Summary: What would have happened if Gollum didn't manage to get the ring from Frodo? A very angst-filled fic, mostly from Sam's perspective. If Frodo was to become the Dark Lord himself, would Sam be able to bring himself to hate him? Like Tolkien's work, it may seem slashy to sick perverted minds, but it isn't!

Disclaimer: Hey, guess what folks? Tolkien owns Lord of the Rings. Betcha' didn't know that. Wait. I have another surprise. (drumroll, please) I am not him! *gasp*

Author's Note: Well. here's my first sorry attempt at Lord of the Rings fiction. I hope it's not too awful. I actually am rather fond of it, but I best not get my hopes up. Eek! I hope I don't get flamed. LotR is probably the hardest type of fan fiction to write well. But when you review (which you WILL do, btw) don't go easy on me. I like critisism, as long as it is constructive. I want to get better, so I'm counting on you to be nit-picky. Please and thank you!

Chapter 1: The Choice

Smoke. Ash. Sam cursed them. They cut at his throat and they stung his eyes. But these petty annoyances he could disregard readily, if only, if only he could see his poor mister Frodo. But the haze of smoke and ash clouded his vision. Made him stumble. They hid his master from him. "Why, why?" he muttered. He had followed his master for all this time and helped him in every way he could. But in the bitter end, when all the world fell into ruin, they would be separated. Sam thought of mister Frodo, all alone, cowering before the fires of Mount Doom as the engulfed him, and he choked. But no tears would come to his stinging eyes.

Shielding his eyes, as if from a bright light, Sam scanned the landscape before him. There was no sign of his beloved Frodo. It would come any second now. Death. His master would cast the ring into the fire. The rock would crumble and the fires would pour forth and they would perish. Burn. In all his musings about their fate, Sam had never really given thought to the horror of this final moment, when he would finally lay down and abandon his life. But now the moment was so near, so very near, that he could not turn his mind away from it. But he wished, he only wished, that he and his beloved master could be together and live out there final moments together. The only thing that Sam wanted to do at this moment was to lay down beside his Mr. Frodo and listen to his last breaths and to comfort him, comfort him. But fate was cruel. It denied his master any solace, even in his final moments.

Even as the gardener went on, hoping against hope that he would see Mr. Frodo again, he braced himself. Frodo would cast the ring into the fire. He knew it. Sam, his love for his master hiding the truth, believed beyond a doubt that Frodo would do this deed without hesitation. He was the strongest, bravest, wisest person he ever knew, with the possible exceptions of Mr. Strider and poor old Gandalf. Mr. Frodo was an angel, in the eyes of his sweet servant, and nothing could corrupt him, no matter what his master said. Mr. Frodo was being modest, that was all.

Sam forced himself to look up again, though it pained him. His body was screaming, "Just lay down! Lay down and die, you fool, and end it!" But Sam's spirit of hope defied his aching limb's pleas, and he squinted his eyes, searching for anything, any sign of the master whom he loved so dearly.

And there! He had known that he would find him! Sam saw a black blur, which threatened to blend into the background. But it was there, just the same. And something, something told him that that was his Mr. Frodo.

" O, master! Me dear, me dear!" he had meant to call loudly. But the words died in his scratchy, parched throat, and came out more like a pathetic whimper. But Sam would not be put out. He ran, with all the speed he could muster from his failing limbs, towards the beloved figure.

Finally, Sam collapsed at the feet of his master, his dear, dear Mr. Frodo. Holding back his the sobs threatening to erupt from within him, he gazed up at his master and smiled weakly. But the smile slowly faded from his sweet, innocent, round face as he beheld his master. Frodo too was smiling, but somehow Sam did not find it pleasant. Frodo's posture was more composed than it have ever been, even before their quest. Kingly he looked now, startlingly beautiful, yet far off. But as Sam searched his face, he could find nothing of his warm and loving master. Despite his royal stance and beauty, there was something there that Sam could not put his finger on. Something unbearably ugly and twisted. Something that made him want to scream and scream and never stop. Something that made him want to curl up in a ball and cry and hide his face until his Mr. Frodo came back.

"But how silly," Sam thought. "That is Mr. Frodo, you fool, the master who's been so good to you. What would your gaffer say, thinkin' such things, you lout?"

Swallowing his fears, Sam spoke to his master, barely above a whisper, "Let it go, Mr. Frodo. Throw it in, sir, so. so we can have some peace. You needn't be scared, master, dear. Your Sam'll be hear, and he'll.he'll make sure no harm befall you." With those word he took his masters fair hand with both of his brown, calloused ones and rested his forehead upon it, finally allowing his tears to fall. They stung his weary eyes so much, but he could not stop their incessant flow. "M-mister Frodo," he gasped between sobs, "s-so scared." And still, the tight knot of fear in his stomach loosened. It was such a comfort, to be here with him. Sam wished they could stay like this forever, and that it didn't all have to end. And yet, somehow he knew.

Frodo withdrew his hand from Sam's sweaty grasp. And still, he did not move further. Sam sensed that he was waiting for something. Slowly, his clumsy servant drew himself up onto his shaking legs. Sam had to steady himself on the rock face to his left, for his trembling legs felt as if they were ready to collapse beneath him. To Sam's surprise, Frodo suddenly fell to his knees and crawled towards him, sobbing hysterically. He was crying out slurred, indiscernible words. Frodo clutched at his servant's shirt, using him as a wall to lean himself against as he struggle to bring himself to his feet. Sam stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do, except to gaze down upon Mr. Frodo with his soft brown eyes which were bottomless wells of pity.

When Frodo managed to stand, he grasped Sam's shoulders roughly as to balance himself. He let his weary head hang down, resting it on the now familiar and comforting spot between Sam's neck and his shoulders. How many times he had rested it there, as if to hide from darkness and despair, Frodo did not know. But he did know this time would be the last.

"Mr. Frodo?"

"S-sam? O, Sam, Sam, Samsamsam." Frodo spoke these muffled words into Sam's shirt, comforted just by hearing the sound of his dear friend's name. Perhaps, if he spoke it enough, the darkness in his soul would abate.
"Yes, master dear. Your Sam's here, so don't you fret."

"Please, oh please. d-don't leave me. D-don't let it. Sam. it w- wants. O. it w-wants to hurt y-you, Sam-lad. My dear Sam. T-take it. w- won't let me. Saaaaaaaaaam!"

Sam's heart broke as his poor master screamed this last word into his shirt. He shook his curly head, finding all words useless, and awkwardly caressed Mr. Frodo's shaking back just murmuring small comforts like, "Ssshhh." and "hush you now." But abruptly the sobs stopped. Frodo pushed himself away from Sam with surprising roughness, and regained his former posture. To poor Sam, this made him look terribly tall and frightening. The only sign of the battle Frodo was fighting within himself was his twitching hands.

Sam was now backed up against the rock face, and was looking down at the ground. But he forced himself to look up at his master. "It's just your master, you fool. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, thinkin' ill of him like that, an' bein' scared of him," he told himself. As he looked up, he saw Frodo looking at him steadily, his hands hanging at his sides, still feebly trembling. His face was twitching as well, but not his eyes. They bored directly into Sam's with infinite sorrow. "Sam." he muttered. Frodo leaned forward, brushing back his golden-brown curls with shacking hands. He kissed his friend's forehead softly, still fighting an internal battle. As he drew back, he whispered, "I'm sorry."

Sam looked at his master in puzzlement. But all became clear as he heard the scraping of metal as Frodo, his best friend for as long as he could remember, drew Sting from its sheath. Despair, and emotion to which the hobbit was so unfamiliar, filled Sam as he croaked, "Please, Mr. Frodo! Frodo, Frodo, Frodo! Please don't! Don't 'urt me!"

But Frodo's strong and clear voice drowned out the pathetic whimpers of his servant. "I have come. But I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!"

And he vanished, leaving his Sam on his knees, tears spilling forth in torrents.

There's more where that came from. if you like it, that is. Please tell me! And btw, I did not forget about Gollum, he's coming soon, so fear not. I hope to have the new chapter ready no later than next week. Once again, those who review will be held in high honor. See ya!