Work Text:
“Mr. Frodo?” Sam’s rough voice cut through the night air like a whistle, or so it seemed to Frodo. The ringwraith and its winged beast had already vanished from sight, but the footsteps of orcs thundered beneath the hiding place where the hobbits huddled on the first steps of the Stair.
Frodo remained hunched with his back pressed to cold stone as the wound on his shoulder throbbed. He kept his head bowed and his eyes squeezed shut. The weight of the Ring hung heavy around his neck—heavier, somehow, than it had been before.
Before the Dead City called to him.
Without Sam and Sméagol stopping him, he would have gone straight to the lurid front door. And then what? He would have been welcomed by the Lord of the Nazgul himself?
The old wound throbbed sharply again, and he set his teeth against a wince lest Sam should worry.
But when he peeled his eyes open to Sam’s concerned expression, it was clear his efforts were in vain. Though whether this particular concern was due to the wince or due to the way Frodo had run headlong towards the Dead City remained to be seen.
“I’m all right,” Frodo whispered.
Sam looked at him unhappily. He’d long since stopped finding Frodo’s reassurances to actually be reassuring.
“Hobbitses,” Sméagol hissed—and if Sam’s voice had seemed like a whistle, Sméagol's sounded loud as a shriek, and Frodo tensed. “We mustn’t stay here! Quickly, quickly!”
The orcs were still passing on the road below. Craning his neck, Frodo pushed himself upwards and twisted just enough to see over the rocky shelf behind which they hid. Dread filled his chest. The stream of orcs leaving the city looked unending.
He thought of Faramir. What hope did he and his men have against such an onslaught?
“Quickly,” Sméagol insisted.
There’d be no waiting for the orc army to pass. But the thought of climbing the Stair with orcs marching beneath, when the slightest sound could give them away, or a stray upward glance from an orc would end everything…Frodo heard that horrid voice in his head, the one he was hearing more and more now. The one that sounded so very much like his own.
What is the point?
But Sam shifted to get his feet under him, and stood partway up, and held out a hand to Frodo.
Yes, it all felt hopeless. But that was no new feeling, and it had not stopped them yet. Forcing his mouth into a grim answering smile, Frodo took Sam’s hand, and let the other hobbit pull him to his feet.
The Ring resisted. It tugged at its chain, as if pulling him back towards the Dead City, and it slipped its fingers into his mind. Insistent. Demanding.
But he focused his attention on the rough callouses of Sam’s hand, and the rock beneath his feet. With another smile for Sam’s benefit (this one possibly more wavering than the last), he began to climb the Stair.
Sam stayed close behind. He said not a word, but Frodo knew his purpose: to steady his Master, or catch him if he should fall. Part of Frodo wanted to protest. The other part of him knew it would be fruitless, and was too exhausted to make the attempt.
What is the point?
So he focused on putting one foot in front of the other, and finding hand-holds for his fingers, and climbing one step after another…as the hours dragged on and he climbed higher and higher.
His fingers and feet began to ache, but he would not complain. The air was clearer here (though not fresh, not this close to the plumes of Mordor), but more than that, the Ring became a simple weight again. Heavy, but no longer trying to pull him down to Minas Morgul’s sickly green light.
Still, he was the first to slow, and almost slip on the slick stone. But he did not ask for the others to stop. He couldn’t. If they stopped every time Frodo grew weary, they would never make it to Mordor—let alone to Mount Doom.
Sam was the one to finally stop them, after the third time Frodo partly slipped. He claimed he was tired, but Frodo doubted he was fooling anyone, even Sméagol. But though Sméagol hissed and muttered at the delay, he eventually relented, and allowed them to rest on the first step that was broad enough to allow two hobbits to lie down.
Frodo flattened himself on his back, eyes staring upwards. The Stair stretched endlessly above him until it disappeared into dark cloud. His mouth was parched, but not so parched as to justify a drink, not when they still had so far to climb, and so far to go beyond the Stair. He wasn’t hungry, though perhaps he should be. Sam’s warmth beside him was a comforting presence; Sméagol, crouched on the step above him, was less so.
Eventually, Sméagol slunk away. Bored, maybe, or hungry, or simply restless. What purpose he could have in crawling amongst barren rock, Frodo could not imagine. He tried, for a moment to guess the thoughts in the wretched creature’s mind. Perhaps he really was simply hungry. Maybe he was scouting their way ahead.
Maybe he was strong enough, for now, to choose to put some distance between himself and the Ring.
Not for the first time, Frodo felt torn. He needed Sméagol's guidance into Mordor—that was undeniable. But at what cost to Sméagol? Frodo did his best to be a source of good for him, to try to coax him back into something more, well, hobbity. But could any good that Frodo might do ever outweigh the temptation of the Ring?
Of course, even if Frodo could find a way into Mordor on his own, and even if Frodo sent Sméagol away from the Ring’s presence for his own good…nothing would change, except that Sméagol would now follow at a distance, just as he had before Sam and Frodo caught him in the Emyn Muil.
There was no point in debating. Sméagol was with them now, for better or worse.
No point.
Beside him, Sam rolled slightly onto his side. “Mr. Frodo?”
Sam’s interruption from his thoughts was a relief. “Yes?”
“Can I ask you something?” Sam’s voice was hushed, and slightly nervous.
“You can always ask me anything.”
“All right, well…” Sam lowered his voice even more. “What happened down there, if you don’t mind?”
“Down there?”
“At the city,” Sam explained, looking almost apologetic, as if he knew Frodo would prefer to never speak or think about Minas Morgul again. “You ran straight towards it. And I’m not criticizing, sir. I just don’t understand.”
Frodo curled on his side. “I don’t entirely understand it either,” he admitted.
Confusion flooded Sam’s face. But he waited, as he so often did on this Quest, trusting that for each new and strange thing he encountered, an answer would come. From Gandalf, maybe, or Aragorn, or even from Frodo.
What will happen when I can no longer give any answer?
For now, Frodo tried to put his thoughts together. “I don’t entirely understand it,” he began, “because it wasn’t exactly a choice. I don’t know why I did that. I wasn’t thinking. My mind went dark. It was as if something else was controlling me. Or calling to me.”
“The Ring?” Sam whispered.
But Frodo shook his head. “Well, not quite. The Ring was heavy on me, but this was different. The Ring’s temptation feels different.”
“How—”
But Frodo did not want to talk about that, and firmly talked over him. “It was something about the city itself that called to me. I couldn’t resist. That’s all I can say about it,” he finished deliberately.
Sam took the point, and didn’t press for more explanation. Instead, he reached out and held Frodo’s hand between both of his.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Then Sam broke the silence with a new question. “You said you couldn’t resist the city…now, what if something like that happens again?”
What indeed? What if a ringwraith shrieked overhead, and Frodo found himself compelled to come forward? What if the Eye pinned him, and wouldn’t let him move until orcs found him? What if the Ring itself forced him to do something unthinkable?
Could it?
If it did…the Quest would all be in vain.
What is the point?
He stared into Sam’s eyes, seeing fear there but also defiant hope, and found that he could not voice his doubt. “I am not in the Ring’s power yet,” he said softly.
Sam seemed to struggle with himself. He seemed to want to be reassured, but couldn’t manage it. “But, Mr. Frodo…what if it gets worse? As we get even closer to the Mountain—”
“It’s a good thing I’ll have you with me, then,” Frodo said with false calm.
“But—”
“If something happens to me, you shall have to keep going.”
Or you shall have to stop me.
The horror in Sam’s eyes made it clear he understood what Frodo had left unsaid. He opened his mouth.
Just then, stones skittered overhead, making Frodo and Sam both flinch. Sméagol scampered down to land on the step above them. “Must go, hobbitses! No time!”
Frodo pulled his hand free of Sam’s, and pushed himself to his weary feet. “Thank you, Sméagol.”
He would follow this road wherever it led.