How could it all have come to this?

Frodo poked miserably at the stones surrounding the only window and thought back. What had happened first that had brought him here?

Shelob, he remembered. Shelob and the orcs and Cirith Ungol had all blurred into one event for him as the time that predated the loss of the Ring.

Loss, not destruction. Frodo had believed it to be destruction at first, when Sam had came to him in Cirith Ungol and told him everything that had happened, and how he'd destroyed the Ring and then came back for Frodo, to help him.

I believed him, Frodo told himself fiercely. This is my fault.

So in his mind the Ring had been destroyed, for quite some time. They had hidden in the shadows of Shelob's lair and hoped for something that would help them get home. Frodo had wondered why the Orcs weren't gone, now that the Ring was, and had been reminded that only Sauron's life was tied to it. They hadn't been close enough for him to see the Eye that was searching at the top of a tall black tower.

Sam had started stealing away at night, coming back in the morning and pretending that he'd been there the whole time. Frodo noticed but made no objection. It was at this time that they noticed the orcs staying far away from their hiding place—not out of ignorance, but fear. And when Frodo asked why was when he realized all the mistakes that had happened.

Sam had not destroyed the Ring. He'd taken it and went to help Frodo. He'd crept away at night to take over Cirith Ungol and the small amount of orcs left in there, gathering more armies of orcs.

Frodo recoiled from him at the news. Don't look at me like that! Sam had pleaded with him. I did it for you—to keep you safe! I love you!

That hadn't helped.

And now I'm here, Frodo thought bitterly. The safest place I'll ever be.

He heard a ladder being pushed up and someone climbing the ladder. Sam pulled himself up by Frodo, the Ring glinting on its chain around his neck. The first few weeks, Frodo had tried attacking him for it. Never had it worked.

"Your food here, Frodo," Sam told him gently, taking Frodo's face in his hand and turning it to look at him. "You haven't eaten much. Are you sick? Did you get hurt again?"

Frodo laughed bitterly and stared at the floor. He'd been hurt before, by a group of orcs that were lacking for fun and happened to find him. It had never happened again. The second Sam had found out, he'd flown into a rage and killed them all—and if they had families, those as well.

"Here." Sam put the plate in his hands.

Frodo pushed it away.

"Maybe later you'll eat. Frodo? Don't be angry." Frodo remembered that Sam used to address him formally, and that he had laughed at it. We're friends, Sam. Just call me Frodo. Now that he'd stopped, Frodo wished that he would start again. It didn't seem right, somehow.

"Angry?" Frodo laughed again, hollowly, and curled up on the ground. "No point, is there?"

His captor hesitated for the request that was sure to follow.

"Can I see Strider?" For Aragorn was there too. He'd heard of the capture of Cirith Ungol (how it had evaded Sauron's eye Frodo didn't know) and came to help his friend. Of course he was no match for the armies.

And the answer was always the same. "No, Frodo. Maybe later."

Frodo nodded dully. He'd learned not to argue anymore.

Sam leaned over and kissed Frodo on the cheek. "You don't want to talk today, do you?"

Frodo turned his face away from the caress mechanically.

"Later." Sam sighed and stroked the side of Frodo's face before turning to leave. "Love you, Frodo."

Silence.

The former Ringbearer wept bitterly into the silent night.