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February 26, 1419 (in the Shire reckoning)
on the cliff overlooking the Emyn Muil.
". . .shouldering their burdens, they set off, seeking a path that would bring them over the grey hills of the Emyn Muil, and down into the Land of Shadow."
The Fellowship of the Ring p 423
"I'm glad you're with me, Sam," said Frodo.
Sam smiled. He couldn't help it, not when Frodo smiled at him like that, with his heart in his luminous blue eyes. But Sam's own heart was far from light. His cloak was still damp from his near-drowning in the cold waters of Nen Hithoel. And his eyes were still swollen from the tears he had shed when he realized that Frodo had almost gotten away from his care.
He had vowed again and again to stay with Frodo on his Quest. He had promised Gandalf back in Bag End, and he had vowed to Gildor in the woods of the Shire that he would not let Frodo journey alone, and in Elrond's house he had braved the mighty Council to insist on being one of the Fellowship. 'Don't you lose him, Samwise Gamgee!' Yet he almost had! His eyes welled again at the memory of his anguish, racing through the woods on Amon Hen in search of his master, and the cold fear in his heart as he reached Parth Galen and saw the single boat moving into the lake. How near he had come to breaking his vow! "Watch yourself, Sam Gamgee," he muttered. "This is no time to get woolly-headed".
But Frodo had seen his face, and he stopped. "What is it, Sam?" he asked.
"I was just thinking of how close I came to losing you," replied Sam, with a touch of indignation in his tone. "That was a near one! I couldn't a borne it, it'd have been the death of me."
When he'd said that before, in the boat, Frodo had replied "It would be the death of you to come with me, Sam, and I could not have borne that." He did not repeat it now, but Sam remembered, and he suddenly heard the last words again: "I could not have borne that."
Sam knew that Frodo cared for him. Frodo cared for everyone, a kinder gentlehobbit had never lived, but this statement seemed to imply a deeper caring. . . . or was Sam just hoping, dreaming of a love that he could never have? "Surely he could never love me like I love him," he thought. "No one could love that much. Why, he's my life!" And his eyes began to swim again.
"Oh, Sam," murmured Frodo. "Now I've made you cry again. It seems neither of us can say anything without crying today. What a terrible, terrible day! I hope the others are alright." His lip trembled a bit, remembering the events of the day. The scene with Boromir flashed to his mind: the Man's noble face swollen and dark with lust; the horrible strength of his hands; the tremor in his maddened voice. And what came after.
Frodo had not had the Ring on his finger since the fateful night on Weathertop. His left shoulder throbbed coldly at the memory of that terror. The Ringwraiths advancing, swords leveled. Sam attacking them, gallant and foolish. The wraiths undeterred, and then even that terror swallowed in the explosive power of the Ring. Madly, involuntarily, Frodo had drawn out the Ring, and had felt rather than heard the sigh of longing that emanated from the Ringwraiths' undead lips. Then the pale King advancing, summoning Frodo with his terrible chant: "As you are, we once were. As we are, you soon will be." And the Ring singing its siren song. . . Ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul. . . Then the searing cold as the Witch King's dagger entered his shoulder. The next thing he remembered was Sam bending over him, tears falling warm on his face. Then days of fear and pain; the terrible flight to the Ford of Bruinen; then darkness until, out of the cold and the dark came . . . Sam. Always Sam. Forever Sam.
And today it had all come back to him, the details smeared by pain but the terror as sharp as it had been that October night. The fair and pleasant features of Boromir had taken on the livid hatred of the Witch King's, and the Ring's hideous voice had sung in his very soul. But there had been no choice. Boromir was a tall man and strong, and Frodo could never hope to fight or outrun him. There was only one thing he could do: put on the Ring.
Frodo shivered as he remembered the cool smooth gold sliding on his finger, the terror and grief that sent him leaping blindly to Amon Hen, the Seat of Seeing, the Hill of the Eye of the Men of Numenor. There he had seen the power of Sauron massing in Mordor, the terrible fortress of Barad-dur, and the Eye within. He felt again its piercing glance, searching for him. . . searching . . . finding him . . . . capturing him. . . . taking the Ring. . . .
"Frodo!" Sam's voice was sharper than usual, and Frodo started. Sam's warm brown hand clasped his shoulder (the left one . . . the warmth so welcome. . . .) and then Frodo was in Sam's strong arms, sobbing.
"Oh, Sam, I'm so afraid!" he choked. "Boromir said I would beg for death before the end, and he's right, he's so right. Either He will get me . . . or It will. Oh, Sam, my dearest, dearest Sam, what shall I do?" His sobs shook him as, for the first time, he gave himself up to the grief and fear that had been eating away at his heart.
Sam said nothing. There was nothing to say. He sank to the ground, drawing Frodo into his lap, cradling the trembling body in his arms. His rough hands were very gentle as he smoothed the dark tumbled curls. His lips brushed the silky hair, pressed themselves to Frodo's forehead, softly soothed the swollen eyelids. Slowly Frodo's sobs diminished, and he nestled closer into Sam's loving arms. On the clifftop overlooking Emyn Muil, at the border of the Nameless Land, under the very gaze of the Dark Lord's host, Frodo was home.
the end