Earth hovered. Brittle and broken, rocks grinded beneath his feet. Frodo gulped hot air, his head dangling. The Ring pulled his neck down and burnt his skin. He ran forward, falling, crawling, palms and leathery soles cut and bleeding. Skin and hair soaked with sweat, he climbed into the chamber. His heaving breath echoed back to him.
Inside, everything was black. Frodo limped along, his hands grasping the rough edges of the tunnel wall to keep him from keeling over. As he went further, the air thickened. Light sprung up from a giant fissure, red in the blackness. He was now in a cave like room, he could see it by the flare. He was alone. The mountain lay unguarded.
It seemed too simple. Perhaps Gandalf was wrong. Perhaps casting the Ring into the Cracks would do nothing. Frodo walked to the edge of the fissure and looked down at the molten rock churning below. The Ring quivered against his chest. All he had to do was throw It in there and everything would be over.
Frodo reached up to pull the Ring from his neck. The chains clung to his skin. He choked but managed to get It off. He held the Ring up in front of him. The golden band glistened in the fiery light. Frodo moved to throw It, but his arm stopped.
A voice was calling to him. It was beautiful, deep, and slow like wind through a cave or the roll of the sea.
Halt! Why would you destroy me? it said.
I was sent here to. Frodo replied trembling. He could not tell where the voice was coming from, though it seemed to live in his very mind.
By whom? it said.
I cannot say. I will not say. I came of my own free will.
Why do you wish to destroy me?
You are evil.
What have I done to harm you? it said. It spoke softly, sadly. It wanted to know.
You're riders have hunted me down. One stabbed me. Your Orcs have waylaid and tortured me.
You took what was mine.
It was given me.
Then all shall be forgiven, and your wounds redressed. Merely give over the Ring. I have sent my servants to collect It.
Frodo turned towards the tunnel in fear but saw no one.
I cannot listen, he thought. I must destroy the Ring. He told me to.
Who told you to? it said.
I cannot tell you. Frodo strained to keep his limbs from shaking. He stole another glance back, still no one.
How do you know he was not lying? the voice said.
Frodo clenched his fist around the Ring trying to make the voice stop, but it was still there in his head.
Why is he not with you?
He is dead. An image of Gandalf's face surfaced in Frodo's mind. It was a face contorted by terror and anger, falling, falling, so far away. It seemed forever since then. Frodo wondered if Gandalf had even ever existed. Everything seemed so hazy.
Even you doubt your mind. the voice said. It would be wise to give the Ring over. You have had it too long.
I must destroy it. Only then will I be free. Frodo wondered though if that were true. The Ring had a firm grip on his mind. To destroy it would mean madness, emptiness. Without the Ring, Gollum was nothing. Frodo would suffer the same fate. Only he would not even have the hope of recovering his precious. He paced the rock trying to reach a decision.
But you cannot, the voice said, you cannot destroy it. Give it me, and I shall give you life.
'What use is life to me?' Frodo shouted. 'What use is life knowing I've failed?'
Failed? You follow the plans of a dead man. Your friends are dead, and their armies are broken. Give me the Ring, and you will be honoured. You shall serve at my side, a champion, and all the world shall bow down before you. You will be given riches and power beyond your greatest dreams.
'I have no use for money or power,' Frodo said, speaking down to the dangling Ring. 'And if my friends are dead as you say, I shall destroy you in vengeance.'
Frodo shook the Ring by its chain, but his pacing had brought him away from the Cracks of Doom. He turned back towards the fissure but the Ring was heavy, each step seemed a league in length.
Nay, do not! The voice pleaded desperately. Some still live, and to those I shall be merciful, if you turn over my treasure, my bauble, my plaything. To you, I shall give strength and knowledge. I will lengthen the years of your life.
Ignoring the voice, Frodo kept his concentration on his feet. Slowly, they were inching forward. He tried stretching his legs. They ached, but he ignored the pain.
I shall share the Ring with you, the voice said. We together will rule Middle-earth.
Frodo's throat was too dry for him to speak again. His mind was too tired to try and close itself to the voice.
Share the power, Frodo thought. No, you have nothing to offer me.
He stroked the Ring with his fingertips. The metal was warm.
I have the Ring. It is mine.
Frodo looked over the edge at the Crack. He had made it there. He slid the Ring off its chain.
It is mine.
He rolled the Ring on his palm. It was simple gold but beautiful. His eyes looked down at the red tongues that licked the walls of the mountain. They would devour the Ring. It would be no more and with it would end a great power.
Gandalf had said that the Ring could only be used for evil, but Gandalf had chosen against counsel to go through the mines of Moria, and he was dead. Gandalf was not infallible. Why shouldn't the Ring be used to amend the harm It had done?
In his mind, Frodo could see a perfect world. There would be no wars, no famines, no floods, only rolling hills, bountiful fields, and sweet water. Finally, the Shire would take center stage. From there, Frodo would rule the world in wisdom, hosting great feasts and inviting the rulers from the north, south, east, and west, to meet and eat with him. All lands would give up their weapons and there would be everlasting peace.
'Master!' A voice startled him out of his thoughts. Frodo turned to see Sam. He was trembling. Sting hung from his hand, bloodied.
'What did you do?' Frodo said.
'I couldn't help it, master,' Sam spluttered. 'He attacked me.'
'Oh, so, Gollum is dead. A pity, I could have saved him.'
'What are you talking about? And why do you still have the Ring?'
'I have decided not to destroy it.'
'What? But, Mr. Frodo, we came all this way.'
'I know. It was a waste.' Frodo laid his hand gently on Sam's shoulder. 'I'm sorry for troubling you. We can go home now.'
'No, we can't!' Sam pulled away. 'You have to destroy the Ring. It's the only way.'
'I can't, Sam,' Frodo said. 'And there's no need. We can use the Ring to mend all the wrong in the world, to…Sam, why are you crying?'
'It's claimed you, sir,' Sam said. 'Don't you remember Boromir, what it did to him? And Gollum? The Ring is poison.'
'You killed Gollum. And Orcs slew Boromir. The Ring has no claim on me, Sam. I am its master.'
Sam stared hard at Frodo. Slowly, he lifted up Sting.
'Destroy It,' he growled. 'Destroy the Ring.'
Startled, Frodo took a step back. Sam was glaring at him with wet eyes. He moved forward, sword still pointed out. Frodo looked back over his shoulder at the fissure then took a step to the side. He was weaponless. He tried to remember why.
Sam is a killer, a voice in his head said. He killed Gollum. He wants the Ring.
'Get back, thief, murderer.' Frodo clasped the Ring in his fist. 'Be gone!'
'You have to destroy the Ring,' Sam said hoarsely. His sword hand shook. 'Please, Mr. Frodo, let it go.'
Frodo shook his head. 'The Ring is mine.'
He slipped the Ring on his finger. Sam seemed dim now, a shadow among shadows. Frodo walked back towards the tunnel. Some force was guiding him there. Through the tunnel and out the door of Sammath Naur, he went until he was standing again in the open air.
The plains of Mordor were deserted. Frodo looked up. Eight points dotted the dusty red sky. As they drew closer, Frodo could make out that were eight riders upon eight winged beasts. The riders' faces glowed white, their eyes burning like fiery lances. The Nazgûl let out a long piercing scream, as their beasts spiraled down towards him.
On the ground, Frodo shook in fear. He did not know how to use the Ring. He tried to take It off his finger, but It would not come off. He ran back towards the tunnel, but his legs buckled, and he fell. He crawled forward, only to loose his grip and tumble further down the mountainside. Unable to move, he lay face flat on rock and started to cry. The Nazgûl crouched over him. Their high, screeches tore through his shoulder, stabbing him again and again. The world around him grew increasingly cold and dark, until finally, Frodo felt nothing.