Aragorn got there first, he was closer, his whispered words of horror were enough to put dread into their hearts. “Oh no . . .”

Sam knew before the ranger had even turned his master onto his back that it was all over. The tears were already spilling over as he touched the mithril shirt beneath Frodo’s clothing. It should have saved him, but had ridden up under his cloth shirt, like a velvet skirt under a long coat. Below it, Frodos blood soaked everything. Sam sobbed. “He’s dead . . .”

Legolas lifted his head. He could hear them coming. “Aragorn!”

“Run!” Gandalf warned.

Aragorn did not want to leave, but Legolas was pulling him away. Sindarin words carried to his ears, just as Legolas pushed Merry and Pippin, shocked into a stupor before him. Sam was bent over the body of the ring bearer. There would be nothing for it but to carry Sam. Without another thought, Aragorn did just that.

Boromir stood like a statue over the body of the one he had come to kill. He could not deny it, any more than he could leave him behind now. He had become fond of the little ones, and Frodo was no exception. He turned at the sound of approaching orcs, and knew what he should do.

“I will not leave you here to become food for orcs, little one.” And with that, he took out his spare cloak and wrapped him. Only then did he run.

Boromir adjusted his pack, but did not complain. His heart was too heavy to form any words until Aragorn had ordered them up onto their feet. “Given them a moment for pity’s sake.”

“By nightfall, these hills will be swarming with orcs. We must reach the safety of Lothlórien.”

Gimli looked up at Legolas, both of them so close to tears. It was no small wonder that their faces where still dry. The dwarf felt sorry for the elf then. He couldn’t even open his mouth to say a prayer for Gandalf. He squeezed the elf’s hand, it was all he could reach after all, and smiled a little. “You’re not alone, lad,” he said.

Legolas’ face crumpled with an effort not to give in to the grief.

“Legolas, get them up,” Aragorn called again.

Legolas snapped from his overwhelming desire to lay down and succumb to his pain and gazed at Gimli with his huge grey-green eyes. “Help me,” he whispered and was rewarded by the smallest of nods.

Gimli gave the elf’s hand another squeeze and they each took a hobbit. Merry and Pippin slowly rose, empty and wet-faced. They followed not knowing what else to do, they had no desire to remain near the place where they had lost Gandalf and Frodo. Who would? But why should they go on?

It would not take the orcs long to repair the bridge, hours perhaps, and the seven remaining walkers began to run. Lorien was a day’s journey, two if you were walking, but the trees came up faster and more welcoming than they had expected.

Nonetheless, Gimli was wary, and he had good reason to be. Boromir spoke little, if anything at all, caught in his own inner downward spiral or anger and pain. Not until they stood before the archers of the Galadhrim did his resolve for what he had done almost come undone.

“Where is the Ring-Bearer,” the tall march warden asked, his large eyes boring holes right into his own.

“We lost Frodo in Moria,” Legolas replied. “Gandalf also,” he added, his voice coming as a whisper alone.

Haldir clasped his shoulder gently, knowing it was all that was holding this wood elf together, that and the dwarf’s hand clasped in his own. “Come up into the flets and rest. You have travelled far enough for one day. Legolas, take heart, my kin, not all is lost. Your quest still has the ring.”

Legolas looked up at Haldir in surprise. “It does?”

Haldir regarded him gently. “I suspected he had not told any of you.”

Legolas’ eyes whirled to Boromir. The man could not speak Quenya, but by the guilty look on his face, it was obvious to Legolas that he knew they were discussing him. Legolas bit down on his rage, there was not the time to battle the man and take back the ring. Galadriel would do it. She was more powerful than any elf in Middle Earth.

It was a horrifying night, even within the borders of Lorien. Sleep was haunted by the last cries of their dead. Even as exhausted as they were, it was good to be up again at dawn. Walking kept the hurt at bay, it was something else to think about.

Haldir noted that as they walked, elf and the dwarf never let go of each other, and the large-build man stumbled along on his own path of agony so keen it cut into him like a knife. “Stop. Remove their blindfolds. They have suffered enough. If the Lady Galadriel asks, it is I who ordered it.”

Entrance into the lady’s presence was immediate, unlike most visitors. She was stunningly beautiful and Gimli gasped in awe. Legolas looked down at him and smiled.

“Your fellowship stands on a knife edge, but hope remains,” she told them.

“How can there be hope?” Aragorn asked. “We have lost Gandalf, but worse, we lost Frodo. We cannot go on without him.”

“You still have the ring,” Galadriel reasoned softly. “Was it not the ring that drove the quest to bring about its destruction?”

Legolas turned to Boromir. “It is time you made clear your conscience, man of Gondor.”

The faces of the fellowship search Boromir out, as Galadriel’s words in his mind broke him. Finally his tears fell. “I could not leave him there,” he told them.

“What are you talking about?” Merry asked.

“Understand, my father sent me to return to Minas Tirith with the ring, by any means. But I could not do it.” He lowered his pack reverently to the floor of the flet and opened it. There lay Frodo, having been carried with care upon his back. “I could no more leave him there for orcs to desecrate than I could my own brother. I carried him here, looking for a place of safety where his body could rest in peace. Do with me what you will,” he added defiantly. “But I stand by my actions, without remorse.”

The remaining members of the fellowship were stunned. They had all doubted him, all heard his half-veiled threats, and yet here he was openly weeping over the body of one he would sooner kill than look upon.

Aragorn reached out and cupped the cheek of the hobbit that was no larger than a small child. His clothing was open and the edge of his mithril shirt glinted in the light that was her Lady. “Where is the ring?” he ground out. His fingers smoothed over the pockets of the velour waistcoat. They were empty. He suddenly shook with anger and his voice grew hard. “The ring, Boromir?”

“I did not take the ring,” Boromir sobbed. “My only thought was to save Frodo’s body from being desecrated. Perhaps it fell from him as I carried him.”

Legolas’ face twisted with rage and went for his blade. “You lie!” Celeborn and Galadriel both shrank back at the thought of blood being spilt in their own home, but this war of the ring was not theirs to fight.

“Wait!” cried a small voice.

Hands froze as eyes moved to Samwise.

“Leave him alone!” he cried out again. “We’re a fellowship aren’t we? We’re supposed to trust each other. Boromir carried my Frodo when everyone else deserted him, leaving him to the orcs.”

Aragorn sighed. “We had no choice, Sam.”

“I know that. I’m not an idiot. Frodo said I’m not, and I believe him.” He fished into his pocket and drew out the ring. “I took the ring. And I intend to carry it to Mordor and finish what Frodo started. If you’re coming with me, fine. If you’re not, then you better stay here where I can’t hear you squabbling like little lads in a school yard no more.” The four big folk exchanged glances, but said nothing as they conceded the point. “The Lady of the Woods is right,” Sam continued. “Our fellowship stands on a knife edge, and she’s more right than she realises. I’ve seen it, always going for your daggers every time the other so much as breathes out of turn. Well, that’s not what Gandalf wanted, and it’s not what my Frodo wanted. So you can all stay here and fight to the death for all I care, ‘coz I’m going to Mordor, alone if need be.”

Sam stood, out of breath and ready to curl up in a ball. It was more than he had ever said in his life, except to his beloved plants and the ponies from the farms. He did not expect any comfort, but it came nonetheless. Aragorn held the hobbit to him and sighed. “I am sorry, Sam. Fighting or not, I made my oath and I shall not draw back from it.”

“My bow is still the ring-bearers,” Legolas put in.

“As is my axe,” Gimli added.

Boromir, although motionless, was drawing away from them. A delicate hand rested on his arm and he lifted his eyes to find grey-green ones gazing at him, darkened by pain. “Forgive me. I was wrong to doubt you,” Legolas said.

“You were not wrong,” Boromir admitted. “At many a turn I have yearned to take it. And the closer we are to Mordor the more it tasks me. But I gave my oath to see its destruction, and that is what I will do. But I will need your help, fair elf, for alone my heart would fail me.”

Legolas’ hand gripped him, offering strength. “I shall be by your side, should you need it.”

Frodo’s memorial was not marked by song from the elves, their silence was deafening. Although they had faith in Sam, there was something less than certain about the future without Frodo. Sam caught them talking in Quenya, sending furtive glances in his direction many times, but no one spoke directly to him.

The body of the hobbit lay in state. His kin and servant weeping softly. If it had not been for so many elves about, Sam would have crept away alone, but he did not know the way. He knew he should have been content to wait for the others, and for boats and supplies to be procured, but he could not wait.

Later that night Sam slipped away and it was some length of time before a figure appeared to his right. Startled he gazed up and up into the face of Haldir. “What are you doing here?”

Haldir regarded him quizzically. “I live here, hobbit of the shire. What are you doing here?”

“I’m on my way to Mordor, if it’s all the same.” Sam did not trust elves, especially this one, although he had tried to for Frodo’s sake.

“You will make better time if you walk in a straight line,” Haldir replied. “You have been walking in a circle for the past hour.”

Sam looked about him and did not see anything, but trees. “You can’t know that. All these trees look the same.”

“Of course they do,” Haldir replied. “I have counted five times your passing this very tree.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “How can you be sure I have passed this way before?” he asked.

Haldir held out a small carved wooden box. “This was at the foot on my tree.”

Sam’s eyes flew wide. “My seasoning box. Well, bless me if I must have dropped it.” He took it and set it back into his pocket. “Thank you, kindly, Master Elf, sir. This is the best salt in all the Shire, see. I was saving it for a roast dinner I planned for Mr. Fro . . .” Sam’s voice trailed off and there was a long silence between them.

“My talan is above us,” Haldir said. “Would you care for something to eat? I promise not to hinder you further, but no hobbit should travel on an empty stomach.”

That made sense to Sam, and now that he thought about it he was hungry. It came from walking around in circles for who knew how long, he silently supposed. He followed the elf up into the tree, but did not look down as Haldir did when pulling the ladder up behind them. Haldir gracefully lowered himself to the floor of the talan, which, now that Sam looked up, had a roof over it. Haldir offered him some yellow triangle things, which seemed to be a cross between pastry and sponge cake.

“This is coimas, in the tongue of Legolas' people it is called lembas. I made it myself.”

“Elf men like cooking?” Sam asked in surprise. “I thought it was a peculiar trait of mine. Where I come from only lasses cook. I get teased something awful by the lasses.”

Haldir regarded him with his large dark eyes. “I am not a male, if that is what you mean,” he replied.

“You’re not?”

“Male elves are very rare. Gender is something reserved for the unborn and those who are peredhil.”

“Half-elven,” Sam realised. “I didn’t know that.” He took the lembas and bit into its soft almost spongy texture and chewed it slowly. “Not bad,” he praised. “Your wife is a lucky lass . . .or whatever you call each other.”

Haldir suddenly chuckled softly, although there was no smile to soften his harsh visage. “I have no mate. I cook only for myself.”

“Don’t you ever get lonely?”

“I have my brothers,” Haldir replied.

“Well, what about someone to hold while you sleep?” Sam said. “You can’t do that with a brother . . .it wouldn’t be right,” he added blushing slightly.

“Ah, you mean lovemaking. Elves have such urges, but I have never felt them. I am content to do as the Lady wishes and guard the borders.” Haldir poured a measure of a rich orange-red wine into two drinking vessels, and passed one to Samwise. “How about you, Samwise of the Shire? Do you have a mate?”

“No. I am still young, only been counted among grown-ups for about a year.” He smiled wistfully. “There was someone I was interested in, but I’m kind of shy, see. So I suppose they’ll never know what I’m thinking or feeling.”

“You may have to change that,” Haldir told him. “I know from watching my brothers, that another will not always wait for the question to be asked.”

“I reckon it’s already too late,” Sam said sadly and drank from the tumbler. Suddenly he sucked in a breath through his teeth as the liquid sank hot and strong down his throat. “My, that has a kick to it, so it does,” he said, huskily.

“A kick?”

“It’s a lot stronger than the ale I’m used to drinking, right enough, but it’s very tasty, all the same,” he said.

Haldir bowed his head. “Thank you. I brewed it myself from the fruits of the mallorn trees.” He regarded Sam with interest as he ate. “You are missing Frodo,” he noted.

Sam sank into the cushion he was sitting on. “Don’t rightly know how to live without him, if you know what I mean.”

“You and he were in love?”

“We were very close,” Sam agreed sadly.

“Frodo would have become your mate, if you had spoken of this to him,” Haldir supposed.

Sam looked up. “No, you got it all wrong, Mr. Haldir. I’m in love with Rosie Cotton. Frodo is-was my master, I worked for him. I loved him true enough, but not like that. I mean . . .that’s not seemly, for hobbits anyway.”

“Frodo was periannath, a Halfling,” Haldir reminded him. “Did he not tell you that?”

“I know he was half hobbit, yes,” Sam replied. “He said it was the reason he had kept the ring so long and didn’t get any ideas about . . .you know, evil things. He said it kept him safe from its lies.”

“And now you are afraid to go on because you are not Halfling,” Haldir realised. “But you would go on alone regardless.”

Sam looked guilty. “I would have gone on alone,” he admitted. “But not for some selfish pride, I don’t want no glory, or nothing. Just to finish what Frodo felt so strongly was the right thing to do. Nothing wrong in that.”

“No, as long as you are with the others. They believe in the same thing,” Haldir replied.

Sam sighed. “They don’t need me,” he reasoned. “They each have their own lives to live and their own ideas about what should happen next, and I don’t know what to do except leave them all behind and go on alone. I can’t take their arguing, not like he could. And this ring here, whispering non-stop, it gets too much.”

“It speaks to you?” Haldir asked, suddenly alert.

“Well, not so much speaks as whispers, a constant wall of noise. If I can hear it people around me must be able too.”

Haldir’s eyes flicked to the hobbit’s shirt for a moment and forced himself to hide a squirm. “It is within elf hearing range,” he agreed. “You must understand, my friend, the Fellowship needs you as much as you need the fellowship.”

Sam gazed at him intently. “What could they need me for?”

“You are the ring-bearer, Samwise. Without the ring-bearer, the Fellowship has no purpose,” Haldir responded. “You have given them hope for something better, a reason to look ahead to a day when there can be peace in Middle Earth. They gave their oaths to protect you and the Ring. Leaving them behind is not only ungrateful and disrespectful to their oath, but unwise and foolhardy.”

Sam thought about it long and hard. “So I should go back to their squabbling?” he asked.

Haldir did not smile, he rarely if ever smiled, but cocked his head to one side in what was probably his version of amusement, but the reason for his joy was unclear. “That will not last,” he said. “I urge you to consider them before yourself. Think of what their feelings would be if they woke to find you gone, with no word. At the very least discuss with them your fears. There is much you can learn from each other.”

“What can we learn from each other?”

“That there is still a journey worth taking; that Frodo lives on in your memory; that in a way he goes with you; that even a dwarf as a companion can have its rewards,” Haldir suggested.

Sam slowly nodded. “Alright, I will,” he determined. “You’ve given me much to think about, Mr. Haldir, and I thank you.”

Haldir's eyes glowed warmly and he stood. “Did you enjoy our repast?”

“I certainly did, sir,” Sam said, wobbling slightly, and wondering for a second why the tree had become so unstable. “A pity we couldn’t take some of that wine with us. It would loosen up that sour man from Gondor, right enough.”

Haldir chuckled softly. He followed Samwise to the foot of the ladder and said goodnight before beginning his climb back up to the talan to sleep.

“Mr. Haldir, which way is it back to the Fellowship?”

Haldir looked down at him and smiled, indicating with a hand across the grove. Sam looked and there stood Legolas, where he had come from and when he had arrived he had no idea.

“Thank you,” Sam called up. “I hope we get to meet again some time.” He wobbled slightly as he wove between the trees toward the elf of Mirkwood.

Legolas lifted a brow as he observed him approach. “Are you alright, my friend?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Sam said and hiccupped. “If you get a chance, Mr Legolas, you’ll avail yourself of a pint of Haldir’s finest, hic! Not a brew to be missed.”

Legolas watched him pass by and grinned. “Mallorn wine,” he realised. “A heady combination of three fermented fruits and a short stature.”

“Ve-hic-ry nice, too,” Sam replied. “How di-hic-d you know where I was?”

“I followed you,” Legolas admitted, expecting a rebuff, but all he got was another hiccup.

Legolas and Sam return to the tents to find the Fellowship in pandemonium. Aragorn was standing looking on in abject disbelief at the scene before him.

"What has happened?" Legolas asked.

"I do not know," Aragorn replied. "I have just returned from the Lady Galadriel, to find Boromir singing."

"Singing?" Merry scoffed. "He's more drunk than Oto Bulger was at Bilbo's party."

Boromir swivelled his head, so much so that he almost toppled onto his butt, the only thing stopping him was a dwarf, who looked decidedly like he wished to be anywhere else, but here, doing anything else but holding the man on his feet.

"I'll hav' yoo know," Boromir slurred. "I’m not so drink as you thunk I am!”

Legolas gazed from him to the object in the man's hands. "Is that wine all gone?"

Boromir lifted his chin proudly, or rather tried to. "It is. I always drain the glasss."

Legolas regarded him evenly. "Boromir, that is a pitcher, not a glass."

Boromir stood for a moment longer before he sagged and passed out. Gimli scooted out from under him before he could be crushed beneath the large-built man. The dwarf looked down at him and huffed a sigh.

"Men do not know how to hold their liquor," he stated, to which Sam hiccupped in response. Gimli looked at him in surprise, and turned to legolas. "Is it customary for elves to get their guests drunk?"

Legolas considered this for less than a second. "It is better than locking them up in the dungeons."

Gimli tilted his head, not altogether free of the wines grasp himself. "Fair 'nuff, Princeling. Though an elven lad chained against the wall is not a bad idea." His eyes roamed Legolas' form.

Legolas opened his mouth, but wisely shut it again, his expression priceless.

Merry leaned closer to his cousin beside him and said softly, "Didn't think elves blushed, Pip. Did you?"

Pip, busily munching on a sausage, simply gazed at the other members of the fellowship in sweet childhood innocence. "How long will Boromir be drunk for?" he asked.

"As long as . . .errr . . ." Legolas stumbled, trying to collect himself from the look on the dwarf's face. "As long as it does . . ." he replied. "Unless we can find some beans of the kahve plant, he will be out cold for a week."

"It does not grow in Lorien," Aragorn stated.

"He will be out cold for a week," Legolas put in, without missing a beat.

"Leave him to sleep it off," Aragorn suggested. "He may surprise us and regain consciousness in the morning." He then noticed Sam's slight wobble. "You as well?"

Sam's round eyes lifted upward to his face, approximately. "I only had one glass . . .a real glass," he emphasised. He wandered over to his bed and lay down. "It's good stuff, but I know my limit," he murmured, not noticing the smirk that went between Aragorn and Legolas. An elven glass was a pint tankard to a hobbit.

In truth, seeing Boromir in such a state has sobered Sam up sharpish, but stumbling over the man's feet had lost him kudos for his quick recovery.

It was many hours before Sam could sleep and spent the time thinking back over the past few days. The lament for Gandalf still continued long into the night, but for Frodo there was not one word sung. Angry and hurt, he sat sullenly on his bed for hours, but his feelings were not directed at the elves. He was angry at himself.

He had readily come up with a little ditty for Gandalf. The prose hardly did the old wizard justice, and he had said so. What irked him more was the lack of anything he could find to say for his Frodo. He had known Frodo since he moved to Bag Shot Row at the age of five.

Sam sighed. All those years of memories and all he could do was sigh, unable to speak passed the loss. Aragorn had thumped his pillow, Sam had ripped his to shreds. Why had he come back at all? Everyone was asleep. He had to concede Haldir’s point, though. Alone, he had no chance.

He looked up as a shimmering white dress passed by. Looking up a face regarded him with little real interest.

“Walk with me, hobbit.”

Sam stood up and followed, a sigh huffed from his throat. Even Galadriel, the most wise and beautiful of the elves, did not even acknowledge his name or that he even had one. He could not hear her voice inside his head, not like the other hobbits, he wondered if that was because he lacked their illustrious bloodlines. He was just a common Harfoot after all . . .a nobody.

Sam followed her through the trees and down a flight of stairs. The ground was soft under his feet and somewhat comforting. The steps were strangely warm against his skin, but the pedestal in the courtyard below him took his attention.

Galadriel was holding a pitcher of some sort and pouring water into the enormous challis that stood atop the pedestal. It was fine earthenware, he knew that much. What was she going to do? Bathe herself while he watched? Sam scrapped that idea, the challis was big enough to wash two hobbits sitting in it, with room to spare, but certainly not for an elf of Galadriel Man-maiden’s stature.

“Your future is unclear to you, hobbit of the Shire. Will you look into my mirror to find it?”

“Mirror?”

“A magic mirror. It may offer you things that may be of use . . .or may not.”

Sam frowned at the somewhat cryptic explanation. “You’re telling me to look in?”

“I neither advise nor force you,” she replied ethereally. “The choice is yours.”

Sam tossed the idea about in his head, not realising that he was speaking out loud, or at least loud enough for elven ears. “What would Frodo do?” he said softly. “He’d have a look, that’s what he’d do. Only . . .he ain’t here, and I’m too much of a scaredy cat.”

Just as he made to step forward and feign courage, Galadriel spoke again.

“This task was appointed to Frodo Baggins,” she said.

“Well, he’s dead now, so I’m doing it for him,” Sam replied, slightly miffed that yet again someone was pointing out to him that Frodo was gone.

“You?”

Sam frowned deeply at the seemingly amused tone of that word. “I can do the job just as well as Frodo, Lady Galadriel,” Sam told her.

“I do not doubt your resolve, hobbit of the Shire, but you are not Frodo Baggins.”

Sam gritted his teeth. She was one annoying elf. There was an almost overwhelming urge to rush at her and bite her ankle, it was as high up her leg as he could reach, but that would do little or nothing short of proving her point. He was a simple hobbit of less than honed bloodlines. “If you didn’t think me worthy of your time, why did you summon me here?”

Galadriel straightened and gazed at him quizzically. There was a measure of surprise in her countenance, as if she was unused to being spoken to in that way or to being questioned. “The greatest of tasks are set before the smallest of creatures, hobbit of the Shire,” she said pointedly.

“You say that, but you’re not thinking it,” he replied. “I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”

Galadriel’s small smile never wavered, but her eyes were hard. “You cannot hear my mind’s voice,” she said, as if accusing him of a fault.

“No, but I can see it in your eye.”

She paused at this, as if not having considered the possibility. “Then tell me, hobbit of the shire, what do I think of you?”

“I’ve got a name, you know,” he groused pointedly. “You think I’m weak and don’t know much, that I’ll not make it to the Mountain of Fire, that I need Boromir’s armies to protect me . . .as if that will work,” he added almost to himself. “This quest is supposed to an errand of secrecy. So how does he think to keep it secret if we have two hundred soldiers tagging along? Or Strider, he’s a good man, but he’s got to take up his crown and sit in one of them fancy halls, all stately like, and that leaves no time for no running off to Mordor to save Middle Earth. And then there’s Gimli, a fine warrior and also in line for the throne, and Legolas too. Well, they’re great people with good hearts, don’t get me wrong, but do they really want to go with me? I can see it in your eyes that they won’t, willing or not. So it’s just the hobbits. And so, says you, what will the hobbits choose?”

Galadriel watched him, listening intently as he laid out her every thought as if she had been made of glass . . .a strange ability for one not of elven blood.

“No, says you,” Sam continued. “Them hobbits are raised as gentlemen. They don’t come with the stuff of legends, to go into battle and fight the Dark Lord. So it leaves the greatest task to a gardener, a nobody, not even a Halfling. Does the world’s future really rest on a no-bit green thumb?”

Galadriel blinked, realising that he was addressing her directly. “A singular way to express the journey ahead of you, on which all our lives depend, Samwise Gamgee.”

At last, she remembers I have a name, Sam noted silently. He stood for a moment, considering her question. “It is?”

“Of course,” she replied evenly. “Perhaps a look into my mirror will help you see it clearer.”

“What will I see?”

“Even the wisest cannot tell. It can show you things that were, things that are, and things that yet may be.”

And Sam looked in and liked none of it. There was no vision of hope or loveliness, no happy ending as in all those fairy stories he had heard as a lad. What good was going to come of destroying the ring, he could not see, except that the Dark Lord was gone, nevermore to dampen the hearts and souls of men. Was that his prize? To see men rule in dominion, and see the withering away of every other form of life? Sam swallowed. It did not matter, Frodo wanted the ring destroyed, and that was what he was going to do. The mirror and its elven magic be damned.

“No more!” he suddenly cried, stumbling backward. “I can’t look any more. I can’t do it. Not and have to face all that at the end.”

“If you fail, we are laid bare to the enemy. If you succeed then our power is diminished. Either way, our way of life is ended and we must depart into the west.”

Sam sighed. “But its too great a matter for me,” he said. “I am lost without Frodo, and yet I have to face more of them things that took him from me. Thousands, tens of thousands of them.” He lifted his eyes to the Lady of the Woods. “If you ask it of me, I will give you the Ring.”

Suddenly the fair queen of the elves grew dark and menacing, her voice seemed loud and yet merely a whisper, a viper’s hiss against his heart. Sam shrank back as the words rolled over him like so much iced water.

The light from her made her glow and yet dark, and all around her was blacker than night. Sam wanted desperately to cover his ears with his hands or simply shut his eyes against the terrible sight before him, but he couldn’t move.

Then, suddenly, it was gone and she was sadder than before. Yes, he thought, she hadn’t been angry with me so much as sad. We lost Gandalf and Frodo, but the elves are losing their world, no matter which side wins.

“I passed the test,” she gasped, as if astonished that she had. She had reached for the ring expecting to fail. That alone surprised Sam. “I will diminish and go into the West, and remain Galadriel.”

“Remain Galadriel? I don’t understand.”

She turned to him, her large blue eyes full of an untold depth of despair that could not be named. “It would require more time than we have to explain it all to you. In short, many have changed their names when such need was upon them. Any more than that would be more of a burden than you can carry, Samwise Gamgee. Go, rest yourself, for you leave in the morning.”

“But . . .”

Galadriel bent low to smile down at him, and to Sam there was a measure of pleasant feelings to that smile that upturned her lips, giving her the look of the sun’s face shining down on him. She had summoned something up from her millennia-long life to give him a joy of her fading autumn. “You are a ring-bearer, Samwise. You are alone until you task is done, because fate has deigned it to be. Even I cannot work against fate. The great powers may yet set you with aid to lighten your load, but do not look for it. For there are hidden dangers even where good exists. The time for talking is over, sleep now.”

Aragorn sat behind Sam in the boat going down the narrow stream. He sighed many times, fingering the seat in front of him where doubtlessly Frodo would have sat. Aragorn never failed to notice it. Finally he tapped the small creature on his shoulder.

“Be of stout heart, little hobbit. Frodo is with us still.”

“Do you really think so?” Sam wondered, looking about him uneasily. “I don’t much like the thought of a ghost following us.”

Aragorn smiled a little. “I mean, he is in our hearts and minds. I, myself, wake each morning, knowing that a new day brings to my mind the goal Frodo set at our head. I lay me down at night knowing that I have drawn us closer to that goal, closer to the peace Frodo vowed to bring to us all. He is my life’s breath, my soul’s fair thought and my heart’s joy. So you see, even when we cannot see him, he continues to live on.” Aragorn paused for a moment. “You know, Frodo will never be truly gone or lost to us, if we remember him, talk of him and live every day for him, as if he had never left us. Live every adventure as if it were for him. Many will die in the coming war, and we must cherish every being we meet as if it is the last day of life, for when they are gone we should miss them, but live on. And that means living for them, as if they were still with us.”

Sam smiled at that, his heart lightened a little. “Haldir said the same thing to me.”

“He did?”

“Yes, I had tea with him yesterday,” Sam said and flushed red at the thought. “I was rushing off to Mordor on my own, see. Only I got lost in Lorien on account of the trees looking too much of a oneness.”

Aragorn grinned and chuckled softly, and then sobered. “Frodo would have found Lorien beautiful to behold. Alas, he did not get to see it.”

“Yes, he did,” Sam suddenly put in. “Boromir carried him there. Now he will rest there forever . . .luck that he has,” he added.

The river was swift flowing and more water than Sam had seen in his life. Pippin and Merry were both of the Brandybuck line and used to the water, used to boats. Sam was a Harfoot, the only water he was comfortable with was in his pouch tied to his belt.

Aragorn watched him, from where he sat. The hobbit was terrified, that much was certain. He gently rested a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder where he hunched in the centre of the boat, too afraid to even look at the water beneath and all around them.

“You are shaking,” Aragorn noted quietly.

“Harfoots don’t much like water, unless they’re cooking with it or washing in it,” Sam said by way of reply. “I’m a Harfoot.”

Aragorn pursed his lips. “And Merry and Pippin are not?”

“No,” Sam replied. “Pippin is a Fallohide. Merry is a Stoor. All Brandybucks are Stoors, mostly. Merry’s mother was a Took, so he’s half Stoor and half Fallohide. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed the differences between us?” Sam asked.

Aragorn noted that this subject, actually the fact that he was talking at all, seemed to have a calming effect on the hobbit. A distraction. “In truth, I had not. I was called to guard the eastern boarders of the Shire against intruders. It is not known widely known that there is more than one kind of hobbit. Until you mentioned it, I had not known. One hobbit is much the same to another to me.”

“Ah, you better not let any Stoor hear you say that. They gets feisty when the wind is right.” Sam replied, and for a moment his little frame tensed with the thought of being surrounded by water, but then he relaxed again. “Fallohides are smaller than we are, gentle natured. Harfoots, like me, don’t take truck with outsiders too much. And them Stoors are too into their boats for my liking . . .but we get on pretty much.” There was a long silence. “That’s how Frodo’s parents died, in a boat. Poor lass, don’t know what she was thinking taking a Baggins out on the water like that . . .but that’s not for me to say.”

“Baggins are not Stoors?”

“Well, bless ‘em, no!” Sam suddenly laughed. “Baggins is Harfoot, like me. Frodo is the only hobbit that comes from all three bloodlines . . .or was,” he added softly. “Anyway, Stoors are the biggest, only we have bigger feet, although they’ll argue about that for days, if you let them. And Fallohides are the smallest. After that, there’s not much to tell us apart, unless you get one angry.”

Aragorn smiled. “Why would I want to anger a hobbit?”

“No reason,” Sam replied lightly. “I got into a fight with a Stoor once. Just a warning. Merry seems fine, but he’s a Stoor through and through. Loyal they are, but if riled they gets very vicious.”

Aragorn smirked at the image that went through his mind, a hobbit kicking Boromir in the knee. He stifled a chuckle and continued. He had never taken the time to learn all the intricacies of hobbit life. He regretted that now. “I never knew any of this.”

Sam turned a little, which rocked the boat. His eyes widened and he froze. “You’re from the big folk, Mr. Strider. Big folk don’t know much, when it comes to it.”

Aragorn suddenly laughed long and loud. Boromir looked up, frowning from his boat, as did Legolas. Legolas smiled softly. To hear laughter again lightened his heart.

Still, there was something Aragorn did not understand. Galadriel had said that only Frodo could have taken the ring to Mordor. None of the others knew of their conversation; he had not uttered a word of it to a soul. There was something more to Frodo that made him stand out from the rest, something that only a combination of all three bloodlines could have. “Stoors are the feisty ones, then?”

“Aye,” Sam replied. “And Fallohides are the gentle ones, wise and inquisitive,” he added.

Now we’re getting somewhere, Aragorn thought. “What about Harfoots?”

“Courageous,” Sam said with notable bias. “And thoughtful. We don’t jump in like Stoors do, we think first. And we can travel further on fewer meals than they can. You won’t catch me eating second breakfast,” he grumbled. “We’re not as bright when it comes to it as Fallohides are, it has to be said. We’re not scholars or nothing.”

“Frodo truly was a combination of all three, a unique being,” Aragorn said to himself.

“Aye,” Sam breathed.

Aragorn returned from his thinking, but said nothing more.

“Ah, wild chicken,” Sam smiled, looking into his plate. “You done well catching it, Mr Boromir. They takes some chasing, right enough,” he praised, and the man of Gondor glowed with the praise. “Frodo loves chicken. It’s his favourite.”

Boromir’s face hardened. “Why do you speak of Frodo as if he is still here?” he asked suddenly. The hobbit looked up startled. “You have talked non-stop about Frodo. Frodo this, Frodo that. It is unhealthy, and also unsavoury for those of us who still mourn his loss.” He stood up and walked away a few paces, appetite lost.

Sam looked around him, not understanding. “Did I say something wrong?”

Aragorn shook his head, but it was Legolas who spoke. “You said nothing wrong. None of us knew Frodo as you did. I like to hear of Frodo,” he said softly.

In contrast the brusque tones of Gimli the dwarf broke in. “Aye, that makes two of us. Don’t let a sour man come between you and your memories, lad.”

“From my own sparse knowledge of humans, I have found that they prefer to leave the past behind them, speaking of the dead as if they are no more.” Legolas thought for a moment, his eyes catching Aragorn’s, who smiled and nodded gently in agreement. “It seems strange to me . . .to forget our loved ones. For elves, they are never truly gone. In Mandos, those who are dead await rebirth, and those who live on in Valinor become more than they are in life. So as an elf, I do not believe Frodo is gone forever, merely waiting for a chance to return.”

“Galadriel said something about that,” Sam put in. “Something about changing her name and form or something. I didn’t understand much of it.”

Legolas smiled gently. “To become a Maia,” he said. “A god to those on Earth.”

Merry’s eyes went round. “And, you’ll be a . . .one of those when you go to Valinor?” he asked, stumbling over the words.

Legolas smiled wistfully. “Not all of the Úmanyar are called to the sea,” he stated sadly. Then his smile brightened. “But I have a hope that I will be.”

Gimli looked up at him, wondering what he meant by that. “I thought all elves had the life of the Eldar and went to Valinor.”

“I am not of the Eldar, my friend. I am a Teleri elf, yes, but of the tribe of Sindar. We are not of Aman, and did not see the light of the trees. My future is not as clear as it is for the Elves of the Noldor.”

Sam seemed to sink suddenly into sadness. “So you might die . . .like my grandfather, of old age.”

Legolas lowered his eyes. “It is a possibility. All elves live to a great age, no matter what their kind, unless war or heartache claim them. I will die in battle, if it aids in the fall of Sauron, and I will welcome it. If it is given me to hear the call of the sea, then I shall welcome that also, but only when my oath to you is fulfilled, Sam.”

“But you can’t die, Mr. Legolas,” Pippin suddenly spoke, quite beside himself with grief. “All elves are immortal, they live forever . . .”

“No,” Gimli spoke softly. “Gil-galad, one of the greatest elves in history, died in battle. He was the son of Galadriel’s cousin. Sauron killed him, and I suppose,” Gimli said with a sigh. “That he awaits rebirth in Mandos, or has already been reborn.”

Legolas smiled at that and reached out and gently clasped the shoulder of the tiniest hobbit he had ever seen. “I am not about to throw myself on an orc blade, my friend, not while there is a dwarf by my side and the Fellowship to protect. Nay, if it is but a chance, I will see the white shores and Gimli will go with me.”

Gimli suddenly guffawed. “Oh, that would be something to live for; imagine their faces as the ship rolls into the harbour carrying a dwarf to Valinor!”

Aragorn chuckled softly. “That would be a tale worth the telling,” he agreed. “For now, we will honour our dead, and continue in their stead.”

“And that means living for them, as if they were still with us?” Boromir said evenly.

Aragorn looked up at him, wondering if he had overheard the conversation between him and Sam upon the river. It was not possible, surely?

“I have done that, with my little brother,” he continued. “I used to tell him stories when he was small, of mother’s smile and her laughter, her beauty. She was the most beautiful woman in all Gondor. She died when my brother was just five, and my father has blamed him ever since. She was Finduilas of Dol Amroth, of high birth, sister of Prince Imrahil though I have never seen him. I heard it rumoured that she was elven, born of Galadriel’s brother, and that it was her elven side that gave up the lust for life. My father refuses to speak of her, and my memories of her are few and fleeting.” After a long pause, he took up his plate and sat down with them again. “I like to think of her from time to time, but then it brings the pain of my father’s rejection of my brother. I was wrong to lash out at you, Samwise, forgive me.”

He had spoken of forgiveness as if he expected none, and that brought the lump to Sam’s throat. “I hold no grudges, Mr. Boromir, none at all. We’ve all lost someone close to us, and we each deal with it in our own way. Cutting words aren’t meant when someone hurts so deep.”

Aragorn smiled. “And there you were telling me that Fallohides were not wise, Master Gamgee.”

“Indeed, wise words,” Legolas agreed.

Sam settled into his bedroll and sighed, gazing out at the calm of night. Everyone was asleep, except for Legolas and Gimli, who had decided to keep watch. Softly spoken voices made him turn to find Gimli and Legolas in deep conversation.

“Would you truly risk open ridicule by bringing a dwarf to Valinor?”

“Ridicule or no, I would desire you with me, Gimli,” Legolas replied.

“Desire me?”

“Aye. Is it . . .possible for a dwarf to love an elf?”

Gimli growled under his breath, though what feeling it was attached to was unclear. “A dwarf will love who he will love, and the rest of the world be damned.”

Sam lifted his head at that, but not enough to alert them to his eavesdropping.

“Could this dwarf love an elf?” Legolas asked slowly.

Gimli regarded him for a long time. “This dwarf could love an elf very easily,” he said, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Do you have a particular one in mind?”

Legolas slowly smiled and chuckled softly. “I might have,” he said, leaning a little closer. “What, pray tell, would be to your liking? Fair as the sun at noonday, or dark as a wood elf?”

“Both,” Gimli breathed. “A male one, with the most alluring grey-green eyes I have ever seen.”

Legolas froze for a moment. “Gimli?”

“Yes?”

“Elves are neither male nor female, unless they are half-elven.”

Breathing each other’s air, Gimli blinked. “They’re not?”

Legolas shook his head, his intense gaze on Gimli’s face. “Does that bother you?”

“No, not at all. This dwarf still loves whom he will.”

“And the world be damned?” Legolas whispered sweetly.

“What world?” the dwarf said softly as their lips met, more for their proximity than by design, but neither of them cared.

Sam smiled softly. Galadriel was right about some things, but not all of them. More than that, Frodo had been privy to Legolas’ feelings for Gimli for some time, and had known enough about dwarves to know the meanings behind their mannerisms. Sam had not known at the time what he had meant by mannerisms, since Gimli's only mannerism seemed to be growling at Legolas at every opportunity. ‘You’ll see,’ Frodo had said. ‘Before the season’s out, they will be lovers, openly and not just secretly.’

Sam smiled wider still and snuggled into his blanket.

At the edge of the firelight a kiss broke gently to reveal two tender smiles.

Sam was comfortable in the boat for most of the journey, but Boromir became increasingly restless and distant. Sam clutched the ring where it hung beneath his shirt. It was whispering to him, but the words were unclear. Something struck him as odd, even now, so far down stream from the fair land of Lorien. Galadriel had been loath to send him, why?

Sam had a niggling suspicion that it had something to do with bloodlines, but why that was, was unclear. He was no gentle hobbit, true enough. He was a simple gardener, a pure-blooded Fallohide. What did a Halfling have that he didn’t? Perhaps he would never know. If anything was certain, it was his resolve. The damn thing muttered to him all the time, a nonsensical twittering more akin to a drunk bird, and he would be glad to see it gone.

The company had reached a point in the river where rapids blocked their passage. They had little choice but to alight and carry their boats and belongings over the foothills and set off again further downstream.

Mallorn wood was very light and was easily carried by one man. Aragorn took one boat, Boromir the second and Legolas volunteered the third as his charge. The food was distributed amongst the dwarf and the three hobbits. Gimli eyed the elf while he worked, a deep contemplation evident in his face.

“Can I help carry that?” Gimli asked.

“You could,” Legolas replied. “But, as I am much taller than you, it may leave you dangling in mid air.” He lifted the almost weightless boat onto his shoulder and began the trek across the hillside.

Gimli huffed softly, and leaned on his axe, now heavier back on his back, watching him walk away.

“Are you alright carrying that, Mr. Gimli?” Sam asked.

“Hmm?” Gimli looked round sharply. “Oh, I’m fine, lad. Just thinking.”

“Thinking about what?” Merry asked.

“Edhelle vain, boe thawad enni!”

Pippin frowned. “What did he say?”

Aragorn coughed quietly, but said nothing.

“Melethon chen uireb,” Legolas called back, having heard him. “For now, we must be content to carry the boats.”

Gimli followed, without a word, or even a growl under his breath, which was confusing for the hobbits. A silent dwarf was more frightening than facing the might of Sauron. As they walked, the hobbits bantered quietly together, talking of party trees and fireworks and pretty maids all in a row. Finally Legolas broke in suddenly.

“Gimli, mellon nîn, man cerich a theliad?”

“Testing the threshold of elves,” Gimli replied, devilishly, having reached the end of what elvish he understood or could speak. “Finding the limits of endurance.”

Legolas almost dropped the boat in shock, a small gasp of surprise escaping from his lips. His feet uncharacteristically stumbled on the loose stones before he could compose himself. “Watch yourselves,” he warned. “The ground is unstable here,” he said, by way of the only explanation for his un-elf like finesse. He set a smouldering look in Gimli’s direction over his shoulder, and only a being infatuated would know its meaning. “In most cases, my friend, there are limits to everything, between what is safe and what is not. The threshold of elves, on the other hand, is not easily crossed and harder found.”

Gimli sniffed smugly and continued on along the stony ground. “We shall see.”

“We need to decide where we go from here?” Boromir put in suddenly as they climbed out of the boats.

Aragorn shook his head. “That is not for us to decide, but Sam to decide where our course lies from here.”

“What does he know?” he demanded, tossing a nod in Sam’s direction. “He’s a hobbit. Everyone knows they don’t know this part of the world. They can’t even face the world beyond their borders. How is he supposed to know the best course. We’re in Gondor now, my country . . .”

“Your country?” Gimli blurted out, eyes ablaze with anger. “Since when did you become king?”

Aragorn pressed a hand to his shoulder to silence him. “I will let your words ride for now, son of the Steward,” he said, stressing the title. “But not forever. Sam will decide our course, of his own free will, and not by coercion or ridicule.”

Boromir glared at the man, but Aragorn did not back down.

“I need an hour to think,” Sam decided, befuddled and annoyed as he was. Boromir just would not let up.

“What do you need to think about?” Boromir demanded. “This quest is not solely on your shoulders. It belongs to us all! Who are you to make the decision for all of us?”

“Boromir!” Aragorn warned, his voice more akin to a bark. “He is the ring-bearer. The road we take will be his choice. It is we who will follow. It has been so sworn.”

“I did not swear to follow this halfwit Halfling!”

Merry and Pippin slipped behind a shocked Legolas and Gimli, concerned that Boromir’s hand was straying too close to his sword for their liking.

Aragorn tensed, hand on his hilt, about to throw an insult of his own.

“Now wait just a minute!” Sam suddenly stormed. “I might be a halfwit, man of Gondor, but I won’t have you being disrespectful. My Frodo was a Halfling, and a good-hearted gentle hobbit, and I won’t have you foul-mouthing things that you big folk know nothing about. Frodo’s not here to slap you on your rear end, but I am, see? So don’t you go insulting nobody.”

Boromir frowned, stupefied. “All hobbits are Halflings, periannath,” he cried.

“No, we’re not!” Sam put in adamantly.

Legolas placed a calming hand to his head, since that was all he could reach with out making it look too like the caress of a child. The disgruntled hobbit was also going for his weapons. The elf had to act or no one would be leaving the camp, let alone going on to Mordor. “Man of Gondor, do your people know so little of those from distant lands that you cannot tell elf from dwarf?”

Boromir turned his eyes to Legolas and frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Periannath, Halflings, are those descended from one line of hobbits, not all of them,” Aragorn explained. “Periannath means half elf - half hobbit, just as peredhil is half elf - half human.”

“We are periannath,” Pippin threw at the human.

“That’s right,” Merry added. “So pick on someone your own size . . .for the right reason.”

“Merry is right,” Legolas spoke gently. “Of us all here, only Gimli and Sam are full-bloods. Even I am only half Sindarin. An insult to one is an insult to all.”

“There!” Sam said. “Now, who’s the halfwit?”

Boromir huffed. “Fine. So I am guilty of knowing nothing about Halflings. That does nothing but make the point clearer than ever. You do not need an hour to decide what to do.”

“You’re right,” Sam agreed with irony. “This argument has taken up five minutes, so I shall be back in fifty-five minutes.”

With that, Sam left them and began the long climb up the hill.

Amon Hen was steeper in some places than in others, and its sides were convoluted into twists and turns like a lass' crumpled skirt. Sam was not certain after a while which way led back to the lake and which didn't. Above him rose the pinnacle of the Hill of Sight, where stood the seat of seeing. That would be a good place to start, he thought, and it looked a lot closer to him than the shoreline lying somewhere beyond the trees.

“I know why you need to be alone," a voice startled him. "But it is much too dangerous, especially for you."

Sam looked up at the man of Gondor and his silky, too sweet voice. He could see through the deceptive innocence. "I haven't come to a decision yet," he fumed. "Why did you follow me?"

"Because you need help," Boromir stormed, although he manfully reined it in. "You can't understand what is in store for you, Sam. You're too caught up in Frodo to see where your true course lies. Frodo is dead, and you need to accept that and move on."

Sam glowered at him. "I know he's dead, Boromir."

"Then, why do you insist on talking about him? Every time you open your mouth it's Frodo this and Frodo that. It's time for you to think for yourself."

"I am thinking for myself," Sam noted with quiet determination.

"Finally," Boromir ground out. "Now, give me the ring and stop with these foolish ideas above your station. You are a servant, not a leader."

"You're the foolish one, Boromir," Sam rebuked him. "I am the new Ring-Bearer, and as such you must accept my choices. I decide which way the ring goes, you get to choose if you follow me or not. If you're coming with me, you make the choice to follow my orders. If you want to go home, then so be it. That's what the Lady Galadriel said to do."

Boromir rounded on him, his eyes dark with hatred and anger. "I take no orders from her any more than I take them from a no-good peasant!" he growled. "I came to Rivendell to take the ring, by force if necessary, and bring it to my father . . .but . . .I can’t do it. Not the way he told me to. My father’s orders be damned, I am not a killer . . ."

Sam could see that he was fighting something, and the ring beneath his shirt was getting louder and louder. His fright increased as the large-built man began to bear down on him with surprising speed. Sam dodged him, a cry of panic escaped his lips.

Hands grabbed his ankles and he went down. Pulling one leg as far up as he could, Sam sank it into the man's face. Boromir grunted in pain and abruptly let go of him. The ring was calling to him and he blinked and looked up. All around him was nothing but trees and he realised suddenly that Sam must have put the ring on. He could be anywhere.

"Sam?" he called out. "Sam! Come back! You foolish creature! You cannot go into Mordor alone, or perhaps you go with aid after all. Who is it you follow truly? Are you going back to your true master? You minion of Sauron! You will betray us!" Something hard struck him in the groin and he doubled over, sucking at each unwilling breath. With another second to think he realised that the ring was lying to him. "Sam?" he called softly. "I'm sorry, Sam. Please, I . . ." There was no sound and nothing stirred. "What have I done?"

Near the top of Amon Hen, Sam slipped the ring off and into his pocket. Boromir continued to call him, but he was far below him and out of sight. Sam stopped and turned, certain he had seen a figure at the edge of his vision, but there was no one there. He turned back to climbing and again the person dressed in a brown waistcoat and grey cloak was there. He turned and again there was nothing but trees.

“Frodo?” Sam whispered, but he knew it had to be a dream, or perhaps he had struck his head harder than he realised when Boromir had attacked him. Or perhaps Frodo was haunting him. Taking a fright, Sam ran up the steps and looked out over the stone statue to find Sauron’s eye looking right at him.

Sam screamed, slipped backwards and fell to the ground below.

“Sam!”

Sam coughed and blinked. “Strider,” he replied as gentle hands lifted him to his feet.

“You took quite a fall. Are you alright?”

“Yes, but Boromir . . .the ring has taken him . . .I think. He’s gone berserk, dragging me to the ground. He tried to take it.”

“Where is the ring?” Aragorn asked menacingly.

Sam looked up sharply at the sound of his voice. Had he said it like that or was the damned, incessantly muttering ring distorting his hearing? He jumped back.

“Sam, do not be afraid. I swore to protect you.”

“But can you protect me from yourself?” Sam asked. “I know you can hear it, Mr. Strider,” he added, holding out the ring for the Ranger to see.

Aragorn’s eyes caught on the glittering metal and he could not deny that its whispering touched his soul. Aragorn reached out and closed the outstretched hand, pressing it to the hobbit’s chest. His eyes were drawn away to a blue glow below Sam’s elbow. “Run.”

Sam stared at him in surprise.

“Run!” Aragorn almost screamed at him.

Sam eyed the hilt of Frodo’s sword, drew it a little and realised what he meant. Frodo’s sword, he had forgotten that he had even taken it. At once he turned and fled. He sped down the hill, but he could hear snarling from all around him, echoing through the trees. He was surrounded. Finding a hollowed out tree, he slipped inside and covered himself with his cloak. Not many seconds passed before the forest outside was thick with rushing black bodies. More and more came, but he remained motionless.

He could hear the battle raging not far from his hiding place, and getting ever closer. And still he stayed motionless. Beyond the hill, he heard the horn of Gondor, and moment’s later the streaking figure of Aragorn tore passed him, followed shortly after by Legolas and Gimli.

The sounds of the battle grew fainter and fainter until nothing remained of them at all. Sam cautiously looked out before rising and, seeing nothing, he rushed down the hill towards the camp. There was only one way to escape, and that was to cross the river. And that meant the boat.

Sam stared at it for some time before making up his mind. He hated getting wet more than he hated boats, and he couldn’t swim anyway. Grabbing several lembas parcels and his trusty pack he pushed the boat out into the river and jumped in. He had watched how Aragorn had done this, it couldn’t be that hard, he thought. By half way across the river, he was exhausted, but forced himself onward. If he went back, he would have to face Boromir, or worse, face the orcs that had come upon them unawares. If he stopped paddling, he would be swept downstream and over the Falls of Rorus.

He kept going, only because he had one thought in his heart, one desire above all others. “I made a promise, Mr Frodo. Don’t you fail us, Samwise, the Lady said, and I don’t mean to,” he sobbed. “I don’t mean to.”

Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn stood on the shore of the lake, Aragorn adjusting the straps of Boromir's arm guards, which he had swapped for his own. Boromir would go on with them, in this small way. He had promised him. He watched the boat in the distance succumb to the might of the river, the falls swallowing Boromir from sight, sending him on his final journey to the sea.

"You mean not to follow," the soft voice by his side said.

Gimli could not see how they could go on, but they had to. Sam was beyond their aid, but Merry and Pippin were not. They left that place and gave chase to the Uruk-hai, their faith in themselves and each other renewed.

Out of sight, a small figure stepped out from the shadows to watch their retreating forms, and then gaze out at the lone walker on the opposite bank of the lake. He, too, had no choice on which road to take. Pushing the remaining boat out into the water, he began his own quest; to take back the ring.

Deep in Emyn Muil, the rain continued for some time, leaving Sam miserable and unable to go on. He huddled further into his elven cloak and the hood fell forward, leaving just a slit for his eyes to see out of. While he waited for a break in the weather, Sam began to get the distinct impression that he was not alone. Some horrid stink was getting stronger, and disturbingly it came with it's own sounds, which were not altogether drowned out by the continuous thud of falling rain.

Sam watched an ill-defined shape slide across the cliff face, making like a shadow of a passing cloud. Only thing was, the clouds that filled the sky were not moving, and clouds did not have arms and legs. It was hissing to itself, looking this way and that. Sam knew what it was. Gollum.

His eyes watched its progress across the cliffs like some misshapen spider, gradually closing in on his hiding place. It inspected every crag and hole, everywhere within reach as it slowly made it's way around the cannon. In a few moments it would be right on top of him, and would take the ring . . .

Sam held his breath.

Gollum hissed loudly as he passed right over the hidden hobbit's head. Sam frowned, wondering how it could possibly have missed him. But then he realised, he was covered from head to toe in his elven cloak, and Gollum's eyes had to be the most unfriendly eyes he had seen yet.

Gollum knew it had to be here somewhere, he could feel it. "We must get it back," he muttered. "Nasty little hobbitses, they stole it from us. It's ours, it's ours, it is!" And with that, he began another search of the canyon, this time closer to the ground.

Sam let out a measured breath, watching the shadow begin another circuit of the canyon, this time he would be found for certain. Carefully, Sam reached behind him to where the elven rope was tied to the side of his backpack. With his other hand, he reached for a large solid-looking rock that lay beside him.

Gollum knew it was here, somewhere. It didn't call to him, not like it used to, but he could still feel it. A movement across from him caught his eye and he turned his head. A flash of a view and the hand was gone again, but it had been a hand he saw. A wicked gleam shone in his eyes and a sneer spread across his face. He was hungry.

Sam's eye widened as he saw the creature's head snap round and glare straight at him, the glow of his eyes in the dark more akin to wolves eyes than one of the River Folk. With frightening speed and agility, Gollum descended the cliff, head first, and scuttled out of sight. Sam gasped, eyes flitting between all possible approach routes to where he sat, but there was no sign of him. He knew Gollum had seen him, and he cursed his ill-thought out move for the rock.

A hiss echoed off the walls and Sam grew almost sick with terror. He turned his head, looking this way and that. Suddenly he was staring right into two unnaturally large eyes.

Sam screamed, but it was cut off without even a second's warning with a vice-like grip that constricted his throat. He's world was darkening as he struggled to breath. He had but one choice.

"Where is it, precious? Nasty little hobbitses! We hates them, we does. Filthy little thieves! But there's only one now, precious!"

Just as Sam's body began to slacken for lack of air, he swung his arm up with the last of his strength, and whacked the creature over the head with the rock. The hand around his throat was abruptly gone and Sam rolled forward, coughing and spluttering, onto his hands and knees. Gollum gave a loud shriek and turned on him, but Sam was quicker. Gollum fell back against the cliffs and howled in pain and fury.

Sam staggered to his feet, heaving every breath, just in time for Gollum to launch himself again. Teeth sank into his neck and Sam screamed. Sam swung his arm towards the flitting shadow as it sprang up onto the rocks, and turned to jump on him again. With all his might, Sam struck his head, shattering the rock in his hand as it made contact with Gollum's head.

The thing flopped to the ground and lay still. Sam did not wait for the next attack, but hit him again, this time with his fist, bloodied as it was from the cuts made by the sharp rock he had been holding. He stood over him for a moment, gasping for air. He gave the creature an experimental kick, but it didn't move. Sam sighed.

"Why didn't the elves do this? It would have saved us a whole load of bother from this slimy little maggot!"

Sam did not waste time wondering if it was dead or simply biding its time to strike him when he least expected it. Winding the elven rope around the shrunken wrists he secured them together behind Gollum's back. That done, it moaned a little; a sign that it was regaining consciousness. Sam hastened to tie his ankles together with the same rope.

Suddenly Gollum was awake and snarling at him, gnashing his teeth and struggling against his bonds. It quickly realised that it was not going to escape this time, and lay still, glaring at the hobbit.

Sam shrugged at the menacing look. "I'm not going to ask what you had in mind for me, you treacherous little worm!" Sam forced out. "It's pretty obvious to me what you were going to do." He gave his throat a massage. "So I'll just leave you here all tied up, if it's all the same."

"No!" Gollum suddenly begged. "That would kill us, precious!"

"Good riddance!"

"Take it off uss," Gollum hissed. "Gollum knows the way, we promise."

"Not on your promise," Sam retorted. "You'd sooner murder me in my sleep. No, I much prefer you here, trussed up like a suckling pig ready for Lithe."

Gollum struggled in vain against his bonds, although not to escape. "What's he done to uss, preciouss?" he cried. "El rope, it iss, precious. It burns us, it does!"

"It's more than you deserve!" Sam snapped.

Gollum shrieked all the harder.

"Shut up, you!" he warned. "Every orc in Mordor is going to hear your racket, and when they do they'll come out and kill you. They don't take prisoners, and neither do I. I'm leaving you here."

And with that, Sam walked away. Gollum's cries echoed off the canyon walls for a long time before they faded in the distance. They seemed to be dwindling, but Sam did not care. Frodo had told him about Gollum, almost as if he had been preparing Sam for the day when he would meet the creature, and he would be alone. had Frodo known he before hand that he was going to die? Or did he know that that ring would do to him what it had done to Gollum? Sam did not know, but he had taught his gardener many things along their journey, many had been useful already.

Putting some distance between himself and the twig-thin being, Sam paused for water. Below him was the edge of the marshes. He recalled what Gimli had said about them; 'a festering, stinking marshland as far as the eye can see'. Not an inviting place, when all was said and done, but it was his road, as Aragorn had put it.

He took a moment to wonder where his friends were and how they were fairing. It made him feel the loneliness more keenly, and he forced his mind onto other things. Sam re-corked the water pouch, sighed, and began to descend.

Many miles behind Sam, a figure hunched over Gollum's prone form. Sensing himself not alone, Gollum opened his dull eyes and looked up. The figure did not speak at first and Gollum wondered if the ring had conjured up the being to punish him. Then, hands lifted the elvish hood from his head, giving Gollum a better view of him.

His second thought was that the hobbit had had a change of heart and had come back to free him, but it is not him. In his weakened state under the influence of the elven magic, he whimpered thinly, frightened and yet attracted to the being, knowing that he had also carried the Precious at some point in time.

"Take it off uss," he moaned softly. "We can help the master of the precious. Keep it from Him, we can."

He was unaware that the rope was moving, that it had already slipped from his limbs. His arms and legs were free, but they remained in the same position Sam had left them in. Gollum made no move to rise.

"Go wither you will, but trouble the Quest no more."

Gollum looked up at him with large doleful eyes and sighed. He was motionless for some time while the mysterious being considered taking him with him, or not. "I am sorry, Gollum. But where I go, you cannot follow. Perhaps your purpose will be fulfilled by another."

His hand reached out to touch the twisted creature, but he hesitated. The being left him untouched. The weakened creature, poisoned by elven rope, was beyond saving. A sigh drifted up as the figure lifted his head and searched the cliffs and paths through it.

The hobbit had gone this way, but had made slow progress. The being that followed him was lighter and unencumbered with supplies and the like. He knew he would catch up with him soon enough. Soon the hobbit would wish he had been chased by Gollum. Instead, he now had a far more formidable being on his trail.

Sam watched the black gates close and huffed a sigh. "Darn, that would have saved me several days. S'pose I shall have to go the other way."

He didn't fancy the idea of Cirith Ungol, but legend had it that there was tunnel high in the mountains where a hidden menace lurked. He shuddered, he had read those legends. Perhaps they were merely myths, to keep people out of Mordor. There had been many who had gone in, but none who had ever returned, so the stories went. Stories had a habit of being exaggerated, or understated. If no one ever came out, where did the stories come from?

Steeling himself, Sam continued on down the now deserted road.

For several days he avoided the rangers of Ithilien. They looked mean and untrustworthy. He was sorely tempted to don the Ring and find out what they were up to so far from Gondor. He knew they were from Gondor, their roughly spoken words and accents were identical to Boromir's. He missed Boromir, and then again he didn't miss him one bit. He did wish the man well, though, hoping that with the absence of the ring his true self would return.

Sam was certain that there was a good man beneath all that ring-lust. He was disappointed that he had never had the opportunity to see it. Away in his thoughts, he almost walked into a trap. The ring suddenly shouted at him, it felt like a warning although the words were no clearer now than they were in Lorien.

Skirting a clump of gorse bushes he hid himself in a gully that lead to a small pool of water. The waterfall above him covered him with a fine spray of ice-cold water. It was refreshing. Far above him came the sounds of a skirmish.

The rangers of Ithilien had caught something that struggled wildly. He smirked, not in the slightest inclined to follow his curiosity and find out what it was, and continued on, unseen.

It took him another two days to find a place where he could cross the polluted, dead river Morgulduin that flowed from the Cirith Ungol, unfortunately he found it. It was a bridge, right in the middle of the city that now lay below him. He would have to use the ring. He had no choice in the matter. There was no way to avoid using it, if he was to avoid the soldiers. He could do one or the other, but not both.

Sam took out the Ring with deep trepidation. Hesitating for several long minutes, he slipped it on. It's what Frodo would have done if he had been there, he was sure of it. He took a deep breath and began to run through the streets of the ruined city. There was fighting all around him, and a huge ugly bat flying overhead. It snatched at him, but he ran under an arch and hid.

Sam cursed his bad luck. He had not accounted for ringwraiths on wings. He looked about him and back at the ugly beast and picked himself up. He was in a tunnel that seemed to go right under the river. Setting his jaw, he followed it at a run. Anywhere but here would be good, and the quicker he got there, the better.

Sam sank against the cliff face and waited. The land was dead and oh so silent. His heart ached at the sight of so many dead trees. It seemed to him that the dawn did not want to break. A bleak half-light was all he was going to be blessed with. That did not bother him. Where he was going was even darker, both in light and in heart.

Above him was the road. He had been watching it for several hours, both wary that he might be seen, and wary that it was in use. Nothing had moved. Cautiously he stepped up onto what had once been a smooth, and well cared for surface. Now it was littered with rocks and splintered stones.

It needed a jolly good cleaning, was his first thought, but then his gaze was drawn to the gates. Furies guarded the entrance, and his horror intensified ten-fold. They were stone statues, he knew that, but something beyond the gate called to him. He looked up at the stronghold that towered above him and jolted as something menacing reached out and grabbed him.

Sam gasped and stumbled backward. Suddenly the powerful mind released him. Perhaps it had given up or he had stumbled beyond its grasp, he did not know. Without warning the air around him crackled with power, as a blue flame shot into the air. In terror, Sam rolled onto his feet and ran.

The shadow hunched at the side of the road, fearful of being seen as league after league of frightfully twisted beings surged passed his hiding place. The war had begun. A fellbeast flew overhead, roaring to make its presence known. As if it could be missed . . .

On the stairs above the road, he watched the armies emerge and make for Minas Tirith, and the ruined city he had barely escaped from only days before. The sewer, thankfully unused for a while, that had been a refuge and a hideout during the attack by orcs, was now a distant memory. Above him lay far more terrifying dangers.

Sam climbed ever upward and found the tunnel spoken of only in stories and songs, most of which were not fit for little lads and lasses, although he had read them in secret beneath his blankets, in the hours after bedtime. He shuddered.

"If Frodo had been here, he would tell me not to put on so," he muttered to himself. "The willies don't frighten grown ups, Sam, he'd say. And holes in the ground are homes to hobbits, so they are." Sam gazed into the pitch-blackness. "But this ain't no hobbit hole, is it, Mr Frodo?"

And with that, he plunged into its depths.

The tunnel stank of something and the walls were sticky. It was immediately apparent that he was not alone. Something was following him, or was it in front of him? He could not tell where it was, but he could almost feel it.

Taking out the light Galadriel had given him he struggled for a moment to remember the incantation. Suddenly the glass began to glow brightly and something scuttled away out of sight, only to return when he looked away. He kept walking and turning and hearing the scuttling of shadows. After the seventh such turn, Sam caught a glimpse of the menace, a huge spider. Sam was not afraid of spiders. Not even this one so much as turned his stomach, at least not in fear.

It lunged at him and he drew his sword, poking it in the eye. It screeched in pain and held back. It obviously had not accounted for an armed defence. Seconds later it lunged at him again and was met with the same result. With two eyes out, it hesitated before considering what to do next. A moment later it saw a chance and fell upon its prey, but Sam fought back, slicing through one of its front legs. The creature was furious, and in agony.

"Give it up, you," Sam forced out. "I don't have time for your silly games."

Shelob took a tentative, whimpering step forward, hungry and hurting.

"I mean it," Sam told her, and with that stormed off down the tunnel, following orc-like footprints in the tunnel floor. There were lots of them following a single trail. He gripped the light tightly and hoped that the next corner would reveal the opening on the other side.

Suddenly a scream erupted from behind him. Sword at the ready he whirled, and abruptly found it embedded deep in Shelob's chest. It had been an accident, killing a creature, even one intent on his death, was not his way. Sam gasped, but it was too late for apologies. She shrieked, collapsing and shuddering. Sam drew the sword out.

"That serves you right. I told you, I don't have time for this."

And with green blood dripping from his hand and sword, he stumbled exhausted from the tunnel into the dark unending night that was Mordor.

Step after step the shadow followed fate, unspeaking, unstopping. He remembered a hunger he had felt once, a long time ago, but it did not bother him now. Thirst was a mere memory of a dream. All that mattered was the Ring. He had to get it, it had to be thrown into the fire. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed.

As best he could, Sam prepared to head into the plains of Gorgoroth. The loneliness was killing him, but one thought kept him going - if you fail, we will be laid bare.

"Not if I have anything to do with it," Sam spoke between gritted teeth, hearing her words in his head. Her sadness had been tangible, it still was. There was no way he could stand by and allow those noble elves to die without at least trying.

The water pouch was empty, and he threw it aside in disgust. There would be no chance here to refill it, but something made him pick it up anyway. If he left it someone might find it and know he was there, and follow him. Being captured or killed would be worse than being alone.

Hefting the pack onto his back he ate the last piece of lembas bread, chewing it slowly to make it last, and set off across the dustbowl of Mordor.

His shadow had not slept, nor even paused. It had moved ever closer. It would win, even if it meant killing the ring-bearer. A smile ghosted across its ghastly face as the parched winds bit at his cheeks. Yes, it might come to that.

It was several hours before he was certain he was being followed. He turned around and thought that perhaps an orc had defied Sauron's orders to move north, but there was no one there. Like an object seen at the edge of vision, the figure was there, a constant at his heels.

Sam finally saw it, the shadow that had been with him for some days. Now he could see it, fully and unmasked from the terrain. Sam almost choked on his own breath with terror. It was gollum, he knew it had to be. Gollum had been shadowing their steps all the way from Moria. He must have wriggled free of his bonds and chased him all the way out there, beyond any hope of aid. With blinding clarity, Sam knew he was truly alone.

Half way across the plain, Sam quickened his pace, but his ever-faithful shadow never wavered. Almost running, trying to shake off the ever-present threat of Gollum, Sam eyed him over his shoulder every so often. But it had changed at some point. In his exhaustion, the mirage had change to one of Frodo, but his rational mind made it's own decisions.

He glanced over his shoulder and the figure seemed to be getting closer and closer, although it took several such peeks to determine, with any certainty, that his hunch was correct. The more he looked the more he became convinced that the shadow was Gollum, only now he appeared to be wearing Frodo's clothes, although he could not explain how Gollum came by them, or the hair for that matter.

Sam began to run full pelt across the Plains of Gorgoroth, the foot of the mountain of fire rising up out of the ground in front of him. He was going to make it. Fleetingly turning in the hope that the ghostly apparition was shrinking into the distance, he was horrified to discover that 'Frodo' was also running. Sam suddenly made up his mind. It was the ring. It could not speak to him, or make him understand, so it was deceiving his eyes, trying to break him into doing its will. It had to be the ring, and Sam was even more determined than ever to be rid of it once and for all.

Sam stumbled into the cavern, eerily lit from below by the lava that flowed like a river from hell to who knew where. Sam sucked in a hot breath and coughed. He stood for a moment staring down at the horrible sight in awe. It was more than him imagination had ever conjured up. He was standing in Mount Doom. He had made it.

Sam took the ring out and sneered at it. "There, you lying evil trinket, you. You have lied and deceived me for the last time. My Frodo is not alive, see. And he ain't no a ghost. So into the fire with you!"

Behind him, his shadow watched, of two minds himself. Half of him thought of snatching the ring, since it should have been his, and shouting it's my task, mine, my own. Instead he stood silent, watching the ring fall into the abyss below, glad to see it done.

Sam turned, exhausted and almost dead from hunger and thirst and faced the terror directly. On part of his mind, still rational, knew that if he had not seen the ghost of his beloved master, he would have surrendered to the lure of death, but the rest of his mind screamed.

“Sam, it’s ok. It’s your Frodo."

Sam, breathing hard, could not speak. What devilry was this? Was this Sauron's revenge personified? How could this be?

"At least it will be ok. The lava is rising and we better make a run for it!”

Sam, exhausted from his forced march across the plain was lost for strength. The fright had punched the last of his strength from his limbs and consciousness from his mind. Frodo smiled gently and lifted him onto his shoulder and carried him away.

Out, beyond the lava flow, two tiny figures cried together, clutching to each other, each as desperate as the other to never let go.

"If I'm dreaming, don't pinch me," Sam sniffed.

"You're not dreaming, Sam," Frodo replied. "I have been trying to catch up with you since Amon Hen. I never realised a hobbit could run so fast and for so long."

"But you were dead. Boromir carried you . . .I couldn't . . .I didn't know what to think. I thought perhaps Gollum had sneaked into Lorien and run off with your clothes."

"Gollum?" Frodo smiled at the image. "My dear Sam. Gollum is dead. An elvish rope had been tied around him. Being a Ringbearer and poisoned by its evil for so long, the elvish magic killed him."

Sam looked away. "That was me. I killed him, then, I s'pose."

"You killed Shelob as well."

"Well, that weren't my fault, see," Sam burst at his own defence. "She come up behind me all attitude and legs and I had me sword in me hand, and it was hilt-deep in her chest."

Frodo laughed softly. "Oh, Sam, my dear Sam."

Sam lifted his eyes to his master's face. "How come you're here, anyhow? I kissed you and you were cold. I know dead when I see it."

"The Maia restored me."

"The what?"

"Saruman the White. A beautiful being." Frodo turned wistful. "Like an angel he was, he healed me. They breathed life into me again, and sent me back. It was my task, Sam, to destroy the ring. You were not even supposed to be here, should not have had to do it. Saruman said so."

"Saruman . . .but I thought . . ."

Frodo turned his eyes to Sam's and smiled gently. "I'm glad to be with you, Samwise Gamgee, glad to have been there at the end of all things."

Sam smiled, and added, "And there again."

El fin

Edhelle vain, boe thawad enni - Such a pretty elfling, I must corrupt him!

Melethon chen uireb - I love you forever

Mellon nîn - my friend

Man cerich a theliad? - What do you do for fun?