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With a sudden, sharp intake of breath, Sam jerked awake.
He was alone, crouched in darkness so complete that he thought at first that his eyes were still shut. Something terrible had happened; he felt it—but so many unspeakable things had happened since they left the Shire that he had difficulty remembering what it could be.
Sam's face felt strange and tight, and when he raised a hand to it, he found that it was wet. He'd been crying. Why?
Frodo!
He shook his head to clear it and looked around, his eyes gradually adjusting. There was nothing to see but stones and shadows, and although Sam sensed that he was up very high, the air was strangely close and heavy. Frodo lay near by him, pale and still. His neck was bloodied, and Sam dimly remembered seeing him pierced by Shelob's sting. The wet crunching sound rang in his memory and he retched, but his stomach was too empty for him to be ill.
When Sam could bring himself to open his eyes and look at his master again, he saw that the Ring was gone.
Oh, no. No. To lose Mister Frodo and have the Quest fail, too… Where is it?
Sam cast about him frantically, hoping that the chain had simply broken and that it was nearby. Soon he became aware of an enormous weight around his neck, a chain that felt like to cut into his flesh. He had it, then, although he could not remember taking it. The Ring burned against his chest; he could feel its heat right through his clothes.
He turned his attention back to Frodo, so lovely and so still, never to move again. How could Sam go on without him? He thought of the long, lonely days ahead, of what it would be like to trudge ceaselessly on to Mount Doom, dodging the orcs and the Eye, without the distraction of worrying about whether Mister Frodo was eating and sleeping enough and what Sam could do for him. At times, he'd felt that caring for his master had been all that kept him alive and on his feet. He simply couldn't leave him…and yet, he must. Though his heart ached so that he was sure he must be dying himself, Sam knew that he could not let the Quest end here. Nor could he do it alone.
Slowly, quietly, an idea began to form: Sam was not alone. He had the Ring. The Ring could help.
What! Help me, when I mean to destroy it? Surely not.
But the notion, once entertained, was hard to dismiss. The Ring had untold power. In the right hands, it could move mountains. Worlds. If he could but master it, Sam might turn the Ring's power against itself. And oh, the songs they would sing then! Songs of brave, beautiful Frodo, struck down before his time, too great of heart for the world to support. And of stout Samwise, who took up his fallen master's burden, bearing it for only a short while, but enough to fulfill the purpose of their great Quest.
Only a short while…
Well. It did seem a bit of a waste and all to bring it so far only to cast it away like so much rubbish. Why, with a Ring like that, Sam might do anything! He could extend the growing season in the Shire, multiply their stores tenfold. But Sam could do more than that, and far beyond the Shire, too. He could restore the elven lands that race was leaving behind, make of them a garden the likes of which the world had never seen, impossibly vast, with flowers as far as the eye could see! He saw himself marching off to have his own adventures as Bilbo had—but with a great sword in his hand and his head full of plans for conquest. And although Sam had never before dreamed of ruling over anything greater than his turnip patch, he and Frodo could—
Mister Frodo. Dead. Lost.
Sam felt his entire body wracked with sobs, bringing him to his knees. His poor master! If only they'd stayed safe in the Shire. If only Mister Frodo hadn't spoken up so selflessly at the Council, if he'd allowed others greater of stature and might to take the burden on themselves. They could have spent a quiet few days in the House of Elrond with Merry and Pip and then returned to the Shire, where they belonged, and everything would have been as it was.
Although…
In his heart of hearts, Sam knew that there was one great good that had arisen from their nightmarish journey, one that would likely not ever have been, had they stayed within the bounds of home and familiarity. From the day of their first meeting, he had loved Frodo ardently, worshipfully, with all the passion of his young hobbit's heart. Never had he thought of speaking of his feelings; his master seemed to Sam to be just out of reach, too pure and too lovely for him to touch. Of course, he never could keep his face from showing all that he felt, and so Sam's love for Frodo was a bit of an open secret to those who knew him well. From time to time, the look in Frodo's eyes had suggested that even he was aware, but Sam did not allow himself to hope. All he had was his master's friendship—and eventually, well into his tween years, his dreams.
It was not until they were well into the Quest, after the Fellowship was broken, that Sam learned that he had not been the only one dreaming.
He was uncertain which of them had begun. Was it his hand, or his master's, that had first wandered under the other's shirt as they lay in a makeshift shelter, huddled together for warmth? Who was it that had first turned a simple touch into a caress? All he knew was that once they'd taken that single step forward, he and Frodo had fallen together, pushing clothing aside, touching everywhere they could reach, whispering endearments into each other's mouths. Afterward, their feelings at last made plain, it had been unthinkable for them to spend a single night apart. Even now, this far into Mordor, they slept entwined in each other's arms, though they were too weary and low to do anything else.
And now Frodo was dead, and with him all the promises they'd made each other of what life would be like for them, together, when at last they returned to the Shire. Sam would have liked to lay down and die beside him.
But perhaps it didn't have to be that way.
Gardens and adventures were all very well, but Sam knew the Ring had been made for greater things. He knew so little of the history of the wider world, but he'd heard their friends in the Fellowship talk of Sauron and how he'd used the Ring to level entire armies. If it could take life on that scale, then surely restoring life to one little hobbit…
Yes. Yes, this was the way the Ring would help him! Sam could see it all so clearly. He would take up Sting and hunt the beast that had slain his master. Shelob must pay with her blood for what she had done to Mister Frodo, and only with the power of the Ring on his side could Sam finally defeat her. Afterward he would return to this place and bear Frodo's body away to the spider's great carcass. He saw himself bathing his master in Shelob's foul, sticky blood, then hanging the Ring around his neck and burying him where she lay in the heart of her lair. And later, so much later, the earth would stir…
* * *
It was a much different Samwise that emerged, long hours later, from Shelob's lair: older, grimmer, but triumphant. By his side, pale and subdued, shuffled a thing that once was Frodo Baggins.
Sam would find, in the days to come, that Frodo was uncharacteristically silent and rather listless, save in the presence of an active threat to his person. In time the sight of his beloved master tearing an orc's throat with his teeth would become almost a matter of course. Sam would no longer have to worry that he wasn't eating enough.
Nor would Sam need to trouble himself over Frodo's stamina. He could shamble along for hours in any direction he was pointed, and he never again complained of the weight of the Ring. What once had seemed an impossible burden was as nothing to him now; he was beyond its reach, beyond temptation. Sam's chief concern was how long they could evade the great burning Eye that he knew, even now, eagerly sought them in the darkness.
Sam did worry at times about what might happen if he should fail, if his worn, battered body should finally crumble. What would become of Frodo then? Where would he wander, with no one to lead the way and the Ring powerless to reach him? Conversely, what would happen if they completed the Quest now—how could they return to the Shire this way?
This was not how it was supposed to be; some part of Sam's mind railed impotently against it. But it was too late. This was all there was now. And at night, when he held his master's cold, familiar body in his arms, averting his gaze from those staring eyes—for Frodo no longer slept—it was enough.