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Back and forth, back and forth, Frodo paced in the narrow space on the Stair where they had camped for the night. A glance above revealed clouds blotting out the moon and stars.
Or was that only the darkness of his own mind?
For a wild moment, he wanted to shake Sam awake just to ask if he could see the stars.
But that would be unspeakably selfish. Sam spent every waking moment keeping them both on this cursed path. He needed all the sleep he could get.
Frodo exhaled sharply through his teeth and resolved not to look upwards again. He continued pacing, scraping his feet on sharp stone. He was not exactly keeping watch, with his eyes now trained on the ledge and the drop into the abyss beyond. But at least he would hear if anything approached.
Although he was beginning to wonder if hearing was the first sense that would recognize a threat.
Indeed, he could not say by what sign he knew when Sméagol was drawing near, but know he did, well before he heard the quiet pattering of unshod feet. Sméagol came from above. He always said he needed to check the path ahead, though he never said what, exactly, he was checking for.
Sméagol’s presence was hardly ever comforting, but tonight, something about the thought of him set Frodo’s teeth on edge.
A few moments after hearing Sméagol’s fight, Frodo saw Sméagol’s eyes, glinting at him over a crest in the Stair. He skittered down to crouch on the step.
“Still awake, Master is?” Sméagol asked in his hissing whisper.
Frodo paused to be sure that none of his restless agitation would be present in his voice before replying. “Yes, Sméagol. I’m keeping watch.”
“Master sees all the threats, does he?”
“Well, probably not, but I have to try.”
Sméagol hummed, a strange sound that Frodo could not quite interpret. “Master should sleep, yes, Precious. Master should sleep.”
“I’ll sleep in a little while.”
“Master needs his rest,” Sméagol argued.
“I don’t disagree,” Frodo said wryly, “but Sam can’t help me all day and then keep watch all night.”
“Master needs his rest more than the fat hobbit.”
Frodo felt the renewal of a headache behind his eyes as he debated whether any good might come of attempting to correct the insult. “We all need rest. Maybe you should take some sleep.” Silence would be a blessed relief.
Sméagol shook his head. “Master is too weak. Master will not be able to reach Mordor, no, Precious.”
“I’m not giving up,” Frodo said sharply.
“No, no,” Sméagol hissed, eyes wide innocently. “Master mustn’t give up, no. But we sees it, doesn’t we, Precious? Master is weak. Master is lost.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Sméagol slowly tilted his head to one side and his voice dropped to a whisper that was nearly too quiet to hear. “Is Master still the master of the Precious? We wonders. Or is Precious the master of Master?”
Frodo went completely still. “What did you say?”
Sméagol tilted his head to the other side. “We wonders, yes, Precious.”
“Stop it.” Cold washed over him and he turned his back to the creature. “Go to sleep.”
“Master needs sleep more, yes,” Sméagol breathed. “But sleep will not save Master, no, Precious. And food will not save Master, no. Nothing, nothing, nothing—”
Frodo whirled. “Stop it! Be quiet!”
Sam jerked awake. “Mr. Frodo?”
Frodo stood, panting for breath. Like a mouse pinned by a cat’s claws, he could not look away from Sméagol’s shining eyes.
“Hey, you!” Sam said to Sméagol. “What’re you doing?”
“Sméagol was only saying Master should sleep,” Sméagol answered immediately.
Sam opened his mouth, no doubt to agree.
“No.” Frodo pulled his cloak tighter around himself. “It’s my watch still. I’m all right.”
Sam stood and reached out to put a hand on Frodo’s shoulder, and Frodo fought himself to keep from recoiling at the too-gentle touch. “Mr. Frodo,” he said quietly. “Don’t worry about it none. I’m awake now, and I don’t think I’ll be able to fall back into it again now, begging your pardon. Why don’t you go ahead and close your eyes for a bit?”
Frodo searched his face. The concern there was, for the first time, unsettling. Did Sam see what Sméagol saw? Was he afraid, even now, of Frodo’s weakness? He could not bear to ask, could not risk hearing the answer. With a tight swallow, he nodded and quickly turned away. He lied down with his head on his pack and his cloak pulled up over his head.
His heart beat too fast. Sméagol was wrong. He must be.
He felt the Ring, cold against his chest. His fingers twitched and he fought the urge to touch it. He just needed to know it was there. He needed to know it was safe. He needed to test the strength of the chain. He needed to feel its soft edges…make sure it hadn’t been chipped. He needed to warm the cold metal in his hands. He needed to make sure it still fit on his finger—
He wrenched his thoughts away and buried his face in his hands as fear rose, clutching, in his heart.
Sméagol was right.
~
“I don’t like this,” Sam grumbled many uncountable hours later.
He and Frodo sat side-by-side on the Stairs. They had now climbed high enough that they could see where the Stairs ended: a sharp bend above their heads that hid the rest of the path from view. But at least they could see that the path did not continue climbing higher.
“That Gollum ought to’ve been back by now,” Sam went on, with a suspicious glance upwards.
Sméagol had said he needed to check the path again, and urged the hobbits to wait behind to rest. Sam, increasingly distrustful, had not wanted to let Sméagol out of his sight.
Frodo was not worried about watching Sméagol, but he must rest while he had the chance. If he only closed his eyes for a while, the Ring would feel less heavy on its chain. It would help. Sméagol was wrong. He had to be.
But how could Frodo ever hope to know the truth, when he could no longer trust his own mind?
And Sméagol had borne the Ring. The Ring had taken him utterly. Of course he would know the signs.
“Sam,” Frodo whispered before he could consider whether the doubts haunting him should be spoken aloud.
It was too late now: all of Sam’s attention was immediately on him. “Yes, Mr. Frodo? Everything all right?”
Frodo shook his head. He should not have said anything. There was no point.
But Sam was not so easily put off. “No, no, sir, talk to me.” He turned Frodo around to face him, forced their eyes to meet so Frodo could see the concern there.
“I—” Frodo broke off.
“Just say it, Mr. Frodo. It won’t do no good holding anything in. Not here of all places, and not now. Not with me.”
Frodo drew his knees up to his chest and pressed his face into the torn velvet. “Do you…do you still think we’ll make it?” he asked, voice muffled.
“Of course I do,” Sam said resolutely.
He believed it, he really did. Frodo kept his face hidden in velvet.
“Don’t you?” Sam added.
Frodo wrapped his arms tighter around his legs. “And then?”
“Well, and then we’ll find our way back home, of course. There and back again, just like Mr. Bilbo.”
Frodo swallowed. “And then?”
“And then…what?” Sam’s brow furrowed. “Begging your pardon, but what is it you’re really asking me?”
Frodo shook his head again and retreated into the safety of silence.
“Aw, no,” Sam muttered, “don’t do that. Don’t shut me out, sir, please. I can’t help you none if I don’t know what you’re so afraid of.”
Frodo’s head snapped up. “Afraid?”
Sam held his gaze. “You needn’t act surprised, begging your pardon. Well, you’ve been scared since Rivendell, or even since we left Bag End way back then. But something’s happened, not too long ago I’m thinking, and now you’re plain terrified.”
Frodo started trembling.
“Can’t you tell me what happened?” Sam put his arms around him, but that was not enough to stop the trembling.
Yes, he was afraid. He was almost too afraid to speak. But words had always been his refuge, and he sought them now, clumsy and abstract though they seemed compared to fear’s vicious immediacy.
“The—the Ring,” he whispered. “It’s taking me. It’s taking me too soon.”
Then he held his breath, waiting for Sam’s response. Was it too much to hope that Sam could see more clearly than Sméagol?
Sam did not withdraw in horror. He seemed instead to hold Frodo tighter. “Now, Mr. Frodo, that’s just talking nonsense,” he said patiently. “You’re still marching straight toward that Mountain to destroy it, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And you’re not talking to yourself all day and night like that Gollum creature.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s quite a distance between that and—”
“You’re still fighting it,” Sam said flatly, “so it’s not taking you.”
Frodo searched his face. For one blessed moment, hope lifted the weight on his heart. Could this be the truth?
No. No, of course not. Sam had not borne the Ring. Sam did not understand. Sam did not want to understand. Sam wanted, desperately, for him to be the Frodo he knew, the Frodo of the Shire. And Sam always believed the best of him, even contrary to wisdom.
No, he could not trust Sam.
Frodo forced a false smile. “Thank you.”