Author's Note: And here is the next chapter! I hope to just go ahead and get the entire thing posted today. You're welcome. ;)

…

Frodo wished he was able to keep track of the days that passed so that he would know how long he should expect to suffer the symptoms of the virus, but they all seemed to roll together as he and Sam made their slow progression through the terrible land of Mordor. Their going was slower than ever, and each time Frodo collapsed at the end of a march, he wondered if he would ever get up again. It was only his great desire to see this terrible disease ended that made him able to continue at all.

The country through which they trekked was barren and desolate, and once they were further from the tower where Frodo had been held captive, they met no one on the roads. Frodo had to start taking half doses of his medicine to make it last longer, and their food stores were running dangerously low as well. Frodo hoped that Sam was aware of their difficulties and was actively plotting some way to see them through; he could hardly think about anything besides stifling his coughs and forcing his achy legs to carry him forward.

"How far do you suppose we have to go?" he wheezed as he and Sam dropped behind some boulders to rest for the night (or the day; it was difficult to tell where the sun was since the sky was complete concealed by a dark dome of smoky clouds).

Sam sighed and shook his head. "It's hard to say, Mr. Frodo. I reckon we're still a few days out, but the going's been rough lately. Once we meet up with the road to Barad-dur, things may be better."

Frodo nodded and coughed. Sam's face creased with concern, and he put a hand on his master's shoulder. Frodo had become used to Sam's frequent violations of social distancing guidelines, and he was too weak and sick to protest anyway. Besides, deep down, he appreciated Sam's care for him; it was a significant consolation amid his immense difficulties. "I hope we get there soon," Frodo said, almost as though in a daze. He hadn't given the idea much thought until reaching Mordor, but now he truly feared that the virus would end his life.

The next day they finally reached the road Sam had spoken of, and it did provide a smoother path for travel. However, Frodo's breathing was becoming more of a struggle, and he found himself having to stop for breath often, but he never allowed them to halt for long. Sam no longer objected to Frodo's insistence that they move as quickly as possible; he must now be aware of how dire the situation was.

The great Mount Doom loomed nearer and nearer, and suddenly Frodo found himself having to scramble up an incline rather than forward on the road. The air here was of the poorest quality, being ashy and toxic, and he found himself descending into dreadful fits of coughing that usually lasted several minutes. But he couldn't stop now; he couldn't give up. They were so close! Frodo gritted his teeth and continued to crawl further up the slope, his gloved hands pawing at the lose stones ahead as he tried to get a grip to steady himself. More coughs came, and he just couldn't seem to get enough air into his lungs. He hacked and choked, and finally he tumbled onto his side, his eyes staring blindly at the clouds above him as he wondered if he was about to die. His eyes fluttered shut, and his consciousness started to fade in and out.

Frodo seemed to be swinging back and forth between dreaming and wakefulness, but as time went on, he became vaguely aware that someone was picking him up and carrying him away. He was too miserable and exhausted to question or fight this action—the only thought on his mind at all was that he needed more air. He focused on getting each breath in and out of his mouth, always desperate but never satisfied. Slowly, however, his fit of coughs ended, and he began to slip further into sleep than he had been before.

When he awoke, Sam was kneeling beside him, apparently taking a rest. Looking around, Frodo saw that they were a good ways up the side of the mountain; the ground beneath them trembled, and fissures were occasionally erupting in the distance, spewing steam and smoke. There was a steep path beneath their feet, and although Frodo still felt as ill and weak as ever, his heart beat stronger in his chest when he realized how near they were to the end of the Quest.

"Look, Mr. Frodo," Sam croaked from his side, gesturing up ahead on the path. "A doorway. We're almost there."

Frodo nodded and slowly struggled to his feet. But before he could continue on, a familiar, malicious voice suddenly called out from somewhere above them. "Clever hobbits, to climb so high!"

And then his world toppled over, and he wondered if he had hallucinated and then fainted. But some struggle was definitely going on, and when his vision cleared, he saw that Gollum was on top of him, his spidery hands madly grabbing and the chain on Frodo's neck. Frodo, sick as well as caught at unawares, would normally have been overcome quickly. But a brief surge of life swept through his limbs as though breathed on him by the Valar, and he managed to push Gollum back and even swing a punch or two. Sam was at his side in a moment, and he was clutching his sword, which forced Gollum to give back.

Frodo couldn't waste time seeing what would become of the fight; the urgency to finish the Quest was only continuing to grow in his mind, and he found himself stumbling towards the doorway as fast as his shaky legs could carrying him. Once he arrived at the entrance to the mountain, he felt enormous heat emanating out as though from an oven, and he was thankful for all his PPE which protected him from being singed. He cautiously entered and glanced around in awe at the brightness of molten lava flowing all around the room. He forced his feet to take him towards the ledge which overlooked this vast see of living rock, and he held the Ring aloft.

Before he let it slip from his fingers, he imagined it falling into the lava and being consumed. Such a picture gave him pause, and he began to wonder whether the goal of this Quest was really the wisest approach to the situation. After all, what proof did they have that destroying the Ring and defeating Sauron would actually stop the virus at all? Weren't there scars on the world even from the days of Morgoth, Sauron's master? He had been defeated, but the effects of his wicked ways were not therefore removed. Could it be that even if Sauron was destroyed, his virus would still wreak havoc on Middle-earth? The scientists of the Free Peoples were nowhere near coming up with a vaccine. Couldn't Frodo use the Ring to help that progress along and then destroy it later? Or why did it have to be destroyed at all—with it, Frodo could find a cure to every single disease, right down to the common cold. Wouldn't he be a fool to throw away such a sure hope? Wouldn't he be selfish to snuff out the chance to save so many lives?

Frodo suddenly became aware that Sam was yelling something at him from behind. He slowly turned around and faced his friend. Sam clearly thought his master was about to destroy the Ring, and was encouraging this action as though he thought it was best. Silly Sam. "What are you waiting for?" Sam cried. "Just let it go!"

Frodo wished he had more time to explain everything to his companion, but he needed to hurry up and start making a vaccine, so he summarized with a simple statement: "The Ring is mine." And then he ripped it off its chain and shoved it onto his gloved finger just as Sam yelled in horror.

Frodo's world swirled with the trippy vision he experienced whenever he put on the Ring, but he tried to focus his mind on seeing the molecular formula of the virus in his head and then searching out a cure. He had only been working on this for about three seconds when he felt something pounce onto his back once again, realizing with annoyance that Gollum had returned. The miserable creature was now attacking with even more ferocity than before, perhaps driven by the desperation of his need, and Frodo found himself swaying back and forth right on the edge of the abyss. Then a sharp, zinging pain shot from his hand, and looking down, he saw that one of the fingers of his glove had been bitten off—and also the finger that had been inside it. Frodo's vision of the world returned to normal, and cries of jubilation came from behind him as Gollum celebrated his recovered treasure. Frodo turned around in wrath, but he didn't get a chance to do anything; Gollum, dancing in his reckless happiness, slipped on the brink of the precipice and then tumbled over the edge.

He wasn't sure at first, but about half a minute after his foe had fallen, Frodo thought maybe he felt the tiniest bit better, and he looked around as he tried to make sense of what could be positively affecting his health. Then he realized the truth: the Ring was gone. It had been consumed by the lava and finally unmade. His symptoms hadn't disappeared, but they were now more manageable, and he found that the dread and fear of the illness had also dissipated. Sam was suddenly at his side, dragging him towards the doorway as lava erupted in the chamber before them.

"Hurry, Mr. Frodo!" Sam pleaded. Frodo complied as best he could.

When they got outside, they quickly headed downhill and to their left until they found a large boulder. They scrambled on top of it just as rivers of lava began pouring out of the doorway, and they both climbed as high as they were able and prayed that their refuge would keep them safe for the time being.

"I think…" Frodo began, clearing his throat cautiously, "I think that I'm feeling a bit better."

"Yes, Mr. Frodo," Sam said. "It's over now."

Frodo still wasn't sure to what extent the virus was gone, but certainly it appeared that something had happened to its power now that the Ring had been destroyed. Relief and peace settled in his mind and heart, such as he had not felt since setting out from the Shire so many months ago. He knew it was unlikely that he and Sam would make it out of Mordor; they were pretty much out of food and water, and the bleak land stretched out for miles and miles on all sides. But at least he could die knowing that the Free Peoples were saved from Sauron—and from the virus.

Sam insisted on bandaging up Frodo's hand; they did, of course, have several first aid kits with them, so it was not too difficult. Frodo wasn't even that worried about an infection. But once the wound had been tended, both hobbits felt the exhaustion caused by their long, dark road fall over them like a weighted blanket, and their eyelids slipped shut as they drifted into a very deep and restful sleep.

…

Only the epilogue left! Please review! :)