Chapter 26: Dreams of Fire and Blood

Frodo held the Ring on its chain over the fiery chasm. Sam yelled behind him to throw it in, but he could barely hear anything over the siren call of the Ring, dripping poison into his heart and soul, continuing to tear him apart. But somehow he held out against it with every shred of tattered resistance he had left. “Follow the light, follow the light,” he murmured to himself over and over again and then with a final burst of will, threw the Ring over into the lava.

“NO!” came an anguished howl behind him. Frodo saw the blur of Smeagol as the creature rushed past. The Ring-bearer barely had the presence of mind or the strength to hold Smeagol back. It was almost too much to hold onto the wildly bucking being. “No, Smeagol,” Frodo said, trying to calm him. “Wait.”

But the creature was too enraged to listen. He bit down hard on Frodo’s arm and the hobbit cried out, but held on. The moment the Ring at last succumbed to the fire was not immediately noticed by the struggling pair, but then Smeagol very slowly calmed and looked at Frodo, his eyes clear of madness. “Smeagol is free,” he murmured in awe.

The rest came quickly, too quickly for Frodo to feel anything but a helpless horror. Smeagol began to very rapidly age out of control, his life no longer sustained by the Ring.

“No!” Frodo cried as he began to realize what was happening, what he had inadvertently caused. “I’m sorry, Smeagol!”

Smeagol looked up at him, pleading and fear competing with other emotions in his wide eyes. “Mas...” he began, then died in Frodo’s arms, became a skeleton, then dust that blew away in the wind.

“Smeagol!” he yelled, then woke abruptly, sitting up, breathing hard.

The camp roused at his cry, but he was not aware of any of their concerned gazes. He looked to see Smeagol staring at the Ring. In the thrashing Frodo had done during his nightmare, it had come out from under his shirt and now lay outside it, glistening in the moonlight. Smeagol’s gaze was riveted by the sight of it so close to him. He only needed to reach out to claim it back as his own and already his hand reached out slowly toward it. Sam watched him carefully, ready to snatch his master away if there was any threatening movement. Frodo remained nearly motionless. He held himself up on his splayed fingers, his breathing still heavy and watched mesmerized as the former hobbit touched the Ring and stroked it lovingly.

“My Precious,” the creature murmured.

Frodo broke the spell at last by finding the strength to put the Ring back under his shirt. Smeagol looked up at him, his gaze was half torment, half tortured joy. He and Frodo looked at each other for a long time without speaking.

“It never lets you go,” Smeagol said, softly, finally. “It is Master.”

Frodo embraced him Smeagol. The former hobbit was so startled that he didn’t return it at first, then did so tentatively. How long had it been since he had been held? He had no memories of it, not since the Ring had come to him, not since he had accepted its embrace.

“No, Smeagol,” the one Ring-bearer said to the other. “You can be free of it. I can be free of it. We just have to be remain strong enough.”

“There is no strength strong enough to break it,” Smeagol said miserably, then though his shattered heart and soul cried out for the loss of such caring, he broke the embrace. He crawled back to his sleeping spot and closed his eyes.

The camp settled back down. Frodo looked at their guide for a long time with tears in his eyes. At long last, he lay down himself, on his side, his back to Sam, but he couldn’t sleep, just kept staring at Smeagol. Sam watched him in concern.

“What was your dream about, dear?” he asked.

“It was terrible,” Frodo said, trying to calm himself. The dark wisps of his nightmare still clouded his vision but they were fading. “I destroyed the Ring.”

“That’s not terrible,” Sam said. “That’s wonderful!”

“No, it wasn’t. Smeagol died, because of it, because of me.”

The Ring-bearer was silent for so long that Sam wished he had found sleep again, but he knew better. “What should I do, Sam?” Frodo asked quietly.

“About what, me dear?” he answered, worried about his master’s tone of voice. Frodo sounded so lost. There was pain in it enough to cause the ache in Sam’s heart to increase to breaking.

“All this time,” the elder hobbit began, “we have been trying to get to Mordor to destroy the Ring. But I don’t want to do that anymore, Sam. Not if it means Smeagol’s death.”

“It was only a dream,” Sam said. “But even if it wasn’t, the Ring must still be destroyed.” He spoke softly but with unarguable certainty, trying to give his beleaguered master the strength to go on.

Frodo was silent for a moment. “I know. But so many people have died already because of it, because of me. Gandalf, some of Faramir’s men and more will die. When it is going to end, Sam? I don’t want to be responsible for any more deaths.”

Sam touched his master’s shoulder. “It will end when the Ring is gone,” he said gently. “Those that have died, have died for you, not because of you. They believed in you and the importance of your Quest and did not believe their deaths would be in vain. You can’t abandon your task now. You can’t betray their sacrifice.”

Frodo didn’t answer right away. “I just don’t want anyone else to die,” he said. “I saw so many others fall in Galadriel’s mirror. Merry, Pippin, Legolas, Gimli, Aragorn. I had killed them. I even killed you. You were the last to fall. The Ring had won. I had not been strong enough.” He continued to stare at Smeagol. “Is this where I failed, Sam? Did I love Smeagol so much that I couldn’t destroy the Ring?”

Sam’s heart broke at the torment in his master’s voice, even as he was horrified to hear what the mirror had revealed. He squeezed his beloved friend’s shoulder, tears in his eyes for the pain Frodo was in. “The Ring would like you to stop pursuing the Quest. It wills to live and will twist anything and anyone to that purpose. Maybe it sent that dream to you in the hopes of discouraging you so much you would give up. You can’t let it win. If you don’t have the strength to fight it, then take mine. It’s yours. It always has been.”

Frodo was silent for so long that Sam didn’t think he would answer at all. “Thank you, Sam,” he murmured at last. He didn’t sound quite so tormented, more resigned. “I know you are right.”

“Try to get some sleep, dear,” Sam said gently, releasing his hold on his master’s shoulder and laying back down. “The morning will bring new light.”

Frodo turned over and sought his friend's arms. Sam watched his master until Frodo’s body and breathing relaxed and Sam knew he had found sleep. He kissed his head softly. "Sleep well, dear, I love you," he murmured, then closed his own eyes again. He dearly wished that Frodo would find escape as well. Faramir looked on with concern and pity and admiration.

Dawn came and the party moved on after a brief, cold breakfast. Frodo’s head remained bent. He did not seem aware of the sun or the pleasant cool of the day. He concentrated solely on putting one foot in front of the other, ignoring as best he could the constant whispers of the Ring. His lips moved silently, counting steps taken then praying for strength. Sam walked beside him inside the protective circle of Rangers, watching in concern. The Ring-bearer’s fatigue was so great that he slipped in and out of consciousness as he stumbled along. Dream and reality blurred in his vision.

Even the alert Rangers were not aware of the ambush that awaited them. Frodo wearily raised his head as arrows came down at them from the cover of trees. Three Rangers were felled in that first moment. Sam dragged his master away who stared fixated at the bodies and the spreading blood from the arrow wounds. The others spun around to fight their unseen enemies while Faramir placed his hands on the hobbits’ shoulders and moved them quickly along the path. Sam automatically pushed his master behind him to shield him, but that was no guarantee of safety as the arrows continued to fly from all directions. The Rangers shot into the trees and were rewarded by the cries of fallen orcs, but there were so many of them and more men continued to fall.

Frodo saw the arrow headed directly toward Sam as though it was coming in slow motion. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out and his body refused to move fast enough to knock his friend out of the way. The younger hobbit eyes widened in horror as he saw his death whizzing toward him, but he would not move and have his master take the arrow instead. The shaft bit deep into his chest and he was flung backwards into Frodo’s arms. The Ring-bearer’s voice finally returned in an anguished cry as he laid his beloved friend gently down and knelt by him. Tears streamed down his cheek in an unnoticed flood as he frantically tore at Sam’s cloak and shirt to get to the wound that was soaking his clothes in blood. Sam grasped at his blood stained hands weakly, stopping him. Frodo looked up at him, saw pain and sorrow and overwhelming love. He cried harder when he realized he was never going to see that again.

“Don’t cry....dear,” Sam breathed weakly. “I’m sorry, I must...go ahead of you... this time.”

Frodo shook his head in panicked denial. “No, my Sam, no!” He started pulling at his friend’s clothes again. Sam stopped him again, his grasp even weaker. The Ring-bearer looked up into the light fading from his beloved friend’s eyes. He clasped both of his blood-soaked hands around his friend’s tightly, desperately trying to give him the strength to go on. “You can’t leave me, Sam. You can’t! I can’t go on without you. Please, Sam, you’ve always done what I’ve told you before. You have to this time too. Don’t leave me. Don’t. Please.”

Sam smiled sadly. With his failing strength, he brought his master’s hands to his lips and kissed them one last time. “I’m sorry... me dearest... but this last.... request... I can’t... obey.” His voice was nothing but a whisper now.

Frodo grasped his guardian’s hands even tighter as though by sheer force of will, he could keep his friend bound to him. “No, Sam, NO!” he cried as he watched the light in those beloved eyes dim and then fade all together.

“SAM!” Frodo screamed but he did not hear himself as it was drowned out by the wail of his heart as it was torn out from him. He drew his friend’s body into his arms and sobbed long and hard.

It took him a while to realize he was being shaken. He thought it was an orc dragging him away, the only survivor of the ambush and the only one that the Eye had demanded be kept alive. He didn’t resist. He didn’t care about anything anymore. They could have the Ring. He wouldn’t live long now any way, not without his heart.

But the voice he heard was not a rough orc, but a much softer one. “Wake up, dear,” it said. “You must have fallen asleep right on your feet. And right in the middle of the battle! You must be just done in. Wake up now. You were having a bad dream. Just a dream.”

The next thing Frodo realized was that he was being held and rocked gently. He held on as though his life depended on it as he was sure it truly did. He knew he was trembling badly, but couldn’t stop. He opened his eyes and looked into Sam’s concerned ones. He was not aware of Smeagol’s or Faramir’s or anyone else’s, nothing but the wonder and joy of seeing the love that poured from his friend’s eyes that he thought he’d never see again.

“You’re alive,” he breathed.

Sam wiped at his master’s tears and smiled. Frodo reached out to touched his guardian’s cheek as though he still couldn’t believe it. He then looked down at Sam’s shirt and cloak which was dirty and stained, but not torn or bloody. He looked back up into his friend’s shining eyes for a moment, then wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist. He buried his head in his friend’s chest and closed his eyes. He concentrated solely on filling his ears with that beloved heartbeat and feeling those arms around him. Sam held him for a long time as he tried to stop him from shaking. He listened as Frodo murmured his name over and over again.

Faramir and Smeagol watched them thoughtfully. The Ranger’s eyes misted as he recalled almost forgotten memories of his mother doing the same thing.

“He’ll be all right, Captain,” Sam said when he looked up to see the Ranger’s concerned gaze. He ignored Smeagol’s. He looked back down at his master and stroked his curls. “Isn’t that right, dear? You’ll be all right. Don’t you fear anymore. Your Sam is here. He’s not going to leave you or let anything happen to you.”

Faramir moved away and motioned that the camp be set up for the night and a watch set. Dusk was already approaching and the wounded needed taking care of and the dead buried. The Ranger knew he could not comfort his men as well as Sam was doing for his master, but he would do what he could. Neither hobbit was aware of any of the preparations.

“Do you want to talk about it, dear?” Sam asked when Frodo at last stopped trembling.

The Ring-bearer shook his head that remained buried in his friend’s chest. “No, it’s too terrible. Just keep holding me, Sam, keep talking to me. Let me know this is real, not the dream.”

Sam tightened his embrace. “This is real, dear. I’m not going to let you go.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

The young gardener kept up a steady, soft stream of comforts as he continued to rock his master. After a while of just sitting silently together, Sam raised his head to see Faramir approach with two small dishes.

“Here, dear, look, Captain Faramir has brought us something to eat. You’ll feel better once you get something inside you.”

Frodo raised his head from Sam’s chest. He was reluctant to leave his friend’s arms, but he uncurled from them long enough to eat and drink something. “Thank you, Faramir,” he said as he reached for the dish. The Ring-bearer’s eyes were still red from crying and there was much pain that the man ached to see. From Frodo’s sympathetic look, he realized his eyes must have much looked the same.

Faramir looked at his friend for a while as the Ring-bearer bowed his head and applied himself to his meal. The Ranger shared a concerned look with Sam, then moved away. Sam ate quietly, not even noticing what he ate, as he looked at his dearest friend the whole time. Frodo ate quickly and then sought the refuge of his friend’s arms again. Sam held him and sang him to sleep.

“Lie you still, safe in my arms, my dear.
Close your weary eyes and do not fear.
Rest your head and do not weep.
I am here to guard you while you sleep.

“Slumber now in peace, brother mine,
Dream of home where the sun forever shines
Rest in quiet now, close to my heart,
And while I live, I’ll never from you part.

“Hush ye now, love, be not afraid.
Till moon and sun and stars shall fade,
Until this earth is lost beneath the sea,
I will be with you and you with me.”

Sam kissed his slumbering master’s head. “Sleep well, dear. I love you.”

Smeagol watched them. “It’s the Precious that is tormenting him,” he said as he gazed at Frodo’s strained features..

Sam looked up at the creature for a moment and held his friend a little tighter, not trusting the sympathy he heard and saw in the former hobbit.

“Not if I have anything to say about it, it won’t,” the gardener said with a hard edge to his voice.

The ancient hobbit looked up at Sam. “You don’t,” he said and though his voice was cold, Sam also heard long endured pain as Smeagol’s gaze turned back to their troubled master.

A/N: Of course, the gorgeous lullaby is another masterpiece of Queen Galadriel with just a teensy bit of modification of my own.