The sky was perpetually dark.
Frodo and Sam walked on and on, however, with renewed hope.
There seemed to be a reason for what they were doing which had more significance than the mere destruction of all Evil.
Gollum had returned, with no explanation for his long (yet, in retrospect, welcome) absence. He was leading them towards a short-cut through the mountains, a great interconnection of dark, dank caves. A more horrible journey could not be taken in all of Middle Earth, but Sam and Frodo felt they could face it together.
Gollum wondered why, when they stopped to rest, the hobbitses would sit without talking, just lacing their fingers together, looking into each other's eyes. He missed feeling that kind of emotional closeness - desire for the ring had taken away his power to love.
That very same day, they reached the caves they had been so long heading for. Something seemed to have given the two hobbits extra incentive and speed.
They walked into the forbidding caves. Into darkness and silence.
Into Shelob's lair.
The great spider, older than Middle Earth and, if Sam and Frodo did not succeed in their quest to destroy the ring, quite likely to outlive it.
She lived in these caves, filled with bitterness and malignity. There were no others of her kind . . . perhaps there never were, perhaps she outlived them, perhaps she killed them . . . But she was completely alone.
People came her way from time to time, but she invariably killed them with her poisonous venom. What possible reason could there be for her to spare anybody's life, when she herself found pleasure in the act of killing? Although pleasure was an empty word . . . alleviation from the tedium and depression of aeons of darkness would be closer to the truth.
So Gollum left the Hobbits alone in the darkness and Shelob attacked them. It had all been planned.
She would have killed them both had it not been for the phial of light that Galadriel had given Frodo.
Galadriel had bottled all the purity and beauty of Lothlorien in a tiny phial. It was the opposite of everything that Shelob had lived for - selfishness, bitterness, malignity. It was a tiny glass of love and light and beauty and truth, and it pained the great spider-beast to the very core of her being.
Having been in darkness for so long, Frodo and Sam found it hurting their eyes as well. But that was nothing compared to what it was doing to Shelob.
Shelob was writhing against the purity of the light, but still she wrapped Frodo in a binding, sticky web. He was unconscious, his head lolling around on his shoulders as if he were dreaming.
Which, in fact, he was. The same dark dreams which always tormented him, of Nazgul and Orcs, of the death of his friends, of torture and battle and a vast, burning, lidless eye.
These dreams differed from usual in but one way - that as Shelob's bitter venom coursed through his veins, there was no chance of him waking up from them.
Filled with a courage greater than he had ever called upon before - or perhaps it was not courage, but blind rage and desperation - Sam took the elven blade and plunged it into Shelob's soft underbelly, again and again, until his hand was covered in her vile blood.
Having failed trying to use light to destroy Shelob's evil, Sam found that the only way to do it was to fight darkness with darkness.
As Shelob scuttled away, wailing, Sam's glance turned back to his beloved master, who was lying in the filth bound in a foul, sticky web.
He took his blade again, and cut right through the threads which were binding Frodo.
Sam knelt in the filth next to Frodo, and looked at his still, pallid face. There was no life in that face now, so unlike the night before when it had come alive in a thousand gentle kisses.
He held his hand to Frodo's lips - no warm breath caressed his fingers.
He lay his head on Frodo's chest - no heartbeat fluttered in his ear.
Sam knelt over his barely-realised beloved, hand cupping cold cheek, bitter tears washing away the grime of their burdensome journey from Frodo's face.
He gazed at the porcelain skin, the delicate features, the lips like two petals on a dying red rose - so beautiful in their decay, even in full knowledge of the fact that they will waste away to nothing.
He lent in and kissed the form of his precious.
It was a completely different sensation, cold clammy lips instead of a warm, breathing, vital mouth.
Sam's tears washed all over his lover's face, mingling with sweat and grime.
Memories of the night before flashed through his mind. Memories of safety, comfort, unity, hope . . .
He had failed his master.
Just for one second he had allowed himself to believe that they could succeed. He must have let his guard down to allow this to happen.
He had failed.
Sam wrapped his arms around Frodo's shoulders and pulled him into a sitting position.
He was heavy and cold.
Sam held him tightly, and rocked backwards and forwards, tears streaming from his eyes.
'Oh, mister Frodo sir! I'm sorry! I'm so, so, sorry.'
He stayed like that for a very long time, no thoughts in his mind but memories, as he relived every moment that they had ever shared.
He catalogued them all.
He did not want to forget a single one, as he was not going to be experiencing any more.
Eventually, he opened his eyes and, so very reluctantly, lay his love down.
He knew what he had to do.
He would take the ring, through whatever trials the land of shadow presented him with. He would take the ring and throw it into the furnace of Mount Doom. He would destroy the ring.
No doubt he would be destroyed with it, but that was part of the intention. The whole of Middle Earth would know, Sam was sure, when the ring was destroyed.
They would look towards the dark clouds clearing over Mordor, and those that knew would say 'Frodo did it! Brave Frodo Baggins took the ring of power all the way into the heart of Mordor and destroyed it!'
For centuries after, children would turn to their parents and say, 'Tell me again the story of the courageous Frodo who destroyed the powers of darkness', and parents across Middle Earth would tell, again and again, how it was Frodo's heroism which had saved them all.
Frodo would live on, unforgotten, in the memory of the destruction of the ring.
Sam was sure that, had he lived, Frodo would have marched up to Mount Doom and cast the ring into oblivion. But through Sam's negligence, Frodo could no longer do so.
Sam would finish Frodo's quest for him, and the all would be as it should be.
With a heavy heart, Sam unclasped the ring from around Frodo's neck, and fastened it around his own.
It seemed impossibly heavy for so small a thing.
Sam wrapped Frodo in his elven cloak in the hope that it would keep him camouflaged. If, by some miracle, Sam were to return from Mount Doom, he would come back here and hold his beloved until the coming of the fifth age.
But Sam had little hope of that.
He stroked Frodo's hair as he pulled the cloak up to completely cover his head.
'Goodbye, my precious,' he said.
Frodo and Sam walked on and on, however, with renewed hope.
There seemed to be a reason for what they were doing which had more significance than the mere destruction of all Evil.
Gollum had returned, with no explanation for his long (yet, in retrospect, welcome) absence. He was leading them towards a short-cut through the mountains, a great interconnection of dark, dank caves. A more horrible journey could not be taken in all of Middle Earth, but Sam and Frodo felt they could face it together.
Gollum wondered why, when they stopped to rest, the hobbitses would sit without talking, just lacing their fingers together, looking into each other's eyes. He missed feeling that kind of emotional closeness - desire for the ring had taken away his power to love.
That very same day, they reached the caves they had been so long heading for. Something seemed to have given the two hobbits extra incentive and speed.
They walked into the forbidding caves. Into darkness and silence.
Into Shelob's lair.
The great spider, older than Middle Earth and, if Sam and Frodo did not succeed in their quest to destroy the ring, quite likely to outlive it.
She lived in these caves, filled with bitterness and malignity. There were no others of her kind . . . perhaps there never were, perhaps she outlived them, perhaps she killed them . . . But she was completely alone.
People came her way from time to time, but she invariably killed them with her poisonous venom. What possible reason could there be for her to spare anybody's life, when she herself found pleasure in the act of killing? Although pleasure was an empty word . . . alleviation from the tedium and depression of aeons of darkness would be closer to the truth.
So Gollum left the Hobbits alone in the darkness and Shelob attacked them. It had all been planned.
She would have killed them both had it not been for the phial of light that Galadriel had given Frodo.
Galadriel had bottled all the purity and beauty of Lothlorien in a tiny phial. It was the opposite of everything that Shelob had lived for - selfishness, bitterness, malignity. It was a tiny glass of love and light and beauty and truth, and it pained the great spider-beast to the very core of her being.
Having been in darkness for so long, Frodo and Sam found it hurting their eyes as well. But that was nothing compared to what it was doing to Shelob.
Shelob was writhing against the purity of the light, but still she wrapped Frodo in a binding, sticky web. He was unconscious, his head lolling around on his shoulders as if he were dreaming.
Which, in fact, he was. The same dark dreams which always tormented him, of Nazgul and Orcs, of the death of his friends, of torture and battle and a vast, burning, lidless eye.
These dreams differed from usual in but one way - that as Shelob's bitter venom coursed through his veins, there was no chance of him waking up from them.
Filled with a courage greater than he had ever called upon before - or perhaps it was not courage, but blind rage and desperation - Sam took the elven blade and plunged it into Shelob's soft underbelly, again and again, until his hand was covered in her vile blood.
Having failed trying to use light to destroy Shelob's evil, Sam found that the only way to do it was to fight darkness with darkness.
As Shelob scuttled away, wailing, Sam's glance turned back to his beloved master, who was lying in the filth bound in a foul, sticky web.
He took his blade again, and cut right through the threads which were binding Frodo.
Sam knelt in the filth next to Frodo, and looked at his still, pallid face. There was no life in that face now, so unlike the night before when it had come alive in a thousand gentle kisses.
He held his hand to Frodo's lips - no warm breath caressed his fingers.
He lay his head on Frodo's chest - no heartbeat fluttered in his ear.
Sam knelt over his barely-realised beloved, hand cupping cold cheek, bitter tears washing away the grime of their burdensome journey from Frodo's face.
He gazed at the porcelain skin, the delicate features, the lips like two petals on a dying red rose - so beautiful in their decay, even in full knowledge of the fact that they will waste away to nothing.
He lent in and kissed the form of his precious.
It was a completely different sensation, cold clammy lips instead of a warm, breathing, vital mouth.
Sam's tears washed all over his lover's face, mingling with sweat and grime.
Memories of the night before flashed through his mind. Memories of safety, comfort, unity, hope . . .
He had failed his master.
Just for one second he had allowed himself to believe that they could succeed. He must have let his guard down to allow this to happen.
He had failed.
Sam wrapped his arms around Frodo's shoulders and pulled him into a sitting position.
He was heavy and cold.
Sam held him tightly, and rocked backwards and forwards, tears streaming from his eyes.
'Oh, mister Frodo sir! I'm sorry! I'm so, so, sorry.'
He stayed like that for a very long time, no thoughts in his mind but memories, as he relived every moment that they had ever shared.
He catalogued them all.
He did not want to forget a single one, as he was not going to be experiencing any more.
Eventually, he opened his eyes and, so very reluctantly, lay his love down.
He knew what he had to do.
He would take the ring, through whatever trials the land of shadow presented him with. He would take the ring and throw it into the furnace of Mount Doom. He would destroy the ring.
No doubt he would be destroyed with it, but that was part of the intention. The whole of Middle Earth would know, Sam was sure, when the ring was destroyed.
They would look towards the dark clouds clearing over Mordor, and those that knew would say 'Frodo did it! Brave Frodo Baggins took the ring of power all the way into the heart of Mordor and destroyed it!'
For centuries after, children would turn to their parents and say, 'Tell me again the story of the courageous Frodo who destroyed the powers of darkness', and parents across Middle Earth would tell, again and again, how it was Frodo's heroism which had saved them all.
Frodo would live on, unforgotten, in the memory of the destruction of the ring.
Sam was sure that, had he lived, Frodo would have marched up to Mount Doom and cast the ring into oblivion. But through Sam's negligence, Frodo could no longer do so.
Sam would finish Frodo's quest for him, and the all would be as it should be.
With a heavy heart, Sam unclasped the ring from around Frodo's neck, and fastened it around his own.
It seemed impossibly heavy for so small a thing.
Sam wrapped Frodo in his elven cloak in the hope that it would keep him camouflaged. If, by some miracle, Sam were to return from Mount Doom, he would come back here and hold his beloved until the coming of the fifth age.
But Sam had little hope of that.
He stroked Frodo's hair as he pulled the cloak up to completely cover his head.
'Goodbye, my precious,' he said.