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There was not far to go now.
Frodo raised his eyes again. It had seemed they were climbing at a snail’s pace. But they were not far now from the top of the Stair, though the tunnel Sméagol spoke of was still hidden from view. Digging aching, bleeding fingers into rock, Frodo pulled himself up to reach the next landing, where he immediately lowered himself to rest on the stone, panting for breath. The air was clearer up here, but still tasted of Mordor. They were too close to the Mountain’s fumes for the air to offer any refreshment.
Sam sprawled out beside him. He scrubbed his sleeve over his dirt-smudged face, which succeeded only in spreading the dirt over a larger swath of his cheek. “Well, Master, I used to like climbing rocks with the Cottons, back in the day, but now I don’t never want to see another rock again.”
Frodo laughed tiredly. “Perhaps I should have joined you back then. I’m certainly feeling inexperienced.”
“Well, you haven’t fallen,” Sam pointed out encouragingly.
“A rather large mercy,” Frodo conceded. Slowly, carefully, he rolled over onto his back to stare at the broiling clouds above. He tried to imagine it was merely a particularly angry storm brewing over the Shire, one he could enjoy from the safety of Bag End.
“Yes, hobbitses,” Sméagol hissed. “Very clever, very clever.”
Sam ignored him. “Do you remember those treehouses in Lothlorien? What were they called?”
“Flets.” Frodo closed his eyes, now trying valiantly to convince himself he was lying on a flet with golden leaves rustling overhead. “I daresay neither of us would complain about the height now if we had to sleep there again.”
Sam chuckled. “No, sir.”
“What is Master doing?” Sméagol demanded. “Must keep climbing, must move on. No time.”
“Half a moment,” Sam snapped. “We’re not going no further until Mr. Frodo’s had a bite to eat.”
“Thank you, Sméagol,” Frodo said more calmly. “I know we haven’t much time, but Sam is right. A short rest and a bite to eat would do us all good.”
Sméagol growled to himself, and only waited a few minutes before scrambling on ahead.
“And good riddance,” Sam muttered.
Frodo made no reply. He felt too weary to attempt to mediate between the two. Presently, he sat up to stretch, and noted as he did so how far he could see. Westward, the world stretched out like a map unscrolled. As far as his eyes could see, the land was blackened, choked with ash.
How long had it taken for evil to consume it? Could anyone remember what it used to look like? If Gandalf were here (Gandalf—his heart throbbed with loss), would he talk about a land that used to be filled with trees? Or flowered fields? Or simply tall grass that whispered in the wind?
“Mr. Frodo?” Sam had sat up and was watching him. “What is it?”
“Oh, nothing.” Frodo glanced briefly at Sam before turning his eyes back to the view before him. “I just wonder if the land will ever heal. That’s all.”
Now Sam followed his gaze. “Well, not if we don’t destroy that Ring. And even if we do, I reckon it’ll take a long while before anything living grows here again. The very soil is rotten, I’ll bet.”
“Well, you would know better than I.” Frodo sucked at a cut on his palm in an effort to give himself something else to think about. But his thoughts were drawn again to the land below. “Do you think it’s possible, though?” he asked at length. “That the land could one day be cured of the influence of so much evil?”
He felt strangely anxious as he awaited Sam’s reply. He did not want to think too hard about why.
Sam narrowed his eyes, scanning the land with an air of thoughtful expertise. “I don’t know, sir. It’s…well, it’s a lot of evil to try and cure. I can’t think how anything good could grow there, unless maybe you scooped out the whole land and replaced it with something new. But no one can do that.”
Frodo’s other hand drifted upwards to touch his shirt over the Ring. “Yes…I expect no one could.”
Sam shrugged. “But then again, I thought a lot of things were impossible before now, and they’ve turned out to be real and true.”
“I think…” Frodo hesitated. It felt foolish to say aloud, naïve even to think. But for some reason, he thought Sam would understand. “I can’t say exactly how, but I think it will heal one day. I think it will be beautiful again.”
Sam turned to face him, and Frodo could not quite make out the emotion shining in his brown eyes. Certainly he looked pleased, but it was more than that. Relief, perhaps?
But Sam did not put words to whatever he was feeling. He merely gave a small nod. Then he busied himself with pulling his pack off his shoulders, digging through it, and breaking off a half a wafer of lembas, which he handed to Frodo. The other half he stuck in his own mouth.
Taking a small bite of lembas, Frodo let his gaze drift out again. It was too difficult to imagine a lush forest growing up to cover so much decay. But suppose something more simple, like grass growing? Yes, a wide field with grass rippling in the wind like the Sea. The Sea, but green instead of blue, and not so frightening. In fact, the thought was strangely peaceful.
One day. One day, somehow, evil would be scraped away, and life would take root in what had died, and everything would become what it always should have been.
One day.