A Call to Darkness

On either side and in front wide fens and mires now lay, stretching away southward and eastward into the dim half-light. Mists curled and smoked from dark and noisome pools. The reek of them hung stifling in the still air.

Far away, now almost due south, the mountain-walls of Mordor loomed, like a black bar of rugged clouds floating above a dangerous fog-bound sea.

- Lord of the Rings, the Two Towers

The Ring must weigh half a ton, it seems. It is ever a burden upon me; tugging my head down, making my steps slow and laborious. But yet, at the same time, it is drawing me forwards - ever forwards, towards Mordor, towards its master.

Fear nibbles at my heart constantly. What if we are caught? What if Sauron regains the Ring? The world will be plunged into darkness and I, Sam and probably Gollum, too, will be slain, along with thousands of others. The Dark Lord has no mercy for his enemies.

I am cold, I realize. Winter is a chilly bite in the air here, and though one would expect it to be dank and humid amongst the marshlands, it is not. There is a cold that gnaws to the very bone, and I am perhaps more susceptible to it than my two companions. Sam strides ahead with subdued confidence underlying with a deep weariness that I myself feel, and Gollum scrambles along, occasionally stopping to sniff and put his ear to the ground.


I take a moment to look at the back of Sam's head, the dirty mass of curls brushing over his collar. Sam has been so faithful! At times I do not think I am worthy of his company, his bravery, his love. He is the best friend any hobbit, or indeed any creature, could want. He has remained by my side through all of this, but not afraid; at times I have seen the lines of worry crease his face, seen his tears, seen the way he trembles even when holding his sword.

Oh, Sam! If only things were different! If only you would have stayed at the Shire, tending the gardens and drinking tea in the afternoons without such an old, fickle hobbit like me to worry about!

My foot slips on something slimy, I do not care to see what, and I tumble slowly downward to one of the rancid pools.

Sam moves quicker than I expected, grabbing me by the sleeve and pulling me back onto the slippery path. I can do little but smile tiredly at him, but at that moment I want to break down and hug him and tell him what a wonderful friend he has been, tell him how much I love him for it, tell him he never had to come with me, tell him that everything will be all right in the end.

But one look at his eyes and I can tell: he already knows.

He knows that it won't be all right, it will never be all right, and that nothing will ever be the same.

He knows he never had to come with me, never had to risk his life.

He knows how much I regret everything.

But sometimes I wonder if he knows that he is the best friend I've ever had?

He makes a feeble attempt to straighten my stained, rumpled and torn shirt, brushes me off and says, "Here now, Mr. Frodo. You can't be going slipping about like that. I might not be able to catch you, next time!"

My smile widens, but it feels too forced. I sigh and let it slip from my face. "I know, Sam. I'll just have to make sure not to fall."

He smiles at me, and then turns. Gollum is some distance away now, and has stopped to watch us with his huge, glowing eyes. Something resembling either a sneer or a smile twisted his mouth. He calls out to us, his voice a hiss on the bitter breeze.

"Hobbits must not fall behind now! Hobbits need to keep up! Make haste, we needs to make haste," he adds the last part as a hissing whisper, but we hear it nonetheless.

Sam, sensing my weariness, grabs my hand and tugs me along, weaving a path between the pools of putrid murk. Despite the ache in my legs, despite the desire to just sit down and slip into blissful oblivion, I force myself onwards, ignoring the pull of the Ring, and its cool weight against my chest. Sam lets go of my hand as I find my footing and strengthen my reserve.

Sam does not like Gollum, I knew. His evident distaste of the creature showed in the way he talked to it - him - and how he avoids looking at Gollum if it was possible. Secretly, I understand his revulsion - Gollum was no sight for sore eyes.

But Gollum had once been a person, a man named Smeagol. He had once sat at a dining room table and eaten breakfast and lunch and dinner, he had once laughed and ran in fields, he had once been other than the slimy, featureless creature that liked to eat raw fish and wallow in muck.

Sam seems to be able to forget this, but I cannot. Deep pity stirs my heart when I look upon the creature that was Gollum.

Mount Doom is a looming shadow in the distance. I dread reaching it. Some part of me does not want to give up the Ring, it wants to keep it and treasure it for ever, my own, my precious…

I look at Gollum, and tell myself that if I did, if I kept the Ring, that is what I would become: a sniveling, slime-covered, pathetic creature of darkness that fears the sun and the moon and all things fair in this world.

I do not want that.

I force my gaze away from the smoking mountain, where it has been resting for some time now, and force my attention back to the present. I would cross that bridge when I come to it.

I realize I have fallen behind again, my steps slow and full of weariness. I speed up a little, just enough as not to lose sight of Sam and Gollum entirely, and wrap my arms about myself, shivering into the unforgiving cold.

And I hope that someday this will all be over, and we will all be able to go home – home, to the warmth of our fires, the softness of our beds, the enticing scent of bacon in the morning.

Home…the thought of it cheers me. I pick up my step and draw even with Samwise, and raise my head against the insistent heaviness of the Ring.

Home is what I am fighting for.

"For the Shire," I whisper quietly, raising my eyes to the smoking pillar of Mount Doom.