Frodo found himself, after they had been wandering the woods and Gondor ruins for a short while, stroking the Ring again. He glanced up to make sure Smeagol and Sev were both not watching . . . and he produced it, fingering it gently. He was glad the quest wasn't entirely over. It called to him. It had almost become a part of him, in a way.

Then Smeagol's head came down from the upper half of the cave they were hiding in, and Frodo hid the Ring. Sev jolted as he said, "Hurry, hobbitses! We are close to Mordor." Then he vanished, probably racing ahead.

Sev glowered at Frodo. "Frodo, you haven't slept at all," she said, accusatory.

Frodo blinked at her. "And you would know because . . .?"

"Because I don't need sleep," she said. Her eyes flickered to the Ring, and Frodo felt a pang of guilt, as well as a sensitive guarding that he tried to dismiss. "Don't forget that. I'm always keeping an eye on you." He felt she was more talking to the Ring than to him, but he made a mental note regardless.

She pulled some lembas from the pack. She had stolen the burden yet again. "Here. You haven't eaten either." She tossed him a square, and he nibbled at it carefully.

Smeagol insisted, in quite the whining tone, that they hurry. "Not until Frodo's eaten," Sev shot back. She glanced at Frodo. "What about you?" he asked. She actually liked lembas, even if she didn't need it.

She shook her head. "Don't need it, and we're running out. So eat that; I've rationed it. There should be enough."

Frodo paused. "For what?"

"For the journey home."

Home.

Home. They would go home.

Theoretically.

What if they didn't?

He didn't want to go home, not without Sev. Maybe he wouldn't have to.

Sev got up close to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. He settled into it. He was holding the lembas with both hands, and didn't touch her.

"We're going home," she said firmly. "We're close to Mordor, and we've made it this far. I promised you that you would get home safely, and so you shall."

She patted his shoulder and turned, but he had just finished eating. He had free hands. He laid one on top of hers.

"I need help, Sev." His worries were drowning him, and the Ring wasn't helping.

Sev's eyes grew knowing, and she held him. He laid into it. He just needed to settle for a second, with Sev nearby to combat the Ring. She rubbed his head, and his eyes rolled closed. "I know, Frodo," she said. "And I will always be here for you."

Smeagol came back to remind them that they needed to hurry. Sev gathered the supplies and pulled Frodo to his feet.

"Come, hobbitses," Smeagol spat hungrily. "We are very close to Mordor. No place is safe here."

"Of course not," Sev said proudly. "Otherwise I'd be perfectly useless."

Frodo stifled a laugh at that, but then he recognized the point behind it. Unfortunately, for Frodo, that statement was one of wistfulness, in a way. If she felt useless (although Frodo didn't know how she could be), maybe she wouldn't have come, wouldn't have put her life on the line for him.

She bit her lower lip, then her upper lip, transitioning between the two. She sped on ahead, getting ahead of Smeagol, who dragged her in the right direction. She shook her head and followed, glancing briefly back at Frodo.

What had that been meant to say?

If the cavern they had stayed in for the night hadn't been enough proof that this was once part of the land of Gondor, now they had more. A statue, rigid with its hands upon its knees, stood erected in the middle of the woods, faded and worn with ivy strands growing up the sides. Frodo glanced up at the head; it had been crushed by a heavy rock wrapped in iron.

The sun glared through the trees, illuminating the head. Sev pointed to it—it had flowers wrapped around it.

"Look, Frodo." She started out sounding unsure of whether she wanted to be jocose or hopeful. "He looks just like Aragorn in 30 years."

Frodo laughed; he could see somewhat of a resemblance, he thought. The beard was there, the crown, the stony expression. "Crown of flowers especially," he remarked.

"The King has a crown again," she said, as though quoting something. "Even if it is a Rosie Cotton crown against Aragorn's face." Frodo laughed again, and Sev caught up to him. She looked overly happy, and she kissed his cheek very deeply. It shocked the Ring out of him, and felt rather good. At this latter revelation he turned bright red. She laughed maniacally, and his face grew, if at all possible, more warm. Sev backed away; she was a deep purple.

Soon the forest grew into somewhat of a hall of trees, banking against them on either side as they ascended the mountain. Sev sniffed the air, calculating, staring at the sun's relative position.

"Probably having tea in decent places," she mused. Then she snickered to herself; Frodo cocked his head, wondering why. He opened his mouth to respond, but Smeagol cut him off with a sadistic pause.

"We aren't in decent places." Then he turned casually and continued on.

Frodo stopped. They hadn't been in decent places for months. Dangers had been around every corner. He had every right to be afraid for Sev. And he had every right to be afraid of what was to come; he didn't know if they would make it back.

She probably, at least, would. But Sauron, the orcs, the Ringwraiths . . . one of them would get him if the others couldn't. He hoped she lived. But he didn't feel that he would.

His tracks slowed as the sickening feeling made its grinding way through his stomach, to his heart, and back. Sev turned.

"What is it?"

Frodo stared into the distance. The sun. Even if he did make it back . . . "Just a thought," he said. Sev walked towards him, and he glanced up at her. "I don't think I'll be coming back, Sev, and not because of anything you could or couldn't do."

Sev's expression softened. She bit her lip and grabbed him, as though she could keep him from dying like that. And she probably could, but getting her impaled with an arrow was not Frodo's ideal manner of survival. She leaned with him against the rock; he didn't want her to leave.

"Oh, Frodo," she said. She laid her head on his shoulder, rubbing his back. "You'll make it. I promise, I'll have you home if it kills me." He had been relaxing up to that point, but then he realized she really would take an arrow for him . . . and that irked something deep down, that need to protect her. If his gut was right, though, and she made it without him, he would have done all that was necessary. She would be alive.

Finally, though, he realized he might as well have her while he did. He settled in her arms, bringing her into his own as well.

Soon, though, he heard Smeagol hissing impatiently.

"It's time, Sev," he said, although he was reluctant to back away. As they walked, she laid an arm around his shoulders.

"I promise," she said, and kissed his cheek. The warmth fluttered through him. He thought about that moment when their lips had met, how for a moment he had truly expressed something to her that he couldn't in words. He hadn't done as much as he possibly could . . . it would take years of kisses of varying kinds to say what he felt in the slightest frame of moment.

It had been a gentle, sweet experience for him. And she loved him too; perhaps it felt the same to her.

He rested easily that night. He felt somewhat more confident, and having Sev near had kept the Ring back. He did not touch it.

He felt he had not drifted up for long when Smeagol's hissing and spitting entered his dreams. He sounded . . . different. He sounded malicious and angry, spiteful, vengeful. He said something about bones. Hobbit flesh.

Frodo shivered within his cloak, pulling it tighter around him. Images of Smeagol's eyes, back when he had been Gollum, flew through his mind. He could feel a strange pierce in his shoulder, some sticky rope surrounding his whole body as he was thrown over and over in the air . . .

He woke up to the snap of bone. Smeagol howled, and Frodo heard a splash of water. When he sat up and his wits collected themselves, he saw Smeagol and Sev grappling on the ground. Sev was on top, straining to back away without letting him go.

"Sev!" Frodo leaped forward, grabbing her shoulders. Whatever the catalyst had been for this, it couldn't have been good. "Sev, no!"

Sev spun, her eyes flamed with fear. Her face was dark gray. "He's going to kill us!" she cried.

He was just defending himself, Frodo thought, although he couldn't imagine why Sev would attack first. Unless, of course, she had a nightmare or something about Gollum choking her, which wasn't unlikely. Did she dream, though?

"I'm not sending him away," Frodo insisted. "Without a guide we're lost!"

"I know that," Sev responded, "but I won't watch you die because I didn't do something I could have."

Frodo hesitated. He wasn't sure she was being logical.

"You don't believe me," she breathed. She backed away, allowing him passage to Smeagol. The creature's eyes were wide, and he was heaving.

"Smeagol has done nothing to betray my trust, Sev," Frodo said. "Even after he was captured."

"Why does she hates poor Smeagol?!" the creature wailed. She shot him a look. One eyebrow was arched. "Always making up lies, trying to get rid of Smeagol!"

Sev's head bowed. Frodo didn't know what to think.

He laid his hand on her shoulder. It was so small and fragile, fit entirely in his palm, and he rubbed very carefully. "Sev . . . I need you on my side."

"I am, I promise," she said, her conviction stone-hard. "But I need you to promise me that, if Gollum does prove disloyalty to you, that we'll find our own way to Mordor."

Frodo nodded slowly. That was good enough. He didn't know what else to say, what else he could say. At least Sev wouldn't leave even if he asked her to. He backed away, then held out his hand for Smeagol to take. The fingers that joined his were cold and bony; Frodo remembered then that Sev wasn't the only person he knew.

He missed that warmth, that gentleness. But her erect posture and dark expression kept him from saying or doing anything.

Within three quiet, eerie days of travel, they departed the woods and came on the base of the Ash Mountains, black stones that were illuminated by something green. They approached, and soon could see, a city of iron. It glowed green and hissed with an eerie menace.

"Minas Morgul," Smeagol explained darkly, "The Dead City. Very nasty place. Full of . . . enemies." At the mere sight of the city, Frodo's heart grew icy, and the Ring seethed against his skin, calling to the city. Something was in there.

Smeagol turned and led them up over a small ridge. Sev mounted it, and for the first time since the incident with Smeagol, she gave Frodo a hand up. She did not let go, either; his heart beat hard against her hand, and she squeezed it. Frodo relaxed only a little.

Smeagol's voice pulled him out of it, as much as Smeagol could. "Here it is!" Frodo glanced up. "The stairs . . . the way into Mordor."

Frodo tried to walk forward, and yet he could not take his eyes off the city. The gargoyles that guarded the entryway taunted him. You cannot carry this burden. They cackled. The Ring will come to us. It always comes to us.

He didn't really realize he had drifted away from Sev until he had stumbled almost to the gate. He tried to pull against the Ring . . . only to meet heavy resistance. He shoved against it. No, he didn't want to go to Minas Morgul—but the Ring did, and apparently that mattered more, for Frodo could not fight it.

"Frodo!" Sev leaped on him, yanking against the Ring. The two sides clashed, rendering Frodo dizzy.

"Sev . . ." The words barely made their way out of his mouth. "They're calling for it . . ." Sev's arm wrapped solidly around his torso, and she gave a final shove that forced the Ring right out of him. He collided with the ground, actually somewhat surprised she would go so far to throw him down, until he considered the circumstances of almost losing the Ring.

After bringing him to his feet and scrambling away, Sev asked if he was all right. He felt fine save a slight bang to his back, but didn't get the chance to respond. A huge explosion of sound banged across the entire mountainside, and Sev pulled Frodo down behind the ridge of rock. The Dead City collected a huge beam of wind and light, shooting it into the sky. The winds rushed, filling the air with their deafening whirs. The light cracked like thunder when it met the clouds over Mordor.

The Witch-King had landed with his steed on the roof of the Dead City, and he shrieked just then. The doors swung wide open, and orcs, countless rows of them, marched with their clanking weapons and armor out of the city, ready for battle.

Then the shriek sounded again, this time higher, and more painful. The blade of the Witch-King crushed Frodo's shoulder, and he grabbed for it, a strained cry trying to come out. Sev bent down, questioning and frightened.

"I can feel his blade . . ."

Sev grabbed his hand that clutched the Morgul wound, and immediately the blackness receded. The pain subsided, throbbing into nothingness. Frodo blinked, glancing at her hand. He had an initiative to put her hand straight to his shoulder. As though that would do anything.

It might.

But the moment he made the attempt, the Witch-King had gone, and Sev stood, bringing Frodo to his feet. They made it to the stairs, and Sev admonished Frodo to go first. He didn't trust himself up there; he also didn't have the strength to argue. Smeagol took up the very back.

Crunching sounds continued to flow from below as they mounted the stairs. Smeagol had somehow wound ahead of Frodo.

"The stairs," he said. "Very dangerous." As if on cue, as Frodo tried to mount the final stair, he began to slide back over.

"Careful, Master!" Then Smeagol halted.

Sev's voice was almost hoarse. "Leave him alone!" she cried. Smeagol reached for Frodo despite her insistence and dragged him up over the stair. He didn't get her suspicion, and felt he hopefully didn't have to. Frodo staggered into a prone position, exhausted. They had been climbing the stairs for so long . . .

And then Smeagol said Sev wanted the Ring. "Soon," Smeagol said, "she will ask for it."

Frodo glanced back at Sev. He could see that happening. He couldn't let it happen.

Sev was exhausted too. She laid down a few feet away. Frodo glanced at her, then at Smeagol, who again asked if he could go look for food. Frodo just nodded, waving his hand as much as he could manage. At this point lifting a finger pulled at his strength.

"I'm so tired, Sev . . ." he said.

"I know," she responded. She rolled over with great effort two or three times. He didn't have the energy to protest. She laid a hand on his back. "Come, lay down."

At least she had offered. Frodo felt a little better. He had wanted to ask her if he could lay his head on her lap, and through his muddle didn't entirely understand how she'd known exactly what he was thinking.

Accordingly for his thoughts, though, Frodo rolled up tight in his cloak and settled his head against Sev's lap. Her hand drifted to his forehead, rubbing back on his hair. Then she kissed his forehead, warming him from head to feet. One of her gentle hands laid on his heart.

The moment he relaxed enough for it, he draped one arm over his stomach, and settled his other hand over hers on his chest. He had her for a minute.

And he couldn't want to let go.