little knowhow to soothe his wounded pride, play up to his civic conscience, convince him Frodo was a friend) he likely wouldn't take well to 'another' Wizard, especially not since Frodo was carrying Mairon.

He was still undecided, even half-frozen in the snow, when the decision was made for him as they huddled around the pathetic excuse for a fire.

To Moria, secrets intact, it was.

[Edit] Here's a brief Q&A because I'm a tiny bit irked

Q: Why is Frodo such a dick to the elves?

A: the elves tend to be rather condescending even at the best of times, mostly because their lives are, literally, eternal. Most middle-earth elves are thousands of years old. Frodo, however, is not only far, far older than any elf (and most Ainur) but far more experienced. There are no peaceful gaps in Frodo's lives. He's been living every variety of existence for millennia without an end in sight. Even the slightest hint of condescension from beings who should, by all rights, understand his pain enrages him. You'll notice that he loves his hobbitish cousins/friends/uncle and gets along well with both men and dwarves, even if he is consistently grumpy.

Q: Why is Frodo always so angry?

A: If you've ever been depressed and suicidal (like I am, which is where this characterization comes from), you'll have some idea of why Frodo is like this. Imagine being in emotional (and, occasionally, physical) agony. Imagine being in agony at all times. Now, imagine that you literally cannot end that agony in any way. Even if you kill yourself, it'll just start over. Now, imagine that not only are you in agony all the time, but you are expected to sacrifice yourself over and over and over. It's so hard not to hate the world for what we experience in a single lifetime, much less eternity!

Q: You ruined Harry! Why not just make an OC if you want to write Emo angst?

A: ? You have a remarkably one-dimensional view of Harry-canonically-angsty-Potter if you don't think literal millennia of torment wouldn't realistically turn him into a grumpy, touchy cynic. I specifically have little bits of "Harry" pop up all over the place—the way he volunteers to be the sacrifice every damn time, the way he still helps where he can, the way he never even considers leaving others to bear the burden he's called upon to bear. For God's sake, go read Bilbo's description of Frodo in the first chapter and tell me that's not his 'original' Harry-personality shining through.