~ For Samwise. Who carried his master upon his ascent of the mountain of fire.

"Not sleeping. Dead!"

The words rang in his ears tenfold. But they did not sink in. They could not. In a pale light his master lay and, though smeared with muck and dust, his face looked serene.

"No! No, this ain't right!"

Of course, a voice seemed to answer him, but then nothing's right here, is it? You're in Mordor! The land of darkness! What did you expect?

"Not this," he sobbed, "Not this."

He could hardly articulate thoughts. All that way. All that way. And what would they think of him? He had lost his master in this accursed place. His beloved master, whom he held above all others, no offence to Mr Merry and Mr Pippin, Gandalf and Mr Bilbo, of course. They were all grand people in their own right. But they were not his master.

"Don't leave me! Please!" he cried desperately.

The face remained unchanged. Dead. The word felt like a thousand oliphants trampling down on him. He wanted to stay there forever, no matter what happened. It didn't matter now, did it? Nothing mattered! It had killed him, like It had all the others. And he hated It for that. There It lay, innocent and bright on the breast of his master. He reached for It. He would cast It away. He would take out Sting and cleave It in two! But no...even he knew it was pointless. Why waste his breath trying to stamp It out of existence?

Shakily, he bent down and kissed his master on the brow. He took his hand and then found he could not let go. It was cold and pocked with scars, but the fingers curled limply round his own and he could not pull away. He did not know how long he sat there, clutching his master's hand, thinking nothing. Knowing nothing and feeling only pain. He was weary from travelling and suddenly it all weighed down on him.

The snow of Caradhas froze him to the bone and the fires of Moria singed his skin. The Nazgûls' blades cut him and Gollum's hands wrapped round his own neck. He bent his head and cried. Tears poured down his face unrelentingly. Hours passed and still they did not cease. He wept onto his master's pale lifeless hand. The tears filled his mouth until he was caught up in a ragged fit of coughing. His heart ached for weeping. How could they take his master? That filthy spider...he had not been able to save his own master. He would never be able to tell him how brave he was. He would never be able to tell him how nobly he had borne his burden. With these thoughts came yet more tears until he thought he might be drowned.

When his eyes were rubbed raw and his heart was empty of tears, he stopped. He clutched at his master's hand.

"What do I do, Master?" he asked, "I can't leave you here. Not ever. You know I can't do that."

Then what can you do? The voice echoed back. He did not answer. He didn't know. For a while all he could do was rub his master's pale hand absently. He imagined all those long miles behind them. All those times his master had stumbled and almost lost his footing on the sharp rocks, then struggling upright before he would need to be aided. But he wanted to help his master fight It. He knew It was killing him...

"'Least now you're not in pain," he murmured, putting a dark hand to his companion's face to pull back a few loose curls. "Oh, me dear, me dear," he whispered, "I wish I weren't the last. I mean, I'd never ever wish it on you. Knowing your foolish self, you'd probably stay with me right till the end. What good would that do?"

Yes, what good at all? Yet here he was, waiting until the end. He had seen it as far as he could with his master. Perhaps...no, no, no, not him, not this fool. How could he take It to the Mountain of Fire?

"Oh, look at what I've gone and done," he muttered sourly, "I've let everyone down. 'Cause I can't even bear to leave him...They're all depending on me. I suppose Gandalf would know what to do. And he loved my master and all. Oh...oh!"

--

He watched the figure begin to cry again and he feared his own heart would break. But his heart was too withered and shrivelled to even crack. Yet somehow this...this was all wrong.

"What have we done, precious?" he said meekly, "We did not think fat hobbit would be so sad! We did not think we would be so sad... ach, precious, we have been bad. Cruel, cruel, we is! We make fat hobbit cry and we kill master."

"Murderer."

"Yes," he sobbed, "Yes, precious, we knows now."

"Twice! Look at what we've done."

"We knows it, precious! We knows it!"

"Fat hobbit will not leave the master."

At this, he flinched and looked back at the sobbing hobbit. With a reproachful hiss, he turned his back.

"We can't, precious," he whispered, "No, we can't help anymore. It's over. The precious..." At this, his wide eyes lit up with a pale green glow. He stumbled over his words. "We needses...the...we needses It! Can't...can't leave It, can we?"

For some reason, there was no reply. It's call was growing stronger in his mind. So strong that it cancelled out every other emotion. He clawed at his neck and face, trying to delve out the seductive voice but It called him. It pleaded with him.

"No...precious...mustn't, precious..." he protested, "Ach! Precious!"

~~

"...but maybe the Lady'll understand...do you understand, Mister Frodo? I've got to do this. I know you'd want your Sam to do what he can for all those wise folk and all our friends, wherever they might be. Well, you've got your mithril coat and my sword and I've, well, there's the Lady's starglass and Sting, but if you ever need 'em back, master, me dear, I'll...I'll...well, I don't know what I'm going to do without you, master. Don't know if a ninnyhammer like me is up to taking no Ring into Mordor...Before I go, me dear, before I leave, I just want to tell you that, well, you've been right brave through all of this. You've carried It real...real...well, you've borne It with as much grace as any elf could, master and that's saying a lot."

He stood upright, almost bent double under the weight of the accursed Ring. He looked down for what he believed to be the last time into that pale iridescent face.

"I love you, me dear, an' I hope you wait for me...'Cause be sure of this, Mister Frodo, your Sam'll find you again. No matter what."

And so saying, he turned to the darkness of Cirith Ungol and, straightening up to his full height, he began his steady route towards the towers of Barad-Dûr.