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Chapter Text

Sam is chilled to the bone, but anger and sheer stubborness of will smoulder within him, overtaking the relentless cold of the plains of Gorgoroth. The sharp stones beneath jab at him like spiteful little devils, taking pleasure in his torment, but he pays them no heed. For all his mind is settled solely on his shivering master. He draws Frodo into his arms. So close he can feel each shiver run through him, and lifts his gaze to the Great Eye on top of the Dark Tower.

His jaw tightens. Anger wells up in him, hot and bitter, for what the Dark Lord’s foul spell has wrought upon his dear Master, twisting him, hollowing him, draining him of who he is. It hurts Sam, down to the very core of his stout heart, to know he cannot shield Frodo from this torment. So he holds him all the tighter, as if by the strength of his arms alone he might keep Frodo safe.

“Sam...,” Frodo mutters softly in a coarse voice.

“Yes, sir, your Sam’s here, sir,” says Sam, and he bows his head to rest it against his Master’s neck, just above the cruel grooves the Ring has carved into his skin.

Sam startles as he sees how the chain around Frodo's neck has bitten into his flesh, like some cruel collar, and his heart clenches at the sight. Gently, Sam lifts Frodo’s head and settles it upon his own arm, hoping to ease the burden from his neck and spare him a little of his hurt.

“Thank you, Sam,” says Frodo in a cracked whisper.

Sam’s heart clenches at the sound of it. For a brief moment he shuts his eyes, gathering himself; he brushes his thumb over Frodo’s collarbone in a quiet, steadying stroke. The darkness presses in on all sides, yet Frodo’s nearness, and his unwavering trust, kindles something fierce and bright within Sam that no shadow could smother.

Sam then speaks to him, and his words stroke the delicate skin of his Master's neck: “I’ll guard you as long as there’s breath in me, sir, that's a promise.” A sudden fighting spirit stirrs in him. “With sword, with light, with my bare hands if need be!” he declares, breath trembling with resolve.

Frodo’s fingers curl around Sam’s hand, stroking slowly over his knuckles. The touch is faint, but it warms Sam like a spark catching fire. “Sam,” he whispers, “you have forgotten the most important of all.”

Sam blinks, startled out of his fierceness. “Aye, sir? And what might that be, sir?”

A fragile, breathy laugh escapes Frodo, the kind that is half pain, half affection. “Your cast-iron pan, Sam.” 

Sam huffs a quiet laugh into his Frodo’s hair. “Aye, sir,” he murmurs, and he draws Frodo closer still, pressing his face into the curve of Frodo’s neck with a soft, loving chuckle. For a moment he simply breaths him in — that faint, familiar scent beneath all the misery of Mordor — and his heart eases.

Frodo is still there.

Still himself.

Not gone.

Not yet, at least.

He could hear the steady beat of Frodo’s heart and the quiet rush of blood beneath his skin.

Frodo’s smile is small but real and Sam feels it, like a heartbeat against his cheek.

Frodo sags into him, every breath a quiet plea for strength. Sam feels it, answers it, and gathers him gently against his breast.

“Come on, Mr. Frodo,” he murmurs into his ear, “Just one more step, just one more, and then we see from there.”

Frodo lets out an agonized sound, half a sob, and nods against Sam’s neck.

“Very good, sir. Give your Sam your hand, and he’ll lead you where you need to go.”

And together they rise.

Chapter Text

The cold creeps like fingers far too long to belong to any living thing, stretching from the wound beneath Frodo’s collarbone up toward his throat, seeking to smother him from within.

He feels his breath quicken to a frantic pace, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, far too fast for one who ought to be at rest.

No… Frodo whispers, shaking his head in weary defiance. They wish to consume him, to overtake and swallow him whole, until nothing of him remains. A hollow remnant, left only to yearn and witness and crave what he would lose to them if they succeed in drawing him into their shadowed realm.

He would be devoured. Emptied out.

Nothing would be left but a burning hunger, and he would behold it at the hand of the Dark Lord, and suffer.

No, please… no…

Death would have been mercy. But this... this was no mercy. This was no life at all. This was torment unending.

Come… Master Holbytla.

Come to us.

Your body is small and weak. Cast it aside.

Join us. We have such sights to show you.

The whispers crawl through the back of his mind, cold as grave-ice.

Never! Frodo gasps.

“Sir?” 

A friendly, familiar voice breaks through the dark, warm and steady and real.

A hand clasps his own: large, rough, calloused, its thumb brushing gently over his chilled skin.

“You’re safe now, Mr. Frodo… you’re safe. We’re in Rivendell, sir, with the Elves themselves! And old Mr. Bilbo’s here too, would you believe it!”

Bilbo…

The name stirs a deep, aching affection within Frodo.

Yet the cold grip of the Morgul-blade still holds him fast, dragging him downward. His eyelids are heavy as stone; phantom fingers press them shut with such force that many little blood vessels burst beneath his skin.

Flashes dance before him. White bones piled like altars, hollow footsteps echoing down a stone hall he had never seen yet somehow recognised; blue fire flickering on burnt straw; the slow jingle of chains meant to bind him.

The Witch-king’s tread echoes somewhere close.

“It’s beautiful here, sir… can you hear the waterfalls? You’d feel right at home! Do know they serve mushrooms here? Aye, sir, they do!”

Frodo feels the warmth of Sam’s hand, a warmth his frozen skin craves desperately.

“You wouldn’t miss that for all the world, now… would you, dear sir?”

Sam swallows hard. Frodo feels him bow over his hand, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to the back of it before resting his brow there, as though he dares offer no greater devotion than that gentle touch.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo, the day you nearly died was the worst day I’ve ever known.” He shudders.

“How am I to show what I truly mean, sir? I’d face those Black Riders a hundred times over for you!

I’d leap a hundred times again onto that Bucklebury Ferry, with their dreadful cries chasing at our heels.

And I’d endure a hundred nights in the cold and damp with Strider, without fire, without rest.

Even Weathertop—those wounds, that terrible moment when I thought we’d lost you forever—even that I’d face a hundredfold again....”

Frodo strains against his own body, trapped within. He clutches at Sam’s warm hand.

Sam kindles in him a flame, sudden but steadfast, a quiet and resolute desire to live.

If he even manages to speak at all, what could he say?

They are calling me, Sam. They wish to draw me into their houses of lamentation, to freeze the flesh from my bones, to strip me of myself. They breathe against my neck. They press on my throat. I am not dying... I am being drawn away into their spirit realm.

He hears their ice-cold voices, the snorting of their black steeds, the low clinking of empty chains meant to bind him in darkness.

"Sir..."

Breath warm against the tender skin of his lower arm.

Soft golden-brown curls press upon him.

Frodo is no longer brushing the dim edges of the shadow realm. Instead he finds himself wandering in Sam's fingertips that softly caress his lower arm.

“When you wake up, sir, and you will, you hear me?

I’ll fetch Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin straightaway. They’ll have you laughing, just like they always do. Mr. Pippin’s already promised he’ll sing you that song he made up on the road, the one where he rhymes ‘Frodo Baggins’ with ‘mulled-wine flagons.’

Awful rhyme, sir. But he says Lord Elrond ought to hear it ‘for cultural exchange,’ if you can believe that.”

Sam’s soft laughter brushes Frodo’s arm, warming him to the core. It fills him with a euphoric light that cut right through his dark. The faintest laughter escapes Frodo's own lips.

Suddenly the whispers fall silent. He feels their presence no longer. There is no mirth in the spirit realm; perhaps that soft laughter has driven them back.

A sudden strenght surges within him and he presses Sam's hand.

"Sir? Can you hear me? Oh good sir, I’ll stay right here, sir… till you open your eyes and come back. Please get well, sir. For without you, I'm nothing. But you and me together, Mr. Frodo: well, that's more than either alone...”

Chapter Text

Out of the darkness emerges a terrifying and massive creature. She crawls forward on jagged legs, dragging her grotesque body, which buckles under its own weight, partway across the ground.

Frodo shudders as he sees where she's heading: a beautiful, silver, luminous tree. It shines with a glow that is breathtaking and pure, radiating goodness, untouched and uncorrupted.

But the monster draws near, and to Frodo’s horror, he watches as she hauls her heavy, bloated form up against the trunk. She opens her maw, revealing razor-sharp teeth, and sinks them into the bark of the tree. A searing pain shoots through Frodo’s body, as though it was he whom the creature pierces. He tries to yell and escape but to no avail.

To his great dismay, he watches the light drain from the tree like blood. Long threads of silver radiance, the very source of its beauty, vanish into the creature’s greedy mouth. Her teeth grind, working the light inward with ravenous thrusts.

Frodo feels each strand ripped from him, as though his own soul is being eaten.

He struggles. Cannot breathe. Cannot shout.

“Frodo, Mr. Frodo!”

The world cracks.

Frodo bolts awake with a ragged cry. The dark is full of teeth and devouring shapes until Sam’s voice cleaves the nightmare apart. His whole chest is set on fire and his Witch-king wound pulsates, causing him to shrink into himself and cry out again in hurt.

“Mr. Frodo!”

“I’m here,” Frodo gasps, though his whole body trembles. “Sam, I - I’m here.”

Sam reaches for his hand. “Oh,” he sighs the moment he finds it. “There you are!”

“Oh, thank heavens… thank heavens,” Sam whispers. The relief in his voice makes Frodo’s throat tighten.

“I thought... oh, sir, I thought you were hurt, sir.”

“How did you know?” Frodo whispers and shudders.

“Begging your pardon, sir?" 

"I - I, ... was hurting. I was having a nightmare that I could not escape from," and as he says it a tremor runs through him and he feels the Ring hanging heavily on its chain. He swallows, still feeling the echo of fangs in himself and he presses his hand to the wound upon his collar bone.

"Aye, sir, so did I! A right awful one,” says Sam and shudders. He must have seen his master's distress for he puts his hand over the scar, making Frodo gasp for breath.

"You as well,...?" murmurs Frodo softly, feeling the fine rings of his mithril coat being softly pushed into his scarred flesh and this comforts him, he closes his eyes and breathes out his pain while gazing in Sam's honest face. “Tell me, Sam… what about? If you’ll let me ask.”

“Well, sir, if you must know,..." he says hesitatingly and then proceeds with sudden conviction "old Farmer Maggot was after us, and he caught you, sir!” Sam shudders and his voice trembles.

Frodo stares at him a moment, astonished, his big eyes growing even larger than they already are. Then, quite against his intention, he bursts out laughing.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam cries, scandalised. “Tis no laughing matter!”

“Oh, Sam…” Frodo whispers, cupping Sam’s face in both hands lovingly. Sam’s breath shakes. He leans, without thinking, into Frodo’s palms. “My dreams of late have been filled with great horrors… Farmer Maggot is nearly a comfort.”

Sam's eyes grow wide at the words. “Begging your pardon, sir, there weren’t much relief in this one. His great dogs might not’ve been there, but he whacked you with a heavy hoe, and I couldn’t do naught about it."

Frodo burst out laughing again. He would have given his left arm for a dream about Farmer Maggot rather than Ungoliant the Black devouring the Trees of Valinor, and the Ring not merely showing it to him, but making him feel every dreadful moment of it.

“Sam, please, don’t take me wrong, for I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing with you,” he says, tugging Sam’s arm playfully, pulling him closer and draping Sam's arm around his waist.

“Oh,” says Sam, letting himself be drawn in, hiding his reddening face against Frodo’s breast. He wraps his arms around him and burrows in close. His heart hammers viciously in his chest.

Frodo says teasingly, in a mock-deep voice, “Begone, Ungoliant the Black! For it is Farmer Maggot of the Shire, and he shall smite thy great evil with his mighty spade!”

Sam gives a startled puff of laughter. 

He does not much care that he does not understand. Frodo’s fingers move slowly through his curls, warm and steady, and he thinks it is the finest feeling left in the world.

“Mr. Frodo?” he whispers, hardly daring to lift his voice.

“Yes, Sam.”

“D’you remember those jokes Merry and Pippin used to make? About how I ought to get a raise for slaying my first orc?”

“Yes, Sam. I remember.”

“Well… I never wanted no raise,” he says, the words trembling with sincerity. “And I surely don’t wish to be allowed to drink ale on the job, no matter what they say.”

Frodo lets out a soft, fond chuckle.

“All I want is this.”

“This?” Frodo murmurs, brushing his thumb lightly along Sam’s temple, as though reassuring himself he really is there.

“Aye… this right here. Just to be able to doze off by your side.”

“Of course, Sam.” Frodo’s hand slips back into Sam’s curls, stroking gently. “You sleep as you please, right here beside me. And if we’d been back home, I’d have lit the fire and poured you whatever drink you fancied. 

All you’d have needed to do was put up your feet and drift off. Nothing more.

You wouldn’t have had to stay alert, or wary. You wouldn’t have had to guard me… or yourself for that matter.

You wouldn’t have had to worry, nor feel you were ever anything less than enough. None of it would have mattered. You’d only have had to”—he lifts his tiny hobbit-arms toward the vast glittering sky—“be.”

Sam lets out a long, soft sigh, as if the very breath eases something deep inside him. “Oh, Mr. Frodo… let me rest in you forever.”

Chapter Text

Hold me, and say it will be all right, even as my fingers bleed, my teeth grind, and my body shakes; even as some poison twists in my veins and seeps from my skin like a foul darkness.

Oh, tell me, Sam, that I shall be all right, though I have been broken into a thousand pieces, shattered like glass, and can never be made whole again.

There are hooks beneath my skin, and devils tug upon them. Pull them out, Sam. Press Elven cloth to these wounds to staunch the bleeding, and tell me all shall be all right.

You believe it so, let me glimpse but a spark of that hope.

I am not well, yet I long to hear that I could be. I long for it, if only to feel the bare possibility of all-rightness in this wicked place where I am bound. My hurts torment me, and I would vanish if I could. I would be naught but willlessness, a vessel emptied, borne onwards without will of my own.

The hope that comes so naturally to you is a cruel mirror of the despair that has grown so natural to me. I have become naught but the shape of my agonies, wishing neither to live nor to die, only to feel something beyond this despair that overwhelms me, flooding every part of me.

I wish to vanish into the void and be devoured utterly. Let there be no thought of myself; let me be offered upon my burden’s altar, and have done with it. I wish to dissolve, rather in you than in the fire, rather in you than in the void. So soothe me, Sam. Hold my hand. Run your fingers through my hair. Press me upon your warm, browned skin. Kiss the blood from my scars. 

Jest with me, as if I were still myself. I can see your eyes glimmer in the dark, for there is some mirth you long to share.

"You know the one good thing about being in this dreadful place, sir? There's no chimneys of yours buried halfway up a hill for me to be scrambling after to clean.”

You chuckle softly, and I wrap you close. I press a kiss to your temple. Again. And again. And again. 

You sigh. Your lips brush warm and soft against my neck and you tell me Beren and Lúthien would understand what it is we share, and what we endure together.

I say that Lúthien never made Beren clean her chimney, surely.

Your laughter in this darkness drives away the whispers in my head. You say you have thought of something that may ease my pain, and you gently press the Phial of Galadriel to the wounds upon my neck.

I gasp.

It forces out the shadow and floods me with light. If it is true that the stars shine brightest against the deepest dark, then none has ever beheld what I have. I weep amidst the dark and the light, on the cold stone in your warm arms.

Oh Sam, dearest hobbit, friend of friends... did you, for the briefest moment, make me whole again?

Chapter Text

They can’t sleep. Having to sleep in the tree-tops in Lothlórien is nothing short of torment for the hobbits.

“There aren’t even any walls, not even a rail!” Sam exclaims, eyes wide as saucers. “You could roll right off in your sleep! This isn’t for our sort of folk, it’s not natural,” he mutters, pressing himself in horror to the wooden floor.

Frodo looks at him with mild amusement. “I know, Sam. I’d have preferred solid ground beneath our feet, too. But I’m grateful we’ve a place to rest at all, somewhere safe from any orcs that may chase us from Moria. Still, they’ve got noses like bloodhounds, so don’t anger the trees! You’d be wise to mind your words and say nothing that might give offence, for we need their shelter if we’re not to be found.”

Sam mutters something inaudible under his breath.

A silence falls in which the hobbits can hear their own shivering in the winter cold, despite the skins and fur-cloaks given them for the night by the Elves.

Then, suddenly, Merry lifts his head, peering across Pippin and Sam, who lie between him and Frodo.

“Oy, psst, Frodo!” Merry’s eyes gleam mischievously in the dark. “I’ve something to tell you!”

“What is it, Merry?”

“Did you know Sam wants a pay rise now that he’s slain his first orc?”

“That ain’t true!” Sam huffs indignantly.

“He hasn’t the nerve to ask you himself, but what he really wants is a twenty per cent increase—gross hourly, mind you. And!” Merry adds, now breathless with delight at his own wit, “he wants permission to drink on the job.”

Sam gives him a slight kick with his foot, right over Pippin’s legs.

Frodo pretends to consider it, then says thoughtfully, “Twenty per cent’s quite steep, Sam. That’s hardly in line with the current market rate.”

Merry bursts out laughing.

Sam says nothing at first, but then—since Frodo is playing along—he mutters, “Well, it was a rather large orc, sir.”

Merry chuckles again. Pippin remains suspiciously silent.

Frodo exclaims “Ten per cent and one pint with your luncheon!”

"Only for luncheon?”

"Don't push your luck, dear Sam!”

“Well, I suppose with luncheon's fine, sir,” Sam says.

“Look at all I do for Sam, and he still kicks me,” Merry proclaims. “I’m the quiet strength holding this whole company together,” he adds with exaggerated drama, which earns a soft chuckle from Frodo, “and I don’t get so much as a thank-you!”

They grin like fools in the dark, until Merry glances over and says, “You’re quiet, Pip. Are you asleep?”

He lays a hand on his shoulder, and Pippin flinches.

“Pippin, mate? What’s wrong?”

“It’s my fault,” Pippin says quietly, his voice tight with guilt. “If I hadn’t thrown that stone down the well, the Balrog might never have come…”

The air goes still.

Pippin whispers, anguished, “Gandalf is dead. And it’s my fault!”

He covers his face with both hands, small and pitiful in the dark.

“What are you saying!” Sam exclaims, genuinely startled—ashamed, even, that he hadn’t noticed how torn Pippin had been, lying right beside him all this time.

“Guilty? Well yes, guilty you may be, of being young and reckless. But who hasn’t? But guilty of Gandalf’s death? No, Mr. Pippin. Certainly not.”

He takes hold of the hands Pippin has pressed against his face, softly pulling them away to reveal the raw wound an orc had left on his brow.

“You’re brave, you are. I saw you myself, on the back of the cave troll, no less! You drove your blade right into its neck!

Yes, it was foolish to toss that stone, Mr. Pippin. But I remember what Gandalf said ‘There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world.’ I remember it clear as day. I tried to etch it into my memory, because it gave me chills, and I thought it worth remembering.

He was warning us even then, sir. Long before that stone left your hand. Just as we crossed into the mines, if my memory serves.

So I’m near certain, and I hope you won’t take offence, he already knew some reckoning lay ahead. You may have been the spark, Mr. Pippin, but if not you, something else would have stirred that fire. We’d never have passed unnoticed. That I am certain of.”

Pippin whispers, “You really think so, Sam?”

“As sure as the Shire is green, Mr. Pippin, sir.”

Sam reaches out an arm to Pippin, and Pippin burrows into him. Merry wraps an arm around Pippin as well.

Softly, into his shoulder, Merry murmurs, “Just listen to Sam for this once, Pip. I think he might be right.”

Now the three of them lie in a quiet embrace.

“That wound of yours will leave quite a scar, Mr. Pippin sir, I fear,” says Sam, stroking Pippin’s head and brushing a finger along the wound.

“Just imagine the possibilities!” exclaims Merry. He pats him excitedly on the shoulder. “Think of all the conversations you'll have!”

He puts on a high, silly voice: “Oh Master Pippin, do tell us the story of that dashing scar above your eye! Such a fearsome-looking mark!

How ever did you come by it? Did you perhaps fall off a table mid-drinking song?”

“And then you say,” Merry continues, now mimicking Pippin’s voice, “Indeed I did! Just this very afternoon, in fact! But no, this scar's not from that.”

Sam chuckles at this, and even Frodo and Pippin give a quiet laugh, though there's still a catch of sorrow in Pippin’s voice.

Merry presses on, teasing in his best heroic tone, “There was a great big Orc, and I felled him myself in the depths of Moria!”

“Oh Master Pippin,” he says again, mock-adoring, “please, tell us more of Moria!"

“Well,” he replies in Pippin’s voice once more, “Moria is a deep dwarven mine where I braved the darkness with the boldest of companions. Frodo the Unflinching! Merry the Mighty! And Sam, Who Smokes Too Much.”

“Oy!” says Sam, feigning outrage.

“Oh, could you introduce me to Merry, Master Pippin? He sounds like such a swell fellow,” he swoons.

“Such nobility, Master Merry, truly at awe, we are,” says Sam sarcastically. 

Silence falls, Sam strokes Pippin's back and he murmurs: “Sleep now, young master. We’re here beside you, and there’s nothing to forgive. Do you hold anything against him, Mr. Merry?”

“Oh, plenty! But none of it related to Moria,” says Merry dryly.

“Mr. Frodo?”

“No, Sam,” Frodo replies quietly, “I don’t blame Pippin for anything.”

“Well, nor do I. So let it go, young master.”

Pippin obeys him. He signs and curls up in between them. Sam studies his young and handsome face and he seems peaceful now.

Sam can’t sleep and listens in the dark to Frodo’s breathing, which is not synchronised with his own and the other hobbits. It’s faster, more on guard and Sam turns his head over his shoulder to speak with him.

“Sir,” he whispers to Frodo, “I can’t sleep not knowing where you are.”

“I’m right here behind you, Sam.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you’ll have to come closer, or we might have to swap places. Otherwise, I’ll never get a wink of sleep. You might roll right off the flet, you might.”

Frodo looks behind him. “Unlikely, it’s a good distance to the edge.”

“Still though, sir! Can you imagine the tale? They survived Moria, but it was the fall from the Elven flet that did him in.”

He shudders at the sheer thought.

Frodo smiles at Sam’s absurdity, but there’s something disarming in his unfiltered sincerity. He gives in and shifts closer, tucking himself up against Sam’s back. He rests his head between his shoulder blades. In this way, he rises and falls with Sam’s breath and it has a remarkably calming effect on him.

Sam exhales, content. He relishes the weight of Frodo’s body against his own. It grounds him. Sam reaches back and drapes Frodo’s arm over him and lays his hand to rest on Pippin. Now they truly do sleep huddled together, just as hobbits did in the olden days, before their holes grew fancy. Sam notices how Frodo’s breathing has synchronised with theirs, which delights him. Now he can sleep.

“Do you hear it?” Sam whispers to them all. “If you listen close, you can hear the Nimrodel whispering in the night. She sings such a lovely song. Let her lull us to sleep.”

It strikes Frodo that Sam has a gift for noticing beauty. It might yet serve them well on the road ahead. He nestles close into Sam’s broad, steady frame.

The height no longer troubles him.

Chapter Text

Long, draughty passages stretch out before Sam’s feet, twisting like wicked serpents towards stairways without railings, offering no hold at all. It’s as if he is forced to pay homage to some dark deity that has sent him upon a sickly pilgrimage: a might that drives him to his knees, head bowed, and hurries him on in that posture, while cold sweat runs down his back.

His muscles ache, and he feels tendons, ligaments, and joints he had not even known were there. They introduce themselves to him with a plaintive song of pain and complaint, and Sam would far rather have been spared their acquaintance.

Merry, Pippin, and Frodo are far more skillful at maneuvering these Dwarven stairs. Frodo even has something catlike about him, as he moves over the steps almost with grace, his presence betrayed only by the faint rustle of his garments, or when the scant light somehow catches the reflection of his big eyes in the dark.

But then there is Pippin.

“One thousand, one hundred and sixty-nine,” he announces proudly during one of their rests.

“What, Pip?” asks Frodo.

“The number of steps we’ve gone along!” he says, glowing with triumph.

Sam shivers as he watches little Pippin, so bold in his descent, and longs for but a sliver of that hobbit’s sure-footed grace upon the vast dwarven stairs. With a trembling voice he begins, “One, two...” but by the thirtieth step he has already lost track. With a wistful sigh he concludes that he is as poor a counter as a climber.

***

“I’m sorry!” cries Sam in despair, when he descents a stair and simply cannot go on anymore. “I’ve not a drop of Took-blood in me!”

Merry and Frodo sit down on either side of him. They say nothing, but keep him company in quiet companionship. A breeze stirs their curls and sets them gently swaying upon the soft air, as though they are not in the dark recesses of a Dwarf-mine but somewhere green and sunny. 

“What do you think?” Frodo asks suddenly. “Might Dwarves have taken tea there? Could that have been some sort of Dwarvish teahouse?”

Sam opens his eyes and sees that they are in a great chamber, looking out across a valley of stairways, winding steps and halls: a kind of vast crossing-place. In one bulge of the wall stands a stone table, to which his master is pointing.

“Tea,” sighs Sam, his voice heavy with longing, as though he beholds a mirage.

“I don't think Dwarves would have any porcelain,” says Merry with a chuckle. “No, they’ll have tankards with lids and handles; and I’m sure, if they take tea at all, it tastes either of ale or roast pork!” He laughs heartily at his own jest.

“Even if I were given lukewarm tea that tastes of pipe-ash and got served in a hollowed-out stone, I’d drink it,” Sam grimaces.

He catches a merry glint in Frodo's fair blue eyes. Flustered, he tears his gaze away at once and begins to continue his descend in haste. He dares not look on those eyes, piercing his very spirit, for they lay bare his shortcomings: that he is the slowest of their company. Even in the dark he feels his master’s eyes pricking on his back like the whips of Orc-drivers.

“What’s come over him now?” Merry mutters.

Frodo only shrugs.

***

“My hands hurt!” Pippin wails.

“So do mine,” says Merry.

“Yes,” says Frodo, studying his, and the corner of his mouth twitches at the sight of the blisters and peeling skin. “They’ve seen better days.”

“Really?” says Sam. He looks down at his own hands and finds that, unlike the others hobbits, he has no wounds or blisters, save a few cuts. His workman’s hands, rough with callouses, have taken little harm. At last something in his favour!

He pulls bandages made from homespun linen stripes from his great pack and says in his teasing voice, “Now then, come here, you bowls o’ cream.”

He binds Merry’s and Pippin’s hands with ease, but when Frodo’s turn comes, his heart begins to pound strangely, and he could not say why. He is wholly aware of his gaze that is turned on him, unblinking. “Are you all right, Sam?” 

“I don’t rightly know sir, I think of Bill a lot. The wolves we heard howl.”

“Don’t worry, Sam. He’s a clever pony, and strong. I’m sure he’ll give them a good kick.”

"You truly think so, sir?"

“Ponies are stockier for their size, which means their muscles are dense. Even small ponies can kick hard enough to knock down one of the Big Folk, Sam.”

“They seem to me to be like hobbits.”

“Aye Sam," he gives a faint smile, "like hobbits.”

After this, Frodo goes off to speak with Gimli, and Sam would not have been surprised if it were about the tea-drinking customs of Dwarves. Sam turns to Boromir, who is leaning with his back against a Dwarven crumbled pillar, wholefully destroyed except its suckle, as if an angry giant had somehow managed to fell it in a tantrum. The Man’s keen brown eyes fix upon the hobbit.

“What do you think, Mr. Boromir?” Sam asks, drawing his sword and thrusting it forward. “Will this do, sir?”

Boromir gives a gentle kick to Sam’s foot.

“Hoy!” Sam cries.

“Forget the sword, Samwise, think of your footwork! That is what matters. Good swordplay comes from balance, distance, and positioning. Without footwork, even a strong strike can be easily turned aside. Can you dance, hobbit?”

“Aye sir, I can dance!” Sam says at once. It seems a daft question, for he knows no hobbit who can't.

“Good! A sword is no heavy club,” Boromir goes on. “It requires finesse and timing, not brute strength.” He leaps to his feet, draws his blade in one smooth motion, and touches its tip to Sam’s.

“Come on, Master Samwise; don’t just swing your arm. It isn’t a stick! Thrust with the point, don’t only hew with the edge. And if I were to judge you, I’d say you anger quickly” At this Sam feels an anger rise within him. “and that will drive you to strike too hard. Forcing blows only loses control and leaves you open to a counter.”

He lowers his sword then, and studies Sam with a questioning look.

“What troubles you, Samwise? You look displeased.”

“Well,” Sam mutters, “that’s a lot you just told me, sir. And here I was hopin’ you’d just say, ‘Well Sam, just hold your sword like this and give ’em a good poke.’”

Boromir roars with laughter. “That should get you far enough, dear hobbit! Do not let my words weigh heavy on you. You shall learn. And in truth, what I’ve said is all you need to know.”

“Sam-lad!” Gimli breaks in. “Why not consider a battle-axe? Less diddle-daddling with the feet! And I’ve yet to meet a lady who does not appreciate the merits of a good axe.”

At this, Legolas, who sits nearby, begins to speak swiftly in Elvish, as if to purify the air, which only manages to makes Gimli roar with laughter.

***

“Sam,” says Pippin, as Sam sits down beside him and Merry, “What was that sword practice about?”

“Well sir, how am I supposed to protect Frodo if I can’t wield a sword, right?”

Merry grins. “Such lengths he goes for our Frodo! You'd think he be your kin, not ours.”

Sam feels his chest tighten as their eyes seem to prick at his side. The last thing he wants is to have to explain himself to Peregrin Took, his better in nearly every way imaginable. Pippin, son of the Thain, was destined to be one of the most influential folk in the Shire, while Sam had no noble blood at all. Any worth he could ever claim would have to be won by his own labour.

“Well, if you really must know...” Sam leans towards them, and they eye him curiously as he says in a hushed tone, “I’m after the Baggins dragon-treasure.”

He winks. Pippin gasps.

Sam has found that replying by means of a joke, or quoting one of his Gaffer's sayings, kept people from prying too much, and that suited him just fine.

“Aye,” Sam goes on, throwing up his hands in the air, “you’ve found me out! Beware, you kin of Frodo! For it’s my secret desire to become heir of Bag End, and claim the dragon-treasure for myself!"

They bellow with laughter, and Sam feels well pleased with himself; his plan had worked, and he need say no more on the matter of Frodo.

***

Why did it have to be Moria? Sam's heart keeps straying to the road through Gondor with its fertile earth and fresh air. But here, in the dark, he shivers at the strangeness of this place, and when he closes his eyes everything inside him seems to shift, as though he has had a little too much to drink at the Green Dragon.

“I long to sleep... but this place," he shudders, "it frightens me.”

“Good,” Frodo whispers, laying next to him. “You know what they say, right Sam? 'If one is never afraid, one can never be brave'.” It makes Sam smile for it is the sort of thing folk say to hobbit-children. He sees Frodo’s eyes glimmering with a mischievous sort of mirth in the dark.

Sam reaches out, finds his master’s hand, and falls asleep with it clasped in his own. He holds on, perhaps a little too fiercely, but Frodo’s hand is a beacon that anchors him. His body seems to need it, to know where it is in this vast space, and that it is in fact not, as it feels when he shuts his eyes, spinning around in endless darkness.

In the middle of the night Frodo suddenly presses him close against him.

“Sir?” Sam asks, bewildered, but he nestles into him and feels Frodo’s warm furry feet brushing by his own. Shy and uncertain, he brushes back, until their feet are gently straying— skin to skin—over one another’s in the dark. The warmth of it spreads through him, easing the ache of his weary limbs, and his heart hammers so fiercely he thinks Frodo must feel it.

“My Sam...” he hears his master murmur tenderly, as soft fingers trace along his jaw as though revering its shape, and something flutters in Sam's belly.

“So, what is this I have heard?” Frodo murmurs, his breath warm at Sam’s ear, “you’re after my dragon-treasure?” His slender fingers slip lower, brushing across the tender skin of Sam’s throat, pausing there as though to feel the frantic beat beneath. Sam gasps, shuddering, his breath catching in his chest, no words finding him.

"I am sorry, sir! I meant nowt by it! I was just jesting-"

"Hush," Frodo says and presses two pale fingers against Sam's plump lips. "So am I..." He sighs and leans close into Sam. For the briefest of moments Sam think their lips may touch and he breaths heavily and starts to shake softly.

"Sshh," Frodo says and drapes his head over Sam's shoulder. He rubs his feet softly and slowly over Sam's feet. And at last, spent by weariness and overwhelmed by his master's touch, sleep sweeps over Sam suddenly, heavy as though a Dwarf’s axe has suddenly hit him in the back of his head.

Chapter Text

The horrors of the landscape mirror Frodo and Sam's torment. The stone is hard and cold, rising from the earth like proud monuments to a forsaken god. Towering over all else, they stand sharp and crooked as honed blades, and are cold as steel.

It makes Sam shiver, how much malice a land can hold. And yet he knows they must face it, whatever comes.

Frodo lifts his head and looks at him. His eyes, dulled by cold and fatigue, glisten with exhaustion. Sam feels it too, as though it were his own weariness, and it weighs heavily on him.

“Come on,” Sam says at last, and wraps an arm around Frodo’s shoulders, trying to coax him forward. But the weariness clinging to Frodo is thick and dragging. It stops Sam in his tracks.

Instead of pressing on, he finds himself lowering to the ground, bringing Frodo gently down with him.

And so they sit there, giving in to their exhaustion. Frodo leans into him, and Sam becomes acutely aware of his ragged breathing.

“You hurtin', Mr. Frodo?” Sam asks.

“Yes.”

“Where, sir?”

Frodo grimaces. “Where not, Sam?”

Sam feels a flicker of relief when Frodo tries to smile, but beneath it he sees a sorrow so deep it seems to have settled in his very bones.

For a moment, there's silence. Then Sam whispers, “Those foul orcs… I hate ’em, I do, for all the hurt they’ve brought you, sir.”

He clenches his eyes shut, his voice low and sharp. “I’m glad I was able to slay the one that whipped you, sir.”

“You shouldn’t be glad of that.”

“I’m sorry to say it, Mr. Frodo, but I am. After what he did to you. Served him just right, it did.”

Frodo gives him the faintest smile. “Well, all right, Sam.”

“I just don’t understand…” Sam murmurs, tilting his head back and staring off into the distance.

“Why there’s such creatures as orcs. All twisted and spoiled, through and through. They ought never to have been, if you take my meaning."

Frodo looks at him, and there’s something strange, tight and unreadable, about the look in his eyes.

“Some things you’re better off not knowing,” Frodo says softly.

Sam seems to give this some thought.

“No… I reckon you’re right, sir.” Sam lays his head on Frodo's shoulder. For a moment, all is still.

Suddenly Frodo whispers, “You carried it too, Sam… I wonder, did it show you anything, some vision of sorts?"

Sam hesitates, unsure if he wants to share. Then, awkwardly, he whispers. “Gardens.”

“What’s that?”

“Gardens, sir.”

“Gardens?”

“Yes, gardens!”

His embarrassment at what he sees as misplaced delusions of grandeur fades, replaced by a sudden, bright enthusiasm. He spreads his arms wide and exclaims, “These hideous plains of Gorgoroth! Why, I’d turn ’em into gardens, I would, the finest you’ve ever laid eyes on. No more of this barren waste. Everything’d be fair and green and bloomin’, right and proper, like it ought to be.”

Frodo looks around at the desolation surrounding them. It seems so completely absurd, so absurd, in fact, that he cannot help but laugh. “That’s quite the vision, Sam,” he chuckles.

Encouraged by Frodo’s laugh, Sam carries on. “And sir, you'll not believe it, I had a flaming sword in my hands, just like out of one of old Mr. Bilbo’s tales!”

“Did you now?”

“It’d be a rare sight, wouldn’t it, sir? I reckon all back home would be fair amazed, they would.” Frodo smiles faintly.

"How about you sir, if you don't mind me asking?"

Frodo swallows and says quietly, “Well, I’ve carried it for so long, it’s shown me many things. That I could protect the Shire, Sam, and that it would thrive like never before.”

Sam nods. It sounds like a vision of greatness, much like his own.

“But I know,” Frodo adds, his voice low, “that it shall never be.”

Sam looks at him, and his round brown eyes light up. “Yes, that’s exactly what I thought too, sir! I thought, well, truth be told I’m no Númenórean. I don't wish for a garden the size of a realm and hands to command. I just want to use my own two hands right here. I’m just...” He shrugs. “Your gardener, sir.”

“A noble calling!” Frodo exclaims.

“Noble?” Sam echoes, grinning. “I mean, I did tend to your begonias proper, sir, but that might be stretchin’ it, if you ask me,” he adds, trying to sound cheerful. Frodo laughs again. He closes his eyes for a moment, anchoring himself in Sam’s presence.

Frodo realises he trusts Sam. His instinct to keep things hidden loses its grip, overtaken by the need to let him in.

“Sam?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You know… it’s been a while since it’s shown me anything I truly want. At first, it promised me everything I have ever desired but it knows now I can resist that. So it has stopped doing that.

What it does instead is hurt me. And it promises to take the pain away if only I were to listen to it, but I won’t. So I have to endure it.”

“It hurts you, sir?” Sam asks, his voice tight with worry.

Frodo hesitates, but then presses on, though doubt flickers across his fair face. “It shows me things. I don’t know if they’re real. The things I fear most. And the worst things that seem to have ever happened. It’s as if it’s trying to convince me the world is broken, that we don’t belong in it and that using it therefore is justified.”

Frodo opens his eyes. He sits up straighter, heart pounding. He looks at Sam, choosing his words carefully, and whispers: “The origin of the Orcs.”

He lets the words hang in the air a moment, then adds in a whisper: “Yes, Sam. I know how they came to be.”

“How, sir?” Sam asks, sitting up too, eyes wide with concern.

A flicker of hesitation crosses Frodo’s face. "I thought I wanted to tell you… but now I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s terrible,” Frodo says softly. “Truly, terribly awful.”

“Please do tell me, sir, for I long to know.” Frodo looks at him with eyes carved deep with sorrow. He shifts to sit directly in front of Sam so he can look him properly in the eyes and says, quietly: “They were once Elves, Sam. The Orcs. But they were captured and tortured until it drove them into madness and corruption.”

Sam stares at him, stunned. Then he presses a disbelieving hand to his brow. “Elves? Well, I never… it can’t be true, can it?”

In his mind, everything he knows of the Elves rushes past in a blur, their purity, their grace, their love of growing things. He thinks of their songs and starlight, of beauty and gentleness. And the contrast to Orcs feels impossibly stark. Orcs, who hate nature, who tear it down with smoke and steel. He can’t begin to imagine anyone committing such cruelty to a being as pure as an Elf.

"Maybe it’s not true… maybe it’s just tellin’ you lies, sir!” he says, and tears well up in his eyes as he looks at Frodo in silent, desperate plea.

But Frodo only shakes his head slowly, wearing that same mournful expression. “I’m sorry, Sam. But it is true. Bilbo studied the First Age. Hence I know it to be true.”

“But why, sir? Why’d anyone do a thing like that?” Sam asks, stricken, his voice trembling.

“I think…” Frodo whispers, “To mock creation itself. Evil powers can’t create, Sam. They’re too twisted. But what they can do… is mar what already exists. They take what was made good, and they bend it, ruin it, until it becomes something wretched that reflects their own resentful and wicked worldview.”

Sam shudders. Their eyes meet, both full of shared pain.

“And it doesn’t just show me how the first Orcs were made,” Frodo continues. “It makes me feel it.”

He turns his face away, gritting his teeth. When he looks again at Sam, there’s a wild look in his eyes, a tremble through his limbs. His hands clench into fists so tight his nails dig cruelly into the palms of his hands.

“I can’t bear it, Sam. It’s driving me mad. It’s so vile.” He spits the words through his teeth, and his gaze is tormented, brimming with a pain too vast for words.

“Frodo...” Sam says, feeling the full weight of the horror Frodo is forced to endure. “I’m so sorry...”

He reaches out, gently takes Frodo’s hands, and begins to pry open the clenched fists. He eases the fingers free from the trenches they’ve carved into his palms, and presses his own hands over the marks, shielding them so Frodo’s nails can find no path back into his flesh.

Sam looks at him intently, squeezes his hands softly and hisses, a flicker of defiance lighting in him: “We shall destroy it, or perish in the attempt. This I swear to you!”

“But what if they capture us, Sam? What if they subject us to the same tortures? What if we’re no longer ourselves, if we become twisted, like Gollum, in a way…”

Frodo’s voice falters. “Sam, if it comes to that, please. End it. Before they take us! I won’t be able to. For it will not let me.” Sam reels back, aghast. "What’re you sayin’, Mr. Frodo? Don’t you talk like that, by the Elven-stars, don’t! Hurtin’ you would be a torment worse than anythin’ they could do to me. It would drive me mad, it would.”

Frodo’s eyes soften. He gazes at Sam with a tender, aching look. "Sam,” he whispers, shaking his head sorrowfully. And then he says "Then don’t think, Sam! Just take me, and then yourself. And let us go somewhere where none of this can follow.”

Sam stares at him, shocked. “How can a face so fair harbour thoughts so dark…” he mutters. Then, more firmly: “I’m by your side, Mr. Frodo, always — but not like that. You see, don't you?"

Frodo looks away, his expression crumpling into sadness. His blue eyes glaze over, unfocused, as he drops his gaze to the ground. He shakes his head faintly, whispering as if to himself: “What can we do, against such hatred?”

“I don’t know, sir…” Sam breathes, defeated. “You tell me. What’s the answer to the riddle, what could be greater than evil that devours all?”

They both fall silent for they do not know the answer.

***

The answer comes later that night. When they lie back-to-back, trembling. Arms wrapped tight around themselves in the dark. Trying to hold in the warmth, and keep out the cold that seeps from the Mordor soil, rising like a poison to choke them in their sleep.

Sam sings. Softly and slowly:

Seven little froggies

Sat in a frozen ditch.

The water cracked with cold and ice,

Their legs began to twitch.

They didn’t croak or chatter,

They didn’t make a sound.

So hungry and so full of gloom,

They huddled on the ground.

"Sir, do you know why there are such grim nursery rhymes? You’d almost think them unfit for young minds.”

"Well Sam, life can’t be all about cats playing fiddles, can it? I reckon it would give a rather skewed impression of the world.”

Sam chuckles. “I came here for cats playing jolly fiddles, and all I’ve found is dust and ash and my own broken bones. Where are the fiddle-playing cats, I ask you!”

Sam’s laughter is warm and full, and it makes Frodo draw his hand away from the Ring, his usual source of some twisted comfort. He reaches out and takes Sam’s hand instead. It is warm.

Sam says “I’ve always liked the grim songs. I never thought I’d be singing them here in the Black Land, but I suppose it’s just as well they exist. The cheerful ones would feel so wrong in a place like this. I don’t think I could bear to sing them here at all.”

“Sam, I don’t have any songs for you. But I have been thinking about your riddle.”

“Have you now, sir?”

Frodo repeats it: “You asked me, what could be greater than evil that devours all?”

“That’s right, sir. I’m all ears.”

“It’s this: What is greater than all-devouring evil is the ability of good folk to rise above it."

Sam presses Frodo's hand. Frodo looks him in the eye, and smiles faintly.

 “Come here Sam, or we’ll end up like those sad frogs of yours.”

Sam's eyes brighten. He takes his master in his arms and Sam’s warmth floods him. It’s utterly different to that of the Ring.

Sam’s warmth doesn’t burn with hatred or hunger. It’s soft, kind, and it makes Frodo feel strangely light-headed. He exhales in a long, weary sigh.

“I never thought I’d say it, sir, but I look forward to tomorrow! I want justice for those twisted Orcs. I don’t just hate 'em any more, I've got pity as well. I want to free 'em, if there's a way. Let’s rise above this dark business together, Mr. Frodo! If your answer to the riddle is correct, and I reckon it is mind you, we should be up to the task." 

"Yes, Sam," Frodo says softly. He feels Sam nuzzle his neck and the tenderness of the gesture draws him into sleep.

Chapter Text

Frodo sits on the bed in Rivendell, the pale light of the lanterns falling across his face. Sam hovers close, tense and anxious, while Merry and Pippin perch together sitting with their legs crossed on the foot of the bed, their eyes bright and unwilling to yield. Frodo straightens his shoulders, though his hands tremble slightly. “You cannot stay,” he says, his voice steady but heavy. “This road is not for you. You will return to the Shire. Both of you. Tomorrow.”

Both cousins blink at him, startled. Pippin frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Frodo says, the firmness sharpening in his tone, “that tomorrow you will set out for the Shire. This road is not for you. It is too dark. Too cruel. And you have not felt what I have.”

Frodo presses a hand to his collar bone where the wound of the Witch-king’s blade still hurts him. His voice breaks as he says, “you do not understand. The Enemy shows no mercy! I have felt his steel.”

Merry rises quickly, anger flashing in his eyes. “You really think we don’t understand? That we’d leave you now, after all we’ve seen? No Frodo! If anything, we’re more determined than ever to stay by your side!”

Silence falls. Sam lowers his eyes, but Merry and Pippin exchange a glance.

Pippin's small hands ball into fists. His voice trembles, yet it grows stronger with every word. “No, Frodo. You don’t get to send us away. Not now. Not ever!”

The room quivers with silence. Merry’s fists clench, his face pale with fury and hurt. Pippin’s eyes glisten, but he refuses to look away. Sam shifts beside Frodo, his jaw tight, unwilling to break the standoff.

Frodo turns his face to the window, the starlight glittering beyond the glass. His voice drops, cracked but unbending. His eyes glisten. “I cannot ask this of you. I cannot lead you to death…”

“You don’t have to ask,” Merry replies softly. “We give it freely.” 

Frodo shakes his head. “Tomorrow! You leave tomorrow.”

“No.” Merry crosses his arms over his chest, his stance defensive and unyielding. Pippin glances at him, then mirrors the gesture with stubborn precision. His eyes flash as he adds, defiantly, “Make us!”

“Tomorrow you go back, damn you both! Misguided, foolish Hobbits, now out of my sight!” He points fiercely toward the door, his voice breaking. “I will not see you sacrificed upon my burden’s altar!”

Sam lays a firm hand upon his back. 

“No Sam, do not touch me! I will break.” 

“Then break,” Sam says softly.

“No. Damn you… damn all of you. Go away and leave me be!” he cries, thrusting a trembling hand toward the door. But they do not move. Instead, his arm falters, his fingers finding his own face, and he buries it in his hands as tears sting his eyes.

In an instant, they are around him. Pippin clings to his arm, Merry steadies him with both hands. Their warmth surrounds him, a wall against despair. Merry leans close, his voice gentle but unshakable. “You are not alone, Frodo. Not in the Shire, not on this road, not anywhere. We are with you. Always. That is our final word.”

“You should not suffer because of me! I would not lay this torment upon any of you, this icy dread that suffocates the soul, this poison that twists the mind. I have felt the blade of the Enemy and its cruel pain, and I would not wish it even upon our worst foes. Yet worse still would be the pain of seeing you endure it. I regret it all; every step that brought you into this darkness. Oh, how I wish this burden were mine alone to bear… What was my crime, that such a punishment should be laid upon me? And upon all of you, who never deserved it?” His voice cracks, bitter with longing. “I only wish to sit once more in my armchair at Bag End, and never be troubled by any of this.” 

Merry chuckles. “Such a Baggins thing to say.”

“With a glass of Old Winyards, I suppose,” Pippin adds, trying to smile.

Frodo lets out a broken laugh, half a sob. “Alas, I’ve drained it all!”

“Of course you have,” Merry says, shaking his head with a fond smile.

Little by little, Frodo’s sobs fade into silence. His head tilts back against Merry’s shoulder, while Pippin presses close against his chest. Sam’s hand moves gently over Frodo’s hair in quiet comfort. At last, weariness claims him, and his breathing grows even and soft.

The next morning, Frodo and Sam stand together upon a balcony, gazing out over the fair valley of Rivendell. The falls glitter in the sunlight, the air alive with birdsong, and the sight seems to mirror the fragile calm that has at last returned to Frodo’s heart.

Sam shifts uneasily beside him, his voice barely above a whisper. “If I may be so bold, sir… yesterday you would have sent Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin away. But why not me?”

Frodo turns his eyes from the valley, his voice quiet but certain. “Because, Sam… I, I... crave the calm you bring to my soul.”

Sam’s breath catches, his face flushing red. “Oh, master… I don’t rightly know what to say…”

Frodo gives a faint, weary smile and lays his head against his shoulder. “Then don’t. Don’t say anything.”

Chapter Text

Sam collapses heavily onto a jagged stone, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of weariness and despair. The air is foul, thick with the stench of ash and sulphur, and the very earth seems to tremble faintly, as though it, too, suffers under Sauron’s dominion. Sam's hands, calloused and painful, tremble as he presses them against his knees.

“You know, sir,” he says softly “I know the entire ballad of Gil-galad by heart, I do. Every verse, save the ones of Mordor. And I was right to leave ‘em be!” His voice grows harsher, breaking with fury. “Damn Gollum, and that wretched Ring of his!”

Frodo stirs. His voice is low, deliberate. “Of his?” he echoes, the words heavy with quiet force. “Sam, the Ring was never his. Though he carried it for a long time, it was never truly his own.”

Sam looks up sharply, his round face flushed beneath grime, his eyes burning with certainty. “Of course it was, sir!” he cries, his hands balling into fists. “He had it for five hundred years, or however old the wretched villain may be…”

“Sam,” Frodo’s voice is steady, yet it rings with sudden strength. His eyes burn with a quiet light. “Your anger… your disgust, they are misplaced. If anything, you should feel pity.” His words gather force, though they remain measured. “He bore the Ring for four hundred and seventy-eight years. Years of torment, Sam... Can't you understand? It was never his. Never! There is only one Master.” His eyes burn with a dim, desperate light, hollow from suffering, yet flickering with stubborn hope. He takes a halting step closer, trembling, as though the weight on his shoulders might crush him.

“Sam… Something told me Gollum was not beyond redemption... Was it you? Did you… did you break the fragile bond we were weaving?” His words falter, bitterness slipping through like cracks In thin ice. “Perhaps… perhaps you should not have been so hard on him. Who’s to say… who’s to say he wasn’t close… so very close… to redemption.”

Frodo’s breath quickens, his face drawn and wild, as though some fever burns within him. He stares into Sam’s stricken face. “Tell me, Sam,” he murmurs, the words trembling, dark with hurt. “Did you… did you strike him? Kick him, even?”

Sam’s eyes glimmer with a strange, wounded light. His voice is firm, though touched with sorrow.

“I did not lay a finger on him.”

Frodo shakes his head, a hollow laugh slipping from his lips, brittle and bitter. “No… no. Surely not. You did not strike him.” His gaze hardens, voice low but quivering with heat. “But what did you think, Sam? This creature is born to torment, let’s torment it further. Let’s heap evil upon evil.” His words sharpen, trembling with a cold edge of scorn. “What darkness moved you to wound him so with spiteful words and cruel names?”

Sam flinches as though struck all the same. His mouth trembles, and tears spring hot to his eyes. “It’s because I care for you,” he whispers, the words breaking from him like a confession torn loose.

But Frodo’s reply comes swift and cold, edged with pain. “If that is the nature of your love, Sam,” he says, voice like steel, “then I would rather be without it.”

The air seems to shiver between them. Sam gasps, stricken, his voice cracking with desperation.

“Sir… Gollum is the reason for all of this!”

Frodo’s eyes blaze; his face hardens. When he speaks, his voice deepens, resonant as distant thunder. “No, Sam. He is not. So that is what you truly think, is it? That this pitiful creature holds such power? Nay! It is the Dark Lord. Gollum is but a victim… a sorry, broken thing.”

Frodo spreads his arms wide, as though to embrace the poisoned land itself. “Look around you, Sam. We are in Mordor. Accept it! The Dark Lord is Master here, and he walks among us now, in this very moment, in the shape of Isildur’s Bane!” His voice grows wild, his eyes alight with a fevered fire. “You would rather lay the burden upon Gollum, make him the Master of it, so you need not look upon the dreadful truth. But you cannot! You cannot dance around it like those verses of Gil-galad you turn from because they speak of Mordor.”

His chest heaves as he takes a step closer, his voice breaking toward a cry. “If you truly believe Gollum is the Master of the One… then answer me this; would you name me the Lord of the Ring?”

Sam shrinks back, his voice faltering, small and uncertain. “No… no, of course not…”

Frodo’s face goes pale with fury, his words cutting like a drawn blade. “Then why, Sam,” he hisses, “would you think so of Gollum?”

Sam’s face twists, raw and unguarded, the words spilling out with a force he cannot hold back.

“Well, sir, begging your pardon, but I can’t help it! I hate him. I don’t pity him, I hate his very guts, and I’d strangle him with my bare hands. I hate him so much I’d make him suffer for what he’s done to you, to us! And that’s the truth. If we catch him, you’ll have to give him a clean, quick death… because I won’t. Because I—” his voice cracks—“I’d bleed him out slow.”

The confession hangs in the foul air like a curse. Both hobbits stand rigid, their breaths ragged, heavy not just with fury, but with something darker, something edging toward despair. They stare at one another, unyielding, their small forms trembling in the vast, poisoned silence of Mordor.

“Sam…” Frodo breathes at last, his voice shaking with rage and disbelief. He steps forward until their foreheads might almost touch, his hand trembling at his side. “How dare you,” he whispers, and then louder, his words like a blade. “How dare you!” His eyes bore into Sam’s, bright with a feverish gleam.

“Do you even understand what he’s taken from me?” Frodo chokes, the words scraping his throat raw. “The things he’s done, the lives he’s broken. Mine among them.”

His chest heaves, and when he speaks again it is barely more than a gasp: “He likely took the lives of my parents,” Frodo says, the words torn and ragged. “And even so, even I can still find room for pity, instead of this wretched resentment.”

The light in his eyes burns too brightly, fevered and unnatural, and for an instant a wild gleam twists in the blue depths as though the Ring itself stirs behind them, turning mercy into something perilously close to madness.

Sam staggers a step, eyes blazing, breath ragged. “You can’t mean that!”

Frodo’s gaze does not waver. His voice comes fast, heated, and edged with something desperate.

“Oh, come on, Sam. A struggle was seen on the Brandywine. Gollum knew the name Baggins. He knew the Shire. He could have gone there, drowned them, and then found he had the wrong Baggins, since they bore no Ring. And still. Yet still!” His voice cracks as he strikes his chest with his fist. “I gave him a chance. I was good to him.”

The silence between them is raw and taut, but Frodo presses on, bitter and accusing. “Do you know why I do not tell you everything, Sam? Because if I had told you this, you would have hounded him even more, all under the guise of love. But your love is grasping and demanding, and I will have it no more!”

Frodo’s whole body trembles, his hands clenched, his face alight with wrath and grief. He turns sharply, his cloak whipping against the ashen ground, and strides into the choking mist.

“Don’t walk away from me!” Sam cries, his voice breaking with panic. He lunges forward, clutching Frodo’s arm in a rough grip. “You don’t say that, you don’t, and then just walk off.”

But Frodo does not heed him. He tears forward, dragging his arm against Sam’s grasp, his small frame taut with defiance.

“Do not—DO NOT—walk away from me!” Sam shouts, his whole body shaking now, and he yanks Frodo back, pulling him hard towards him. The two hobbits stand locked, faces inches apart, breaths hot with fury.

“You were entrusted to me!” Sam growls, his hand gripping Frodo as though he would hold him by force of will alone.

“Leave me be, Sam,” Frodo says in a commanding tone but his voice quivers.

“No,” Sam snaps, fierce and unyielding. “I will not.” He yanks Frodo closer, his grip tight as iron.

“Sam!” Frodo gasps, struggling, his voice breaking into panic.

Sam’s strength surges; he seizes Frodo and drives him back, slamming him against the jagged face of a blackened stone. The impact knocks the breath from Frodo’s chest. He pants, air torn from his lungs, his eyes wide with fury and fear. His battered flesh hurts him. The wheals criss-crossing his back and the half-healed stab wound flare with fire. A sharp cry bursts from him, raw and helpless, echoing off the dead stone.

Pinned hard against the rock, he writhes, his small hands beating helplessly against Sam’s arms. “Is this it?” he cries, voice cracking. “Is this where you claim it for your own, Sam?” His words rise, frantic, shrill with accusation. He twists and wrestles, but he is no match for Sam’s broad strength.

Sam’s body holds him fast, unyielding as the stone at his back. Frodo freezes then, struck by something darker, a look in Sam’s eyes.

It is not merely anger. It is hunger.

Sam’s gaze lingers at his throat, staring with a strange, unholy glint, and Frodo knows that look. Oh, he knows it. He has seen it before in the madness of Boromir, when the man of Gondor had reached for him with trembling hands and wild, covetous eyes, ensnared by the Ring.

Now the same lustful gleam flickers in Sam’s round, tear-stained eyes.

And Frodo shudders.

The thought of Boromir shatters Frodo’s resolve. His voice bursts out in a scream, hoarse with panic.

“Don’t do it, Sam! Don’t take it! I shall go mad!” he pleads, his words cracking like glass. He squeezes his eyes shut as fear closes over him like dark water, and for an instant he is certain— horribly certain—that Sam’s hands will close around his throat and choke the life from him.

Sam stares at him, stunned. His lips part, and for a moment the strange fire in his eyes flickers.

“Hurt you?" His voice falters, disbelieving, as though a wicked spell has broken.

“You just have, you just have already,” pants Frodo.

The dark glint vanishes. Sam’s eyes clear, returning to their familiar, humble roundness. His arms, once pinning and violent, loosen. They do not strangle him. Instead, slowly, almost trembling, they enfold him.

Frodo shivers at the touch, his body taut with lingering terror. For a heartbeat he resists, stiff in Sam’s embrace, unsure if he can trust it. Yet his own strength is gone, and fear ebbs into exhaustion. He sags, his head bowing against Sam’s shoulder.

Sam holds him fast, firm yet gentle now, and Frodo—shaking still—leans into him. The tension in his frame seeps away, and with a long, broken sigh, he yields and his fear gives way.

“I—I will not, not ever,” Sam stammers, his words tumbling over themselves in desperation. His arms tighten as though he fears Frodo will slip away. “I care for you too deeply. Please, sir, forgive me. Please.”

His voice cracks, hoarse with shame. His eyes shine wet in the dim, ash-filled light, searching Frodo’s face for some sign of mercy.

Frodo trembles still, his body caught between the memory of fear and the pull of long companionship. He lifts his gaze slowly, meeting Sam’s pleading eyes. For a moment he says nothing, only breathes, ragged and shallow, as though weighing the trust that has been so nearly broken.

The silence between them is heavy, but Sam does not release him. He clings as though his whole being rests upon Frodo’s answer.

Frodo swallows hard, his lips trembling as though the words resist him. His voice comes low, halting, each syllable edged with strain. “Sam… you frightened me.” His eyes glisten, and for a moment he looks away, unable to bear the weight of Sam’s desperate gaze.

“But…” He draws in a shuddering breath, his shoulders sinking. “But you have stood by me through more than I can reckon. And I cannot—” his voice breaks, “I cannot cast you off, not here, not now. I need you, Sam.”

His hand, frail and unsteady, lifts and rests briefly against Sam’s arm. The touch is light, uncertain, as though it might vanish at any moment. “Of course… I forgive. For where would a Ring-Bearer be, without a Bearer of his own?” Frodo sighs, his weight sinking against Sam’s chest.

They remain locked together, the silence deep and oppressive, broken only by the faint rasp of their breathing. The land around them lies still, as though Mordor itself watches, holding its breath. The sulphurous air clings to their throats, acrid and heavy, but neither speaks.

They lower themselves to the ashen ground. Sam curls close, his head sinking into Frodo’s chest, his body shaking with quiet sobs.

"Hush now," says Frodo. He sits still, his eyes closed, his face pale with weariness. He tilts his head back, resting lightly against the black stone, and a long sigh trembles from his lips. His fingers hover above Sam’s curls, then slowly thread through them, hesitant yet tender.

“I know it showed you something…” Frodo murmurs, his voice faint but steady, the words weighted with dread. “I saw it in your eyes. What did it show you, Sam? Speak to me."

Sam shudders, his breath catching. At last he lifts his tear-streaked face, looking up with a sorrow that cuts deeper than anger. “I saw you, sir, without hurt. Whole again.” His voice falters, and he buries his face in Frodo’s cloak, ashamed. “I’d only have to claim it for myself, and your hurt would be over… I’d carry it this last bit, sir. And have you suffer less…”

Frodo’s eyes brim with tears, the weight of them blurring the jagged world into a haze. His voice demanding, yet it is also tender. "I do wish for your love, Sam, and I desire it more than I can rightly tell.”

Sam grasps the hand that lies weak at Frodo’s side and kisses it reverently. “Good, you’ll have it whether or no, sir, whether you want it or no… Now and for always.”

Chapter Text

The water laps softly against the prow, and a gentle mist veils the Anduin. The stillness is serene, and for a moment Sam forgets his uneasiness for being on the water. He paddles solemnly. Three days. Three long days from Parth Galen, where they broke off with the rest of the Fellowship, to reach the Emyn Muil.

“Mr. Frodo?”

“Hm?” says Frodo, looking at him in surprise, as if he had not expected to find Sam there at all.

“The Anduin sings sweetly and flows softly, Mr. Frodo! And this mist here hides us from unfriendly eyes. It cheers me no end, but not you. Are you all right, sir?”

Frodo sighs. At last, after a long silence, he says: “Sam, it is Boromir's Great Horn! I still hear its call in the back of my mind. It sounded when we pushed off from Parth Galen.”

“Yes, sir, I heard it too."

“This means a clash with the Enemy, Sam! Despite what happened, I hope no ill fate has befallen Boromir. He was not himself. He fell under the Ring's evil spell, Sam... oh Sam, he tried to convince me to hand it over. Thus he spoke to me:

Why not get rid of it? Why not be free of your doubt and fear, little Halfling? You can lay the blame on me, if you will. You can say that I was too strong and took it by force. For I am too strong for you.”

Sam gasps. “He did, sir?” He gets up and comes sit next to his master on whose shoulder he lays a steadfast hand. Sam's eyes brim with little fond twinkles while looking at Frodo.

"I would be lying if I said his offer didn’t tempt me, Sam!” he says, his eyes ablaze, “I wished to give in to his offer, I truly did. But I didn’t! With every ounce I could muster I fought, and escaped him.

But what I saw then, Sam! When I sat on the summit of Amon Hen. I had put it on to get away and visions drew past by mind's eye: The Misty Mountains crawling with Orcs like anthills; in Mirkwood, deadly strife among Elves and Men and fell beasts! The land of the Beornings aflame; a cloud over Moria; smoke on the borders of Lórien.”

He catches his breath, as if the sight still burns in his mind.

“Horsemen galloping from Rohan; wolves pouring from Isengard; Men from the East in the great ships of Harad, armed to the teeth with swords, spears, and bows, bringing with them war, death, and scorched earth! And I saw all the power of the Dark Lord in motion, Sam!” He closes his eyes in despair.

“But the Fellowship is broken. All hope has left me now,” he says, distraught. “I am not well. The Pillars of the Kings could be raised with less effort than it takes me to cling to reason at this very moment!” He buries his face in his hands.

Sam softly squeezes Frodo’s shoulder. “Dear sir, how horrid. But not all is lost. I daresay, and I hope you won't take offence, that our breaking up with the rest may prove to be a good thing, sir.”

A silence falls, so deep that a pin dropping would ring in their ears.

“Good?” Frodo repeats. “How so, Sam?” He looks warily at him, and at his hand, which brings back the memory of Boromir, who had laid his own in that very spot. He had felt Boromir’s hand tremble with suppressed excitement. But Sam’s hand feels different for his does not trembles but lays heavily on a reassuring manner.

“Well, sir, I believe it’s a good thing because we must rely on our own now! We’ve got to manage on our own, we have! See, now it’s me that has to paddle. Strider would’ve done it before, but now it’s down to you and me! We’ll trust to our own strength and a bit of hobbit sense, we will. And who knows, we may turn out to be great paddlers, and never knew it!”

Frodo cannot help but burst out laughing for Sam must be the worst paddler he could have imagined. In the past ten minutes alone, Sam has scolded a rock, been startled by a great branch he might have spotted a mile away, and leapt in fright at a rather slimey fish-being skulking through the undergrowth, crying out, “Well I never! Sneaky little bugger!” before taking a swing at it, and missing it.

Sam seems taken aback by the clear disdain for his paddling talents and says, “All right, sir, I reckon that may not have been the best example but you understand what I’m trying to say, don’t you?”

Frodo smiles at him. “You know what, Sam? I think I do."

***

“Come on… sir, ngh, we can do this.”

They plant their feet in the wet sand.

“One—” a grunt, the boat shifts—“two—” breath tearing in their throats—“three!”

With a heave that scrapes every muscle raw, they lift the boat onto the shore and shove it forward until it lies hidden behind a large rock.

“That’s it! Now that sneak won’t find us, sir," Sam mutters. "Thank you, Sam," says Frodo.

The wind has howled all day over the open water, and now, on the shore, it seems sharper still, cutting through their clothes like ice. Sam looks along the dark, rocky edge of the land, but finds hardly any shelter, save for some rather ominious-looking blackcrested trees.

“Wait here a moment, Mr. Frodo,” he says firmly, and begins to dig at the sandy earth with his bare hands in between the big roots of an overhanging tree, that jab out of the sand like a snake's tail.

As he works, Sam starts singing:

Dig, dig, dig a hole,

Never gonna pay no toll!

Found a Goblin, made him tea,

Now he’s digging just like me!

It makes Frodo laugh. He has never heard it before.

"Sir, you don't have to," Sam says, taking in Frodo, who kneels opposite and starts digging with his hands. "It's what I am here for, ain't it? These kind of chores?" 

"Yes Sam, but I am not going to stand idly by while you do all the dirty work."

"I don't mind it none, sir."

"No?"

"No. Some hobbits are worth getting dirty for. Causes. I- I, meant to say."

He looks up at Frodo and he smiles faintly at him with a keen look in his blue eyes.

"It makes me think of days long ago."

“Aye, Mr. Frodo, me too! When I was young, I used to spend hours tunnelling with the Cottons, sir. Always playing at war with other groups of children. We’d take over their tunnels and smash ’em up, and they’d come and do the same to ours. Once it got proper dangerous, we went and flooded a tunnel. That was a bad business, sir, no mistake. As punishment the Gaffer made me clear stones from the fields and fetch water from the pump all winter long.” He shudders at the memory. “That was rough, it was.”

It does not take them long to scrape out a shallow pit, just deep enough to keep them out of the worst of the wind. With driftwood and reeds he makes a narrow ridge to break the gusts.

“It’s not exactly a chamber in Rivendell, Sam,” Frodo says with a faint smile.

“Indeed, sir, but it we'll make the best of it.”

Sam crawls in beside him, the hollow now filled with their two bodies, shoulders pressed together.

The warmth comes slowly. At first Sam feels only the chill of Frodo’s cloak against his own, but little by little he warms to the heat of his master’s body. He draws their cloaks a little closer around them both.

“Thank you, Sam,” comes a quiet murmur.

“No thanks needed, Mr. Frodo. We’ve still a long way to go tomorrow, and that means we’d best get some sleep.” Sam sighs. “When you get tired from it all, sir, come — fall into my arms.”

They fall silent, then Frodo whispers, “Boromir is dead, Sam. I can feel it.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you don’t know that.”

“I fear I do.”

“Well then, then he died honourably, sir, on the battlefield, fighting the enemy, as befits his people.” He gently strokes Frodo’s shoulder.

When Sam’s hand falls still, Frodo turns to him and clings, burying his face against Sam's chest.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you,” Sam stammers. He pulls him close and wraps his arms around him. He knows Frodo’s trust has been wounded. “What a privilege. Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Frodo sits, his head between his knees, his arms hanging wearily to the ground where his one hand feebly twitches and his other is clutched around the Ring. “There is no veil between me and the wheel of fire,” he breathes softly.

"There now, Mr. Frodo,” says Sam and takes his hand. “How about you let me be your veil, sir? Don't clutch at the Curse, please. Hold your Sam, sir, if you will."

Trembling, Sam takes hold of his master's arm and tugs at it but Frodo does not give way.

"I cannot, Sam, I cannot... I am spent under its will. I am naked. Naked in the dark, Sam.” 

“Then step out of it, Mr. Frodo! Be in the light with me." 

"There is no light," Frodo mutters, feeling Gorgoroth's scorn biting viciously into every inch of his already tormented body.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but there is! Please," says Sam as he takes the phial of Galadriel in his hand and presses it carefully against the battered skin of Frodo's neck. 

Frodo gasps. “Sam!” 

Sam grabs hold of his master's hand, pulls at it again and this time Frodo lets go with an anguished cry.

“There you go, sir, you've done it!”

Sam drapes his master's arm around his own waist and pulls him close into the shelter of his arms.

His steadfast warmth floods Frodo, solid and sheltering as stone.

“My Sam,” Frodo says in a hoarse whisper, and lays his head to rest upon Sam's sturdy shoulder. “I am glad you are here with me at the end of ends.” 

“Yes, I am with you, Master,” says Sam. “And you're with me.” He weeps in his heart, but no tears come to his dry eyes. He kisses Frodo's forehead.

"I am afraid, Sam. Dreadfully afraid,” says Frodo and clutches at Sam. “For if I am captured again, I shan’t be slain. I shall be taken to their houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness. They shall freeze the flesh off me, and then cast me before the Lidless Eye. My mind shall be broken, and for the rest of time I shall despair as I shall behold it upon His finger!” 

No cry as pained as Frodo's at that very moment was ever heard by Sam. He pulls him as close against him as any person could ever hold another. 

“Please do not speak of such things, sir,” cries Sam. “If it comes to it, sir, I shall join you. I shall lay with you before this Eye and then sir, well, we shall fade together.”

“Sam, you know not of what you speak. Please, I beg of you, do not follow!”

Sam presses a kiss into his master's neck and it makes a pleasant shiver course through Frodo.

“Do not ask me not to follow, sir! For I shall follow you wherever you go, do you not understand by now? You said it yourself. 'Of all the confounded nuisances, Sam, you’re the worst'.”

Frodo gives the faintest soft chuckle and the sound makes Sam's heart flutter deliriously. “Yes. Actually, I still stand by those words,” Frodo says.

In reply, Sam playfully squeezes him. Frodo gasps, and in that moment Sam’s nearness empties his mind. He feels only the steady rise and fall of Sam’s chest against his own.

"I never mean to leave you. I am going with you. If you climb to the Moon; and if any Orc or Black Rider tries to stop you, they’ll have Sam Gamgee to reckon with.”

Frodo leans forward.

“Sir?” Sam’s heart begins to hammer.

His world reels.

For his master’s lips touch his own, soft as a spring breeze, and Sam’s breath catches, as though the world itself has paused.

He lies with Frodo in his arms on the plains of Gorgoroth, and yet he stands upon the edge of a great height within himself, dizzy and unsteady.

“I am sorry, Sam,” Frodo whispers, breaking away and turning his face aside.

“Don’t be, sir.”

Sam lays his fingers beneath Frodo’s chin and gently lifts his face. He meets tear-bright blue eyes, caught and softened in the light of the phial, and he kisses him in return.

"Oh Sam."

Frodo draws a steady breath and leans into him. Mordor loosens its hold. He is no longer in ash and fire, but in Sam’s mouth pressed to his own, and in the warm, faithful fingers resting at his neck.

"You were right,” Frodo softly breathes and presses his forehead to Sam's. Sam caresses his face with a warm and strong hand that fills Frodo with quiet delight.

"There is indeed beauty in the world and it is worth fighting for. For you are in it, Sam." Frodo smiles the faintest of smiles and this breaks Sam utterly. He pulls his master close. 

“Please, sir,” he softly speaks into his ear. “Night is falling. Lay down your sweet and weary head, and rest in my arms.”

They cast themselves down upon the cold stones and Frodo rests his head upon Sam's breast.

“Sam, my Sam, do you hear it?” Frodo softly speaks from between his arms. "The white gulls. They are calling. The sea has come to carry us home.” Sam knits his brow in bewilderment but before he can say anything, his master's head sags against his own, and does not move again.

***

Thank you for reading

One of my readers asked if I use AI when writing. No, I don't - I enjoy writing oldschool by hand way too much. 😎 Here's a process pic of working on this chapter.