Thanks to all who are reading this! I had fun writing it…I hope you will enjoy reading it.
Disclaimer: Of course, I do not own nor am I affiliated with any of the items, creatures, or characters referred to in this story. In no way am I affiliated with JRR Tolkien or New Line Cinema. This is rated for violence and medeival-type warfare.
With baited breath, the remnants of the Fellowship stared at the great tower as the eye above it lingered upon sights out of their range of vision. Even the orcs and uruk-hai were faltering, distracted for the moment. Trolls paused, clubs hanging stupidly at their sides. Gandalf, white hair blowing in the wind, mingling with the silken white of Shadowfax’s mane, seemed suspended in time with his sword raised, blue eyes wide with wonder and hope, but shadowed with a hint of doubt. It seemed that this was the moment…the moment that would decide the fate of Middle Earth. If two small hobbits could evade the Nazgul, the orcs, the uruk-hai, and Sauron himself, for just a short time longer, the future could be laid out longer than otherwise. To Gandalf, with the shrinking shapes of the Nazgul reflected in his hopeful gaze, it seemed so remote, the possibility that they could do this. To the two halflings his mind lingered upon, at the opening of Mount Doom, hope seemed a shroud that had been pulled back long ago.
“Mr. Frodo!” Sam cried, stumbling up the mountainside with Frodo trailing at his side, nearly crawling. “We’re almost there, Mr. Frodo! Come on! You can do it!” he cried, trying to encourage his faltering master, but with little courage in his own voice.
“No, Sam,” gasped Frodo, falling to the rocky ground, dark curls plastered to his forehead with sweat.
“Mr. Frodo, you must come! That Gollum creature, we can’t throw him off again! Mr. Frodo, sir, if we don’t get there this time, we never will,” Sam replied, hot tears trickling down his face, voice trailing off quietly at the end of his sentence. Frodo shook his head, but just barely, not even opening his eyes.
“I can’t, Sam,” he said, almost wonderingly.
“What?”
“I can’t. I can’t move another inch up this mountain. I simply cannot. I’m sorry, Sam,” he whispered. Resigning himself with little difficulty, Sam flopped down beside his master.
“I know, Mr. Frodo. I can’t either. Every time I take a step an’ my toes are chafed by another hot stone, I think of the cool thrill of the Shire grass on them instead. And it doesn’t help none, Mr. Frodo, sir. I thought it might, but all it does is make it harder. In every wisp of smoke, I can see Rosie Cotton dancin’, or Merry an’ Pippin singin’ or…it’s awful, Mr. Frodo, I can see my ol’ Gaffer just starin’ at me, like I ought to have tried harder or somethin’.” Now tears were coursing down his face and his voice was more of a wail. “I never thought I’d say it, Mr. Frodo, sir, but my hope has failed,” he cried, slumping forward, face in his hands. Frodo dragged himself up to a sitting position, and laid his weak hand upon his friends shoulder.
“You couldn’t have tried any harder, Sam, you couldn’t have. You did all you could. It is I who have kept us from our goal. I who am weak, Sam, not you. If your Gaffer thinks you didn’t try hard enough, then he’s the one who hasn’t, for he hasn’t seen what you have inside of you Sam,” said Frodo, resting his weary head on Sam’s seemingly stout shoulder. He closed his eyes, murmuring now. “Tell me a story, Sam, remind me of the Shire. I can’t recall…” he said, his voice trailing off pitifully. Sam closed his bloodshot eyes, and began.
“Remember the day you and I went to our first fair, or at least the first I can recall? We were what, nearly ten, I should say, and remember how our hearts were so full with laughter? Not like today, Mr. Frodo, not like today…but, there were the banners, an’ everyone was dancin’, an’–”
“Not that story, Sam, not that one. Tell me about the trees, and the grass, and the birds…”
“You used to love that ’bout the Shire, Mr. Frodo, you did…I can remember traipsing about the woods, with all the moss covered trees, with their leaves swaying and the dappled sunlight on our heads, an’ the birds all singing in the branches above us. Oh, Mr. Frodo, to feel the soft grass between my toes again, to watch the sun set on those green hills…but no, here we are, in a place exactly the opposite. All hotness, rocks, no grass, no sun, nothin’ worth livin’ for, Mr. Frodo…nothing at all…” his voice trailed off along with his thoughts, and Frodo sighed, eyes still closed, but a tiny smile played on his parched lips.
“I do believe, Sam, if we had ever returned to the Shire, you should have become the best storyteller there ever was in all of Hobbiton.” He smiled again, and his eyelids fluttered, long lashes caked with black dust. Sam looked sadly down at his master.
“But now there’s no hope, Frodo, no hope at all,” he said, voice cracking. As he looked at the weak and weary hobbit, he noticed that Frodo was fingering the golden ring, staring at it idly. “Mr. Frodo! You shouldn’t have that thing out here!” he cried, pulling back so that Frodo had to put his arm out so that he would not fall over.
“Does it matter, Sam?” he inquired in a rather queer and faint voice. “There is no hope for us. We will not destroy the ring, and once we are dead, it will only fall into the Dark Lord’s hands anyhow,” he murmured, staring raptly at the golden circle in his palm.
“No, Mr. Frodo! We can’t just give it to him! We have to hide it, or…or something!” Sam cried, rashly beginning to tear at the rocks with his fingers, digging a small hole. “Come, Mr. Frodo, put it in the hole! Hide the ring!” he said to Frodo, who stared at his, a curious expression on his face.
“No, Sam, I won’t, He held the ring between his thumb and forefinger, and moved the index finger of his other hand close to it. With a cry, Sam leapt towards him and knocked him to the ground. Frodo cried out as the ring was flung from his grasp, and began to roll down the mountain, gathering speed as it went. “NO!” Frodo screamed, scrabbling at the loose rocks and starting to slide down the mountain after the Ring. Sam grabbed at him, but missed, and nearly lost his balance. Frodo had gained his feet, and was sprinting down the mountain, closer and closer to losing control every second. Suddenly, with a cry, he had fallen face forward and was tumbling head over heels down the mountain, yelling in pain. With a sickening thud, he hit a large boulder and stopped his descent, unmoving. Sam yelled to him, but, without an answer, dashed down the mountain to him, somehow managing to keep his balance. He knelt beside his master, shaking him and sobbing as Frodo did not stir. The Ring was lost, the Ringbearer was lost, hope was lost…Middle Earth was lost.
A horrible scream arose from the foul creatures of Sauron’s command as the eye atop the tower wheeled and seemed to burn more brightly than ever. With a new vengeance, the orcs and uruk-hai flung themselves at the men in their midst, who fought valiantly but without hope. Frodo had failed in his quest, and Sam with him. They had not destroyed the Ring, and it would soon be in the hands of the only one who could wield it to the destruction of all of Middle Earth–Sauron.