Frodo no longer knew one day from another. His existence had been reduced to a single small room, more of a cell, in the bowels of the Citadel at Minas Tirith. Dim light from the hallway shone faintly through the grille that had been cut into the door at his height. At the base of the door was a small rectangular opening where his food was delivered. Those two places were the only contact with the outside world, his only touch with reality. He could have been here for weeks, months or years. He didn’t know anymore. The only thing he did know was that he would be here in this dark room, existing but not truly living, until he died.

It had all began after Aragorn’s coronation and the celebratory feasts afterwards. In the bright sunlight, Frodo had had a seizure of some kind, terrifying himself, Sam and his cousins, not to mention alarming the king and Gandalf.

Aragorn had swiftly taken the stricken hobbit to the Houses of Healing where upon examination a small, perfectly round, red and black circle was found burned into Frodo’s chest. It was hard to the touch as though the Ring he had held so long against his skin was now embedded beneath it. It gave off a noxious odor and black liquid of some kind leaked from it. It burned and froze. Frodo tossed and twitched in a delirium for several days afterwards, further alarming his friends. Neither Sam nor his cousins left his side and most often the healer king and the wizard were there as well.

Gandalf conducted his own examination of the curious mark under the three hobbits’ anxious gazes. Aragorn had hoped it would heal on its own or at worst be cut out from Frodo, but the wizard dashed those hopes when he shook his head. He had seen more than any of them could and it chilled him and grieved him in ways deeper than he had never known.

“It’s wrapped around him inside,” he pronounced and they were all alarmed to hear his voice shaking slightly. “I see tendrils spreading from the site. If you tried to remove it, it would kill him.”

Pippin swallowed audibly at that and turned nearly white. He clutched Merry’s hand tight enough to hurt, but the equally pale, elder hobbit didn’t even notice, his hand just as tightly around the tween’s. Sam reached out to touch to mark but he jerked his hand away when it caused the unconscious Frodo to whimper in pain. Instead he stroked his beloved master’s cheek and curls and murmured what comforts he could, singing so softly.

Frodo calmed after that, but he lay for days more, sweating, then shivering in a stupor from which none could wake him. Sometimes he murmured in his sleep, but no one but Aragorn and Gandalf understood what he said and they looked very grave for Frodo had used the Black Speech.

When Pippin was sitting alone with him one bright morning, holding his hand, Frodo suddenly woke, crushed his cousin’s hand and then lunged at him, screaming. The startled tween barely fought him off. Frodo collapsed back on the bed and start convulsing. The noise brought Merry and Sam running. Seeing his beloved master begin to foam at the mouth, Sam ran out the door, shouting for Gandalf and Aragorn. Merry was torn between which cousin to comfort and settled for taking a sobbing Pippin into his arms, stroking his back and murmuring comforts, while he kept his eyes on Frodo who continued to writhe on the bed under the control of what Merry didn’t even want to imagine.

The Ring-bearer was still shaking when Aragorn and Gandalf arrived. Quickly the wizard one hand on Frodo’s chest and one on his forehead and spoke several words of Power in a guttural tone. Frodo growled something in the Black Speech, then went still.

“What’s wrong with him?” all three hobbits asked anxiously.

The wizard looked up wearily. He seemed almost as drained as he had been after fighting whatever darkness he had met in Moria, months before. Aragorn looked alarmed as well when Gandalf glanced at him and something passed between the two of them that the hobbits saw but did not understand. “I will say now only that Frodo’s struggle against the evil of Sauron has not ended,” the wizard said.

The hobbits paled. “What does not mean?” Sam asked, looking at Frodo who slept seemingly peacefully, but the gardener could see the strain still. He took his master’s hand and gently caressed it with his thumb.

“Just that. The struggle goes on.”

Merry held Pippin by the shoulder as the tween began to cry again. Aragorn noticed how the pained way in which he held his hand.

“Pippin, did he hurt you? Can I see?”

The youngest hobbit held out his hand to the healer king who very gently examined it. Even that caused the tween to cry out softly and Merry to tighten his grip around his shoulders.

“It’s broken in three places,” the king said, “but once I bind it, it should heal well. I can prepare you a tea that should help with the pain and let you sleep.”

Pippin smiled wanly. “Thank you, Strider...I mean Aragorn...I mean...”

“You mean Strider,” the king said with a smile. “Or Aragorn if you prefer. We are all friends here.”

Pippin smiled again a little wider and only winced while Aragorn set his hand. Merry kissed the side of his head when all was done. “That’s my brave Pippin,” he murmured and the tween smiled his fullest smile yet.

They all looked at Frodo. Sam was sitting at his side, stroking his curls and talking softly to him while Frodo tossed his head. He looked up at Pippin and Merry.

“I’m that sorry about your hand, Mr. Pippin,” he said. “I know Mr. Frodo didn’t mean it.”

“I know, Sam,” the tween said.

Frodo remained restless until nightfall where he dropped off into an uneasy sleep. The hobbits didn’t leave his side. Sam dozed in the chair next to the bed, holding his master’s hand, while Merry and Pippin slept by their cousin’s side. Gandalf remained awake the entire time, at times fighting with the thing that sought possession of Frodo’s soul. Sam woke during those times when his master moaned and protested. He didn’t move or speak as he watched the wizard’s concentrated gaze, listened to words he couldn’t understand and wondered at how different Gandalf looked as he locked wills with what held Frodo prisoner. The wizard seemed to glow in the darkness from an inner fire that the simple gardener could only watch in awe. He could feel power, dark and black, light and bright, both rise and cause a burning tingle along his skin, raising the hairs there and making his feet inch. He opened his mouth to ask, but closed it without a sound. He knew somehow he was standing in the midst of a battlefield and that his master was the one being fought over. Then the battle ended, the tingling stopped and he slept again because Frodo did.

When morning came, Gandalf was still sitting in the chair he had placed himself in the night before, still looking at Frodo, but Sam saw no battle was being waged just then. The wizard was merely watching the unconscious hobbit very thoughtfully.

“What’s going to happen to him?” Sam asked. “What was happening to him during the night? What were you saying to him?”

Gandalf looked up at the younger hobbit a little surprised, then he smiled warmly. “You know about that?”

The gardener nodded. “And I felt it too, like an army of ants crawling up my arms and over my feet.”

The wizard’s surprise deepened. “I was engaged in a struggle for one who can’t struggle for himself yet,” he said. “We’ll have to wait for Frodo to gather some more strength for his own battle is not over.”

Sam looked down at his beloved master and gently tightened his grip on Frodo’s hand. “He will. He’s not going to stop now. You should have seen him, Mr. Gandalf, crawling up that mountain when he had no more strength to stand. He’s got the strongest will I know.”

“The legendary Baggins stubbornness will do him great good now I think,” the wizard agreed, “as it served all of Middle-earth already.” Gandalf then smiled amidst all his care. “And the Gamgee stubbornness will be sung about just as loudly I’m sure.”

Sam flushed a bit. “I was just doing what I promised to do, naught special ’bout that.”

“Just keeping doing that. He still needs you, Sam, now more than over.”

The gardener’s gaze did not leave his master’s face, only grew more tender. “I’m not leaving him.”

The next morning as dawn broke, Frodo moaned in his sleep. Sam slumbered in a bed nearby and Merry sat in the chair. The Ring-bearer’s hand clutched at his chest where the burn was and he whimpered in pain. Merry pulled his hand gently away and stroked his curls.

“It’s all right, dearest,” he said softly. “It’s all right.”

Frodo opened his eyes and looked at him through pain and delirium glazed eyes, then a wild light grew in those previously beautiful depths. Merry backed away barely in time before Frodo lunged at him with a growl. Pippin and Sam startled awake. Merry ran to get Gandalf and Aragorn while the other two hobbits tried to subdue the Ring-bearer. Frodo clawed at both their cheeks and drew blood before he collapsed again.

When the two came, Frodo tossed and turned restlessly, speaking again in the language of Mordor. His hands and legs twitched, his maimed hand clutched at his chest. He showed no awareness of Sam’s gentle touch or words.

Aragorn came forward, sat at the edge of the bed and touched Frodo’s forehead. The hobbits peered over his shoulders. “He’s not feverish,” the king said and the three sighed in that relief.

“Then what’s wrong with him?” they asked in unison.

Aragorn and Gandalf shared another glance. The healer king gently pulled Frodo’s hand away from his chest, held it, then with his other hand pulled down the hobbit’s nightshirt and peered at the burn mark there. It was redder than before and when he touched it, it was harder and hot. Frodo’s hand twitched out of his friend’s grasp and went back to the burn.

Gandalf came closer and peered deep into Frodo in ways Aragorn could not. The hobbit’s eyes opened suddenly as though he recognized the intrusion, but it was not Frodo who stared back at the wizard, but a dark malevolence shone from there. Out of his mouth spewed more of the Black Speech, hate-filled words that made the hobbits shiver though they understood not a one of them. Aragorn did and Gandalf who forcefully responded in the same tongue. Sam again felt the edge of dark and light power brush against his nerves and for the first time, so did Merry and Pippin. Aragorn clenched his teeth. Frodo gave a defiant cry, then was still.

After a long while, the Ring-bearer opened his eyes wearily and his gaze first fell on Gandalf. The wizard smiled warmly at him. Though Frodo’s eyes held pain and fear, there was none of the madness from before. They were wholly his again. Gandalf wondered how long they would be though.

“What’s happening to me, Gandalf?” the hobbit murmured. “Why does my chest hurt so much?”

The wizard gently guided his friend’s gaze to his chest where he peered at the perfect circle burned into him, then looked up at Gandalf who took his hand.

“What is it?” he asked. “It’s the Ring, isn’t it? It’s not really gone.”

“The Ring is truly gone, Frodo,” the wizard said, “but not the threat. Not Sauron himself.”

Frodo’s eyes widened in horror. Aragorn lowered his head. The three hobbits looked between their cousin and friend and the king and wizard in confusion.

“What do you mean, Gandalf?” Merry asked.

“I mean,” the wizard started slowly, grieving that there was no way to soften the blow of the terrible truth that could no longer be held back, “that Sauron was not destroyed when the Ring was. His spirit abandoned the Ring as it fell into the fire and chose another vessel.”

Six eyes grew as wide as saucers and three faces paled. Aragorn wept softly. Pippin threw himself into his cousin’s arms and burst into tears.

“Oh, Frodo, I’m so sorry!” he cried and held him tightly with his good arm and sobbed into his chest.

Frodo visibly fought Sauron’s desire to hurt the tween again. Now that he knew what was happening, he rose up fiercely against it. His hand as he stroked his young cousin’s curls was as gentle and loving as it always had been and his voice as soothing and beloved as Pippin had always remembered it being. Only the slightest strain in both caress and voice could be felt or heard. “I’m so sorry too, Pip dear, so very sorry.”

When Pippin calmed, he moved away from Frodo’s chest, but refused to leave his cousin’s side. He took Frodo’s maimed hand into his own good hand. The elder hobbit was moved by his trust and love and vowed not to fail that again.

“Is this my punishment for claiming the Ring?” he asked very softly into a silence that had lingered for some time.

Gandalf’s face grew tender as he looked at his beloved friend. “No, my dear boy, you are not being punished for that. You didn’t claim the Ring as much it claimed you. This is not your fault. I should have realized that Sauron might try this as desperate as he was when he realized what you meant to do. I would wish for nothing else but that you should not have this burden, Frodo, but even in this great evil, the One you have served all this time will not allow His will to be overcome. He will bring good out of even this, if you remain bound to Him.”

“I will remain bound.”

Gandalf smiled.

Sam and the other hobbits remained confused. “Do you mean the Quest was all in vain?” the gardener asked in disbelief. “All Mr. Frodo suffered was for naught? That’s he still going to be suffering?”

“No, the Quest was not in vain, Sam,” Gandalf said, “just not yet completed. Neither is suffering in vain if accepted with the right spirit, united with the One who is allowing it for the greater good. Frodo has become a living Ring now. Sauron knows we will not destroy Frodo so he believes he has won. He believes it’s only a matter of time before Frodo’s will is completely overcome and then Sauron can live again in the physical world until he finds another host.”

“He hasn’t won,” Frodo said softly. “He will never win. This is my life, not his, that I hold.”

“It will not be an easy life, Frodo,” Aragorn said quietly. “You cannot return the Shire. You cannot even leave here. Your will is formidable, my friend, I have seen none stronger, but we cannot let you go, lest it fail and Sauron be freed. We cannot even give you death for that would free him as well as you.”

“I do not seek death,” Frodo said firmly. “I never expected to return to the Shire. This is my life now. I will not have it taken from me.”

Gandalf grasped his shoulder, his esteem and love for his dear friend rising greatly at such quiet dignity and determination. The best hobbit in all the Shire, indeed. Iluvatar did not choose His ring-bearer unwisely. “We will all help you bear this new burden, Frodo. I can teach you some things that will help you defend yourself against the darkness.”

Frodo looked up at his friend and his eyes warmed gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Of course, we will help,” Sam said. “There’s naught we won’t do.”

Pippin and Merry echoed the same, though the hearts of all them were broken within them.

“You will have my help as well,” Aragorn assured. “Anything I can do.”

Frodo looked at them all. He looked to be on the brink of tears, both from gratitude and love and his own grief. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you all.”

During the next weeks Frodo learned all he could from Gandalf on how to shield himself from the power that now resided within him and sought more than ever to destroy him. It was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausting to fight such a formidable evil. At least on the Quest, Frodo had some end goal in mind, though he lost hope if making it further than that and he had had the hope and acceptance of death at the end. But he could see no end in sight for this except for death. His eyes had strayed more than once to the bottle of poppy juice that Pippin had to help him sleep until his hand healed, but those thoughts he firmly clamped down upon and refused to entertain. He was relieved when the bottle was removed as a possible temptation. He very much feared what would happen if he chose death - would Sauron simply seek another host, then another and another and another or could Frodo somehow destroy him when death come at last to release the hobbit from his torment? He asked Gandalf about that, but not even the wizard knew what would happen.

The wizard found the Ring-bearer a quick and determined learner in shielding himself, but that dear one could only take so many hours of it before he collapsed and sought what refuge he could in sleep, sometimes alone, sometimes in the arms of Sam or one of his cousins or at least in their presence.

Except for his sessions with Gandalf, the three hobbits were with Frodo almost constantly, though the wizard and Aragorn kept them away at times because they knew sometimes the Ring-bearer just needed some away from them, for it was almost as exhausting to keep up the appearance that Frodo felt he must that he was not hurting or as frightened as everyone knew him to be. Sometimes, he’d rest on the bench in the windowless room where Gandalf taught him, sometimes just to be away from everyone, where no one could see his tears or sometimes because he was too tired to go further. The other hobbits did not take that well when they found out that was what he was doing.

“But Mr. Frodo needs me!” Sam protested to Gandalf who guarded the door against all comers.

“He is resting now, Sam. When he wakes, I promise you will be the first to know.”

“But it’s not right that he should be alone, Mr. Gandalf, not right at all.”

Frodo woke to hear the raised voice of his beloved gardener’s, his guardian of soul and body and a warmth spread through him to counter the cold malice that sought to fill him. He smiled. “Let him come, Gandalf,” he called.

The door opened and Sam rushed in as he quick as his legs could carry him. He knelt at his master’s side and took his hands in his. “What do you think you are doing, my dear, trying to fight all of this yourself and not letting your Sam take care of you?” he asked in tears.

Frodo looked at him with a sad smile. “Oh, my dear Sam, my dearest Sam, it is such a heavy burden now I carry. It is dangerous for you to even be here. I just need some time by myself where I can...” He trailed off.

“No, you don’t, begging your pardon. What good is alone? You are just going to get yourself all tied up in knots with naught to think about but how frightened you are and...and...” Sam couldn’t even finish. He raised his eyes to his master. “You need me, Mr. Frodo, and you need Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin and Mr. Gandalf and Strider and...and you need a breath of fresh air. Let’s get you out into the gardens. That should help you a little.”

Frodo smiled again and it was more of a genuine smile. “Dear, simple, innocent, sweet, loving Sam who could never give up hope even in the darkest night,” he said with a kiss to his beloved friend’s head. “All right, let’s go for a walk.”

It was the unwavering love and support Frodo received during this time that helped him most to maintain his fragile control over his body and mind. It was in Pippin’s antics and Merry’s jokes and Sam’s quiet care that kept Frodo distracted and firmly rooted in being a hobbit that kept his sanity together those first few weeks while he was learning to live with his new burden. Their refusal to fear him or treat him as anything other than a beloved friend and cousin kept him grounded as nothing else could. Aragorn and Gandalf prepared him teas to help him sleep, but nothing was more potent than being sung to sleep by dearly loved voices, feeling the gentle stroking of his curls and being held and loved so deeply.

The king and wizard also made sure that the three received breaks too from the constant stress, though they denied any were needed and protested any time away. At those times, most likely it was Aragorn himself who kept Frodo company or when they knew he wished to be truly alone, a discreet guard was kept over him. It was easier for Frodo to drop his guard with Aragorn and Gandalf and let out some of the tears, frustration, grief and anger out that would have destroyed him from within had he not had some release for it. He still hated doing it, but he found it much easier with the king or wizard than with Sam or his cousins. Once Aragorn coaxed him to scream out his pain because the healer could clearly see that was needed. Frodo said he wouldn’t if there was any chance that the other hobbits or anyone would hear so the king and wizard made sure they were gone, the guards removed for a short while and it was only Aragorn there. Frodo had screamed, but still Sam, Merry and Pippin had come running.

“We heard you screaming, Frodo! Are you all right?!” Pippin asked anxiously.

The Ring-bearer looked at Aragorn who seemed amazed. “I know hobbits have sharp hearing, but I assure you, Frodo, that there is no way they could have heard it.”

“We didn’t with our ears...” Sam began.

“We heard with our hearts,” Merry finished.

After that, Frodo had realized there was no way he could hide his pain from those dearest to him. And no way he could hold it all inside. So he learned to cry with them, but he wouldn’t scream, except in those times that Sauron overwhelmed his painstakingly built defenses and convulsed the small hobbit, sometimes injuring Frodo or those near him. Each attack left Frodo exhausted and in tears, but renewed in his determination to fight. It was never easy since Sauron fought him with every breath, but Frodo fought back and those around him were amazed at his strength. Gandalf knew where it was coming from and more fervently each day gave thanksgiving to Iluvatar and Elbereth and all the Valar who were aiding the Ring-bearer, and prayed as well for his friend’s soul to survive this new ordeal intact and be delivered from it. He was well aware that Aragorn prayed as well and Arwen and Legolas and Gimil and even the hobbits, though they knew not Who they prayed to. It was their prayers Gandalf thought that touched the Heart of Iluvatar the most.

It was after a while that Gandalf noticed a pattern to the attacks. The worst ones occurred during the daylight hours. He asked Frodo if he’d be willing to spend time in a more darkened room to see if that would decrease the attacks that were taking such a toll on him. Frodo was loathe to leave the sunlight as he treasured that and the walks in the garden above all things beside his friends, but he wondered how much longer he could withstand the attacks the dark lord constantly made on him.

Sam, Merry and Pippin helped him move to a room deeper in the bowels of the citadel. It had a bed already, but the gardener made sure that the first time Frodo saw it, it also had a table, chair and writing materials. It had nearly filled Frodo’s eyes to overflowing for that kindness.

The attacks did lessen at first and Merry and Pippin left for the Shire a week later to relieve their parents of the fear and worry that must have been consuming them. It was a tearful goodbye for them and Frodo for none of them knew whether they would ever see each other again despite their promises to return as soon as they could. Frodo had a great fear that even if they did return, he would not be the same person they had left. So much time was spent that last morning, crying, holding, kissing brows, caressing cheeks and memorizing anew features so long beloved.

Sam stayed behind. “Please send my regards to my Gaffer and Marigold and tell them that I’m well and taking care of Mr. Frodo,” he respectfully asked the other hobbits.

“We will, Sam.”

Then they said goodbye and there were tears in Sam’s eyes as well as he and Frodo watched them leave. Frodo looked up at the bright sky longingly, then he and Sam retreated back down below.

“You could have gone, too, Sam,” Frodo said, “but I’m glad you didn’t.”

Sam wiped at his tears and composed himself. “My place is with you, my Frodo dear. Where ever you go, there I will be.”

Frodo looked at his friend with his own tears and hugged him tightly. “Thank you, Sam. I wish I knew where I was going though. It’s a path so dark I can see no end to it and the fact that it will end one day, that I will die, frightens me even more I think because I fear what will happen to Sauron then when I can no longer contain him. That is why he is doing all this, attacking me so much that I will weaken and die and he can find another host who won’t fight him so much. Gandalf has told me that much and that Sauron is bound to me and cannot seek another host while I live. So I must live, Sam, I must hold on as long as I possibly can and then beyond.”

Sam was deeply moved by his master’s determination, just as strong as it had been on the Quest, and loved him all the more for it, but he feared greatly what the cost would be, and wept for it. Frodo held him and comforted him and even then had to fight against Sauron’s desire to harm Sam. He kissed his dearest friend’s head and let go, then stepped into the room that had become his entire existence.

The attacks simply changed form as the darkness held its own dangers to Frodo, sapping his energy and will. He was allowed at first short walks in the daylight in an isolated courtyard with a small garden, but the mark on his chest burned in the light, causing him constant pain even when he returned to his cell. Sometimes it was enough to drive him into a feverish delirium that Gandalf and Aragorn were hard pressed to recall him from, sometimes he simply lay on his pallet unable to move or do anything but cry silently. Still he begged to be let out again for the darkness pressed upon him sorely and against better judgement, he was released, but the pain only grew worse until he was clenching his jaw against it, just to be out a moment. He collapsed one time and floated between life and death for several days, driving Sam nearly out of his mind with fear. There were no more times outside anymore after that and Frodo was almost too weak even to beg for it, though he sometimes did softly, over and over again.

It was out of pity that Gandalf allowed him out at night sometimes to feel the brush of cool air against his face. That did wonders, but soon even that was taken from him, after Sauron pushed him to try to escape once. Sam nearly lost his head trying to stop him from climbing a high wall. It was only Gandalf coming right at that moment that stopped Frodo from fleeing. Sam’s heart leapt to his throat as the wizard exerted his considerable power against an equal but opposing force. The hobbit watched helplessly as Frodo was tossed about in the air like a leaf caught between two opposing winds. Gandalf feared Sauron would dash the hobbit against the stones, but held him from doing that and at last the dark lord seemingly tired of the game and let Frodo go. The hobbit nearly crashed to the ground below, but Gandalf caught him just in time and cradled him gently in his arms. Frodo gasped and sobbed as he gripped the wizard tight enough to hurt, the pain of being so easily manipulated by powers far beyond him pouring out of him. Sam had knelt at his side, tears flowing down his cheeks as well. Frodo had not been allowed out again.

He turned to writing as an escape. He wrote of the Shire, the memories of which were disappearing again, and he feverishly wrote long into the night many nights by the one single light that shone from the hallway outside his cell. He was not allowed any light inside for he had burned himself badly from the oil lamp when Sauron had tried to kill him in such a fashion. It had taken some time for his hands to heal, but then painstakingly he had taken up the quill again and taught himself to write again though at first the effort had been so painful, it had brought tears to his eyes. He wrote also of his determination not to forget who he was and his determination not to become what Sauron was trying so relentlessly to turn him into. Sometimes he wrote of his despair and pain and longing for release. But then he was deprived of the comfort of writing for Sauron devised a way to harm him that way as well and his wrists and neck were criss-crossed with cuts that the dark lord had inflicted on him through the quill. Frodo and Sam were both in tears when Gandalf came to take the pen and ink away, but Sam grieved even more to see those scars.

He tried to remedy his beloved master’s growing despair by reading from the extensive library at Minas Tirith. Many a day and night he would stand or sit just outside Frodo’s door and talk until he was hoarse just so Frodo would have a place to escape to. He denied himself the light from outside so he could be the light for Frodo inside. Not that Sam thought of it that way himself, but Gandalf and Frodo and Aragorn all saw it that way and many a smile did they have for that selfless, loving gardener and guardian. Frodo would lean against his door and just listen to that beloved voice and be transported to another land and time and for a while forget his pain and isolation from all else.

No one could enter Frodo’s cell for Sauron had attacked Sam once there and Gandalf and Aragorn had forbidden him to enter again so Frodo was cut off from physical contact from anyone as well, except when he and Sam pressed their hands against the fine metal mesh of the grille that was the elder hobbit’s only contact with the outside. Each new trial the Ring-bearer bore patiently and quietly, his tears the only sign of how much he was hurting.

His only source of exercise was walking around the small perimeter of his room. He knew exactly how many steps it took to complete one circuit, how many it took to walk around the edges, how many it took to walk diagonally, how many it took to walk in a circle. He would do it over and over again sometimes until his body was ready to drop from exhaustion.

Sam made sure that the normal six meals a day were delivered through an opening at the bottom of the door. The gardener would eat with him and keep a stream of lively chatter about the doings of the outside world. Mealtimes were the only way Frodo could track the passage of time, but he soon lost track of the number of days he had spent, which he considered no small mercy.

Hearing Sam’s voice either raised in tale or song or simply regaling him with the outside news was the lifeline that kept the Ring-bearer from being driven mad from the isolation and constant pressure on his mind and soul from Sauron, a heavier weight than the Ring had been. His lessons in self-defense continued with Gandalf, but time with Sam was even more profitable than that. During meals, he could be a hobbit again, as his friend was sure to include his favorites every day. The gardener was endlessly creative in having the royal kitchens devise any manner of mushroom dishes and other hobbit favorites. If Frodo closed his eyes and just concentrated on the tastes and smells of the food and his dearest friend’s voice, he could pretend he was back home again and simply enjoying one of the many meals he had often shared with Sam.

Mealtimes were also the only times he had any real tactile contact with anyone as Sam pushed the tray in for Frodo to eat. Their hands brushed once and that first time the younger hobbit had deliberately taken one of Frodo’s hands and held it tightly for a moment, though even that small contact was dangerous. Frodo’s fingers had curled around his desperately, then let go before he could hurt his beloved friend. But it had been enough to revive something that had been dying in him and it was far from the last time Sam did it.

Frodo valued his company more than he could ever say. He knew most times Sam slept curled up in his elven cloak on the cold stone floor outside Frodo’s cell just to be near, in case he was needed. Frodo spent hours at night, staring out of the grille at that sight, deeply moved by such great love and devotion. He found it more beautiful than anything and knew though he was deprived of everything else, he could endure as long as he had Sam. Looking at him would, after a long while, bring enough relief and peace that he could sleep. Still he begged his friend to take care of himself as well for he worried about what it was doing to Sam’s own spirit to be so locked in darkness. It was only with the greatest reluctance that Sam would leave and not very often. Those times Frodo laid on his bed and cried in his loneliness until he heard the welcome sound of Sam’s returning steps.

One night Frodo woke startled to find Sam asleep, his arms firmly around him. It was more than the elder hobbit ever dreamed would be possible again. The huge chance Sam was taking in being near him terrified him, but Frodo did not let go. He buried his head in his beloved friend’s chest and fell back asleep, lulled by the sound of Sam’s heart.

When he woke again in the morning, the sky above him was a deep grey and a cool wind blew through his hair. He saw Sam looking at him with a smile, still held securely in his friend’s arms. Smeagol looked at him concerned. He blinked several times, totally disoriented.

“I’m glad you’re awake, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said with a smile. “You were having some sort of terrible nightmare that I couldn’t wake you from no way. You cried out several times and gave us a good scare. I couldn’t understand a word but Gollum says he’s as heard it in Mordor.”

Frodo looked at his Sam for a long time and then at Smeagol and back at Sam. “Yes, a terrible dream,” he said distantly and the gardener wondered at how haunted his master sounded.

Sam let him go and offered a small bit of lembas and swig of water which Frodo took gratefully.

Frodo looked around the blasted landscape that were traveling through, then down at his chest where the chain he wore the Ring on disappeared beneath his clothing. He had believed reaching the fire would be the end, but he wondered now.

“We’ll get going as soon as you’re ready, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said. “Take all the time you need,” he added with a very deliberate, quelling stare at Smeagol which made Frodo think they had argued about this while he had been asleep.

Frodo looked past his friend’s shoulder, thinking of the nightmare he had just escaped. It was the worst of any he had, but perhaps no worse than the one they were all still wrapped in even in their waking hours. He stood and went on. He was not going to be frightened away.