LotR Vore- Rest for the Weary

Frodo shifted to and fro, turning on his side and shifting his arms under his head as he struggled to find a comfortable position to rest on the hard, uneven ground. It was not long before he gave it up, flopping onto his back and grudgingly peeking up at the dark sky from under lowered eyelids. The Ring, where it lay on his chest, felt as though it were boring a hole through his chest and into his heart; his dirty fingers grasped it, and he wished that he could be rid of it- or rather, be rid of its heavy burden.

Sitting up and looking around for Sam and Smeagol, Frodo frantically lurched to his feet when he noticed their absence before remembering Sam's conversation before they left.

"Mr. Frodo, are you awake?" Sam asked quietly, kneeling down beside the Ring-bearer where he lay beside the mountainside. Frodo did not answer, but instead turned his head to look at his friend. "Good. Listen, I'm going into the forest to look for herbs and plants I can recognise are good for the eating." Frodo saw him glance towards the pack the elves of Lothlorien had given them filled with lembas-bread, and saw there was concern in his eyes. "Now I don't want you to worry, but we're running low on food, and if we're going to be crossing over soon I think we need to hold on to all we can get."

Frodo had glanced at the position of the sun in the sky, frowning. "You let me oversleep, Sam. It's my turn to take watch. Why don't I go for provisions?"

"No offense, Mr. Frodo," Sam had laughed, "but while you are a hobbit, you are a terrible farmer. You would come back with engroot and bulap berries." Frodo supposed that meant something to Sam. "No, I'll go. And I'm taking Stinker- or Slinker, whichever you may be at the moment," he mumbled, casting a sour eye at Gollum, "with me."

"Smeagol wants to stay with the Master!" he objected. "Smeagol doesn't like fat, nasty hobbit."

"Quiet, you!" Sam shouted curtly. He'd looked back at Frodo and hidden away his pity and worry for his friend, with his baggy eyes and hollow cheeks; he'd put on a mask of a smile and said, "When I come back, I'll put together the best stew-on-the-go you've ever had."

In the present, Frodo wished Sam would come back. It was a very lonesome place, the foul odour of the nearby Minas Morgul seeming to permeate the air and infiltrate his lungs and the cries like shriveled corn-husks of nearby animals sent chills down his spine.

For a moment, Frodo leaned against rock and listened to the pop and gurgle of a stream not too far away. As he listened to it, his mouth grew drier and his throat ached. He thought of Faramir's warning to not drink water running from Minas Morgul; but this seemed to be going the opposite way.

After a few miserable moments, Frodo found his ache for water unbearable. As he pushed himself to his feet, he was overcome with the desire to be rid of the Ring, if only for a moment.

"It... probably would not be a problem, if I were to leave it here with our things," Frodo thought wearily, with a lethargic mind that was not keen as was normal as usual. "Gollum is with Sam, and I'll put it back on before a minute is up."

Slowly grasping the chain around his neck and lifting it over his head, he stared at the Ring as it dangled in the air, fixated on the subtle beauty of the accursed thing; then, suddenly, he threw it down into the open pack and closed the flap with a toss of his foot.

Stumbling over to the stream, Frodo dropped to his knees, eying the slightly murky water with disdain. But thirst overcame suspicion, and cupping his hands together his lowered his face to the water and brought a handful to his lips. Cold water filled his mouth, and it chilled him as it went down. Water dribbled down his chin as he stared at his reflection in the water- crusty, cracked lips, dirty face, split nose, before he submerged his face.

The cold woke him, and the water refreshed him, even if only in miniscule amounts. Unfolding his legs from under him and slipping his aching feet into the water, he leaned back and stared at the sky. That's when he heard it.

With a cry like a flock of dying birds, the beast revealed its presence to Frodo. Freezing in terror, his eyes wide and mouth suddenly dry as sand again, he ever so slowly turned his head to where the previously silent fell beast stood.

Long black wings folded against its back, pupils slits, the beast of the Nazgul stood in all its terrifying might behind the hobbit. At the angle of its head, and with the elven cloak, Frodo wasn't sure that it had seen him. Then it moved closer, and there was no doubt.

Scrambling to his feet, stumbling in a blind panic, Frodo hoarsely whispered, "Sam..." He opened his mouth to cry louder, then stopped. If the plump hobbit came to his "rescue", surely they would both die. The Fellowship would fail and Sauron would eventually come by the Ring. Calling for help would be both selfish and idiotic.

Unsheathing Sting, Frodo struck a defensive pose and stood, waiting for the inevitable strike. When it came, still he was not prepared. Bilbo's old blade whistled harmlessly by the fell's nose as it rushed him. The beast ran beyond him, and whirling around to face it Frodo was met with a heavy paw with sharp talons to his chest. It pushed him down to the ground, and a quarter of its weight was now atop the hobbit.

Frodo gasped, his chest burning as the beast bore down on him, and he could not manage a breath; and Sting and fallen from his hand, only inches out of reach.

A slimy tongue unfurled from the fellbeast's cavernous maw. Frodo gagged as the putrid breath washed over him, and the hot muscle slid over his face and down his neck, tasting him. He shuddered, and struggled with renewed vigor, for now he saw that at the rate this was going, his fate would be met within the dark belly of one of Sauron's creatures.

"No, no, no..." he cried breathlessly, nearly pulling his right arm out of its socket groping for his sword. Nearly grasping the pommel, the beast's tail suddenly swooped down on him as the claw with lifted. It wound 'round and 'round him, crushing him once again in a tight hold. Its teeth clamped down on his cloak and tore it from his shoulders, leaving a few bloody lines behind where the teeth had scraped him. Lifting him up by his legs, his shoulder and head roughly shoved into the ground, the creature drew his bare feet into its mouth with it's long tongue and began lowering his mouth over his calves.

"NO!" Frodo struggled and kicked, feeling sharp teeth bite into his legs. "I won't... I won't die like this! I'm not a morsel of bread, to be swallowed down at will!" With that his hand finally came near enough the sword to grasp the hilt, and with all the strength he could muster he swung it at the fellbeast's neck.

The wound inflicted was not deep enough to end the monster, but it was enough to startle it into releasing Frodo. The hobbit dropped to the ground as it roared in anger, but before he could fully stand to run the tail again swung at him, this time knocking him on his back facing the beast. He caught a terrifying glimpse of the dark red muscles of its throat as it lowered its face to his, bellowing a shrill cry near enough to him it blew the wet strands of curly hair from Frodo's forehead. His breath caught; the sword was lost; there was naught he could do as the gaping mouth engulfed his head and shoulders in hot, sticky wetness.

Pulling more of Frodo's body into the mouth, teeth like spearheads slowly began pressing down into his chest and shoulder-blades. He could not stand the pain; stars danced before his eyes. He hoped that when the monster bit him in half (he presumed so he would be easier to swallow-that or it had just plum evil intentions) Sam would be spared the sight. His poor Sam. He had come so far with him, just to have his master chewed into bits while he was away.

Suddenly a cry from outside, one all too common for his ears, rang through the air.

"Massster! The precccious! Noooooo!"

Long, grimy fingers latched onto his legs and pulled, nowhere near strong enough to pull him from the crushing bite. But for some reason he was released, and Frodo once more fell to the ground in agony, unable to move and his eyes watering with pain.

The fell's eyes turned to Gollum; the sickly creature's bulbous eyes bulged and its mouth quivered. Not even glancing at Frodo, he said to himself, "Smeagol will go for the fat hobbit... Yes he will, he will get him to save the precious." With that Gollum ran off on all fours into the forest, and Frodo's hope was crushed.

"Gollum! No!" he cried after him weakly, but he had little hope he heard him, and even less he'd listen. His words had expressed fear for the Ring after all, and not for him. It was such a good thing he had left it in the pack.

Swallowing drily and looking up at the slavering monster, he mumbled, "Alright... Just get it over with." Before Sam comes back and it deems him a more suitable meal, he thought.

His feet again scooped buy a saliva-dripping tongue, Frodo said nothing as he watched his legs become enveloped behind the dark hide. When he felt his feet bump the entrance of the throat he grimaced, and began to struggle weakly, although the most he could do was turn this way and that. He could hear as well as feel when the fellbeast swallowed. His feet and lower legs were squashed into hot muscle, and the rest of him he knew would soon follow.

Inch by inch, minute by minute, more and more of Frodo Baggins disappeared. His feet, his calves, his thighs, his waist, and now his chest. The beast was pushing Frodo's head and neck roughly into the ground to help force him into his throat; thick, gooey salive was running down his neck. One arm had been rough forced into the jaws, and he now used that one to push up on the roof of the mouth and his free one to push down on the lower jaw.

Suddenly, the long neck straightened and lifted up towards the sky. Frodo's eyes widened as he felt himself, aided by gravity, slipping inside and him helpless to stop it. He struggled, bashing this and that with his fists, but alas- it was no use. The head was tossed back and the wyvern-like creature gulped thickly and Frodo's head was pulled into the mouth, only his arm now feeling the cold chill of the outside world.

For a moment, all inside was still. Frodo could feel his heartbeat in his ears and throat; he wiggled his toes and found them encased in thick muscle. His left arm jutting up over his head and his right crushed at his side, he was unable to do much more than grunt as he attempted to kick his legs, which were held much too tightly to do any damage. Hot drool seeped into his clothes and hair, slicking him up to send him down. His hair was plastered to his forehead and his electric blue eyes were wide and wild.

Was... Was it going to swallow him alive? Somehow the thought terrified him much more than a quick and painful death from a bite. He took shuddering breaths, his ribs aching from the weight that had been upon them minutes before, and he felt more so than ever in his life that he was very, very small.

In between heartbeats there was the most terrifying silence, and this silence made the noisy gulp sound all the more deafening. His chest was now pulled into the suffocating tunnel of its throat, and he struggled for breath, clenching his fingers, now the only bit of him seeing the light of day, over the jaw of the beast, clinging tightly as possible as his fingers were slick with saliva.

Breathing heavily through his mouth, Frodo squinted as sunlight poured in on him as the jaws open one time more, and then another swallow. All light disappeared as his body was fully sucked down in the hot, slimy confines of the throat. As he was being dragged down, he thought he could hear a cry from outside, but the thought soon left his mind.

He needed air, he couldn't breathe, he needed air!

He was almost certain that as long as it was taking him to be swallowed down, he would suffocate before the guts ever had a go at him. Hobbits may be less of a mouthful than most, but it was still a difficult task working the little man-like thing down its throat. Frodo wriggled this way and that (which was enjoyed very much by his assailant), slipping slowly down, down, down. Even in the darkness his vivid blue eyes were wide, but he kept his mouth tightly closed for fear of choking on the slime that served as a lubricant.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally slipped into an open space with dank, hot air that at least was breathable. He was no fool, he knew where he was, but at the moment he preferred to ignore that thought and focus on breathing again. The walls around him were hot and wet, and yielded to his body so that it all pressed close to him like a blanket. When panic took him again, he stretched out his body as long as he could make it and pushed his arms and kicked his feet, trying to cause some discomfort to the beast all around him, but after a few minutes of these he notices the noises it was emitting were not those of pain but of pleasure.

The thing thought it felt good!

Frodo slowly pulled his limbs close to his body, pulling his knees to his chin, before starting to shake. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks.

This is it, he thought. Here I am, going to die for the hunger of an evil beast.

"Let's hear about Frodo and the Ring," Frodo mumbled aloud, recalling the conversation he had had with Sam earlier that day. "Oh, you don't want to hear the end of that one, my lad. It ends with Frodo dying-" he punched at the rubbery muscle "in the belly-" another punch "of a monster!" He curled up even tighter and sobbed. "Poor Samwise Gamgee!" he cried. "My best friend, and I've left him alone with the burden of the Ring and treacherous Gollum. Oh, if it is not me in here who has got the better fate..."

Then he went limp, his face pressed to his knees, and after a minute of quiet he noticed the sound of beating wings, faint but there, coming from outside. So his murderer was relocating. Probably to sleep off his meal without the threat of an attack. As it was, the fellbeast was quite pleased with its meal. It had been a wriggly little thing, and tasted sweeter than any meat or blood it had ever tasted. Inside, from time to time it still felt the little hobbit move about in the most delicious ways.

"Do not despair," Frodo heard a melodic voice ring in his ear. "Your Samwise has not forgotten you, nor will he abandon you. Your journey is not complete. Do not lose hope."

Frodo knew he wouldn't see her, but he still looked up, having felt like Galadriel was right next to him. Had that really been her whispering into his ear from afar? Was there hope for him yet?

Men survived swords to the heart, elves survived sixty feet falls, and dwarves had survived axes to the face, but no one ever survived being eaten. If he did, it would be a remarkable feat indeed, he thought grimly.

A remarkable feat indeed.

He turned on his side and curled up, resting his head against the soft muscle with a squish. He supposed it would be easy enough to just fall asleep in there... With the warmth, the soft whoosh of air overhead in giant lungs and pumping of blood through a giant heart, and his overall weariness, he easily drifted off, but fitfully, awaking here and there in cold sweats only to remember where he was and what had happened and feel terror anew. There were scarce many hobbits as learned as he, but it was not common knowledge what would happen if you were to be swallowed alive; but he did not doubt it would be painful. Anything that could boil his whole body down to a stew would be painful. So he slept, seeing naught else he could do but torture himself with thought.

But Samwise Gamgee did not sleep. Nor would he until he had found the beast that had stolen his Frodo away and cut open its innards.

"I'm coming, Mr. Frodo!" he shouted through his pain, never losing sight of the speck in the sky far beyond him as he travelled back the way they'd come. "I'm coming."