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“Wake up, Mr. Frodo.”
Frodo opened his eyes to find Sam leaning over him. Beyond Sam’s curly hair, the sky was brightening through the clouds that ever surrounded Mordor, the clouds that dimmed the sunlight and tasted of poison and were slowly killing what vegetation remained around them.
With a sinking feeling of guilt, Frodo realized what had happened: he’d fallen asleep on watch.
Again.
“I’m so sorry, Sam.” He forced himself to sit up and reached to rub the stubborn knots out of the back of his neck. His fingers brushed the Ring’s chain. He tried to ignore it.
“Don’t worry about it none. You must’ve been that tired.”
“How long was I asleep?”
“I couldn’t say, but you were already dead asleep when I woke up.” Sam brushed the hair back from Frodo’s forehead. “You’re not gettin’ sick, are you?”
Frodo closed his eyes at the touch. “No, I don’t think so. It’s just…” He stretched his arms above his head, then rolled his head from one side of his neck to the other. It did little to ease the tension in his muscles. “It’s getting so much heavier.”
Sam said nothing. When Frodo opened his eyes again, Sam’s face was dark. He seemed to notice Frodo staring, but all he said was: “Well, get some rest now, while you can. Let your Sam keep watch for a bit.”
“Thank you.” Frodo stretched out on their thin layer of blankets. What a relief to lie down, to ease some of the constant pressure on the back of his neck. “Where’s Sméagol?” he murmured, half-asleep already.
“Who knows? Long as he’s not off to give us up to orcs, I don’t much care where he gets to.”
“I wonder if it’s good for him. To get away, I mean.”
If only Frodo could set the Ring aside, just for an hour or two. Bury it under a rock or something and walk away, just for a little bit.
Sam huffed. “Wish he’d stay away for good, and good riddance.”
Frodo squared his jaw. Sam never complained about anything except Sméagol. Frodo would prefer more complaints about the food, or the lack of sleep, or the cuts to their feet, or anything else if it meant he’d complain less about their guide.
Did he not realize that Frodo would rather he stay away, too? If Sam found Sméagol hard to bear, could he not see how it was so much harder for Frodo to stare, day after day, at the scrap of a soul the Ring had deigned to leave behind?
But Frodo could not say any of that aloud. Instead, all he said was, “We need his help.”
“Doesn’t mean I’ve got to be happy about it,” Sam grumbled.
“Well, you could try,” Frodo muttered.
Sam looked up, looked wounded. “What?”
“I said, you could try.” Frodo rolled over with his back to Sam and closed his eyes. But his shoulders were tense, his breathing tight. Sleep was now far from him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo.” Sam’s voice was softer. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t,” Frodo answered without thought. “I’m all right.”
“It’s this place.” There was a shifting sound as if Sam were looking around. “It’s not natural, none of it.”
Frodo curled up, keeping his back to Sam. Of course it wasn’t natural. He could taste the fumes of Mordor in the air. And it would only get worse.
And the Ring would only get heavier.
And it was all so very pointless.
He felt a sudden urgency. He needed to move—there was no time to waste! To Mordor! Quickly!
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to relax his breathing. That feeling of urgency was nothing new; it was merely the Ring. The Ring wanted to go home.
What if that was the reason behind all of this? The great plan of Elrond’s to send the Ring into the Fire—as if that were even possible! What if all of this was the Ring’s desire? What he really should do was turn around, go home, go back to the Shire. Yes, that would be best. Go back to the Shire, where the Ring had lain in secret for so many years. It would be safe there, and he would be safe there, and—
Frodo sat up and drew a steadying breath.
Sam immediately looked concerned. “Are you all right?”
Frodo sighed. “I can’t sleep. That’s all.”
“Can’t I help?”
Not unless he could quiet the struggle in Frodo’s mind.
Sam’s brow furrowed. “You’ve got to try an’ sleep while you can.”
“I know.” Frodo drew his legs up, locked his arms around his shins, and set his chin on his knees.
Sam watched him for a moment before changing tack. “Well, if you won’t sleep, will you at least eat something?”
“I’m not hungry.” And he simply hadn’t the energy to argue with the voices in his mind while choking down food that tasted like ash.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got to eat something.”
“Fine,” Frodo said, but even he could hear the listlessness in his voice, and he made no move to find anything from their packs.
“Here.” Sam moved for him and gave him a wafer of lembas. “Try that.”
Frodo turned it over in his hand. At the moment, he could not think of anything less appetizing. And why bother forcing himself to eat? He knew perfectly well how this would end. Better sooner than later—
Frodo set his teeth against the despairing whispers.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Sam’s voice broke into his thoughts. He sounded impatient, agitated.
Shaking his head, Frodo held out the wafer. “Save this for later.”
“For when?” Sam demanded. “You’ve hardly eaten a more than a mouthful for days now. It’s not right for a hobbit, and you know it.”
Yes, he knew it, and no, he didn’t disagree, and no, he couldn’t argue. Frodo forced himself to take a tiny bite of lembas. As expected, it tasted like ash, and he couldn’t help making a face.
Sam, of course, saw his expression, and his eyes darkened. “Now, why do I get the sense you’re only eating at all to try an’ please me?”
“Sam—”
“How will you manage if something happens to me?”
Oh. Oh, was that what he was afraid of? “Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Frodo began slowly.
“But we don’t know that, do we? Left to yourself, you’ll end up dead of starvation next to a pack full of food!” Sam’s voice sharpened. “It’s the Ring, isn’t it?”
Frodo went still. “What?”
Sam stood up. “It’s the Ring that’s doing this, isn’t it? It’s makin’ to kill you!” His eyes flashed. “You can’t let it win—you have to fight it!”
“I’m trying!” Frodo burst out. “Stars, Sam, please leave me alone!”
Sam froze, hurt writ across his face. “I’m just trying to help—”
“But it’s not helping!”
Sam flinched. “I’m—I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo. I didn’t mean any harm.”
Frodo dropped his gaze. “I know you didn’t. I just…I wish you weren’t so angry with me.”
“With you?”
Frodo glanced up just long enough to see the shock in Sam’s eyes.
“I’m not angry with you!” Sam reached for his hand and squeezed it. “How can you think that? How can you say that?”
Frodo didn’t answer.
Sam rubbed Frodo’s hand between both of us. “Don’t take aught I’ve said to heart. I’m clumsy with my words, that’s all. It’s not you I’m angry at.”
Frodo kept his eyes down. “It feels like it’s me.”
“No, no, it’s just how I hate what this thing is doing to you.”
Frodo simply squeezed Sam’s hand in answer. He held back what he wanted to say.
And you think I don’t?