Fallen Hope

He did not sense the evil that was approaching from behind. He only ran on, taking no heed to the fact Sam was not beside him. He just needed to get out of those tunnels and away, far away. Frodo could see his escape now, a flight of stairs and a tower with a light at the very top. An orc tower possibly, he thought, but did not care. He would rather face a horde of Orcs than that giant spider. Frodo turned for only a second to see if Sam was somewhere behind, but only leading him to his doom.

A sharp and searing pain hit him, so fast and hard that at first he felt nothing at all. He stumbled and began to fall but did not. Sting fell uselessly from his hand and clamored on the hard ground. Something had caught him and raised him from the ground, the sting going deeper into him until he thought it would break through. The sting slipped out with a sickening sound and Frodo fell to the ground. His sword lay to the side and it was close enough for Frodo to reach out and grab it, but he found he could not move. A throbbing hotness spread through his entire body, weakening his limbs and numbing them until he had no feeling. Tiny black dots danced before his eyes, growing larger and larger. He could not move, he could not breathe. He was helpless prey for this creature. A terrible realization came to Frodo’s numbing mind. He was dying and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

As Frodo’s vision began to fail, the last he saw between the many black dots and swirling mists was the creature picking him up and spinning him around and around. Cords wrapped him before the countless eyes came. Frodo’s mind fled away as great fangs were brought down.

******

On the dark and desolated plain of Gorgoroth, one lonely creature walked, bearing a burden he took up from his master. Samwise stumbled and fell, barely feeling the pain of the impact of the rocks. He began weeping anew, but he had no more tears to spare. Even though he managed to get that horrible spider away from Mr. Frodo, he had come too late. Sam could not get the image of that evil creature sticking its fangs into Frodo’s body, taking away precious life. Now Sam was left, all alone and possibly the last of the Fellowship, to walk on and carry out the task that had been set upon his master.

Sam struggled to his feet again and began his trek across Mordor towards the Mountain. His throat was dry and he had no water to quench it. Somewhere between the Orc Tower and the last small puddle of water, he had lost his water skin. His pack was gone, along with his beloved pans, all thrown down a hole somewhere. Breathing was difficult and painful from the fumes in the air. He couldn’t hear anything. Everything was blocked out by the Ring’s whispers. He’d stop telling it to ‘be quiet’ a while back, seeing as how it was no use. Blasted thing wouldn’t listen anyway. Sam stumbled again but regained his footing before he fell. “Come on, Samwise,” he muttered to himself. “Mr. Frodo is counting on you to finish this.” His voice was broken and it hurt his dry throat. He could do this. He must. Yet, even as he thought this, he had doubt. It was the Ring that was putting those doubtful thoughts in his mind, wasn’t it? Sam didn’t know. The whispers were so strong that he could barely hear himself think.

An hour went by, or so Sam thought. It might have been two hours or even a whole day. No Sun or Moon or star could break through the darkness. The Mountain was getting a bit closer but it still looked like a day’s march until he made it to the slopes, if he made it there. Sam stumbled again and fell onto the rocky surface. ‘Come on Samwise, nothing will get done just lying around here!’ But he didn’t get up. Tired and aching muscles screamed in protest when Sam tried, so he just lay there like one dead.

Sam lay there, exhausted but awake. He couldn’t see anything, not even the Shire. He couldn’t see his home or his old Gaffer or even Rose Cotton. Would he ever see it again? He wanted to see the beautiful gardens of Bag End and smell the air after a first rain. He wanted to see Frodo again, the way he once was before the Ring, and Merry and young Pippin. He wanted to drink a mug of ale at the Green Dragon and listen to Merry and Pippin singing drinking songs and help Frodo carry them back to Bag End. Sam wanted all of these, he wanted to see the Shire and the way life was before the Quest; even if it were only for a small second, he wanted to see it. But Sam couldn’t see any of these things. Wishing for them wouldn’t make them come, even in the state he was in.

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo. I’m afraid your Sam can’t do this alone. I’m sorry Gandalf, Lady Galadriel. I can’t be your Ringbearer.’ Sam thought.

Closing his eyes, Sam fell into a deep sleep and saw all of these things. On the plains of Gorgoroth, in Mordor, the last hope for Middle Earth perished, along with Samwise the Stouthearted.