Archive of Our Own

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He can't go on much longer like this, thought Sam.

Sam's tired feet ached with every laboured step as he dragged himself forward, his feet scraping the hard rock beneath. Step after step, mile after mile; all the time, a small voice in his head telling him to turn and look behind- that a glimpse of his master following safely there at his back would ease his worry. But instead, the sight of Frodo's face squeezed tight with pain, brown curls stuck with sweat to his pale forehead, and one hand ever clutched around that hateful thing filled Sam's heart with fear. If weariness gnawed ever at Sam, then it held Frodo tight in its jaws like a hungry animal.

It had been many miles since they had set eyes on flowing water, and the country they crossed now was dry, splintered and hard. The rocks shifted under them, and great cracks opened at their feet to long, hard drops that made Sam's head swim. At first Frodo had walked in front with Sam ever following behind him, but Frodo's blue eyes were now glazed with something, as if his mind was elsewhere, fighting some unseen battle on a far off plane that Sam could not see. In this state, Frodo had began to wander, as if something in him wanted to tangle their path and make their road ever longer, leading them to ramble lost while some evil force took over them. The thought of Frodo pulled forward by that… thing, until he dropped off some cliff or down some wayward path towards death was too much for Sam to bear, so he instead had taken up the lead.

And so they walked now, Sam in front minding his footing, his gaze fixed forward, and Frodo behind, half present, grimacing, and ever with one hand clutched firmly near his chest.

Then Sam heard behind him a noise, and he turned at once to see his master begin to drop. Frodo's gaze was cast downwards, but his eyes were unfocused and glassy, the blue in them hidden behind clouds of fog. He fell towards the ground as if it were pulling him, but he did not throw out an arm to save himself, instead his grip stayed fixed tight as he fell.

Sam let out a yelp and ran to him, feeling panic burn in his chest. In a few quick steps he was with him, and he caught his master by the elbows just in time to save his head from harsh impact with the cold ground.

'Mister Frodo!' Sam cried, lowering him gently to the ground. 'Mister Frodo, you must be careful! The land is hard here, if you hit your head, even from a low height-'

I'm alright, Sam.' Frodo said, but much breath was in his voice, as if his lungs were labouring hard to make the sound. He did not meet Sam's gaze. 'I'm alright.'

Frodo moved to get up, but Sam kept his grasp firm on Frodo's arms as he knelt by him.

'No.' Sam said, more firmly than he intended. 'I- begging your pardon, sir, but I don't believe that you are.'

'Sam-'

'Look how it has you, sir. Look.' Sam cast his eye towards Frodo's right hand, the chain still clutched so tightly in it that the knuckles were white. 'You don't let go of it, even to save yourself from a fall. I'm afraid, Mister Frodo. I worry that it holds you as tightly as you hold it.'

Then Frodo's gaze met Sam's at last. Sam knew at once that it must have been many miles since his master had looked at him so directly, as the sight of Frodo's piercing blue eyes meeting his own, glazed with fog and tired though they were, still made Sam's breath stop and his heart ache in a way that they hadn't for some time. They were, after all, the same blue eyes that had peered at him through the blind at the kitchen window in Bag-End, back before the end of the world.

Sam moved his own left hand then to meet Frodo's right, and keeping his gaze fixed on Frodo's, he let his hand settle gently, willing his master to slowly release his grip. Sam saw Frodo's brow furrow as he took a sharp breath through his teeth, but his eyes still pierced Sam's. They were still full of something, like the great battle raged on behind them.

'I can't, Sam.'

'Shhh, Mister Frodo.'

Like removing a thorn, Sam thought.

When Frodo at last tore his gaze from Sam's, he cast his eyes downward to see that his hand indeed had opened. Sam looked down too, and there, atop Frodo's flat, white palm, sat the One Ring.

It had so often been behind a shirt, inside a pocket, or clutched tight in Frodo's hand, that Sam realised then that it had been some time since he had really looked at it. It glinted coldly at him, as if reflecting some harsh fire-light that was not there. Frodo's own hand was marked with the indent of it, red and purple. It was beautiful and terrible.

'It hurts you, Mister Frodo.' Sam said, softly. 'Don't go sayin' it doesn't, now, because I see it does. Your face gives you away, your eyes-'

'Sam.'

'You should rest from it. An hour, even, give your body a chance to- '

'No, Sam.'

'Mister Frodo-'

'Enough, Sam!' Frodo's words were sharp, and louder than they had been, and Sam saw for a moment a cool fire blaze in his eyes. But it quickly gave way, and Frodo sighed a weary sigh.

'I'm sorry Sam. I didn't mean to shout.' Frodo turned away, letting the Ring hang heavy again around his neck. His gaze was on the ground again, his eyes once again full of fog. His voice was a whisper now. 'You're right. It does hurt.'

Sam felt something rise in him, pity or rage or tears, he wasn't sure which, but his chest was hot and his eyes stung.

'It is… it is heavy, Sam.'

Frodo had said the word as if it stuck in his throat, sticky and rough and hot. Sam felt himself reach out, and his hand found Frodo's again. It was cold.

'But it is my burden to bear. I must carry it. Even if my neck bends and my back breaks,' Frodo's voice cracked, and he squeezed his eyes shut. 'Even if my feet ache and my head swims full of awful, black thoughts. I have no choice, Sam. I must go on.'

Sam felt Frodo tense, as if readying himself, bracing himself for some great impact. He removed his hand from Sam's and looked past him, past him and onward. Frodo's face was grave.

'No. I won't have that, sir.'

Frodo quickly turned to look at Sam. His eyes met Sam's once more, this time unreadable.

'Sam?' Frodo said slowly, as if working out a great puzzle. 'You mean for me to abandon my task?'

'I mean for you to finish your task, Mister Frodo, and I mean to finish it with you. And you cannot do that if you are lying broken somewhere on the side of the road.'

'Sam-'

'I have no interest in the saving of this world, Mister Frodo, if I can't save you with it.'

Frodo let out a great sigh. His right hand moved again upwards to take up it's grip, but he caught himself, and with effort, returned his hand to his lap. His eyes were cast downwards. They flickered. The battle raged. Frodo's grip tightened on his own trouser-leg, his face tight.

Sam reached out a gentle hand towards Frodo's. 'I can help-'

Frodo gasped and recoiled, his feet scraping the ground as he pushed himself back and away. Sam froze. Frodo's hand was grasping the Ring once more.

'I didn't- I'm sorry, Mister Frodo.' Sam stuttered. He spoke then slowly, as if he spoke to someone armed. He did. 'I was only reaching for your hand, is all. I promise.'

Frodo's eyes met Sam's once more. Anger, this time. Fire.

'You musn't touch it.'

'I won't.'

'It's mine.'

'I know. I won't. I promise I won't. You have my word.'

Frodo did not speak.

Sam stared at his master, not knowing whether he was about to pounce or collapse. Then, gathering courage, Sam stood up, tore his eyes from Frodo's, and began to look about him, aware that Frodo's gaze was ever on his back. A few paces from where they had sat, Sam found his prize, a rock about a foot high with a flat top, like a low, crude table.

'Here.' Sam said, patting it. 'You can put it on here, Mister Frodo. Set it down on this surface. Then you can sit facing it, and I'll sit behind. You'll be between me and it, and you can watch it all the time knowing that I'm behind you and away from it. You'll get a break from it, and a sit and a rest.'

Frodo said nothing.

'An hour, at most. Just sit and recover some strength. I'll watch you.'

Blue fog. White mist. Battle.

'Please.'

Frodo's eyes went from Sam, to the rock, to the Ring, back to Sam, back to the rock.

Somewhere on another plane, a brave, small soldier clad in piercing blue, wielding a small, unassuming blade, landed a killing blow. A mist cleared.

Frodo's eyes were set on the rock, his mouth set in a thin, tight line. He heaved himself up, then began to shuffle forward as if his very legs were made of lead. Sam stepped sideways, allowing his master to pass by him, until he stood solemnly facing the rocky surface. Sam did not know how long he stared at the back Frodo, his left arm limp and heavy, his right balled in a tight fist at his chest. Frodo's shoulders rose and fell. His feet swayed. His neck twitched. His brown curls shook, drops of sweat falling from them. Then, Frodo reached up with both hands. With one swift movement, and a grunt of pain, the chain passed over Frodo's bowed head, and there was a small clang of gold hitting stone.

Frodo stumbled backwards and away from it, falling to the ground with a noise like all the wind had been knocked out of him. He sat up, and looking still towards the surface where the Ring sat, he shuffled himself backwards, panting and grasping at the ground beneath him. The Ring glimmered from its perch.

'Well done, Mister Frodo.' Sam said, almost in a whisper. 'You are strong indeed.'

'Sam?'

'I'm here, sir.' Sam took off his pack and sat himself just behind Frodo, looking still at the back of his head. 'I'm behind you, like I promised. You stay between me and the Ring, see. Then you don't have to worry. You can keep looking at it. I'll keep looking at you.'

Sam reached out a hand again and rested it on Frodo's tired shoulder. Frodo did not flinch away this time, instead, he shuffled slowly backwards towards Sam, reaching up to rest his hand atop Sam's.

'I'm glad you're with me, Sam.'

Frodo's voice was soft again. Sam looked to where Frodo's pale, icy hand rested on his own, warm and brown. Near it, and all across Frodo's neck, Sam noticed angry, red lesions where the heavy chain had bore into his skin, raw and open.

'It has broken the skin here, sir.'

'Yes, Sam.'

'You've been carrying it like this all the time?'

'For a while now.'

Sam puffed. Then he remembered his pack. An idea came to him. He let go of Frodo's hand and leaned away, rustling in his bag until he was in it up to his elbow.

'Sam?'

'Now don't go gettin' your hopes up just yet, Mister Frodo, for I haven't been clever enough to think of packing this on purpose. But we used to carry it with us so often for when we were scraped by thorns in the gardens, or stung by nettles, that if luck is with us I might have a leaf or two straggling right down here at the bottom-'

'A leaf or two of what?'

Just then Sam's face brightened and he drew his hand from the bottom of his pack.

'Ah ha! Luck, Mister Frodo! Here is one leaf exactly. We used to call it nurse-weed; it grows wildly in between the tomato plants, you see. It's common enough, but when made into a sort of paste, as it were, it stops any dirt or what have you getting into a cut or a scrape. Gives a little bit of relief for the pain, too. Now, it ain't no Elf-medicine, so I'm sorry it won't be a great relief-'

'Sam, you are a wonder- always with another new way to help me.'

Frodo, still facing forward, didn't see the smile that the comment had brought to Sam's face.

'Of course, sir. Now, I don't want to use any of our drinking-water…' His voice trailed off, and he gave an awkward sort of cough. 'Begging your pardon, Mister Frodo, I hadn't thought…'

'What's the matter?'

'It's just, this next part is mighty improper, you being a gentle-hobbit…'

'Oh, Sam.' Frodo said. Then he did something that surprised and delighted Sam anew. He laughed.

'I think we are quite a ways past worrying what is proper between us, my dear Sam.'

Frodo's voice was lighter than ever as the words my dear Sam fell from his mouth. Sam stared at the back of his master's head, and although he could not see the blue in his eyes from where he sat, he knew they twinkled.

'If we had upheld the proper customs of a gentle-hobbit and his gardener, and refused to cross such boundaries with each other, I'd have lay dead in some ditch far before now.'

Sam opened his mouth and spluttered, protest caught short in his mouth.

'Now it is my turn to tell you not to deny it, dear Sam! Your closeness has saved me and you know it.'

Sam's ears were beet red now.

'So if there is anything you can do to help me, or indeed me to help you, let us not keep it from one another- not for the sake of upholding some foolish construct of our apparent social standing. Those walls have been down between us for some time. So please, do whatever it is you have in mind.'

'Alright, sir.'

With that, Sam put the leaf into his mouth. It tasted of earth and grass, and Sam was reminded of summer afternoons as a boy, tending to a graze on a knee of some childhood friend. He chewed the plant until it was mush, then spat it back into his own brown palm.

'Oh, if my old gaffer could see me now.' Sam muttered to himself, as he rubbed the mixture onto his fingers. 'You can't be treating your betters as if they're playmates in the field, Samwise Gamgee, he used to say. That Baggins boy is of a different ilk, remember, and you're to treat him and Mister Bilbo with respect.' Sam used his other hand to shift Frodo's shirt collar out of the way. Before, it had fit Frodo well, but now, after much marching and not much eating, it fell off of his shoulder quite easily. 'If he saw me using an old homely remedy like this on skin such as yours-'

Sam was interrupted as he applied the plant by a sharp gasp from Frodo. He winced and sucked air through his teeth.

'I'm sorry, sir. It'll cool in a second, I promise.'

Sam continued to spread the paste onto the skin, and he felt Frodo soften, sighing. Sam knew he was feeling the plant cooling the sting of the wound. His hands rested on Frodo's shoulders, where the muscles were tense, held tight and hard as stone by fear and worry. He remembered Frodo's words from earlier, about setting aside what was proper in aid of helping each other, and so Sam took a deep breath, cast any thoughts of his gaffer out of his mind, and used his thumbs to rub away as much of that tension as he could as he spread the makeshift salve. He heard Frodo let out a soft mmm. Sam's cheeks burned hot. He shifted himself forward, leaning over to reach Frodo's front, where the ring had rubbed against the cool, pale skin there. He was close to Frodo now, his face almost amongst the brown curls, his legs either side of Frodo's. Sam was glad that Frodo was facing away, as he felt himself blushing deeply to be touching Frodo as he did. Then Frodo fell backwards, and Sam felt the weight of him against his chest. Sam steadied himself.

'Mister Frodo?'

'Hmm…'

Frodo's head drooped sideways, and came to rest on Sam's chest, so that Sam was supporting his full weight now. He looked down, slow and still as he could, to check that his master hadn't fainted. Instead he saw that Frodo had fallen fast asleep. His lips were parted, his eyes softy closed. He breathed contently, and Sam thought that for once, his face didn't seem as one who was bothered by black dreams full of fiery mountains and searching eyes. Sam smiled. It eased Sam's mind greatly to see Frodo resting. He wiped his hands on his trousers, then shifted himself, lowering Frodo gently back so he was sleeping comfortably. Sam held him.

'That's right, Mister Frodo,' he whispered, 'You sleep now. Your Sam will keep watch. I'll see no harm comes to that thing, hate it though I do.'

The Ring glinted at him from its seat, bright and gold against the grey of both landscape and sky around them. Sam's gaze met it.

'Hateful thing.' Said Sam quietly through his teeth. 'Cutting his skin and breaking his bones. I'll see you destroyed in the fires of Doom if it's the last thing I do. You mark my words now, if I have to crawl up the very sides of the mountain on my hands and knees I'll do it, to see you pay for the hurt you've caused him.'

He won't make it that far and you know it, a voice hissed. Sam did not start, for he knew at once where the voice was coming from. He had almost expected the reply.

Sam scowled at the thing. 'Mister Frodo is the bravest and strongest hobbit I ever knew.'

None can resist the call. He will falter as all have before him.

Sam shifted uncomfortably. The Ring shone, and seemed almost to grow on its perch. Sam looked down at Frodo, gold reflecting in his hair. Sam found Frodo's hands with his and held them, feeling Frodo's chest rising and falling.

'You don't know that.'

I know all.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, and a dark vision came to him. An image, fiery and red, full of ash and flame, was projected into his mind. Sam gasped as he felt sparks leap around his face, and smoke sting his eyes. He blinked, and before him through the smog he made out the face of his master. But it was not a face he recognized. Frodo was ahead, his hair wild and face dirty, and his eyes were grey now. Staring, no, smirking he was.

If injury and exhaustion do not take him, then I will.

The image of Frodo opened its mouth, but the voice that came from him was foreign and full of hate.

The Ring is mine, it said.

His task failed, his blood spilled on the very cracks of Mount Doom itself, he will be borne away to another plane where you cannot follow, not until death begins to take all those you love.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, willing the awful vision away. His breath came to him in short, panicked breaths. 'Stop it!' He gasped.

But.

The smoke cleared. Sam opened his eyes and looked about him. The air again was still, and the landscape around him grey once more. He looked down again and saw Frodo, his Frodo, sleeping soundly against his breast. He sighed, relief flooded him.

Samwise Gamgee.

He looked up with a start. Up to where the Ring sat.

Years and years, quietly tucked up in the warm, soft rooms at Bag-End. Planting his gardens, cooking his meals, fluffing his pillows.

Sam could see it at once. The warm, yellow sun coming in through the curtains and falling in beams on Frodo's face. Daffodils and daisies and tulips swaying in rows under the window-sill. He heard the kettle whistling on the stove, felt Frodo's fingers warm again as he passed him a mug of tea, smelled the scones baking in the oven. Ale and baths and flowers and sleep and years and years and years.

Comfort. That's what you want for him. Comfort.

Sam stroked Frodo's hand with his.

So turn back, find those rooms again, bar yourselves in. You could spend forever tucked away inside there. Let the storm outside rage on; let the Elves and Men and Dwarves and Orcs extinct themselves. Let him be comfortable.

Sam saw blue eyes peering through the kitchen blind at him.

With the One Ring, war could rage ever on outside Bag-End, but inside, who would challenge the strength of both of us together?

None could conquer Samwise the Brave and the Ring Of Power.

The Ring glimmered. It was beautiful.

Time. Each other. How blissful it would be to have both in abundance.

Sam felt Frodo's head bow, and he awoke.

'...Sam?'

Sam looked down with a start, and noticed then that he had leaned forward, unsettling Frodo from his comfortable headrest. Sam’s chest was forwards, and his right arm was outstretched, his fingers reaching. Reaching towards the One Ring.

Sam gasped and lowered his arm at once. Frodo sat up.

'I'm sorry, Sam. It appears I fell quite asleep.' Frodo rubbed at his face. 'You must have bore my weight, forgive me. How long did you sit like that?'

'I-' Sam looked still at the Ring. He was shaken, and his voice faltered. 'I don't know, sir.'

Frodo's hand went instinctually to his neck, and he gasped, panicked. Then his eyes landed on the flat stone.

'Ah, yes. I had forgotten.' He sighed.

Frodo gathered his strength and picked himself up, and Sam followed, until they both stood looking at it. Sam's face was white, and he felt his legs unsteady under him. 

Frodo took a step towards the Ring, then stopped. Something in Sam wanted too to take a step, but he stayed himself. He bit his lip. Frodo turned then suddenly away from the Ring. He stood now with his back fully turned to it. Sam felt a sharp breath come to him. He looked to Frodo, whose eyes were heavy, and full of sadness, as if they held in them the blue of a far off ocean. Frodo gathered Sam's hands in his own. They were cold. He smiled a tired, old smile.

'Thank you, my dear Sam.'

He took Sam's hands, raised them, and kissed them both gently. Sam felt a tightening in his throat, a fluttering in his stomach, and a great ache in his heart. No words came to Sam then, but he saw in his master's eyes years beyond those he had lived. An ancient, Elvish knowing was in them. Frodo turned towards where the Ring sat again, and before Sam could reach out, cry out, or throw himself between Frodo and the thing that would doom him to death and torment, the chain was around Frodo's neck again. The Ring was heavy once more.

'Come on, Sam.'

Frodo started again forwards. Sam took up his pack, and followed. He was glad that Frodo was in front now, facing away from him, as Frodo did not see the tears that were in Sam's eyes, nor hear the quiet sobs that came from him as they put Bag-End ever further behind them.