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In Mordor, the Ring promised Frodo he could have everything.
It had always been heavy around his neck, and even when he’d first held it, he’d known the pull of it. He had felt, and still did feel, that slipping it on would be right and easy and just. Nevertheless, he’d resisted the clouded sense of power it exuded, aware, despite the temptation it offered, that attempting to claim such an object for himself could only be disastrous.
But in Mordor, as Frodo grew weaker and the Ring grew stronger, he began to see clear futures for himself in which the Ring was his. As he walked, staggering through hostilely empty and hostilely occupied terrain, his imagination became more real to him than his reality, and it was as if he was living multiple lives, all overlapping, all distorting the world around him, making him gradually lose sight of his ultimate goal.
It started by showing him visions of himself as a king, a great uniter of Middle-Earth, a land which would be without war and conflict under his rule, all its races at peace with each other and with the greater world. But the Ring and Frodo had been acquainted with each other for far too long, and it seemed to know him too well. It knew that he wasn’t one for delusions of strength and complete control. He could resist those, but it soon came up with gentler, more enticing circumstances for him to consider.
It told him he could return. It told him he could go home. It showed him the ones he loved, so many individuals he’d long given up hope of ever seeing again. He saw his family, Merry and Pippin and Bilbo, but as soon as he resolutely reminded himself that sacrificing his own life to destroy the Ring was the only way to make sure they kept existing, their faces faded from his mind. To protect them, he stopped trying to remember them.
A few times, the Ring promised Frodo his parents, but they’d already been dead for too many years, and Frodo no longer felt the sting of that particular tragedy as much as he felt others. Every illusion involving them was too clearly falsified and not nearly as alluring as it was meant to be. Frodo knew he could not have them back. He knew he couldn’t have Bilbo back, or Gandalf, or the Fellowship, or his home. He had no hope anymore, no belief in anything, and somehow, this helped him hold out against the Ring. And so it was that he endured.
At night, or at some time that could be perceived as night – everything was so dark now that day and night became indistinguishable – Frodo slept occasionally, and Sam slept on the cold earth beside him. Ideally, one of them would have been awake at all times, but they’d fallen into an awful rhythm of walking until they were too tired to go on and then collapsing together on the ground. Neither of them got enough sleep anymore. Frodo was kept awake because the things going on in his mind were searing and loud, and Sam was kept awake because he was worried for Frodo. But eventually, their bodies would force them into unconsciousness, and they’d both briefly get a respite from the horrors that surrounded them in the waking world.
A few nights, or night-adjacent periods of time, after Sam rescued Frodo from Cirith Ungol, they lay down to rest on a small expanse of flat rock, unsheltered, but unable to do anything to remedy that issue.
Frodo half-expected Sam to say something encouraging to him before they tried to sleep, but he was quiet this time. However, he did offer his hand for Frodo to take, which Frodo did. Then, Sam smiled, which was encouragement enough, and closed his eyes. Frodo watched his breathing even out as he nodded off. There was something, he reflected, very sorrowful about the fact that Sam was still there with him.
He knew he needed Sam, and he knew he would not have gotten far without him, but it didn’t seem fair that their fate should be the same. It wasn’t fair. It was Frodo who had taken on this burden, always knowing at heart how it might end for him. Sam, on the other hand, was not meant for this. He was meant for kinder things. A whole, fulfilling life. Frodo was supposed to be doing this alone. But he was too tired to tell Sam this, and too weak to harbour any delusions about being able to complete this quest without great assistance. This didn’t stop Frodo from wanting better for Sam, though. Nothing would stop him from wanting that until the rapidly-approaching end of his days.
If Frodo could ask for anything, if he were in a position to be asking and if there were some power he could ask something of, he would request only that Sam be given another opportunity to live. But Frodo lacked the ability to promise a future of any sort to his most loyal friend, whom he treasured now more than he’d ever believed he could treasure anyone, and that made him feel an awful lot, despite it not being a very good time to do tremendous amounts of feeling. Then again, it was probably the only time Frodo would ever get, so he let himself lament a few things that could have been, which turned out to be a critical mistake on his part.
Frodo closed his eyes for a brief instant, perhaps in a quickly abandoned attempt at sleep, and when he opened them again, the scene before him was quite different.
Sam was still next to him, asleep and holding his hand, but everything else was changed. They were no longer in Mordor, and it was no longer dark. Sunlight came streaming through a window, early and uncertain, mild and slightly warm. It was autumn sunlight, and it told of a day that was to be unseasonably pleasant.
They didn’t sleep on rocky ground anymore, but rather in a bed that Frodo recognised as his own. It was softer than he’d remembered, but he supposed everything back home would seem nicer after all the harsh places he’d been. Home. He was home.
He’d seen this before, these pristinely gilded vestiges of his old life, and he knew he should not be here, but nevertheless, he wanted to witness what was going to happen next. This was the first time Sam had been with him.
Looking at Sam brought Frodo immeasurable relief, so much so that he forgot that he was trying to be wary of something. Sam seemed at peace; there was no echo of restlessness in his expression. No sign of injury or struggle marred his face. It was all right again. It was all right still. Frodo felt that he might cry.
Sam opened his eyes, and they were the eyes that Frodo knew, the eyes he trusted. Every last detail was sincere and inviting.
‘Somethin’ the matter, Mr. Frodo?’ Sam asked him, in a voice as clear and cheerful as it once had been.
‘No,’ Frodo heard himself say. ‘I can’t see why anything would be, Sam.’ And he was right. There was not a single thing wrong with this moment. He felt himself begin to smile.
‘Well, good,’ said Sam. ‘I’m so very glad you’re finally happy.’
‘Me too,’ Frodo agreed. He wasn’t sure what he felt could be called happiness exactly, but if Sam said he was happy, he must be.
Sam moved closer towards Frodo and kissed his cheek, as if it were the most regular of interactions between them. Frodo didn’t want to question it. If this was the way things were, how could he do anything but accept and welcome such a change?
‘I take it you don’t regret keepin’ it then?’
‘Keeping what?’
Sam removed his hand from Frodo’s, and it was then that Frodo saw that his own hand was not bare. On his third finger was a golden Ring, and it fit him so naturally that it was easy to forget it was there at all. Something about this made Frodo uneasy. It sickened him.
He held his hand up to the light to get a better look at it. It felt like the Ring was looking back. Being an object, it spoke no audible words, but Frodo could hear the question it presented all the same. This is what you want, isn’t it?
It is.
‘See, it ain’t so bad,’ Sam remarked.
‘It’s not, no,’ said Frodo, though he was sure this time that he was not really the one saying it. It was not the answer he would have chosen to give.
‘It is just a Ring, after all,’ Sam assured, resting a hand comfortingly on Frodo’s arm. ‘And it’s always been yours, in a way. And none of this would be possible without it. We wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be here. Don’t you worry so much.’ There was urgency in this statement, and suddenly he sounded very unlike Sam.
Frodo shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. The apology was for himself. He was sorry he could not stay here, and sorry to Sam, the real Sam, for how easily he’d been fooled by this imitation of him. Frodo shut his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to see this anymore. He didn’t like to be mocked, and that’s precisely what this was. A mockery.
‘Mr. Frodo?’ Sam asked.
‘Mr. Frodo, what are you doing, sir?’ It was Sam’s voice again, but this time it was cracking from dehydration and wavering from fear.
Frodo felt the coldness come back into his body, and then the exhaustion, and then the dull, constant pain that resonated from his various unhealed and festering wounds.
His hands were clenched tightly around the Ring, his knuckles white from the strain, and Sam was trying hastily to pry his fingers away. As soon as he realised what he was doing, Frodo released his grip.
He was gasping like a child who had just woken up from a nightmare, yet it was all backwards. The dream he’d been having, if it could be called a dream, was good and safe and wonderful, meanwhile, the truth of his existence was anything but. He didn’t know whether to be glad or upset that it had all been illusory. He felt a sort of hatred rising within him, and he didn’t know where it was coming from or where it was being directed. He just knew that he had to spare Sam from it.
That night, Frodo’s hands kept drifting back to the Ring as if they were acting of their own accord. Sam took his hands and held them both, forcibly preventing Frodo from touching the thing that hung around his neck, and he apologised to Frodo too, under some impression that he was hurting him.
With what little strength he had, Frodo refused the apology, merely telling him, ‘It’s what needs to be done, Sam.’
The next time they rose and began walking again, Frodo forgot about what the Ring had shown him, as it was showing him more with every passing moment, showing him other impossible possibilities, whispering to him of the gruesome fates that would befall him if he chose to carry on with his intentions of destroying it, watching him and taunting him and screaming at him and eroding him so much that sometimes he could not even remember who he was or where he was or why he was so sure he was going to die.
As it happened, he would not fully recall the short vision he’d seen of himself and Sam until long after the Ring was gone.
***
A little over a year and a half later, Frodo awoke thinking of a memory that was not his.
It had come back to him abruptly and without reason, though he supposed that if he tried to rationalise it, he’d probably been reminded of that specific spurious scenario due to it not being entirely dissimilar from the surroundings he ultimately awoke to. He’d seen himself at home, and now he was home. He’d seen himself with Sam, and now he was with Sam.
However, in the recent past, he’d often found himself waking to this setting, in the presence of this company, so he could not say why something that had slipped his mind for so long had suddenly resurfaced now of all times. All he could be sure of was that he wished it had remained submerged.
Frodo looked to Sam as if he could provide a solution, though the latter was still sleeping deeply beside him. With a sinking sort of horror, Frodo realised that Sam, in this instant, very closely resembled the false Sam that had been conjured by the Ring. Though he had months worth of memories leading up to and contextualising this moment, Frodo couldn’t shake the paralysing feeling that he was being deceived again.
He sat up in bed and tried to breathe, and then turned to Sam and brushed a few curls of hair from his forehead to confirm that he was indeed a solid, living being and not a hallucination composed of smoke and empty wanting.
‘Mm,’ said Sam, in appreciative recognition of the touch.
‘Sam?’
‘Wha is ‘t?’ he mumbled.
‘Sam, are you real?’ Frodo asked bluntly.
Sam must have heard the distress in Frodo’s voice, because he instantly sat up, all traces of drowsiness melting away from him. Despite how heavily Sam tended to sleep, he continued to retain the skill of waking himself quickly when he sensed that something was wrong. Frodo personally enforced the necessity of this habit often, though he wished he did not have to.
‘You feelin’ all right, my dear?’
Frodo was afraid that if he tried to respond, what he said would be the opposite of the truth, another involuntarily manufactured reassurance, so in the end, he did not answer at all. It was a complicated way of saying ‘no,’ but luckily Sam was well-versed in Frodo’s complicated ways.
He reached for Frodo’s hand, and Frodo allowed him to take it, terrified that at any second, he’d blink and find himself in Mordor again. Or rather, he’d find that he’d never truly left.
‘I’m real,’ Sam whispered. ‘As real as ever, see?’ He squeezed Frodo’s hand to emphasise this.
‘How would I know?’ Frodo said in a low, mournful manner.
‘Oh, love, won’t you tell me what this is all about?’ Sam seemed to know that something new was weighing on Frodo. This was not the usual nightmare or solemn recollection of the past; in fact, it was simultaneously both and neither.
Frodo explained what he’d seen. It was a slow process, full of stops and starts and the tired tripping over of words. Sam had to ask him to speak up and repeat what he’d said more than once, but he was patient and willing to endure Frodo’s semi-coherency indefinitely.
‘So you’re thinkin’ all this is just somethin’ else you’re bein’ shown by…?’ Sam avoided saying ‘the Ring,’ as if simply speaking of it was enough to summon the evil anew.
‘Yes.’
‘But we got out of it,’ Sam said. ‘You an’ me, we’re done with all that, don’t you remember?’
‘I do,’ said Frodo. ‘But I can’t help but think that’s just part of the illusion. How do you prove the honesty of memories? They’re not tangible things.’
‘Perhaps not. But we’re tangible things. As is this.’ Sam leaned in and kissed him gently, as if to remind him that this act was familiar and instinctive to them both, and Frodo had to admit that it certainly felt very lifelike. But so do dreams, to the sleeping.
‘It’s not that I don’t trust you, Sam,’ Frodo said, after they’d separated. ‘You must know. It’s only that I love you so much. It’s myself I don’t trust in.’
‘Come on now,’ Sam said, trying to cheer him. ‘The whole world can put its trust in Frodo Baggins, and he can’t trust himself?’
‘That’s right.’ Frodo sighed and rested his head on Sam’s shoulder. He didn’t want to have to mention that he’d betrayed the world’s trust in the end. If that had actually happened. Frodo was finding it hard to keep track. Either way, he was certain that at some point he’d given in to the Ring and had proven conclusively that he was not as strong as everyone thought.
‘What was I like?’ Sam asked quietly. ‘When y’saw me before?’
Frodo thought about it. The other version of Sam had been remarkably convincing in everything from his agreeable appearance to the warm, endearing way he spoke. ‘True to life,’ Frodo decided. ‘Assuming this is life.’
‘Let’s say it is, Frodo. For now.’
‘You were quite…kind,’ Frodo said, remembering what the other Sam had said to him. I’m so very glad you’re finally happy . ‘It seemed like you cared for me a lot.’
‘I do care for you a lot,’ Sam said defensively, like he believed this was a contested point. He then seemed to come to a realisation. ‘That’s why you’re so unsure? Because y’don’t think I could?’ It sounded like he was hurt, but hurt on Frodo’s behalf rather than his own.
‘It knew what I wanted before I did,’ Frodo said. He stared blankly into the darkness. ‘It knew I loved you before I even knew all the meanings the word love could have. The way it understood me, the way it saw me for everything I was…that will stay with me forever. It’s not a thing that’s easy to let go of.’ He was beginning to spiral into a place he didn’t care to explore, so he mentally shook himself and tried once more to get to the point of it all. ‘It showed me the perfect life, and now that I’m here with you, the whole ordeal scares me twice over.’
‘Why twice?’
Frodo turned Sam’s hand in his so that he could trace the lines of Sam’s palm with his thumb. It helped distract him from what he was saying as he did it. ‘Because one way, the Ring’s still got me, and none of this is happening, and you and I are in those dark lands at this very moment on the verge of death. And the other way, this is real, and somehow it’s really all turned out well, but the Ring has got me then too, because I’m being awful to you under the pretense that it’s in my head.’
‘You ain’t bein’ awful to me, dear,’ Sam protested. He pressed his lips to Frodo’s forehead to try to persuade him of this, and Frodo closed his eyes and said nothing in response, feeling as though he were lost somewhere, adrift and off-balance, with no hope of ever getting his bearings again.
‘Do y’hear that outside?’ Sam said softly.
Frodo didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. ‘No, nothing but the rain, Sam.’
‘Rain’s what I meant.’
‘Ah. Then yes.’
‘Come on.’ Sam lightly nudged Frodo before getting out of bed. ‘I’ve an idea,’ he explained.
Intrigued by this mysterious declaration, Frodo also stood up. The floor was surprisingly cold under his feet, it being nearly midwinter, and he was swiftly sure that he’d much rather lie back down with Sam and cover them both in several blankets than do just about anything else. Regardless of whether or not he was experiencing something legitimate, the icy feeling in the air was real enough, and Frodo had already begun to shiver.
Sam took his hand and led him out of the room and down the hall. Eventually, they came to the front door and Sam hesitated.
‘I’m not actually sure this is best,’ he said nervously.
Frodo wanted to reassure him, but he was still uncertain about what exactly Sam thought was going to happen, so he merely said ‘Well, get on with it anyhow.’
Sam pulled the door open and stepped out into the bitter rain first before tugging Frodo along with him.
If Frodo had been in a sensible state, he’d have had a few questions about what they were doing. He probably would have asked Sam what good it would do either of them to go out into indecent weather without the proper attire or at least without so much as cloaks to protect them from the chill. But Frodo wasn’t operating under any sort of rational thought, as he was still partially convinced that this was nothing but a windingly convoluted dream. Indeed, if any logistic query had begun to raise itself, it was instantly erased from his mind by the sudden feeling of rain battering his face and soaking through his clothes.
The shift from indoors to out was severely abrasive, and within seconds Frodo was numb and cold and his hair was wet and plastered to his face. He didn’t sense any sort of epiphany about the purpose of all this coming to him.
‘Sam?’ Frodo asked.
Sam had remained silent while becoming equally drenched by the rain. Frodo could see his face more clearly now, though, which led him to realise that it was not the middle of the night, as he’d previously assumed, but early morning. And a dismal morning it was, the sun completely absent, the sky blanketed in dark clouds and pouring down violently on any unfortunate souls who happened to be caught under it. It only served to worsen Frodo’s dour temperament.
‘Y’said it showed you your perfect life,’ Sam said, or, more accurately yelled, over the screaming of the rain.
‘Yes?’
‘An’ does this feel perfect now?’
Frodo paused to consider this. He surely didn’t feel like everything was all right. If this was someone’s idea of pure bliss, it definitely wasn’t his. He was fatigued and upset and brutally shocked from this unplanned exposure to the elements, and on top of all that, he’d managed to burden Sam with this too. None of this was anything he would dream up. It wasn’t a fantasy. It was just…life.
‘No,’ Frodo said. ‘It’s not perfect. It’s miserable.’ He was surprised to hear himself laugh. ‘It’s truly miserable, Sam!’
A thought occurred to him, and as soon as it did, Frodo wondered why it had not occurred far sooner. He took his right hand out of Sam’s and held it up in front of him. It bore nothing on it, and Frodo had never been so happy to discover that, in terms of fingers, he only had a total of nine.
‘It’s miserable and it’s real,’ he concluded to himself. He drew a heavy breath, wracked with cold-induced shakiness. In vain, he made an attempt to wipe the rain from his face, but it was coming down too harshly, and he had to blink rapidly to keep the water out of his eyes. He laughed again at the futility of it all.
Sam was looking at him apprehensively. ‘Are you glad of it? Y’did want it to be real?’
‘Oh, of course!’ Frodo moved to Sam and wrapped his arms around him in exultation. ‘I’m very glad.’
‘I’m mighty thankful for that,’ Sam said as he returned the embrace. ‘I half-thought you’d hate me for draggin’ you out here with–’ It was then that Frodo chose to kiss him.
It was wonderfully imperfect, the conditions around them being nothing that any could call pleasant. If Frodo were to venture an honest guess, he might say that they were both veritably uncomfortable, trembling in their wet clothes like they were. But it was so true and actual and unmistakably happening , and Frodo would not have had it any other way.
‘I hardly hate you, my dear Sam,’ Frodo said. ‘Far– far from it, in f-fact.’ The cold was beginning the get to him, and it kept him from expounding any further on the topic of just how much he loved Sam.
‘That’s– that’s very well,’ said Sam, also starting to stutter. ‘Love you, an’ so on. I’d rather tell you inside, however.’ He smiled and made a sound that was half-chuckle and half-shiver.
‘R-right,’ Frodo concurred, and then made a very similar sound.
The moment they went in and got the door shut behind them, they crumpled to the floor, breathing in relieved gasps of the comparatively toasty interior air. They sat resting wearily against the back of the door, and Sam pulled a cloak from a nearby hook where it was hanging and wrapped it around Frodo. He made a few ineffective attempts to use the edges of it to dry Frodo’s hair, but all the while Frodo was trying to make sure Sam had some part of the cloak to warm himself with as well, which resulted in an almost comical back-and-forth in which each of them tried to selflessly bestow the garment on the other.
At last, they got it secured around both their shoulders, though they had to keep awfully close to get it to stay, though neither of them minded. They leaned their heads together and were silent while they regained their respective composures.
‘A foolish thing to do,’ Sam commented after a bit of time had passed. He hugged Frodo closer, trying to allay his shuddering. ‘If I’d had my wits about me at all, I wouldn’t’ve made you go out in this horrid weather. I’m sorry for it.’
‘Don’t be, Sam,’ Frodo objected. He lifted himself just enough so that he could place a kiss on the edge of Sam’s jaw. ‘It helped a great deal. I just can’t figure how you knew it would.’
‘Well, did I ever tell y’what it was I saw?’ Sam said.
‘What you saw when?’
Sam looked at him seriously. ‘When I had, um, when I had the Ring, Frodo.’
Frodo was startled. He’d never known that the Ring had shown Sam anything in particular during the short time he’d been the bearer of it. Oddly, learning this was uplifting. Of course, Frodo would never have wanted Sam to undergo even a fraction of the pain he’d experienced, but the idea that there was yet another unspeakable thing that they shared made Frodo feel less alone.
‘Please do tell me. You’ve never mentioned it,’ Frodo said.
‘I will,’ Sam promised. ‘But maybe once we’ve warmed up just a bit more?’
‘Certainly,’ agreed Frodo.
After they’d gathered the energy to stand up again, they changed into drier clothes and brewed a pot of lavender tea, which Sam swore would stave off any cold-sickness. They then reconvened in bed, wrapped in blankets, resting against each other, and clutching hot mugs of tea in their hands.
Frodo, for his part, felt quite satisfied. He was far more awake now and far more present, and it was becoming easier and easier for him to understand that his thoughts were his own, his life was his own, and he was under no nefarious influence. He kept glancing at his four-fingered hand and touching the scars around his neck and on his shoulder to prove to himself that, for all the terrible things he’d seen and been through, he was still alive, and this was irrefutable.
‘So?’ Frodo asked, after he and Sam had settled in. ‘Are you going to tell me what you saw?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what was it?’
Sam gazed at Frodo with a hint of a smile. ‘A garden. All of Mordor was a garden.’
Frodo laughed out loud without meaning to. It was a delightful concept to imagine, and very characteristic of Sam.
‘That’s sweet, Sam. Why’ve you never brought it up before?’ he asked, taking a sip of his tea.
‘I didn’t want you to know,’ Sam admitted, frowning now. ‘Not about what I saw, but more just that I did see somethin’. I weren’t as strong as you, an’ even though I only had the thing less than a day, it almost got to me. I didn’t want you to know how close it came. Didn’t wanna have you worry. An’ it’s not as nice as it sounds, really.’
‘Oh. Right. Of course it’s not nice,’ said Frodo, thinking about the darkness that had surrounded his own visions. Always, there had been an implication that he’d have to do something atrocious to achieve the happiness the Ring proffered to him. There was no reason for him to think that it had been any different for Sam.
‘I think it’s good I did see it,’ Sam decided. ‘It’s how I knew what might help you. Y’see, it made me realise the Ring could only do absurd things. Nothin’ realistic, y’know? A garden the size of a country, tended by one gardener alone. It ain’t hardly possible.’
‘But what I saw,’ Frodo said, ‘It wasn’t as grand as all that. It was just me and you.’
‘It weren’t us,’ Sam argued. ‘That you an’ that me didn’t have any problems, did they? An’ as much as I’d like to tell you otherwise, love, life never stops havin’ problems.’ He softened this hard truth by running his hand affectionately through Frodo’s still-damp hair.
‘I know it well,’ Frodo said, though his tone was far from grim. It was almost as if he was inspired by this. ‘We’ve difficulties yet.’
‘Tens of ‘em!’ Sam put in enthusiastically.
‘No matter how good it gets, it’ll never be perfect,’ Frodo realised. It was comforting to know.
‘But it will always be real,’ Sam said, finishing the thought.
There was not much else that needed to be said, and Frodo took solace in that. He had someone who understood him, which he’d once thought impossible, and he had time, which he’d once thought he was nearly out of. There was no doubt that there were many more insufferable nights ahead of him, and that over the years, some things would get worse while others got better. That was how it would be, but Frodo accepted it wholeheartedly, on his own terms
He spent the rest of the morning sitting peacefully with Sam, drinking warm tea that had perhaps a bit too much honey in it. The sun did not come out for the entirety of that day, but Frodo didn’t mind at all.