Chapter 30: The Stairs

Sam looked up apprehensively at the stairs going almost straight up. Smeagol was already ready to begin to scramble up them, but Sam and Frodo and the others remained stopped at their base.

“I don’t like this,” the gardener said, then looked back at his master. “You know what’s up there.”

Frodo shared his gaze and nervousness. This was another place he had betrayed Sam. He didn’t think he would this time, but still the memory was there and of the terror of being alone in the spider’s lair. “I don’t like it either, Sam. But there’s no other way.” He turned to his friend and Sam was thrilled to see him smile faintly. “As you would say, there’s nothing for it.”

The smile faded as the Ring-bearer looked at the green light that glowed sickly from Minas Morgul. He wished the peace that had come to him outside Osgiliath had remained more firmly. He could still feel it, but fainter. Strongest now was the pull of the Ring toward the lair of the Witch-king and Frodo longed to follow its lead, to relieve himself of his burden, to let go of the great weight that was so heavily pressing upon him. He stumbled a few steps forward as the ground began to shake. He was so close. He had only to walk a short bit and it would be all over, then he could rest, he could breathe again. Peace could come that way too, couldn’t it? But then, Sam and Smeagol grabbed his arms at the same time and pulled him back.

He strained against them. “Let me go!” he cried as he writhed in their grasp.

“No, dear, no!” Sam said.

“No, Master,” Smeagol added urgently. “You can’t go that way. You can’t let him have it.”

The struggle quickly exhausted Frodo. He continued to pull against their hold but now only weakly. “Let me go,” he begged much softer, almost a whimper. He had no strength to resist when Sam and Smeagol pulled him away and they hid under the walkway leading into the dead city with Faramir and his men.

The Nazgul rose on his fell beast, overlooking the hordes of orcs and other foul beings that poured from the Witch-king’s lair. All those hidden looked up at him, momentarily frozen in terror. Frodo wanted to surrender, but he knew he couldn’t. He also knew how much he wanted to. But how much what that his own will and how much the Ring? He couldn’t tell. He stared up at the wraith who had nearly killed him and whose master could still claim his soul if he wasn’t strong enough and felt himself being torn in two from the opposing forces within and without him. He would have reached for the Ring then, but both Sam and Smeagol held his hands in both of theirs tight enough to hurt to keep him from doing so.

Sam grimaced in pain as the screech of the fell beast tore through the air. He put his head between his knees and covered his ears that way for he wouldn’t let go of his master’s hand. Smeagol had no such compunction. He covered his ears and crouched low on the ground as though he could further escape the sound that way. With his freed hand, Frodo clutched his shoulder which throbbed nearly as bad as it had when freshly struck. He wilted under the assault and clenched his teeth from crying out. He felt the incredible draw of the Ring and his fingers began to reach toward to it when unexpectedly a larger hand encompassed his. He and Sam looked into Faramir’s grim, pained features. “Thank you,” the Ring-bearer breathed as his will began to strengthen again against the Ring. The other Rangers held their ears and crouched as low as they could. Then the attack passed. The pain in Frodo’s shoulder faded to a ache and his ears stopped ringing. Sam and Faramir let go of Frodo’s hand. Smeagol and the men got up from their crouch. Frodo took a deep breath to steady himself and sat up.

Smeagol didn’t wait to begin to scramble up the stairs. Frodo watched him for a moment, then began the climb himself. Sam was right behind him and behind Sam, Faramir and his remaining men. The climb was harder this time for Frodo and he had to take more time to give his muscles moments to rest. He just wished it to be over with and so pushed himself onward though beyond exhaustion until he began slipping more often. At last, afraid to go further and slip again and possibly take Sam or others with him, he stopped on a small ledge and collapsed into a small ball, trying to calm his breathing and stop the trembling in his muscles.

Sam came up next to him and slowly began to stroke his back. For a long moment, Frodo simply let himself feel that comfort. The others stopped as well. Smeagol paused further up to look back. Frodo looked down. There was no way they could stay where they were for any length of time. The ledge was big enough only for him and Sam. They had to go on. More than the steep climb was sapping their strength. Dread and despair hung heavily in the air. Frodo expected attack at any time and from the grim expressions of the others, he knew he was not alone in that. He was surprised it hadn’t come yet. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and, trembling from that effort, looked into Sam’s concerned face. “I’m all right, Sam,” he said.

Sam frowned at his friend as he knew better. Frodo smiled wearily in acknowledgment of that, then grasped the hand his friend extended to help him stand and begin the climb again. Sam wished he could do something more than that, something other than just watch his already exhausted friend push himself even further, but the steps were too small and slippery. As much as he wanted to carry Frodo or at least take his hand, he knew that could send them both tumbling down, so after a moment he did the only thing he could do. Follow his beloved master and keep a careful eye on his back.

An hour later, they reached a much large ledge with two others below it. On the highest, Frodo stopped, unable to push himself any further. He sprawled out on his stomach and just lay there, breathing hard. After a long moment, he wearily raised his head to look at Smeagol who had come to crouch near his face, staring balefully at Sam who was almost up to them.

“Watch yourself, Master,” the creature warned in a low voice. “The fat one still wants the Ring. He’s always looking at you, waiting for his chance. He must not have it.”

“He won’t,” Frodo assured. “He does not want it for himself. It is love for me that motivates him, not love for the Ring. And it is my love for him that will prevent me from ever letting him have it. It is destroying me as it has been you. I won’t let it destroy him, too.”

Smeagol had no reply. When Sam came up a few moments later and sat down wearily at his master’s side, there was no sign of the creature. Faramir and his men arranged themselves as best as they could on the other two ledges.

Frodo could barely lift his head. “I’m so tired, Sam.”

Before Sam could say anything, the long-anticipated attack came as orcs rained down arrows on them. Two Rangers pitched down the stairs with a yell. Sam moved immediately to cover Frodo’s body with his own. “Stay down,” he ordered when his master tried to move.

Faramir and his men quickly organized a defense, returning the arrow fire. A half-dozen of the orcs tumbled screaming to their deaths. Others shouted war cries and scrambled down the stairs to engage in closer combat.

Sam moved and with a shout stabbed one of the orcs, then another, sending them both over the edge. Frodo got up and pulled out Sting, plunging the glowing blade into two more bodies. In the heated engagement, both his and Sam’s cloak were soon splattered with their own and their enemies blood. They fought back to back to protect each other, Sam giving as many glances back as he could afford to check on his master. Frodo fought grimly. He wouldn’t let them have the Ring. He couldn’t come this far and fail. He wouldn’t.

Finally it was over and Sam and Frodo sat down next to each other, breathing hard, but alive and still together. Sam looked over his master anxiously. He ripped off the cuff from his sleeve to bandage a cut on his brother’s forehead. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked.

Frodo tried to get his breath. He looked down at his clothes that were bloodied. “No, Sam, I don’t think so. Thank you. The blood’s not mine, not much of it at least.”

He looked up at his friend. “You’re hurt, too, Sam,” he said with concern as he gazed at Sam’s bleeding cheek and hand. He tore off his cuff and wiped at his friend’s cheek and then bandaged his hand. He smiled faintly as he looked up at his friend. “There you go, Samwise the Brave, good as new or almost, though I hate that you were hurt at all.”

“It’s not bad, dear, thank you.” Sam said. “I’m glad that training Mr. Boromir gave has stuck with us.”

“Boromir,” Frodo echoed softly. “I hope they are all okay.” He looked down at Faramir who was gathering and supporting the remainder of his men. He looked up briefly at the two hobbits and Sam waved that they were ok. Faramir looked relieved and nodded, then returned his attention to his men. Frodo counted eighteen now, where they had been thirty before. “How many more I wonder will be killed because of me?”

Sam looked up at his dearest friend, concerned at the distant, pain-filled tone in his master’s voice. “You can’t blame yourself, dear,” he said gently. “None of this is your fault. Mr. Boromir is probably sharing a pint with your cousins and Strider even now.”

Frodo didn’t respond, just continued to look down at Faramir and his men. Sam wondered if he was even seeing them at all or staring into some other horror conjured by his fears and the stress of his burden. He reached out and rubbed his master’s back again in slow, soothing circles, trying to bring him back from wherever he was.

After a while, Frodo relaxed under his touch and leaned his head on Sam’s shoulder. “I wish we didn’t have to do this, Sam. I’m so tired of it all.”

“I know, dear, I know,” Sam said, “but there’s no way around it. We have to go through it.”

“Through the fire,” Frodo said softly. “Through the flames. I wonder if there’ll be anything left of us at the end.”

“Of course there will be. Only the Ring will be consumed.”

“I’m being consumed even now, Sam. There is so little of me left to offer. But still I do.”

Sam squeezed his beloved master’s shoulders. “And I will be with you.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

The gardener looked around. Smeagol still hadn’t returned from wherever he had gone. “I bet I know who’s to blame for that attack,” Sam said. “Slinker’s nowhere to be seen. He disappeared right after we stopped here. Plenty of time to send those filthy orcs after us.”

“No, Sam,” Frodo said and Sam turned his eyes back to master. “He doesn’t want Sauron to have the Ring anymore than we do. He still wants it for himself. He won’t risk losing it until he is sure it can be his again.”

There was such fatigue, grief and defeat in Frodo’s voice that Sam’s heart almost broke. He wanted nothing other than to ease it, even if he couldn’t sympathize with the cause of it. “You won’t let that happen,” he said in way of comfort, unable to think of anything else.

“No,” Frodo said slowly with a hard edge to his voice that frightened Sam. “I won’t.”

“Are you ready to start moving again?” Faramir called up. “Those orcs won’t be the last ones.”

Sam looked at his master. Frodo wearily lifted his head off Sam’s shoulder. The younger hobbit knew his master was much too exhausted to do any more climbing, but he grasped his arm anyway to help him up. “Come on, me dear,” he said tiredly. “It can’t be much farther.”

Frodo looked up. The tunnel awaited them and behind that... He clutched at his clothes where the Ring lay. “The doom of us all awaits,” he said in a strange, distant, fearful voice. He let himself be pulled up, then began climbing with a sudden burst of energy and speed that amazed Sam. Are you that anxious to get to your doom, me dear? he thought and followed his master as fast as he could.

He looked up and saw Smeagol meet Frodo at the top and the Ring-bearer follow the creature into the tunnel. Sam muttered under his breath and quickened his pace. He knew his master was going into a trap, but he followed. No other option entered Sam’s mind.