It felt like lead had been stamped into my feet. And cuts littered my arms.
See? There's a couple still there now. And everywhere was blackness. Apart
from the red blood and fire. I never hated somewhere so much. It was so
bleak. The weight was far less of Frodo but of the evil. It suffocated you
like wool almost. And I tried so hard to keep his spirits up.
"Nearly there," I said through gritted teeth, "See, we're almost at the foot. We should make it by nightfall.if there is a nightfall here. I haven't yet seen the sun rise!" I tried to laugh but any attempt was sucked out of me. Flurries of breeze packed with ash and dust billowed into us and we had to stop, coughing and rubbing grit from our eyes. Frodo sank to his knees.
"I can't, Sam. There's no hope. I'm too weak. Please, just let me sleep here, let me die here." And he gazed up at me with pleading eyes. There was so much in that look. But then behind them sat something deeper, darker. Not my master. What came from his mouth was only The Ring's cavernous voice. It was eating away at him. But I would not let it destroy him. I was never going to give up hope.
"Mister Frodo, we will keep going. We have to reach Mount Doom and you know it. And you're the one, if you'll pardon the expression. It isn't me who's got to get there, it's you. And you know too. So up you come, Mister Frodo and let's be on our way with no more talk of no hope and suchlike."
I'd never spoken to my master in such tones. But Frodo never even flinched. He stared at the ground for a long time, I suppose, letting what I'd said sink in. He stood up shakily and looked at me again.
"You are right," he said. And together we struggled on, heads bent to the wind and eyes screwed shut. My master felt so frail. Like glass almost. That wasn't Mister Frodo. In fact, there was nothing of my master left. I felt grief begin to spill from my eyes but I gulped and forced it back down. Now was no time for lamenting and weeping for what we'd lost. Hope was still there. To cling to even a wisp of hope is enough for a dying man.
"Nearly there," I said through gritted teeth, "See, we're almost at the foot. We should make it by nightfall.if there is a nightfall here. I haven't yet seen the sun rise!" I tried to laugh but any attempt was sucked out of me. Flurries of breeze packed with ash and dust billowed into us and we had to stop, coughing and rubbing grit from our eyes. Frodo sank to his knees.
"I can't, Sam. There's no hope. I'm too weak. Please, just let me sleep here, let me die here." And he gazed up at me with pleading eyes. There was so much in that look. But then behind them sat something deeper, darker. Not my master. What came from his mouth was only The Ring's cavernous voice. It was eating away at him. But I would not let it destroy him. I was never going to give up hope.
"Mister Frodo, we will keep going. We have to reach Mount Doom and you know it. And you're the one, if you'll pardon the expression. It isn't me who's got to get there, it's you. And you know too. So up you come, Mister Frodo and let's be on our way with no more talk of no hope and suchlike."
I'd never spoken to my master in such tones. But Frodo never even flinched. He stared at the ground for a long time, I suppose, letting what I'd said sink in. He stood up shakily and looked at me again.
"You are right," he said. And together we struggled on, heads bent to the wind and eyes screwed shut. My master felt so frail. Like glass almost. That wasn't Mister Frodo. In fact, there was nothing of my master left. I felt grief begin to spill from my eyes but I gulped and forced it back down. Now was no time for lamenting and weeping for what we'd lost. Hope was still there. To cling to even a wisp of hope is enough for a dying man.