Scarcely. Scarcely could he draw breath now, and his throat burned with
the wanting of the thin air that seemed caught, caught even as he was,
in befouled webs.
Sam. Where was Sam? He should
be here, shouldn’t he, be here by his
side, in all this darkness, and they should end together, if end they
must…..
With cold clarity, he remembers: he had sent Sam home.
No! No, he never had done so. Why? Why should he, why would he do such a thing?
Madness, this was madness.
Unbidden, his mind slowly draws forth a picture. A hobbit, is it? No,
wait. Tangled hair hides this visage. No hobbit, then, though he is
minded that the Stoors were oft spoken of as being bearded like Men.
Gollum, Smeagol that was, is the oldest Stoor he might know, and he
certainly has no hair of mention, and certainly none upon his face.
A man, then, and his mind searches wildly for a name. He must know this
Man, and this man must know where Sam has gone.
PJ
Now, that was merely silly. That was the stuff that he had for
luncheon, betimes, in places where there still was luncheon…in places
where he was not the main bill
of fare for said meal…..
What in the Four Farthings was he thinking? WHO was PJ, and why did he
have a sudden urge to drink a litre entire of milk?
And Frodo knew, of a sudden, that this Man, this PJ person, was the
source of all that was currently wrong in his world.
HE was the one who’d sent Sam home…..the one who’d forced an unwilling
Ring-bearer towards a too-soon ending at Osgiliath…..the one who’d sent
an innocent halfling to face a Lady and her Mirror alone…..
Next, Frodo supposed, as he dangled within the cords of the web, next
he’d no doubt be called upon to throw *himself*(and not the stupid
Ring, which was beginning to pain him something awful) from the
precipice of the Sammath Naur. IF, that is, he could manage to come
that far.
But, really, his mind argued, how likely was that? No, far more
likely he would end here, and the world with him. Still, something in
the back of his mind would not cease, something struggled, still,
against the darkness.
Somewhen, a voice echoed in the blankness that slowly consumed him……
“Good! That was……good. Let’s just try it one……more……..”
His own scream ran through the cavern, slicing through his confusion as
swiftly as the blade drew through the confining web….
Run. He must run. And towards the light, the light that poured through
a half-seen opening at the end of the tunnel.
Oh. Was he dreaming, lost again, or was this blessedly real? For Sam
was at his back, running swift behind him, as he should have been. Out
of sheer relief, Frodo stopped, turned. He felt dazed, but as long as
Sam was here, then all was
right.
Sam’s face crinkled with concern.
“Mr. Frodo?”
“Sam! It is you! For a moment, I – well, I thought……”
“Thought what, master?”
Frodo searched for words, but found none.
“Never mind. As long as you are here, that’s all…..dear, Sam….as long
as you are with me…..”
Sam smiled, took his hand as if to hold him from something that might
do him harm.
“Mr. Frodo, I’m glad to be with you, sir, but there’s something as
wants saying, before you go gettin’ all glad about that door-way there
being filled with light and all…..”
Frodo wondered what else there could possibly be, at this point, which
might further serve to ruin his day.
“Sam?”
Sam’s hold on him now included a strong hand wrapped about Frodo’s arm,
a hand steadying enough to hold Frodo motionless.
“That light there…..”
Frodo looked at him in puzzlement.
“that light, now, sir. It ain’t the sun, Mr. Frodo……”
Frodo smiled, held the star-glass aloft….
“No, sir, nor the light from a twin of your own blessed glass, more’s
the pity…..”
A rush of dank-hot air ran through the tunnel, a horn, (very much like
that of the late Captain of Gondors’), sounded.
Frodo stood transfixed.
“whaaaaaaa………………………….?”
Sam gently helped him up.
“My old gaffer has a saying, Mr. Frodo: soonest said, soonest mended.
I’ve been talkin’ (beggin’ your pardon) rings around the point, but now
we’ve come to it: that light there, sir, it ain’t the sun, nor yet a
star…….”
(and Samwise, despite his declaration of getting to the point, seemed
unable to actually *find* it…..….)
Something inside Frodo broke then, and he roughly shoved Sam against
the wall, tripping over a length of metal laid upon the dark floor as
he did so. His internal counter chalked this one as
one-hundred-forty-four. A gross. He’d remember this, if ever he again
saw Gandalf.
He bit his words off with great, long-suffering precision.
“What……..is………..it,…………Sam?”
Sam looked about wildly, took a calming breath.
“Bless you, sir, it’s……
an……..
on-coming……..
train……”
The End
Of
The
Line
So to speak.
