Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any of the characters, places, or objects used in this fanfic
First Weakness
"Sam," gasped Frodo as he clutched at the rock face for another handhold. Grasping a ledge with his blistered hands, he hauled his bedraggled form up until he collapsed, breathing quickly to fill poisoned lungs. "I don't think I can make it any further."
"Don't say that Mr. Frodo," said Sam, biting back tears. They needed more time. It was obvious to him that his best friend was dying, and that he was dying as well. He did not expect them to come out of this alive, but he knew he needed to press on, if not for his sake, than for the sake of everything that was good in the world. He needed to do this for the others, if they were even still alive. Just the thought of the others pained Sam so much that the tears flowed freely down his soot-smeared face. Brushing them quickly aside, he helped Frodo to his feet.
"Come on now, we're almost there. We can rest soon." What a lie this was. Sam knew that they were nearing the top of the mountain, but that there was nothing to be gained from reaching the summit except the feeling of happiness that would burst forth when they knew that they had destroyed the ring. In the instant before the release of death, they would know that they had saved all of Middle Earth from destruction. Sam did not know if this was worth dying for yet, but he did know that death would be welcomed. He was more worried about Frodo than himself.
They continued to climb, living each moment for an eternity. Sam realized that he was scratched and bleeding from the jagged rocks, but he did not care. He had stopped feeling a long time ago. Now, he only remembered. His senses did not take in anything from the world around him. He only existed in his own personal Hell. Suddenly, Sam noticed a shape gliding swiftly towards them as the fires of Mt. Doom raged around him.
"No," said Frodo weakly. "No." He fell sideways, hitting his head on a rock and crumpling into a heap. Sam ran towards him and knelt, crying and wiping the blood from his face.
A dark shape was approaching, wreathed in flame, drifting over the dark rock face. Frodo let out a cry of pain, and the thing seemed to laugh. Sam felt paralyzed. He could not make his body move no matter how hard his mind told it to. The thing laughed again. It was the worst sound Sam had ever heard in his whole life. Cold, so cold that it seemed to freeze his very blood, destroy him from the inside out. Frodo lay at The Dark Lord's feet as life drained away, but he gave up willingly and without any struggle. His figure slumped against the rocks like a limp doll left in the rain by careless child.
"No Mr. Frodo, don't give in!" Sam screamed with every ounce of energy he had left in his weak body. "Keep fightn'." Thousands of miles of traveling, countless deaths, after they had sacrificed everything, it simply could not come to this. Ash blew in his face, billowing smoke obscured his vision. Everything was red and orange and black. His lungs were screaming for a breath of fresh air after days of breathing fumes from the volcano. The light blinded him. He could see nothing but the scene unfolding in front of him. The ring, a tiny orb of golden light, was suspended in midair, glowing and luminescent. A hand that seemed to be made of shadow was reaching out. Long, dark fingers were stretching, closing around it, and the thing was done. Sam could do nothing to stop it. And there lay Frodo, right in front of Sam, dying. He was dying, and he was suffering as Sauron laughed.
When The Nine had set out from Rivendell so long ago, Sam could remember the eagerness he had felt, the sense of adventure. What now seemed like a lifetime to him had been only the past year. The golden light had seeped through the trees, trees with leaves of gold, red, and yellow. A timid wind had swept their leaves across the forest floor, creating tiny tornadoes of swirling color. Everything had been alive and well, the paths towards Mordor had called for tavellers seeking an adventure. Sam had thought he had understood the risk he was taking when he had joined the group. But now, as he lay and looked up into the face of The Dark Lord, he realized he had not understood, there had been so much he had not understood. But that no longer mattered.
He could still feel the crisp autumn air, see the others, so many of them dead now. He thought of Gandalf, Strider, Gimlee, Merry and Pippin, Legolas, and Boromir, Eru rest him. He knew that he and Frodo had to be the only ones left. After all, how could the others abandon them in their quest? They would have come to Sam and Frodo's aid before now, before it had been too late...
The ring was floating, that was all that Sam could see now. So it has come to this, he thought. Then the ring was on the Dark Lord's finger, and all time stopped.