Whispers

The stars shone brightly in the night sky, winking at him, teasing him. Those stars, so bright, and yet so remote, caring nothing for the troubles of this land. He used to trace the constellations in the blackness, naming them to himself, but now he had not even the wits for that. Now he was reduced to simply counting the pinpoints of light, trying to fill his mind up with something, anything. Anything other that the voice.

Stirring restlessly, he rolled over, trying to stop his ears with his hands. But it was useless of course. The voice went on and on, for it came from inside him, not from outside. He knew that now. Perhaps, he reflected, there is a little evil in every man. Like a tiny seed, just waiting for the slightest encouragement, the slightest bit of nourishment, to grow into a mammoth, overpowering need.

Why had he even come? What had made him think he could do this? His own foolish, arrogant pride? His destiny? Or had the evil taken hold of him even then, before the journey started? No, he was sure his intentions had been good. Noble. He laughed ruefully as the word came to his mind like a taunt. Strong and skilled in battle, he had come because he thought he could aid them. Only that, nothing more. And if was ordained that he should lead his people, the time would come after the evil thing was destroyed. Such had been his thinking.

And at first, when they started this journey, he had felt it little. He smiled bitterly into the night, remembering his almost smug dismissal of the power of this thing. And if the voice spoke to him at all then, it was no more than a fleeting thought, easily swatted away like an annoying but harmless pest.

But now the voice whispered unceasingly. "Take It," the voice said, "take It, and you will lead your people. You are strong enough. Throw down the evil, and make this world clean and pure once again. Make haste, or all will be lost." No harlot had ever whispered so softly, so enticingly. He looked around him, at his companions, all sleeping, some more fitfully than others. All but Legolas, who kept watch. But Legolas would think nothing of it if he were to rise. Frodo was little more than an arm’s reach away. How easy it would be to reach and take It, before any alarm were raised, before they could stir. A mere moment, and it would be done, and then their victory would be assured…

He gasped, and his breath sounded harsh and ragged in his ears. But it drowned out the voice for a brief, merciful instant. Mustering every bit of strength he possessed, he turned away from Frodo, pressing his face into the ground, gritting his teeth, clenching his hands into tight fists to stop them trembling. He tasted dirt, and counted his own thundering heartbeats, trying to fill his mind with something, anything…

 
 
 
 
Still the voice hissed seductively, "Take It… Elessar… Take It…"