His Sam.
Sam was right.
His Sam; his to protect.
But he didn't. If anything, he caused the (his) Hobbit so much more pain than he ever should had gone through.
It was his fault that Sam (his Sam) was here, across the world (even if they weren't really) from the Shire.
He had dragged Sam into this.
It was his fault that (his) Sam had nearly drowned.
Sam had put up with him, fought for him, starved for him.
Samwise had done everything in his power to protect him, and Frodo repaid him by first raising a sword to him (oh, Elbereth, he tried to kill him!) and then driving him away.
He drove his Sam away, the one person who he could count on being there forever.
He called his Sam the problem.
Accused his Sam of wanting to steal the ring.
Told his Sam to go home.
Home, halfway around the world (was it really?).
Home, alone.
Alone.
Like he was.
Trussed like a holiday bird, nearly bare naked.
The Ring was gone. The cursed, evil eye (he couldn't bare to say the name) would have the Ring soon, if it didn't have it already.
And, selfishly, he wanted his Sam. Wanted to be held, the way Sam would after a nightmare.
Oh, how he wished this was just a nightmare.
Warm, salty water trickled from his eyes as he pictured home. Remembered dragging (his) Sam away from the garden to go out, anywhere.
Don't cry, Mr. Frodo!
Hearing Sam's voice, warm and worried like always, only made him cry harder. Sam should hate him. Sam should never want to see him again.
Then, his dream of the Shire faded, replaced by Sam's face.
The fear in his eyes, the fear of him, as Frodo held the blade to his neck.
The broken bits that sparkled as tears as he drove his Sam away.
The sobs that wracked his Sam's body, the noises no Hobbit, Elf, Dwarf, nor Man should ever make.
No.
Not his Sam.
Not anymore.