All characters and places belong to JRR Tolkien, his estate and family and to whoever else may own a piece of the legal pie. This work is solely for my own entertainment and, hopefully, for the pleasure of those who chose to read these words.

I would also like to thank Daw the Minstrel and Orophin's Dottir, Humble Scribe to His Majesty, King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, for their unwavering support, even when they maybe should have wavered, and their help with dotting i's and detecting where commas really go. Not only are these two the best of help, but are, also, the best of people.  Any remaining mistakes are mine alone, darn it. Thank you, Daw and The Dottir.

                             To Do the Job

The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers

"To do the job as you put it - what hope is there that we ever shall? And if we do, who knows what will come of that? If the One goes into the Fire, and we are at hand? I ask you, Sam, are we ever likely to need bread again? I think not. If we can nurse our limbs to bring us to Mount Doom, that is all we can do. More than I can, I begin to feel." Frodo to Sam as they approached the Dead Marshes.

"I didn’t know," I utter to no one save myself. I see nothing but an endless marsh, a festering bog inhabited by a swirling mist that mingles like the ghosts of forgotten souls. This is a forsaken place. It knows neither warmth nor light. It is heavy with death and despair. I feel as if, against my will, I am its servant, a weary minion to its moods and fits. I tell myself that it’s only a place. True, it’s a dreary hard place, a place scarred and macabre, but it holds no claim over me. Again, I think of the death and spilled blood that has long grown cold and think that I will have to tell myself that I don’t belong here many times before I leave its borders. I do not want to be here.

Sam is sleeping and Smeagol is gone. I don’t know where he goes while we rest, but I know he has needs to tend, no matter how foreign they may seem to me. For whatever his reasons, he returns every morning, crawling like a nervous snake over treacherous landscape to resume his role as guide. His role...if only we were play acting. Then I could call down the curtain on this horrible act and end it once and for all. I begin to realize that it will never end. It has gone on now for so long I can’t remember ever being warm or having my belly filled. The Shire, itself, seems only like a place in a fable I may have heard about or a land visited in fevered dreams, an imagined tale of something or someplace outside of fear and fatigue. I grieve for the fact that even the Shire is beyond my reach.

I’m so weary. This cursed ring weighs heavier with each passing day, pulling me further into its depths and farther from any recognition of who I once was. My bones feel like dust and my mind is sluggish, barely alive with memories of little but a cold fear that twists in my heart like a dagger.

I hear a rustling in the brittle scrub and have no desire to react. Lying under the foul-smelling blanket, I remain perfectly still and listen. For a moment, it seems natural to assume it is a bird or small animal scurrying about, but I have seen no living thing in these dark dead lands. It is too light in movement to be an orc, and Smeagol assures me that the enemy does not travel this path. Then, it can only be the little diseased creature we have come to rely on, but not trust. Sam does not understand why I defend this ruined life. It’s true that he’s sneaky and dangerous. I don’t doubt Sam’s judgement in this. Gollum would kill with no thought or remorse. But, I can’t bring myself to look upon him without seeing something I recognize, something or someone that is so familiar I can nearly give it a name. His existence is shaped by this foul ring’s call, bound to its golden choke hold until one or both no longer exist. Will he continue when the ring is unmade or will he dissolve in the molten fire of Mount Doom like his ‘precious’, falling into nothingness, into a void where all of him and his existence is past memory or even recall?

He is this ring. It’s all that matters. It’s all that he loves. They are bound as one to the same space and time, the same victories and losses and a fate, I think, that will bring only a final doom to the poor creature. I had hope for him. When he first came to me and Sam, I had thought of love and kindness as a cure. I’m no longer certain of this. I reach my hand into my shirt and finger the warm band. I’m now beginning to see that there is no cure. He is tied to the ring and at last I know that my fate is bound along side his.

What folly! What crazed idea made me step forward at Elrond’s Council and utter those horrible fateful words: I will take it. What madness drove me to think I could accomplish something that Gandalf and the Elves could not do? I tighten my grip on the ring, letting its warmth soothe some part of my soul that is so secret I did not know I carried it until this trinket claimed it. Had this already happened by the time I had reached Rivendell? Had this desire already crept into my heart, wormed its way into my will and struck a claim that it would have me utter those fateful words? I will take it. "No, Frodo, lad," I tell myself, "it has taken you." I don’t see anything in my will that will allow me to be parted from it. The One is my family, my brother, my parent, my lover and my Almighty. There can be nothing but a vow of eternal darkness for me. I will not be parted from it.

Tears fill my eyes at this unveiled truth. I weep for my Sam. He will not understand. There is no darkness in him, no fear of failure or weakness to break his resolve. His heart is so pure that not even the lure of this ring can seduce him or separate him from who he is and who he will remain. He is far stronger. Perhaps he should have been the one chosen for this task. I would have made a better friend and companion to this quest than the one to hold its success or failure within my grasp. But I cannot dwell on this thought of Sam long. Never would I burden him so with the truth of this vile creation. I would not have him suffer it or rage against the desire that draws me as steadily as water wicks to cotton. He is too good for this. He still follows me with hope. When the time comes and he can go no further, it will break his heart. I can only pray that he will find his way to help and hope, to a place where he can eventually understand what I must do. "Oh Sam," I whisper. "Forgive me." Forgive me for bringing you into this. Forgive me for what I must do. Find Merry and Pippin and if they still live, you will be each other’s strength. Beg their forgiveness for me. Please.

For not even a moment did I entertain the idea that I was strong when I took this task; I simply didn’t understand it. I cannot say that Gandalf didn’t tell me. He tried to explain the nature of this ring wrought in fire and from a malice that ran as deep as the very fires that kindled it. I thought I understood. He even said to me once that Bilbo was meant to find it and, therefore, I was meant to have it. At the time, I thought it some comfort, some affirmation that I was well able to carry this burden. How little I understood. I knew nothing of what he spoke. Why did Gandalf allow this? Or Elrond? They said nothing, merely looking upon me with something in their eyes that I didn’t recognize. I was too young, too green, too foolish, to see the depth of sorrow they foresaw or the knowledge they covered and tried to hide from not only me, but themselves as well. And what of Bilbo? He spoke no warnings either. But I know he didn’t mean to cause me harm. Looking back, I see that Bilbo may still not know the truth about this ring. Gandalf said to me that Bilbo was growing weary, feeling the weight of its force, but still, he was not asked to destroy it! He sheltered it and I suppose thought little of it throughout those long years. When the time came to part from it: He did. He could. Alas, I’m not as strong as my dear Bilbo.

The sun is waking. Despite the desolation of this terrain, the morning still comes. Sam is stirring and I suppose Smeagol will soon return.

I have slept little if at all, but the ring is still clutched tightly in my hand. It is mine. I need only a minute before I rise, sorry that I could not rest when I had the chance. My head feels full of cobwebs and half-realized words. Still, something about this night has brought a clearer destination to my inner sight. I can see this place, this journey’s end yawning before me like the darkest cavern of Middle-earth. The pull of the ring is more burdensome, and my will is bending so readily to it that the thin veils that have held it at bay are stretching into nothingness. I know where my heart is drawn now, as surely as anyone can tell the direction of the sun with his eyes closed. I am facing this destination and I feel the full potency of its draw upon my brow. I am changed. Never again will I be the lighthearted Hobbit of the Shire. Nor will I look upon the rolling pastures and sun dappled fields that have been as much a part of my existence as my name. I am a creature of this power as surely as poor sad Smeagol. I have no choice in this matter. The ring must be destroyed. I cannot turn back. I am bound to this fate.

I will take what little is offered me to eat and sip what little water there is to take. My will fails and my body desires to be done with this. This necessary sustenance I will take, then I will go on to Mordor. This will end.