Frodo sat head against his knees. He was finally
resting; it was dawn and Gollum paused at the base of the stairs. Sam
had
looked upon the ascent and knew that a rest would be needed before it
was
attempted. “Hoy Gollum”, he had said, “We must rest now.”
Sam looked at his master sitting lifeless against
the rock wall. His head bent, dragged down by the weight of his burden.
The closer they got, Sam realized, the more Frodo was tormented, the
insistence
of the ring drove into him. His master spoke seldom and when he did it
was
in vague distant muttering. The moments of lucidness had grown few.
Inside Frodo’s mind he was again a spectator. Only Sam’s will kept him
on his appointed path at times. When he was exhausted
it was his servant who was able to pull him forth from his own mind and
spur
him on. He could see the ring and the great eye searching for him, all
the
time. It was a searing pain behind his eyes and it was a horrible
knowledge
that had become a dreadful truth. The Quest would claim his life, he
did
not know how or when; but he would not survive. How could he and why
should
he go on? The dark coercing of the rings dreadful voice began. The
exhaustion
fed the rings power over him and he lacked the energy to deny. It must
be
truth, it pounded into him; you will not survive.
Frodo tried not to despair; after all he never
expected to live through to the end. Yet he wanted to survive; at least
until the quest laid upon him was fulfilled. He had no hope left
however;
and each day was a weary exercise in continuing. He was not alive now,
not
by any standard he had ever heard or seen. He had passed over to a
shadow
world more than once. He could no longer see or remember the simple
things
from his life in the Shire. All was black and white; all color had been
removed. It was as if the darkness spewed from the mountain of fire had
infiltrated his mind. He remembered beauty and love existed; yet he
could
neither see nor feel it. He slept fitfully, dreaming of nothing and
everything,
the ring and the eye…
Sam watched him as he dozed fitfully, never truly
resting. His hands twitched spastically at his sides. Drifting
inevitably
to the ring beneath his shirt; then down again to rest on the ground. A
bazaar competition for the soul of his master was taking place. He
could
see it every moment; asleep or awake Frodo was being tortured. Sam had
to
turn away at times to hide his grief from Frodo. His master bore
enough;
he must keep hope alive for him. He hid well the horror he felt when he
looked at his beloved master; when he looked and saw naught but a shell
of
the vibrant being he was. The anguish Sam felt was a grief; a grief
akin
to the loss of a loved one. This was worse; he knew he was losing him
and
yet he was powerless to stop the slow decay of his “Frodo’s” bright
spirit. Only when Frodo slept did he allow himself the luxury of tears
for the loss
he felt. But he knew somehow Frodo would never be the same, or himself.
Like as not neither would survive, Sam knew this
it was the thing he had unwittingly accepted. The “something he had to
see
through to the end”. Yet even knowing as if it were truth and a fact.
He
would not change his course. If Frodo was to…
He could not quite admit it in words; his brave
hobbit spirit would not yet allow it. Where there is life there is hope
he thought. And as far as he could tell they were both still alive.
The hours wore away and again it was time to move
onward. Onward to a hopeless goal, yet onward they would go until they
could
go no further. Sam roused Frodo for another day, just as he would any
bright
and fair morning in the Shire. “Rise and Shine Mr. Frodo”!
For the briefest of moments Frodo was home. The
weight forgotten his cares erased; the simple greeting had transported
him. It was a moment that did more to restore his soul than the hours
of restless
sleep. “Good morning Sam is it breakfast already”? Frodo answered in
his
waking moment.
Sam was rewarded for his effort Frodo had returned;
it was a fleeting thing and it was a blessed moment. The torment and
anguish
gone from his face the past months of worry erased. Sam savored the
moment
for even as he saw it, the spark faded as if there was not enough left
to
shine through. The glimpse restored him for the day; yet its brief
flash
and disappearance steeled him for a pain he could not imagine and could
not
bear.
The Quest would claim his Master's life…
The black
stench dripped from Sam’s arms. He was covered in the bubbling ooze as
he
pierced the vile creature. The smell almost made him swoon yet he had
kept
his wits; now the creature had gone. She left a noisome trail behind
marking
her retreat and posing a riddle to those who would come later.
As he turned back toward his fallen Master he stumbled. Not from the
effort he had put forth but from the horrid reality that met
his eyes. Sam paused and swayed on his feet as he tried to steady
himself,
hands on his knees. The hot bile rose in his throat and he thought he
would
lose the battle. “Frodo!” he choked from his raw throat, then more
quietly,
“Frodo”…
He fell to his knees, mindless of the state of
his own body. He looked upon his master stricken. It can’t be his mind
reeled over and over. Images of Frodo flashed before his eyes, Frodo as
he was in BagEnd when he was adopted. Frodo at his coming of age his
smiling
face and his amused smirk at Bilbo’s “surprise”. Even this last bit of
time
with him was filled with snatches of him; his quiet strength and ever
present
calming countenance. Just moments before the ruthless attack his beauty
shown forth in the elven light of Earendil. His eyes had blazed a fury
in
them Sam had not seen before. It was the last image before this one.
It was an image he had seen before and now it returned
to him. Frodo asleep under a steep cliff face, he understood now; not
sleeping
Frodo was…
NO! The primal scream pierced the brooding silence
of the dark land. The scream released him and he stood shakily;
“Master,
dear master,” he said but Frodo did not speak. “Master, dear
master!”…Sam
listened in vain. He cut the cords that bound him and listened and
felt;
no breath stirred in his limp body. He tried all that he knew to rouse
him
and yet only silence could be heard around him. Frodo! Mr. Frodo he
called
his voice strangled by tears. “Don’t leave me here all alone! Don’t go
where
I can’t follow!” Wake up, oh wake up please master…please.
The anger took him then and if any watched they
would have felt fear and sorrow. The blind rage that was on him was
born
of grief and doubt and indecision.
He fell back to his side and lifted him gently
in his arms. He was heavy and lifeless, his arms hung limply to the
ground. Sam pulled his master to him and his head lolled back and Sam
watched as
his mouth parted slackly. He held him securely supported by his strong
arms
head now pulled close to his chest and Sam wept freely over the body of
his
beloved master and friend. It could not be true, what would he do and
how
could he do anything? His heart was pierced, a black despair came over
him
and he collapsed over his fallen master.
The Quest had claimed his life.
