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Frodo tries to cry out for help, but the heat has dried up his throat; his screams are swallowed whole. Lava presses in on his body from all sides, thick and heavy as it eats at the most vulnerable parts of his body: caressing his clavicle, the soles of his feet, the small of his back, his inner thighs. Frodo tries to struggle, but with every convulsion comes new waves of hot pain.
He peers blearily above him, the heat distorting his vision. Upon a distant platform stands Gollum and a heartbroken Sam. Frodo can't let the current take him, or he will be pulled under and away. "Sam!" he cries, swallowing lava in doing so. The teeth of the magma reaches his shoulder and the wound blooms open, inviting magma into his bloodstream.
The current tosses Frodo violently.
"Wake up now, Mr Frodo."
The fire gripped his shoulder, he realises he will not last.
"Wake up!"
Blearily, Frodo opens his eyes. Over his bed stoops Sam, eyes soft and concerned as always. He helps Frodo sit up, and Frodo sputters, his lungs trying to expound the phantom lava. Sam rubs his back.
It is a few minutes before the hacking coughs subside and he can manage words. "I hope I didn't wake you."
"Think nothing of it," Sam murmurs. Frodo now takes in his surroundings, grounding himself: the cold stony floor, the high arched ceiling, the moonlight falling in through the wide windows. Sam's empty bed beside his and, across the room, the peaceful forms of Pippin and Merry. "Another nightmare?"
Frodo nods weakly. "I thought they would have abated by now."
"It will be a slow process."
"But this doesn't happen to you." Frodo tries to keep the hurt out of his voice, but he cannot help it.
Sam sighs. "Come over here." He stands and steps out onto the balcony, and Frodo follows him. "Look."
Obediently, Frodo gazes out: he sees a moonless sky, but a horizon no longer oppressed by Sauron's fiery gaze; far below them, the sprawling city. It's streets are largely empty, and it's peaceful in contrast to the dizzying activity daybreak will bring. "What am I looking at?"
"Of the houses down there, most are darkened in slumber, but more than a few aren't. The people of Minas Tirith have lived in the pocket of dark powers for a long time, longer than we knew about the threat to Middle Earth. We are not the only ones mourning. This war has touched everyone. It will be a long time before Minas Tirith sleeps peacefully again."
"But you're fine. Why does it hit me worse?"
Sam levels Frodo with a dark stare. "I am not fine."
Frodo heart sinks as he studies Sam's face, seeing the truth to his words: the bags under his eyes, the fresh pink skin where his flash had been cut or singed. "Oh Sam, I'm sorry."
"I know, we both are. But I did not leave you on Mount Doom. You are coming home with me, both body and soul." Frodo is choking again, but this time from emotion, and it is not altogether unpleasant.
A breeze drifts by them and Frodo shivers as the cool air hits his sweat-damp skin. Sam instinctively puts an arm around his shoulders and soon Frodo is pressing his face into Sam's chest, holding him tight.
Sam yawns, and soon leads them both shuffling back to their beds. Frodo slips into bed and Sam pulls the quilt over Frodo. As Sam is about to turn away, Frodo goes to speak, but halts.
"What is it?" Little escapes Sam's eye.
"Will you sleep in this bed with me? It's childish but I sleep better when you're near."
Sam softens. "Of course."
It's a slightly tight fit, but Frodo has spent too long sleeping rough to care. There is hardly an inch between them and through the sheets Frodo can feel the rise and fall of Sam's chest as his breathing becomes more regular and he drops off into slumber. Before long, Frodo can feel himself starting to be pulled under. He doesn't know what he did to deserve Samwise but by his side, Frodo can tentatively believe himself to be safe. Oh how wonderful it is to be loved so deeply.