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“Not a bad spot to rest, this,” Sam said.
Frodo glanced around. No flowers bloomed yet in Ithilien, but the grass was soft beneath their feet, and feathery ferns grew all around them. “Yes. It’s almost peaceful here.” But he could not truly relax. The mountain walls of Mordor continually drew his gaze.
Sam plunked down beneath the shade of a fern, and started reordering their provisions in his pack, or so it seemed to Frodo. After several minutes, Sam emerged from the pack to look up at Frodo with a satisfied expression. “Well, Mr. Frodo, what with Mr. Faramir’s food and all, I’d say we’ve got another week or so now.”
Frodo, still standing, tore his gaze from the dark mountain peaks. “Hmm?”
“Before our food runs out, I mean,” Sam explained, nudging his pack aside and stretching. “Nice not to be in such a hurry now, though I reckon that Gollum will still be as impatient as he always is.”
Frodo tensed. “There’s no hope in delay.”
Sam distractedly arranged their bedding. “I’d say there is, beggin’ your pardon, sir. For my own sake, I could do with a bit of rest before venturin’ on into that dark land. But that’s just me. It’s you I’m more worried about.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You look…” Sam’s face scrunched up the way it did during his old lessons with Bilbo, when he was trying to remember a particularly complicated word. Then he seemed to give up. “I’m thinkin’ we should rest a bit longer,” was all he said, “before getting any closer to…to that.” He gestured towards Mordor.
“And I’m thinking I’d rather get this over with,” Frodo muttered. “As soon as possible.”
“Then why not run all the way there, sir?” Sam grumbled. “Because you’d collapse, that’s why. And that’s the same reason why we can’t keep pushing on without rest.”
“We’ve gotten plenty of rest in Ithilien already.”
“And now with more food, we’ve got the chance to get a little more before makin’ another start,” Sam argued.
Frodo wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself and stared up at the mountain, studying it, wondering if he could glimpse this secret road Sméagol knew.
“Come lie down, Mr. Frodo,” Sam urged. “Just for a bit.”
But Sam’s voice seemed very distant. So far, so far there still was to go. Frodo had begrudged every wasted minute in the Emyn Muil, feeling so exposed to the malice of the Eye among that barren rock…and for another reason, quite a different reason.
Now, with the Ring pressing so heavily upon him, he hated the delay even more.
“Mr. Frodo?”
Frodo started. Sam’s voice now came from directly beside him. He turned, realizing that Sam had stood and approached without him noticing. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “I’m more than used to your daydreaming, but I didn’t like the look of that daydream just now. Won’t you come lie down?”
“I want to keep going.”
“Yes, I’m understandin’ that.” Sam put his hands on his hips, an expression Frodo well recognized from days in Bag End when Sam felt righteously certain of his own position—usually because he was arguing with the Gaffer over the best placement of certain flowers and herbs in the garden. “What I don’t understand is why.”
Frodo made no reply. It would be easier to simply give in than to explain. And yet he felt rooted to the spot, as if a single backward step would cause real pain.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
The determined concern on his face stirred Frodo to action—if not to words. With a short nod, he brushed past Sam to hunker down beneath the fronds. There he sat, fidgeting with the chain around his neck, running the pads of his fingers over the tiny metal links and divots.
He realized what he was doing a moment later and snatched his hands away. He worried at a small hole in his sleeve instead.
This was fine. They weren’t stopping, not really. Just resting. And perhaps Sam would allow them to go further tonight because of it.
“You’re bound to make that hole worse,” Sam commented, “carryin’ on as you are.”
For a wild moment, Frodo wished Sam had not come. Taking a deep breath, he resisted the urge to say something short and cruel. He folded his hands tightly in his lap.
“Won’t you rest?”
“I am resting,” Frodo snapped. He instantly regretted his tone. “I—I’m sorry.”
Hurt glistened in Sam’s brown eyes. “Have I done something wrong?”
Frodo winced. “No, no, of course not.”
“It’s clear I have,” Sam mumbled, “but I can’t do aught about it unless you tell me.”
“It’s not you, Sam, dear. I promise.”
“Then what?”
Frodo dropped his gaze to his hands, then looked up at the fronds arching overhead, at the glimpses of steel-blue sky beyond. “It’s the Ring,” he said heavily.
Sam tilted his head in question.
“I am not in its power yet…” Frodo drew a deep breath. “But it is only a matter of time.”
Sam’s eyebrows pinched together. “Now, don’t go talking that way, Mr. Frodo.”
Very well. Frodo certainly preferred to keep these thoughts from himself.
But of course, Sam was not finished. He screwed up his face with intensity. “The Council chose you to carry that Thing, so they must’ve believed you could manage it.”
No, the Council did not choose him. But the Council let him take the Ring, which was close enough to what Sam meant. “Quite the opposite, I should think,” Frodo said quietly.
“Well, of course they always knew it wouldn’t never be easy…”
“Sam…” Frodo tailed off.
“Why are you actin’ like there’s no hope?” Sam burst out, and Frodo saw tears in his eyes.
Frodo pulled back, withdrawing into the shadow of the ferns. “I…” Sam was peering at him intently, too intently. Frodo wanted to pull shutters closed between them. “I can’t explain it.”
Back in the Shire, such an attempt at stalling would likely have worked. Sam always had other things to attend to, after all. If Frodo simply delayed the discussion long enough, Sam would remember a tree that needed pruning or herbs that needed watering.
But since leaving the Shire, Frodo had become Sam’s sole concern—and Frodo was quickly discovering that this reality was a curse as much as it was a blessing.
“How about you try,” Sam said, in a voice that somehow managed to sound like he was only genuinely trying to be helpful despite the determined glint in his eyes.
Frodo huffed plaintively.
This had no effect. Sam continued to watch him with that determined look.
Reluctantly, Frodo searched for words. “Think about our food, Sam. Think about how you are always mindful of how much we have left, weighing the amount against the distance still before us. You know that, quite apart from orcs and other things, we will never succeed if we cannot reach the Mountain before our food runs out.”
Sam nodded.
“I suppose that is similar to how I feel, only rather than being mindful of how much of our food is left, I am mindful of…of…of how much of myself is left.”
Sam looked utterly baffled.
A pain spiked through Frodo’s chest. Had no one explained? Did he even understand what the Ring really was?
“Well,” Sam said after a moment, “isn’t that all the more reason to rest now, while we can? If you’re still hurtin’ from Weathertop and all that—”
Frodo clenched his teeth around a groan. “I’m not talking about Weathertop. It’s the Ring.”
Sam hesitated. “Is it…because it’s gettin’ heavier?” He turned to his pack and fished out a wafer of lembas. “Eat this, then, and don’t worry none about us runnin’ out.”
Frodo accepted the wafer, though his mouth was too dry and his stomach too twisted-up to eat. Sam clearly still did not understand, but if he thought he did, if he thought Frodo was simply worn by the Ring’s weight, why should Frodo correct him?
Only, if Sam’s fears were correct, it would make sense to linger, to rest, to take the time afforded by Faramir’s extra food to recover strength before continuing on. Yet the cure for what ailed Frodo was not rest…indeed, there was no cure at all but to press on ’til the end.
A faint breeze rustled the fronds surrounding them. It came from the east and was it Frodo’s imagination, or did it taste faintly of ash?
“Mr. Frodo?”
Frodo had retreated too deeply into silence. He stirred, shook his head. “No, Sam. No, it’s not the weight of the Ring. Or, well, not merely its weight. It has…a voice, something that speaks directly into a person’s mind to…well, to try to convince them to use it.”
“And that’s what’s troubling you, sir? But why didn’t you say so?”
Frodo shrugged.
“Well, then, tell me how best I can help.”
Frodo dropped his gaze to his lap. “I just want to keep moving. Before…before time runs out.”
This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. “But you mustn’t think like that! Now, Mr. Frodo, I don’t pretend to understand all this—it’s best left to wizards and the like, not to simple hobbits, beggin’ your pardon. Still seems to me that if the Ring’s got a voice, it’ll be usin’ that voice to convince you not to care for yourself by makin’ you feel that there’s no time to lose, makin’ it so you can’t see how runnin’ yourself ragged is the worse danger—”
The worse danger? Frodo suddenly straightened. “Gandalf would not even touch it.”
That brought Sam up short. “Gandalf?”
“Yes, Gandalf. In Bag End, when he told me the truth about it…I asked him to take it.”
Emotions flickered across Sam’s face like minnows in a clear stream, so easy to read. There was hope at the name, as if this were all just a scary story told to young hobbits and Gandalf could appear at any moment to rescue them. Then grief, as the memory of Moria returned. Then confusion, then something like indignation, or even anger.
“He wouldn’t take it?” Sam asked.
Did Sam not realize, after all this time, that the task had fallen to Frodo only after others refused it?
“He was afraid of what the Ring would do through him, if he used it.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “But surely Mr. Gandalf could resist it, if he set his mind to it.”
“No, Sam, and that’s what I’m trying to tell you. The Ring, it was made by a being more powerful than any of us, don’t you see? It…it can’t be resisted. It’s not a matter of if someone gives into it, but when…”
Sam was silent. Words had, at last, deserted him.
Frodo spoke now more to himself, in a faint whisper: “I am afraid…I am so afraid the Ring will become even harder to resist as we get closer to…to the end. I only hope to reach the Mountain while my mind is still my own…”
At that, Sam suddenly sprang to his feet, ducking to keep his head clear of the ferns. He sniffled and wiped his nose and answered with forced cheer: “Then let’s put a few more miles behind us ’afore nightfall. Don’t you worry, Mr. Frodo. I understand now.”
How could anyone else ever understand? Even Frodo had not understood, not really, until he had left the Fellowship and found the Ring’s fate resting solely on his shoulders…and found the Ring’s attention focused solely on his mind.
But Sam’s words were sincere. True understanding may be too much to ask for, but at least Sam was trying, indeed plainly trying as hard as he could to grasp matters he believed too great for him.
And that was enough.