Chapter Text
When this all began, it had seemed frightening but manageable. In comparison with what it was to become, it was practically simple—get to Bree and wait for Gandalf. Frodo could do that. He of course didn’t know Bree as well or as fondly as he knew the Shire, but he knew where it was and set out with no doubt that he could get the Ring there safely, that Gandalf would take care of things from there.
But then it all went wrong and they couldn’t wait, and they were all fleeing across the country with Aragorn, but even then, it was get the Ring to Rivendell. Get it to Rivendell and the elves would see to it. But then the elves couldn’t and everyone was shouting and Frodo suddenly heard himself, cutting through the din, “I will take the Ring to Mordor.” But still, there was the fellowship, others who knew about things like orcs and Nazgûl. It was all right when Frodo didn’t know the path because they did. They could guide, protect, advise.
It was all different now. They were alone, just him and Sam, and neither of them knew anything. They could do no more than find Mount Doom rising up in the distance, aim themselves at it, and hope a path would appear. Over rocks and across wastelands—no villages now, no inns, no elvish hosts, no food but what Sam carried in the pack—on and on toward a mountain that never seemed to grow any closer. It was now that Frodo truly felt despair.
The dark thoughts crept in all the time. I cannot do this. How could they ask this of me? It’s too much. We’ll never make it. It won’t change anything. Why didn’t Gandalf—? That was where the thoughts always stopped, the image of Gandalf falling snagging in Frodo’s memory as if on a thorn and startling him out of his despondency. He knew much of it was down to the Ring itself—thinking, perhaps, that it could convince him to give up his quest, or even give in and bring it to Sauron—but that made the darkness no easier to bear.
Sam, good, loyal Sam who’d remained at his side since they left the Shire, tried to keep Frodo’s spirits up. He would talk of simple pleasures back home or ask Frodo questions to distract him, speak sanguinely about their progress to encourage him, and tease their dwindling supplies into fine meals to tempt him. Too often, Frodo found himself rewarding Sam’s kindness by being withdrawn or turning snappish at his friend. They didn’t speak of it directly, that it was the Ring infecting Frodo’s demeanor, but Frodo was sure that Sam knew it, too. When Frodo lost his temper and lashed at Sam, the dear fellow never recoiled but instead coaxed Frodo back to himself with his gentleness and simple understanding.
Now, as they picked their way down another outcrop one uncertain handhold after another, Sam called up to Frodo, “That wind is whipping something fierce! Mr. Frodo, I don’t think we ought to try for the next pass. If we make camp when we get to the bottom, I think we’ll be sheltered a bit.”
Frodo hesitated. There was nearly an hour of sunlight left, and it wouldn’t take them that long to climb down the outcrop. “I think we can make it further than that!” he replied.
“I know!” Sam conceded. Frodo felt the elvish rope shudder a little in his hands as Sam shifted his weight below him. “But if we keep on, we’ll likely end up in that jagged patch down there, and that’s no place to pass the night!” Though his voice was still raised against the wind, something about it seemed a bit softer now. “There’s a long way to go yet, and you’ve got to keep your strength up.”
Frodo let his eyes close. Every day, the Ring was heavier. Every day, it clawed deeper at his mind and his spirit. “You may be right, Sam,” he called back down.
Sam’s voice was cheery as it traveled up to Frodo. “It was bound to happen sooner or later!” This even drew a smile, albeit a weary one, from Frodo.
Before long, they were on a small shelf of rock overlooking the endless stretch of wilderness that still lay between them and Mordor. Frodo sank heavily to the ground, his back against the rock face, and pulled his elvish cloak more tightly around him. Mutedly, he watched as Sam set about preparing their dinner. Most of their meals these days consisted of no more than a bite of lembas bread—easier to get done with quickly as they traveled—but Sam always turned to the rest of their meager food stores at the start and end of the day, “to put a bit of fight in us,” he would explain.
“I do hope we come across something living soon,” Sam remarked as he set a pan on the newly built fire. “There’s no meat left except the sausage. Still, should be able to last us close to another week, Mr. Frodo—plenty of time to find a few squirrels or some fish.”
Frodo could scarcely do more than half listen now. The Ring was forever itching at the back of his mind, and no matter how hard he tried to heed his friend, it siphoned off his attention. “Mmm,” he mumbled, the nearest he could make to a reply.
Sam’s words came but mutedly, but as he continued to cook, something in his manner cut through the fog around Frodo’s thoughts. Something in the slowness of his movements, in the slight wince about his eyes. Frodo forced himself to focus on his friend, and he was a little taken aback by how tired Sam appeared.
“Are you all right, Sam?” he asked. “You look worn through.”
Sam looked up from the sizzling sausages, and his wan face adopted a lopsided smile. “This climbing business is hard work, especially on an empty stomach!” he said brightly. Turning his attention back to the pan, he carefully turned the sausages and continued, “Mind you, I shouldn’t complain. I’ve only got the pack to carry! You’ve got a much heavier load to bear, Mr. Frodo.”
Frodo couldn’t help the fond smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth. Sam had every right to complain, naturally, but of course the dear fellow never would. Even now, he hadn’t really been complaining—he’d been shrugging off Frodo’s concern. Likely, that meant something was more wrong than he was letting on. But if Frodo was patient, Sam would give it away in time; he was too earnest to keep anything secret for long.
“Here we are!” Sam said, dividing the sausages between two plates. “And the last of the berries from the other day. That was awful lucky to come across that bush, wasn’t it, Mr. Frodo? And with just the right amount of berries, too—I don’t think, if we’d picked any more, they’d have kept beyond today anyway.”
“Wonderfully lucky,” Frodo agreed wearily, taking the plate and a knife and fork from Sam.
Sam kept up more than his share of the conversation at supper, as usual, but Frodo could see that something was undoubtedly wrong. The tiredness was etched onto Sam’s face as plainly as anything, and every now and then, he’d come to a lull in his latest good-natured ramble, badly trying to suppress a long sigh.
It was after Sam had scraped the last of the berry juice off his plate that he rested his elbow on his knee, rubbing his temple. “What’s wrong, Sam?” Frodo asked.
That half-embarrassed smile again, Sam realizing he’d been caught out at something. “Head’s a bit aching, that’s all,” he explained. “Overtired, I expect.”
“Be sure you get plenty of rest tonight,” Frodo instructed.
This time, the smile was genuine—Frodo still didn’t know how Sam managed it, looking that happy in this desolate place. If you only looked at him and not the rocks, you’d almost think you were back in the Shire! “Why, you’re one to talk, ain’t you?” Sam joked. “Speaking of, we’d best be bedding down, don’t you think, Mr. Frodo? Another long day coming.”
Frodo closed his eyes. They were all long days now. “Splendid idea, Sam,” he replied.
He was convinced that Sam was troubled by more than the fatigue of their travels, but it wasn’t his to discover, not tonight. Now that the sun was down and the fire was smoldering down to embers, the mountain was growing dark, and to Frodo, the only light seemed to come from the Ring. He lay down, scarcely noticing the blanket Sam draped over him, and clutched at the chain around his neck, letting the Ring fill his thoughts. No room for anything else in his head, not when the darkness came.