A/N: Movie-verse. Sorry for any mistakes I may have missed. I love The Lord of The Rings, and just couldn't get this idea out of my head.
Ithilien lay far behind them now. Hidden beyond the expanse of mountains and moors, buried deep and almost forgotten.
Faramir had proven himself a noble man, and Frodo felt obligated to wish him well down his own path, but there was one now in his party, sullen and withdrawn, whose hurts he suspected ran deeper than the flesh.
Frodo had tried to approach the subject with Smeagol, to at least explain to the poor wretch that everything he'd done at the Forbidden Pool had been to save him. Even Sam-though reluctant and still entirely suspicious of their guide's intentions-had stepped in, a slither of pity in his heart for all the ills that had befallen the creature at the hands of Faramir's men. But Smeagol, for all his wits, was a simple soul, doubtless with a child's skewered perspective on the workings of men and hobbits alike.
From his perch at the mouth of the cave, Frodo watched the subject of his regret, his marred spine curved and his head bowed with a sorry look on his face. His pale, beacon-like eyes were fixed at the small carcass of a bird spread out before his long fingers. Smeagol's wrist had healed over the days since Ithilien, and the bruises upon his person were fading, but there was still blood in his mouth and a nasty sound of clicking enamel whenever he spoke or attempted to feed. He had not yet given up the hunt of sustenance, but Frodo hadn't seen him manage more than a single bit of anything before crying out in both pain and dismay, spitting crimson and unchewed meat back at the earth.
He shifted his attention to the left, fixing his gaze upon Sam, who was huddled over the beginnings of a campfire, face flushed and cheeks rouge. Occasionally, he would turn away from the small promise of embers, and glance at Smeagol, unease written on his face.
As if sensing that he was being studied, Samwise turned his wet, ash-smeared face towards the cave. The smile he flashed him was little more than grimace, a ghost of days gone by. Frodo could not bring himself to return it. But he acknowledged the good intentions with a curt nod, feeling his neck creak and protest, and the returned to his careful observation of their guide.
He wondered, as he watched, if there was anything he could possibly do to restore the shattered bond of trust between them. He suspected, at this rate, that Sam's initial convictions about the creature were more true now than they had ever been. A chill ran through him and he thought of fingers on cold steel and sleeping with one eye open and jumping at every sound.
"Mr. Frodo."
He looked up. Smeagol jolted from his reverie, turning his gleaming eyes upon them both, casual interest on his face, before he sighed and resumed his mourning for the supper he couldn't manage.
"Come over here by the fire. It's lovely an' warm." said Samwise. Then his gaze shot upwards, a sudden look of doubt twisting his features, before the light of the fire chased it away and he was again looking at Frodo. "It's good we happened by this spot," he went on, good nature in his tone, "the wood 'ere is dry. Won't give us away."
Frodo felt a twinge of something like fear, but it was a weak shudder down his spine, and not entirely familiar. A cold, clutching numbness had taken a hold of him of late, chasing away almost all weaknesses and concerns but the one ring. He found himself wanting to care for their safety more than he actually did. By now, the darkness festering within him was pulling him under inch by inch, and it was a struggle just to stop from drowning in it.
But the fire was warm, and bright, and it brought back memories of warm summer eves back at The Shire, when he and his cousins had sat around until morning, smoking pipe-weed and drinking ale, and laughing about one of Bilbo's many tales.
He forced himself upright, trying to ignore the way the very limbs of his body shrieked and dragged. The brittle snap and crack of twigs beneath his feet rooted him as he dropped from the cave and hobbled forwards. Sam watched him with concern.
Frodo paused when he reached Smeagol's side, and-ignoring the look of dismay Sam threw him, and the way Smeagol flinched-placed a hand upon their guide's bony shoulder, squeezing gently. The skin beneath his fingers was deceptively soft and warm.
"Won't you join us?' he asked, a spark of hope fighting its way through the numbness.
Smeagol cocked his head back, his neck twisting at a bizarre angle as it strained to accommodate him. There was a strange look on his face, his mouth a grim line against the pain, and his eyes large and alight within the darkness. He shook his head, slow and deliberate. He hadn't spoken much since leaving Faramir and the rest of the Rangers. Frodo found himself beginning to miss his having a third party to converse with. And although most of the times it gave him a headache, sometimes he couldn't help but be a little amused at Sam and Smeagol's bickering.
"Are you sure?" he pressed. He could not hide the pleading in his voice, nor could he help it as it ghosted across his face. If Smeagol was lost, what hope was there for himself against this darkness?
Again, the poor wretch shook his head.
Frodo had no choice but to concede defeat. He moved with great reluctance to join Sam by the fire. The flames were tall and animated now, chasing the bay of shadows away and warming even the icy clutch Frodo felt within himself.
Sam observed him for a moment, all manner of complaints evident on his face, but Frodo was too tired and too miserable for words of caution. He picked at a branch by his side, the bark was sticky and it smelt strange as it hissed within the embrace of the flames.
"We need to do something about that tooth." he said at length. "I haven't seen him eat anything in days."
Sam glanced over to their subject of discussion. The rare show of pity he had shown on their way out of Ithilien returned to chase away the protest on the tip of his tongue. "Doubtin' it'll do much good," he said softly, "I wager none o' us will be doin' much eatin' soon enough." Frodo followed his pointed gaze towards the mountains, black and ominous against a starless sky. Even the trees were dying the closer they ventured to Mordor.
"How are we for Lembas?" asked Frodo.
Sam shook his head, "Not good." he said, "I rationed it, set aside some for the return journey, but..." he frowned, poking at the dry earth with a stubby finger. "... Sometimes I can barely get to my feet."
Frodo knew that feeling all too well. His hunger had taken him far beyond his limits. Every step he took threatened to bring him crashing down, every part of him shook with exertion, and there was a nasty lurching in his stomach, like a wicked claw was grasping his innards and twisting.
"I'm so 'ungry, I reckon I'd wolf down even somethin' o' Stinker's." Sam went on sadly, his big warm eyes resting briefly at the dead bird at Smeagol's feet. Frodo watched their guide snap his head up in alarm, panic on his face at first before a dark look replaced it. The smile he offered was not a comforting one, and it was made entirely worse by the blood pooling around his tongue. But he inched away from the game he had wrested, dropping his eyes in offering. Frodo turned back to Sam, who looked nothing short of horrified.
"Well." he said, stalling.
Frodo managed a smile at that. "You said you were starving." he pressed, enjoying the way the colour rushed to Sam's cheeks and he flushed and tried to come up with an excuse.
Any protest Sam might have had was quelled under the loud grumble of his stomach. He grinned helplessly as his guts continued their boisterous chorus for attention. When he looked over at their guide, Smeagol had his back to them and was nestled in a tight ball in the underbrush of some dying thickets, his ribs expanding softly with each inhale of breath.
"Go on, Sam." said Frodo, more sternly this time. "We're going to need all the energy we can get."
He watched his friend huff and blush, but ultimately he did give in, and got to his feet. He hesitated when he reached the offering, his mouth working around words uttered too low and hushed for Frodo to catch. And then he reached down to gather the small bundle of meat and downy red feathers.
When Sam was sitting before him once again, the flame casting him in a warm glow, Frodo breached the subject of their guide once more. "I think we're going to have to pull it out." he said.
For a moment, Sam looked lost. A handful of plucked feathers in his fist and comical puzzlement on his face. Then he exhaled and gave a nod of his head. "I think you're right." he agreed. "But I don't reckon we'll have much luck. It's one thing to tell 'im it's for 'is own good, doesn't mean 'e's goin' to go along with it."
Frodo felt the weariness settle back in his bones when he considered the ordeal this would turn into. He thought back to that first night, when all three of them had been in better health and spirit; Smeagol had been strong then, his will driven entirely by his need to reclaim the ring, and though his strength had dwindled as hunger and the toll of the journey caught up with him, he had still proven far more resilient to such things than the hobbits. Frodo doubted that was in any mood to be cooperative after Ithilien. This left him with the growing certainty that he was going to have a struggle on his hands, one that he wasn't sure he was strong enough to win.
"It has to be done." he said at last. Firm and decided. "We are traveling a dangerous road, it won't do to add hunger to our list of disadvantages. Whatever it takes, we all need to be able to fight should we run into trouble."
Sam plucked the last of the feathers from the bird and set to work skewering and roasting it over the fire. He left the innards in a grim pile to his left. The flames licked at darkness around him, and in the glow he looked old and weary. Frodo felt the tiredness settle deep in his bones.
"All right, Mr. Frodo." he said with a sigh. "All right."
The bird was sliced into small segments once cooked through, and placed into three small piles. It was little more than a crumb of a meal for a hobbit, but it was better than nothing. Frodo watched Sam finish his bit in one mouthful, his tongue darting out to taste his fingers and his lips, savoring every last linger of it.
"Are you not 'avin' any, Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam.
Frodo shook his head. "No, Sam." he answered. "I don't think I'll be able to keep it down." There was some truth to this statement, but he had other things in mind for the small meal. Namely, a peace offering. He knew tomorrow was going to put even more of a strain on Smeagol's trust of him, but he hoped, perhaps, that a bit of sustenance would go a long way. The ghost of a smile curved his lips. Even if it was cooked, he thought.
"You should get some rest, Sam." he said after a moment, "I'll take first watch."
Sam made no argument, the weariness was evident as he stumbled upright and gathered his things with trembling hands. He offered a smile in passing, before he clambered up into the mouth of the cave, set out his bedroll and tucked himself snugly beneath the covers, his back to the woods and the grim outline of Mordor on the horizon.
Frodo waited until he could hear the soft sounds of Sam's snoring before he got quietly to his feet and approached Smeagol's slumbering form. He stood over their guide for a long moment, observing the way the fresh bruises stretched with each inhale, and the telling jerk of his limbs every few breaths. He settled down in the dirt beside him, resting his chin upon his knees, content just to listen to the sounds of his companions sleeping.
A long journey still stretched out before them. Frodo wondered if the road ahead would hold much respite for any of them.