When Hope Has Failed
a Lord of the Rings fan fiction
by Van Donovan
joy@crackerboxpalace.com
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NOTE: This is a dark story. It is also alternate universe, in the thread of 'what if'. It's basically a Sam-torture fiction, or will be, although this chapter is relatively tame. There are massive spoilers. The entire first passage is taken directly from The Two Towers itself, but I'd recommend rereading it as it completely sets the scene.
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'He's dead!' he said. 'Not asleep, dead!' And as he said it, as if the words had set the venom to its work again, it seemed to him that the hue of the face grew livid green. And then black despair came down on him, and Sam bowed to the ground, and drew his gray hood over his head, and night came into his heart, and he knew no more.
When at last the blackness passed, Sam looked up and shadows were about him; but for how many minutes or hours the world had gone dragging on he could not tell. He was still in the same place, and still his master lay beside him dead. The mountains had not crumbled nor the earth fallen into ruin.
'What shall I do, what shall I do?' he said. 'Did I come all this way with him for nothing?' And then he remembered his own voice speaking words that at the time he did not understand himself, at the beginning of their journey: I have something to do before the end. I must see it through, sir, if you understand.
'But what can I do? Not leave Mr. Frodo dead, unburied on the top of the mountains, and go home? Or go on? Go on?' he repeated, and for a moment doubt and fear shook him. 'Go on? Is that what I've got to do? And leave him?'
Then at last he began to weep; and going to Frodo he composed his body, and folded his cold hands upon his breast, and wrapped his cloak about him; and he laid his own sword at one side, and the staff that Faramir had given at the other.
'If I'm to go on,' he said, 'then I must take your sword, by your leave, Mr. Frodo, but I'll put this one to lie by you, as it lay by the old king in the barrow; and you've got your beautiful mithril coat from old Mr. Bilbo. And your star-glass, Mr. Frodo, you did lend it to me and I'll need it again, for I'll be always in the dark now. It's too good for me, and the Lady gave it to you, but maybe she'd understand. Do you understand, Mr. Frodo? I've got to go on.'
But he could not go, not yet. He knelt and held Frodo's hand and could not release it. And time went by and still he knelt, holding his master's hand, and in his heart keeping a debate.
Now he tried to find strength to tear himself away and go on a lonely journey - for vengeance. If once he could go, his anger would bear him down all the roads of the world, pursuing, until he had him at last: Gollum. Then Gollum would die in a corner. But that was not what he had set out to do. It would not be worthwhile to leave his master for that. It would not bring him back. Nothing would. They had better both be dead together. And that too would be a lonely journey.
He looked on the bright point of the sword. He thought of the places behind where there was a black brink and an empty fall into nothingness. There was no escape that way. That was to do nothing, not even to grieve. That was not what he had set out to do. 'What am I do to then?' he cried again, and now he seemed plainly to know the hard answer: see it through. Another lonely journey, and the worst.
'What? Me, alone, go to the Crack of Doom and all?' He quailed still, but the resolve grew. 'What? Me take the Ring from him? The Council gave it to him.'
But the answer came at once: 'And the Council gave him companions, so that the errand should not fail. And you are the last of all the Company. The errand must not fail.'
'I wish I wasn't the last,' he groaned. 'I wish old Gandalf was here, or somebody. Why am I left alone to make up my mind? I'm sure to go wrong. And it's not for me to go taking the Ring, putting myself forward.'
'But you haven't put yourself forward; you've been put forward. And as for not being the right and proper person, why, Mr. Frodo wasn't, as you might say, nor Mr. Bilbo. They didn't chose themselves.'
'Ah well, I must make up my own mind. I will make it up. But I'll be sure to go wrong: that'd be Sam Gamgee all over.
'Let me see now: if we're found here, or Mr. Frodo's found, and that Thing's on him, well, the Enemy will get it. And that's the end of us all, of Lórien, and Rivendell, and the Shire and all. And there's no time to lose, or it'll be the end anyway. The war's begun, and more than likely things are all going the Enemy's way already. No chance to go back with It and get advice or permission. No, it's sit here till they come and kill me over master's body, and gets It; or take It and go. Then take It, it is!'
He stopped. Very gently he undid the clasp at the neck and slipped his hand inside Frodo's tunic; then with his other hand raising the head, he kissed the cold forehead, and softly drew the chain over it. And then the head lay quietly back again in rest. No change came over the still face, and by that more than by other tokens Sam was at last convinced that Frodo had died and laid aside the Quest.
'Good-bye, master, my dear!' he murmured. 'Forgive your Sam. He'll come back to this spot when the job's done - if he manages it. And then he'll not leave you again. Rest you quiet till I come; and may no foul creature come anigh you! And if the Lady could hear me and give me one wish, I would wish to come back here and find you again! Good-bye!'
And then he bent his own neck and put the chain upon it, and at once his head was bowed to the ground with the weight of the Ring, as if a great stone had been strung on him. But slowly, as if the weight became less, or new strength grew in him, he raised his head, and then with a great effort got to his feet and found that he could walk and bear his burden. And for a moment he lifted up the Phial and looked down at his master, and the light burned gently now with the soft radiance of the evening-star in summer, and in that light Frodo's face was fair of hue again, pale but beautiful with an elvish beauty, as of one who had long passed the shadows. And with the bitter comfort of that last sight Sam turned and hid the light and stumbled on into the growing dark.
He had not far to go. Though dusk had fallen, he could still make out the rough path, worn down by ages of use that wound its way from the tunnel behind him gently to a narrow cleft in the mountains. Here he found stairs leading up, long and shallow, and with the orc-tower tower behind him he fell into the shadows of the Cleft at last as he climbed the stairs. He climbed his way to the top, between the Cleft, doubt racing through his mind as he went: 'I've made my mind up,' he told himself, but he felt he was making the wrong choice. 'What should I have done?' Before he reached the summit, he looked back down at the mouth of the stairs to where he imagined he could still see Frodo's body neatly laid out, glittering perhaps in the dusk. He knew it was folly, and more likely a trick of his tears. He wiped them furiously and pressed on, thinking: 'If only I could have my wish, my one wish,' he sighed, 'to go back and find him!' Then at last he turned to the road in front of him, and took a few steps: the heaviest and the most reluctant he had ever taken.
Only a few steps, and a few steps more, and he would never again see that high place. His heart was heavy as he looked over his shoulder back the way he had come one final time, and then he shut his eyes tightly, one hand going up to grip the Ring that now hung at his neck. He nodded pressing away tears and turned to face the harshness of the plains of Gorgoroth with vengeance and a heavy heart. Ephel Dúath stood sheer to his east in a falling cliff and beyond him stood a flying bridge of stone spanning the chasm between where he stood and the sloping hills and glens of Morgai.
Sam took a breath and his hand released the Ring and he crossed the chasm, taking broad determined steps. Behind him, the stones of the Tower of Cirith Ungol glowed softly as he took his leave. Soon the slopes of the Morgai rose to meet the bridge and he was safely over the chasm. It was a small accomplishment but he let out the breath had had been holding as he stood on the other side, safe from falling into the chasm. The Ring weighted even more heavily on him now than it had before, and he felt with each step he took into Mordor the weight would increase, and it felt it did. He marveled at the very thought of Frodo having borne it so far, so long.
It was night now, and Sam felt cold and hollow. The ache that rang through him seemed to permeate even the air of the foul world he found himself in. The road before him stretched on over hills, but Sam wondered if he should not follow the obvious trail and go another way. It would be wisest to avoid coming into contact with the Orcs if at all possible, and this very path would seem to lead right to them. His eyes took note of the slopes of Morgai that fed down into the valley that he could now make out beneath the bridge. Carefully sliding along the slick slope, he held out Sting which still glowed faintly from the Orc presence, and made out a surprising sight: a thicket of brambles grew beyond, complete with thorns and dark branches. He could easily hew some aside and make his way down, but he was hesitant.
Beyond, back across the chasm, he heard noises and by the increasing light of Sting he knew Orcs were approaching. If he waited much longer he'd be found and time was of the essence. He forced thoughts of Frodo being discovered out of his mind and slid down the slope the rest of the way, hacking at the brambles as he reached them and then he sheathed Sting as he ducked under the small bridge and cowered. Overhead Orcs called and their footsteps echoed. They spoke the black tongue so he could not understand their scything orders, but his skin crawled with the knowledge of him, and he hugged his pack to his stomach as he willed them away. When at last silence fell and the moon had risen he pulled himself to his feet.
The sky was black, not just with night, for there were no stars, but with the looming mountain range, so vast and huge it blotted out all the sky. He hurried along the valley, running by moonlight and stopping every then and again for a breather. He knew Gollum was still alive and could be following him, now that he bore the Precious. He greatly longed to face the vile creature again, for he wanted very much to run him through with the Elven sword at his side. At length he found he could go no further and trusting himself to a shallow pit of rocks, he nestled in tight, draped the Elf cloak from Lórien over him as it had hidden him well in the past and he hoped it would protect him now, and so tired was he that sleep claimed him without letting him give thought to his loneliness.
He awoke some hours later as a dark feeling washed over him. He felt it should be morning, though still the sky was black from the smoke of Mount Doom, and yet as his gray eyes stared up into the ink above him, he felt sure in his head a Black Rider flew over him. He dared not to move, nor hardly to breathe, though he felt certain he could not be seen, hidden as he was under the cloak of Lórien. He lay this way for some time, and once the darkness had fled his heart, he took a mouthful of water and a wafer of way bread and wept over the way his own ration supply had grown without another mouth to feed.
Drawing determination from this, he shouldered the pack again, putting the cloak around both himself and it, and headed out once more, making north for he was drawn that way and he found that it was the path of the most resistance: the Ring born him down with each step he took in that direction. There was no mistake that Gollum had led them south of Mount Doom when he had taken them through Osgiliath and so Sam knew that Mount Doom would lay ahead of him, back to the north, so he trudged onwards. Above, his eyes caught a glow of silver and he spun expecting to see two luminous eyes advancing on him.
Instead, the cliffs of the Ephel Dúath were rimmed in gray as the light broke through the clouds above. He stood in awe watching as the war between clouds and light raged over his head. It came from behind him and spread northwards as he watched, and presently the black broke up and dissipated. He let out a sigh and shudder as if some great thing had just happened and he was relieved, though he knew not that Théoden King lay now on the Pelennor Fields dying, nor that Merry had just struck the final blow to kill the Lord of the Ringwraiths. Presently he heard a shriek and he knew it to be the cry of a Nazgûl; but this cry no longer held terror in him: it was a cry of woe and dismay, and it bore ill tidings for the Dark Tower. Out of the west came a speck black against the sky, wheeling towards him, or towards the cliffs beyond him, and it passed him and plunged itself into the shadows of the Ephel Dúath, defeated.
He would have let out a whoop of excitement for he knew that a Ringwraith defeated meant a victory for the Men of Gondor, but he couldn't fathom the strength to cheer or even smile. Even watching the trail of the Nazgûl bore heavy on him, as when he closed his eyes he could only see the red Eye wreathed in flames, seeking him out. He let out a shuddered breath, wishing Frodo were with him; to comfort him or to be comforted. There was no one but himself though, and still he had to go on. He looked at the light and took what little comfort he could from it, for it meant at least he could see where he was headed and not have to stumble through the darkness. So he pressed on, going slowly but surely north.
Sam soon came to the long dirt bed of that which was once a river, now dried and withered. The stream sloped gently northwards along with the valley he walked in, between the two mountains. Beyond the riverbed he saw a beaten road that wound along the foothills of the western cliffs. It seemed a far more logical approach to take the road than to wear himself out scrambling over rocks and boulders, so he made for it, as it was empty and ran straight north. It would seem to run past Mount Doom, but Sam had little hope of actually walking up to the mountain and entering. He would stay to this road. It was used by the Orcs to carry messages from Isenmouthe and Cirith Ungol to Barad-dûr, though he did not know this, as it laid empty while he traveled.
Sam trudged along on it, mouth parched from the dryness of the land, and his eyes ever watching the dark plume that billowed from Orodruin, belching up black smoke high into the air where it the spread like a carpet in the sky over all of Mordor. Still, the light from the sun did not falter, though it grew no brighter, and Sam found so long as he could at least see he could bear the gloom of the sky, for it matched the blackness in his heart. After an hour traveling on the road he stopped, for his ears heard the unmistakable trickling of water in the distance. Hardly able to believe his ears, or the thought that water might flow in this barren waste, he took from the road and followed the sound to its source, not very far off.
It flowed from a split in the black rocks that seemed as though it had been cut in half by a bolt of hard lightning. Where the water came from Sam did not know; it could be the remains of a gentle rain from far beyond, but he did not much care. He debated the chance it was foul and poisoned, but he knelt by it anyway and drank his fill. It tasted strange to him, oily and old as though it had run too long through the black of Mordor, but it satisfied his parched mouth and he refilled both his canteen and the one that had been Frodo's. Thus he felt better afterward, and while the burden of the Ring lightened none, he was able to thank his good luck for the lightened sky, the water and the emptiness of the road. He traveled several miles more until the road began to widen and walls rose up on the side, telling Sam he'd best stick to the rocks again, lest he stumble into a heavily populated Orc encampment.
He stole aside and found Mount Doom to his east and almost behind him and he sighed, knowing he should abandon the northward road entirely now and make for the very mountain itself, but he knew he could not do so much tonight. He would go until nightfall and start again come the morning. He scrambled down towards where the riverbed ran parallel and soon found several murky pools of water to his surprise, and therein he found twisted dark things growing in the pools. They were black and foul, but they lived and grew nonetheless. Mordor was a dying land, but it was not yet dead, and being a lover of all plants and life, Sam could find some compassion for this land that had strangled the life out of all it's inhabitants until only foul dank these as these could grow. He had half a mind to use the Ring himself and if he did he would make Mordor bright and beautiful again, as it should have been, and probably was once in ancient past. He would make green fields and potatoes would grow on the slopes of Mount Doom itself.
He finally could stand the flies that bit him and the harsh air that parched his mouth so fast any longer and so he curled himself underneath a thicket of brambles and ate what he could. Mount Doom seemed within sight, but he knew it was still many long days ahead, so he saved the remaining lembas and took all that remained of the provisions they had received from Faramir. He knelt a bit, eyes closed as he held the dried fruit and nuts in his hand, then divided everything up into two, even the sliver of cured meat. 'And here's your half, sir,' he whispered softly, 'I'll save it until I can take nothing more.' And he packaged away what would have been Frodo's half of the last bit of Faramir's gift and ate what belonged to him.
Then he lay out beneath the briar with his pack at his head and the Elven cloak pulled around him as a blanket and using his arm as a pillow he tried to sleep. It would have been easier if the Eye hadn't followed him into his dreams, but he forced it aside, just as he forced the ache of not having Frodo along and found sleep. It was fitful and light, but it was rest, and rest is what he needed.
He awoke with a sigh, for his night had been plagued with dreams of fire and waking brought no comfort. In fact, it only reminded him of the emptiness he held for the want of Frodo by his side. The sky was gray and the sun hidden beyond the mountains, so he took a morsel of lembas a mouthful of water and climbed up the last ravine, scrambling for the last hundred feet or so and then looked down at all that separated him in Morgai from the harsh emptiness of the plains of Gorgoroth below and beyond. Mount Doom towered in the distance, still some forty miles away, and between here and there stretched the foul reeking plains of Gorgoroth, void of water, plant or weed. And yet as Sam looked down, he could easily pick out many encampments below, one not even a mile beyond, with smoke drifting lazily from them, speaking of warmth, food and water.
He could tell, even from where he stood, that those below were not Orcs but Men, and he found he feared them more so because of it. Orcs he viewed as mindless creatures controlled by Saruman or Sauron, who could not help but do the evil bidding of their masters. But Men were the stuff that made up Aragorn and Faramir, and even though he knew men could go wrong he could not fathom them willing to serve Sauron en mass and live in such a despicable place as this. So he feared them, and what sort of horrible men they were. Tired of the view, he tried to find a way down the drop of the ravine, but it was futile, for any step he took would plunge him head over heels into the rocks.
So he was forced to turn and climb back down the ravine and stick along the wall that sprung up as it lead the road past the Orc-encampment. He edged onward, and it seemed he would make it through unseen and without running into danger. He slunk around a bend some two miles past and the Orc encampment was behind him and out of sight. No sooner had he turned though, he could hear the snarling sounds of voices coming upon him. His heart leapt into his throat and he cast about for somewhere to hide himself or an alterative to being found out. If it was one or two, he could probably take them by surprise. He could also try to out run them for he could run light and swift if he needed, aided now by his lighter figure. He had but seconds to decide, so he darted behind a low grouping of shrubs off the road and waited to see what would come around the corner.
Presently, two Orcs came into view, and they were arguing with each other in the Common Tongue, though Sam did not care to listen to what they said. There was a little one, sniffing about the rocks and reminding Sam of Gollum, and a big one with a bow and a spear and a large shield with the token of the eye painted on it. Sam shivered as the little one snuffed about near him and he willed himself not to stink. If only they'd pass him by, then he could sneak behind them. The smaller seemed to be a tracker and he paused and looked back over his shoulder at the solider Orc. 'I doubt he even came this way. He's up in the mountains now, far from here.'
'Just shut up and keep looking.' The bigger Orc said, and he scanned the area and kept walking forward down the path. Sam held his breath as the tracker sniffed about again and then followed after the solider.
He let them go some twenty paces before he slunk out from his hiding place after them. He crept, but fast, using his hobbit skills to keep him quiet and undetected. He was glad the shadows were behind him as he crept upon the two. One hand he kept on the hilt of Sting, sheathed still so its light would not drawn early notice, and the left hand found the Ring on it's chain and he gripped it. He could slit the throat of the big one easily, and then combat the smaller one. It might be a hard battle, but he felt with the element of surprise and Sting in his hand that he would triumph. They were coming on another bend, and fearing there might be more Orcs on the other side, Sam decided to act swiftly lest he delay and be caught.
He was matching the Orcs strides, holding his breath for the reek of stench they exuded and tensing all the muscles in his body for the pounce he would have to make to reach the bigger ones throat. He had to compensate for the heavy pack on his back, and the burden of the Ring, but with a silent wish to the Lady of Lórien to see him through, he sprung forward like cat and wrapped his legs about the Orcs middle and in one fluid motion had Sting out and drawn across the Orcs neck in a flash. A ribbon of black blood shout out and the solider died before he had a chance to shout. As it was the tracker hadn't even seen Sam and only turned to see why his partner had stopped following. By then it was too late for him, as Sam pushed the solider down and was on top the smaller Orc before he could even draw his weapon.
Sam grabbed the Orcs shoulder and thrust Sting deep into his belly. The Orc screamed, but his voice was muffled as Sam forced the trackers face into his shoulder. He felt a grim smile fall over his lips as he gave Sting a twist and pulled it free. The blade shone fiercely now through the Orc blood that coated it. The tracker's eyes rolled up and he felt to his knees as a black bloom blossomed from his chest. Sam looked around, then dragged the smaller Orc behind the shrub he'd hidden behind and stripped him, taking his orc tunic and mail off and donned them, as well as his helmet, which was tight, but fit. The garments stunk and he had a bloody mess on his front now, but chances were if he kept his head bent, he could pass for an orc if it came down to it. He returned to retrieve the solider too, and with much effort got him off the road as well. He stomped out the blood on the road and breathed in relief that he hadn't been happened upon during it all. He tugged the Orc helmet down and strode forward again, feeling a little more confident now that he had slain two and was in disguise.
As he rounded the bend, he could clearly see Mount Doom in the distance some forty miles still, and he wondered if he'd ever get there. Frodo would have known what to do, for he had studied the maps in Rivendell with Elrond and the other Council members. Sam had never paid them any mind and now he sorely wished he had. Mount Doom seemed easy enough to find: it was right in front of him, and yet somehow making a bee-line straight for it seemed a bit foolish, although no doubt the fastest. 'Well, you're in a fix, no mistake.' He said in soft murmurs, not yet used to hearing himself talking anymore. His tongue was dry, but he dared not take more water than he needed. 'What would you do, Mr. Frodo? Did you know a secret to getting up and in?' But he doubted it, and trying to be creative about travel in a realm he knew nothing about was even foolish enough for Sam to catch.
So he judged the distance from the mountain and the course of the road, and figured he would follow it until he met more Orcs or until it swerved beyond the mountain. Then he would make a straight line over the rocks for the mountain itself. It was probably the wrong choice, as Sam had not made many that were right, but he could think of nothing else short of stopping an Orc and asking him for directions, so he pressed on. Soon night fell and he found he did not want to travel in darkness, for his senses were dulled, sleep gnawed at him and the Ring born him down. He took off the road, curling into an alcove of rocks hidden by the brambles of a long-dead bush and pulling the Elven cloak over him he tried to sleep.
He was plagued with fears of Gollum happening upon him while he slept, and he feared the Eye in his dreams. And yet morning came and found him still alive, for which he almost regretted. Frodo had looked in peace at last once he had set aside the Quest and Sam only wished he could follow in suit. Still, he dragged himself to his feet and staggered with the weight of the Ring and sat back down. He forced the look of Frodo's cold pale face from his mind and focused instead on his wrath at Gollum. It made his blood burn and gave him the strength to carry on. He shouldered his pack and started out on the road again, and he traveled some twelve miles before the road turned and Sam felt compelled to abandon it for the rocky terrain.
He took a deep breath of the rancid air and climbed over the craggy sides and soon the road vanished out of sight. He had not taken breakfast or lunch, so now he stopped for a bite of lembas, and a mouthful of water. He sat for some ten minutes, watching the sky darken again as Mordor-blackness took over once more, and then he wearily forced himself to his feet. He picked his way slowly over the rocks, stopping then and again as he heard movement on the road beyond him. He was glad now he had abandoned it, for he saw Orc companies coming along it from ahead and he would have had no where to hide from them between the walls that rose up on either side of the road.
The Orcs were marching, at a faster pace than Sam could have ever traveled at, and soon they were far beyond him, and he was gladdened for it. Still, as he climbed, he could hear more Orcs crying beyond, and occasionally in the distance he could see streams of silver, which he knew was the light glinting off their spears. It seemed vast armies of Orcs were being summoned into Isenmouthe now, from Osgiliath where he'd come from and from Barad-dûr, for the Captains of the West were advancing their troops and the Dark Lord was sending his own north. Sam was again relieved he had taken off the path of the road, for surely he would have been caught up with the mess of Orc armies and either found or sent out the Black Gates he and Frodo and Gollum had come to so long ago.
The plains of Gorgoroth were harsh and dry, but they were empty both of life and Orcs and for that Sam could travel without much care to being seen. It was well, too, for now he could think very little about avoiding Orcs so heavy was the burden of the Ring around him. He faced Mount Doom with every step he took, and as he trudged onwards, he found the burden was growing on him more and more. He stopped every mile to regain his breath and try to refuel himself with anger over Frodo's death, but as he staggered on, he found it hard to even conjure up his master's face in his mind. It was beyond him to think of flowers or Rivendell or even the beauty of the garden at Bag End. He knew they were real, and somewhere existed, but for him they were long gone dreams. By dusk he felt he could go no further, and so he slumped into a pile of boulders that formed a small crag by him and he burrowed into it. As he watched the Shadow Mountains in the west behind him grow darker with the setting sun, his eyes fell on Ondodruin in the distance, where it still belched out smoke.
It seemed no nearer now then it had when he had set out from the road this morning and his heart cinched for it. It was as if he would travel forever onwards, but never grow any nearer. To his left, facing northeast, stood the Ash Mountain range, darkened to gray in the twilight as it was. Beyond Mount Doom, though he could not see it for the mountain lay directly in his line of sight, stood Barad-dûr, where the Dark Tower housed the Dark Lord himself. Sam found it almost folly that here he was, with the very Ring the Dark Lord so sought, sitting in his front yard. Sleep took him again, though it did not offer freedom from the dark mountain beyond him.
It was still dark out when he awoke, and he wondered if it was the cover of the clouds again, making a black dawn, or if he had only slept a short while. He was not rested, far from it, but he had heard something, or felt something in the air and it had stirred him. He poked his head up from the crag he was beside and let his eyes scan the darkness for signs of Orcs or Black Riders, though he saw none. He was about to dismiss it when he heard a sound that made his blood rise and boil, and heated him to the core. 'Ach, sss.' It came, quietly, drifting over the rocks.
Sleep and fear left him, and weariness too, as his hand gripped Sting at his side. The blade was dark and cool for no Orcs were near, but sharp and hungered for blood as much as he. His breathing was shallow as he scanned the darkness for those luminescent eyes that would give Gollum away, and then he saw him, barely a shadow in the darkness of shadows, slinking along on all fours like the starved dog he resembled. Sam resisted the urge to call and shout at him, for as great as his fury was at the sickening creature, he did not want to lose the element of surprise he had.
So he left his pack behind the crag and flittered down over the rocks, moving as hobbit like quiet as he possibly could. He froze as Gollum did, the latter looking around as if sensing he wasn't alone. Sam held his breath and let the cloak of Lórien hide his face. After an agonizing minute of not breathing Gollum slithered forward again, and Sam came on him. He would not make the mistake Gollum had made when he had attacked him back at Cirith Ungol of gloating before the deed was done. He slunk forward and soon he was over him, and stretched up to grab his shoulder to cut his throat.
Gollum sensed him at the last moment though, and whipped around with a gargled screech and fell on his backside. Sam, in mid-lunge, missed and Sting swung wide over Gollum's head. Gollum reacted quickly, and sprung up, his arms wrapping around Sam's middle and the force of the assault knocked Sam off his feet and he soon found himself on his back with Gollum straddling him, clacking like a beetle. 'Sss, nasty hobbits try to hurt Sméagol.' He hissed, one hand holding Sam's sword arm down, even as the hobbit flailed to get Gollum off him. 'O no! I knew, I saw the Precious, didn't we? Yes. Silly Sam.' And his other hand went to Sam's throat and he pressed down tight, blocking Sam's air flow.
Sam beat his free hand on Gollum's side but the creature did not budge. In fact Sam's ministrations seemed to only anger him and forced him to press harder as those glowing eyes leered down at him. Sam's hand drooped and he clutched at his chest, where the Ring pressed into his skin. He was fighting for a moment, struggling with breath and his energy draining to reach the Ring. It was his only hope for himself: he had to put it on. His hand slipped inside his tunic even as the wretched face above him started swirling into darkness. His hand groped and he gagged until at last his fingers found something cold and hard and gripped it tightly.
He did not vanish, but instead pulled out his brown hand and held tight in the calloused grasp was the Phial of Galadriel, and it shone brighter than the sun Herself as he shoved it into Gollum's face. 'Galadriel!' Sam cried, and his tongue was loosed again, as it had been in the lair of Shelob:
Gilthoniel A Elbereth!
A Elbereth Gilthoniel
o menel palan-díriel,
le nallon sí singuruthos!
A tíro nin, Fanuilos!
Gollum shrieked and his hands let off Sam's throat to claw at his eyes that were now blinded beyond sight at the brilliance of the Phial. Sam's left hand drooped, but only slightly and he sat up and as Gollum cursed him, Sting found the blood it sought. Sam dug the blade in until the hilt would not go further, and he smiled with malice as Gollum's shrieks increased with the burning pain of the Elven blade. 'That's for Mr. Frodo you filth!' He screamed as his own vision blurred, blinded by his tears. Still, Gollum fought, writhing, and Sam pulled the blade out, his hand slick with dark blood and he shoved Gollum off him and staggered to his feet, the Phial still clutched in his left hand.
Then he knelt and silenced Gollum with another swift slice of Sting, cutting cleanly through the flesh and taunt muscles at his throat. Gollum's eyes bulged, bright and round, but they saw nothing now, and never would again. Sam gasped, then pocketed the Phial, fearful that the light might be seen and sat back. He watched the pool of blood trickle from Gollum's lifeless body ever closer to him. Sam panted for several moments, then took Sting by the handle and stabbed Gollum through the stomach with the blade. 'And that,' he whispered, 'is for my broken heart.' He left it there while he got to his feet.
There was neither pity in his eyes nor remorse. Only a dark gleam that seemed brighter as he wiped the blood from his hands onto his Orc shirt. He fondled the Ring a moment, through the folds of the fabric, then put his bare foot on Gollum's chest and wretched the blade out. He cleaned it on the corner of his Elven cloak and then kicked dirt onto the fallen creature. 'No more will you plague my dreams.' He breathed then turned his back to him, retrieved his pack from the rocks and started out again. Dawn was breaking over Orodruin and he was much too riled up to sleep.
Morning came and cast the world into lighter grays than before, and Sam hoped soon the sun would break through bright and strong and burn Gollum's corpse into a charred crisp. He had no regret for killing him nor for leaving him exposed to the elements for all time. He wished only he could have hurt him worse; death was too good for him. His hand subconsciously fell to his chest, over the Ring as he continued on. Frodo deserved better than just Gollum's death at his hands. And he found that even having killed him did not free the guilt and hate he still held for the creature. Killing Gollum had not brought Frodo back; nothing would. The going was light some time, for his blood still ran hot from the fury of the fight and carried him well. He did not ponder how close he had come to putting the Ring on back there, for the light of Galadriel had saved him. Still, the fact remained that he almost had, to save himself, and he had felt a change come over him for it.
He could not think of anything happy save for the squelch of blood as Sting tore through Gollum's belly at long last. His mind could not think of returning to the Shire to be happy ever again, for he had killed now; murdered in the name of Frodo, and he had born the Ring and lost his master. There was no happy world for him to return to; there was only the journey. His heart was heavy, for he knew that if he should succeed to the top, and cast the Ring into the flames that wrought it, he would just as likely cast himself in as a final effort. He knew there was a pretty lass back home he had once fancied, but he could not picture her face in his mind, nor call her name to his lips. There was no comfort in the Shire. There was no happy Garden back home, for the Sackville-Baggins surely had taken it by now. At any rate, he could never bring himself to garden there if Frodo was not there too.
He traveled this way, with his thoughts turning ever inwards and darker, and soon noon became dusk and he still had not stopped to eat. He forced himself to rest, and sat on a small rock, opening his pack and pulling out a wafer of lembas. It was daylight yet, but cold and dark, and despite the fight with Gollum, he felt neither tired nor weary. So he took a mouthful of water and pressed on, walking well into the night, no longer afraid of the dark now that he had slaughtered the one thing that he had feared. Orcs he would meet gladly now, and hew them down with glee, for his body was beyond pain, his mind beyond thought, and his burden all he could see.
He rested some four hours and when he awoke it was nearing noon. He ate a bit and took some water and set out. Mount Doom was looming larger and larger before him, and he knew he could reach it tonight if he tried hard enough. Still, he found he could hardly walk upright anymore, so heavy was his burden. After only two hours on the road he sank to his knees and threw off the pack. It was senseless to carry the things he had inside there any further: pots and pans and bits of useless Elven rope. So he took them out, and threw them aside. He had no regard for the things he had once found precious: his pans scattered on the rough earth, being dented and dinged as he threw them aside. The rope, given to him freely by the Elves, fell and uncoiled on the parched earth and still he rummaged.
He threw off the Orc helmet and tunic, for he would be an Orc no more. He discarded the salt and the heavy blanket he had brought all this way and rarely used. In the end, only the food was left, with the twin canteens nestled inside. The pack was deliciously lighter and Sam felt he could go on. He left the mess of discarded things behind, caring not who found them or what happened to them. He was going to his death, so all he needed was enough to get him there. He traveled on, and slowly the ground sloped before him, and as he rose night fell and the air became even more rank. Smoke filled his nostrils as it rained ash down from the gaping hole above, and on the foothills he rested, unable to go any further for the weight in his heart.
He curled into himself alone on the last night of his journey to Mount Doom, and thought of what it might have been like if Frodo had made it this far with him. Chances were they might have been curled up together right now, sleeping their last night together in the safety of each other's arms, but beyond that he could not pretend to guess. Sam breathed shallowly as he looked down over the slopes in the direction he had come, back to where, unseen, Osgiliath stood tall and dark, and somewhere inside were the remains of Frodo Baggins. Sam did not have much heart left anymore, for he was too drawn to the Ring and to his death to feel much beyond the weight and the stench of smoke, but thinking of Frodo's body remaining in that harsh land for all eternity touched him. It touched the pureness that remained deep in Sam, buried and hidden safely where the blackness of the Ring could not touch him.
'Oh, Mr. Frodo, it weren't supposed to be like this, I know it.' He lamented softly to himself, his voice cracked with disuse and parchment. 'Somewhere I went wrong,' he felt the tears streaking down his face, and found it surprising he had the moisture to spare to cry. 'I came along this mission to protect you, sir, not to see it through alone like this.' He did not wipe away his tears and they fell to his nose and his lips and dripped onto the cold hard earth. He lowered his eyes, looking at his knees and sighed. There was nothing more to it, nothing he could say or do that would ease his heart nor bring Frodo back from beyond. His eyes looked at his hand, and he realized he was gripping the Ring tightly, enough to make his knuckles shine white at the action, and he had not even noticed.
'So you have me, don't you?' He said quietly, addressing the Ring.
He found even though he had noticed his vice-like grip on the Ring, he would not let it go, for in this black world, it was all that was left to give him any sort of comfort. The Ring was smooth, and comforting in his palm, and he no longer cared that the Dark Lord controlled it. His master was dead, long since dead even, and cold, and he would never make breakfast for him again, or find his heart fluttering when he made him laugh. All his truths had been shattered, and if the Darkness was the only thing that remained true and solid anymore, he would embrace it, for he must have something to hold to. Sam was not afraid of death, but he had a job to do, and without taking strength from somewhere, even the Ring itself, morning would find him and he would not get up.
It was the rest of Middle-earth that Sam rose for the following morning. He was broken now, empty and violated, but he was not selfish. Not yet. That part of him had still been preserved, and he knew the Quest must be completed. He dragged himself onwards practically crawling at the end, gasping for air that grew thick with smoke and darkness. The mountain sloped upwards, and while Sam could not see the peak for the steepness of the slope and the plume of smoke above, his eyes caught what appeared to be a road beaten into the side of the mountain, and it was not far away. He set out for it, crawling along like an insect on the side of the mountain, pausing for five or ten minute breaks as he went and coughing all the while.
He came to the path and found it was made of rubble and ash packed together, yet it wound upwards of the mountain and so he could travel, pulling his cloak over his mouth as he staggered, barely crawling. He could not fathom why the road was here, nor did he even realize it was out of place to find it. Sam had stopped to rest, and he turned to look East, as if he were compelled to look towards the Dark Lord. Far off the shadows of Sauron hung; but torn by some gust of wind out of the world, or else moved by some great disquiet within, the mantling clouds swirled, and for a moment drew aside; and then he saw, rising black, blacker and darker than the vast shades amid which it stood, the cruel pinnacles and iron crown of the topmost tower of Barad-dûr. One moment only it stared out, by as from some great window immeasurably high there stabbed northward a flame of red, the flicker of a piercing Eye; and then the shadows were furled again and the terrible vision was removed. The Eye was not turned to him: it was gazing north to where the Captains of the West stood at bay, and thither all its malice was now bent, as the Power moved to strike its deadly blow; but Sam at that dreadful glimpse fell as one stricken mortally. His hand sought the chain about his neck.
The Ring bit into his palm as he gripped it. Faint, almost inaudibly he whimpered: 'Help me, sir. Help me, Mr. Frodo.' For he was taken by that glimpse of the Eye and his fingers found the cool of the Ring enticing. He shut his eyes tightly, and there behind his lids the dark Eye burned brighter and he cried out. 'Help me!' But the only one left to help him was himself and his right hand fumbled with his sword, drawing it out swiftly and he cut himself across the back of his left arm hard with it. The pain was nothing compared to the fierce desire in him to claim the Ring, but it stung enough to make him loose his grip, and he flung himself to the ground, weeping for his own weakness.
True tears did not come this time, though weep he did, but the blood came, and it stained the ash road black before Sam was able to move on. It was not far, and he abandoned his pack with his precious water and food, and he abandoned his cloak of Elven weave and he left Sting discarded behind him as he crawled up the path. His nails caked with dirt cracked as he dug them ever forward, almost dragging himself to the top of the slope, the Ring pulling him down, making him weaker and heavier with each fraction of an inch he took.
The road had been rent with destruction, and fires had spewed forth and destroyed much of it when Sauron's troops had been defeated at Pelennor Fields and the road had suffered from the fires that had spewed forth in his fury. Crags jutted up, vomited up from the furnaces of Mount Doom once long ago, and rents in the mountain, and Sam could barely crawl between them but he did, making the bend and struggling on. The sun was burning high overhead, and the air made him gape like a fish for breath, but still he crawled, slithering on his belly. Until, at long last, the ground leveled out and he found himself facing the mouth of a tunnel that spewed forth heat.
He looked up at it, and inside it rumbled from the fires within. Somehow he found the strength to stand, one hand holding tightly to the chain and the Ring it bore. For a moment he stood, then stepped inside, as if he found a sudden reserve of strength that welled up into him. It was dark inside, black enough not to see anything, but he did not reach for the Phial of Galadriel, for he knew it would not shine in this blackness, nor did he want to see that brilliance here.
He went forth; fear and depair washed off him and he knew them not. His hand undid the clasp of the necklace that he had worn for what seemed years and the Ring fell into his hand. It was no less heavy, but he felt he could now bear the weight. He walked the dark tunnel and saw the fires leaping from the Crack of Doom before he did. He knew where he was, and so he pressed on. The tunnel ended and the inside of the mountain was buried in flames that rose from what seemed the core of hell itself. A small outthrust of the mountain jutted from the rest of the walls and he continued on it, his hand tightly wrapped around the Ring, his eyes blazing red with the reflected fire.
He stood at the edge of the pass, at the very brink of the Crack of Doom, and he did not move. He was tall, erect, and cast into black silhouettes from the light beyond, but still as though he had been turned to stone.
He stood this way for a long time, staring down into the deep fires below. He had come to destroy the Ring, hadn't he? He had lost Frodo at the expense of this Ring, and with it all his joy and happiness. Middle-earth would fall and crumble should his errand fail, and yet, looking down into the sweltering fires below, he found he did not want to part with it. He opened his hand to look at it there, nestled in his palm, glittering with the firelight. It whispered to him:
All that you desire can be yours.
Sam looked at the Ring, his face an expression of emptiness. 'I want Mr. Frodo.' It was a simple statement, but it took all the will he had in him to say it. Still it was out, and he pressed on, pouring his desires into the Ring: 'I want him back, alive. Can you do that? Can you bring back Mr. Frodo? I want nothing else, but that.'
Yes. It whispered, curling its lies through Sam's mind. There are ways. Come, Samwise, come. All that you desire can be yours.
Sam's eyes closed as he felt his heart surge as if for the first time ever. Hope was gone within him now, but something else lived, and he completely gave himself over to it: 'I have come.' He breathed, and then opened his eyes, his voice suddenly clear and strong: 'But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!' And with that he set it upon his finger and vanished from mortal eyes.
Far away, as Samwise put on the Ring and claimed it for his own, even in Sammath Naur the very heart of his realm, the Power in Barad-dûr was shaken, and the Tower trembled from its foundations to its proud and bitter crown. The Dark Lord was suddenly aware of him, and his Eye piercing all shadows looked across the plain to the door that he had made; and the magnitude of his own folly was revealed to him in a blinding flash, and all the devices of his enemies were at last laid bare. Then his wraith blazed in consuming flame, but his fear rose like a vast black smoke to choke him. For he knew his deadly peril and the thread upon which his doom now hung.
From all his polices and webs of fear and treachery, from all his stratagems and wars his mind shook free; and throughout his realm a tremor ran, his slaves quailed, and his armies halted, and his captains suddenly steerless, bereft of will, wavered and despaired. For they were forgotten. The whole mind and purpose of the Power that wielded them was now bent with overwhelming force upon the Mountain. At his summons, wheeling with a rendering cry, in a last desperate race there flew, faster than the winds, the Nazgûl, the Ringwraiths, and with a storm of wings they hurtled southwards to Mount Doom.
Here ends Chapter One.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. Many passages through out this story, including the entire first half of the text, are transcribed directly from the books themselves. No plagiarism is intended of any sort. These passages all belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, and his estate.