Sam walked, heart heavy, towards the mouth of the cave. It was the hardest
thing he had ever had to do, to make a conscious decision to abandon his
friend, his lover, his master.
The ring felt heavy around his neck. It was tempting him, begging him to put it on.
Sam ignored it. Mister Frodo had never given in to the power of the ring, and besides, Sam was resolute that he would never fail his master again.
The ring filled his mind with images of 'Samwise the Strong, Hero of the Age', brandishing a fiery sword and single-handedly defeating all the armies of Mordor. It filled his head with offers of glory and fame, of longevity and prowess . . . if he put on the ring.
But Sam saw these offers for what they were - idle fantasies, designed to appeal to the weak of mind.
Sam did not want glory, or fame or prowess. He did not want his name to go down in history. He wanted to destroy the ring. It was what mister Frodo would have wanted him to do. It was what he must do.
'It's not a Hobbit's place, Samwise Gamgee,' he said to himself.
He started as he heard a commotion behind him. A swarm of Orcs were approaching!
Sam had nowhere to hide in the dark tunnel. He put on the ring.
His whole world changed. Light became dark and dark light; he had the power to do everything and nothing.
He chose the latter.
He could only make out some of the Orcs' words at this distance, but those that he could hear were enough to evoke in him first a sense of shock, then of pain, and then of failure and self-loathing.
Shelob's poison, it seemed, produced the effect of death. It stilled all external signs of life and of movement.
But it did not actually kill its victim - only Shelob herself could do that.
The Orcs had heard that they were to be on the lookout for halflings, and so took Frodo back into their forbidding tower.
Sam watched in horror as the company of snarling Orcs took his dearest Frodo far out of his reach.
When they had gone, Sam took off the ring and vowed never again to put it on his finger. Its effects were too numerous and too dramatic.
Frodo was alive!
Even with all his negative feelings, Sam still felt hope because of that one reality - Frodo was alive.
But the Orcs had him!
Having already felt he had betrayed his master wickedly by allowing him to be killed, he now had to face up to the fact that he had caused his master to fall into the clutches of such foul, evil creatures as the Orcs.
Sam troubled himself with imaginations of how Frodo would feel when he woke up. He would feel betrayed, he would think Sam had deserted him to these creatures, he would think Sam had broken his promise of fidelity unto death.
Frodo would hate him!
Sam tortured himself with images of how the Orcs would treat him.
They would torture him for information, red weals and burns on porcelain skin, a grimace of pain on an angelic face. A moan of agony produced by trembling lips, lips never meant to scream in torment.
Lips made but for kissing, not ever to cry.
Sam fancied he could hear Frodo's cries coming from the very top of that dark, forbidding tower.
'Oh, I'm sorry mister Frodo, I'm so, so sorry.'
Sam no longer had any doubt about his duty: he must rescue his master or perish in the attempt.
'The perishing is more likely, and will be a lot easier anyway,' he said grimly to himself.
Sam walked and walked, and after a time came to the great gates of the tower of Cirith Ungol.
He had failed in his previous attempts to fight darkness with light, but he was willing to try it again - it was what Frodo would have done, he felt sure.
He used the phial of Galadriel to gain entry to the Orcs' tower. The gates, wrought in darkness of dark materials, could not withstand such an onslaught of goodness.
Sam had gained entry to the tower.
Inside, he found desolation.
Orcs lay dead and dying around the corridors. He hurried around the tower, looking for his master.
There was nothing to be found but yet more signs of some internal struggle between the Orcs. Devastation and misery were all about him.
But not within him.
Frodo was alive, and it was that glimmer of hope that kept Sam from despairing at the adversity of their situation.
They might be fighting a losing battle against a power so great it commanded half of Middle Earth . . . they might well never complete their task. But Sam had faith in his mister Frodo, more faith than Frodo had in himself.
Sam did not want to let his spirits get down, and he began to sing. The tune was Bilbo's, but the words his own.
'Though here at journey's end I lie in darkness buried deep, beyond all towers strong and high, beyond all mountains steep, above all shadows rides the Sun and Stars for ever dwell: I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell'
These words put a little more hope into his heart, and he carried climbing the tower through all the debris left by some Orc power-struggle.
Sam began to think the tower might be empty except for corpses. He heard not a sound as he roamed the tower.
But as he climbed yet another set of stairs, he heard a sudden noise.
His first instinct was to cower against a wall, in anticipation of an attack.
But none came.
He listened intently, and heard a rasping Orc-voice almost directly above him!
It was shouting viciously in its own dark tongue, but after a while Sam heard it break into Common Speech.
'Dirty little Halfling! Stop your squealing, or I shall give you something to scream about!'
Sam then heard a whip crack, viciously.
Sam bounded up the spiralling staircase, two steps at a time.
He stood in the doorway to the attic room, gripping the doorframe and breathing heavily.
He looked to see an Orc, hunched over but holding a whip high in the air.
He saw Frodo, lying on a pile of dirty sacking, naked and cowering from the Orc's blows.
He had a red weal across his shoulder, marking the last impact of the whip.
As Sam looked on, horrified, the Orc brought the whip down again. This time it marked Frodo's back about halfway down.
Sam noticed that it had drawn blood.
That was the point where consciousness deserted Sam.
He existed only in the blade of Sting, in his cries of vengeance, in his one purpose of protecting Frodo.
Sam had never realised he had any skill with a blade at all . . . until he blinked his eyes open to find himself standing next to a mutilated and very dead Orc.
He had assumed Frodo was awake, but it seemed he was just instinctively protecting himself against the whip as part of some fevered dream.
He lay, naked on the dirty sacking, moaning as if injured in his dream.
Sam ran to him and knelt down beside him, gripping his shoulder and shaking him.
'Come on, now mister Frodo! We've got to get you out of here! Who knows how long it will be until some more filthy Orcs coming a-running up here to see what's going on?'
'Sam?' a feeble voice replied.
'Yes, it's me mister Frodo, your Sam is here, he's found you!'
'I thought you must be a dream. But all the other dreams were horrible . . .' he tailed off.
Sam's eyes filled with tears as the adrenaline from the fight left him, and he saw what a pitiable sight Frodo was, lying there naked and delirious in a filthy attic room.
He rubbed the tears away fiercely as he began to feel them trembling on the edge of his eyelids.
Sam lay down next to Frodo and held the trembling hobbit in his arms, whispering softly to him.
'It's alright mister Frodo. Your Sam's here now, and everything's going to be all right. Everything's going to be fine. No more Orcs is coming. You're safe, you are, you're safe.
'No, Sam!' shouted Frodo, pulling quickly away and sitting up. 'Nothing is going to be alright! They've taken everything. Do you understand what that means, Sam? They've taken EVERYTHING. The quest has failed.'
Sam looked at Frodo. He looked as broken and dejected as Gollum.
'Why, no, mister Frodo, they didn't take everything!'
Sam wasn't even sure if Frodo was listening.
'I thought you were dead, see. So I, and, I hope you will forgive me for this mister Frodo sir, I took the ring from round your neck with the intention of destroying it myself.'
At this, Frodo's head jerked up, attentive and very much awake.
'So, you have the ring, then?'
Sam nodded.
'Then give it to me! Give it to me at once!'
Frodo frightened Sam with the ferocity in his voice, and immediately took the ring from around his neck, and began to hand it to Frodo.
'I've felt how heavy it is, mister Frodo. And I thought, as we're getting to closer to the place that it was forged, it's only going to be getting heavier. I thought, perhaps, I could help you to carry it?'
On hearing those words, Frodo's whole appearance changed.
'No!' he snapped, 'Why should you have it? It's mine, mine alone! It was given to me! You can't have it. It's mine - my own.'
Sam was shocked to see Frodo behaving like this - he had felt a little of the effect of the ring, and he had a small understanding of how powerful it could be.
But what Sam had felt was nothing compared to what Frodo was feeling.
Frodo clutched the ring to him. He could feel it, branding itself into his palm, marking him and him alone the owner of all the power it posessed. The power to defeat Sauron, the power to make history. The power to be the most famous hobbit that ever lived, and live for ever to tell his tale. Infinite power, power which only he, Frodo, could ever be trusted with. It must not be shared! Never could such power be shared! It was his, his alone, and he would defend it to the very death.
A fiery, lidless eye burned in his mind, promising him infinite power and glory.
Sam stammered, terrified of the change which had overcome his master, 'I'm sorry, it was presumptuous of me. Of course it's your ring, mister Frodo, it's not my place to carry it, of course it isn't.'
Frodo staggered forward, as if he had suddenly awoken from a trance.
'Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry!'
His voice had returned to its normal, soft tones.
Frodo was trembling again, and looked as if he were about to swoon onto the floor right there.
Sam rushed towards him, putting his arms round him to hold him up.
'It's alright, mister Frodo,' he whispered, 'Everything is going to be just fine.'
The ring felt heavy around his neck. It was tempting him, begging him to put it on.
Sam ignored it. Mister Frodo had never given in to the power of the ring, and besides, Sam was resolute that he would never fail his master again.
The ring filled his mind with images of 'Samwise the Strong, Hero of the Age', brandishing a fiery sword and single-handedly defeating all the armies of Mordor. It filled his head with offers of glory and fame, of longevity and prowess . . . if he put on the ring.
But Sam saw these offers for what they were - idle fantasies, designed to appeal to the weak of mind.
Sam did not want glory, or fame or prowess. He did not want his name to go down in history. He wanted to destroy the ring. It was what mister Frodo would have wanted him to do. It was what he must do.
'It's not a Hobbit's place, Samwise Gamgee,' he said to himself.
He started as he heard a commotion behind him. A swarm of Orcs were approaching!
Sam had nowhere to hide in the dark tunnel. He put on the ring.
His whole world changed. Light became dark and dark light; he had the power to do everything and nothing.
He chose the latter.
He could only make out some of the Orcs' words at this distance, but those that he could hear were enough to evoke in him first a sense of shock, then of pain, and then of failure and self-loathing.
Shelob's poison, it seemed, produced the effect of death. It stilled all external signs of life and of movement.
But it did not actually kill its victim - only Shelob herself could do that.
The Orcs had heard that they were to be on the lookout for halflings, and so took Frodo back into their forbidding tower.
Sam watched in horror as the company of snarling Orcs took his dearest Frodo far out of his reach.
When they had gone, Sam took off the ring and vowed never again to put it on his finger. Its effects were too numerous and too dramatic.
Frodo was alive!
Even with all his negative feelings, Sam still felt hope because of that one reality - Frodo was alive.
But the Orcs had him!
Having already felt he had betrayed his master wickedly by allowing him to be killed, he now had to face up to the fact that he had caused his master to fall into the clutches of such foul, evil creatures as the Orcs.
Sam troubled himself with imaginations of how Frodo would feel when he woke up. He would feel betrayed, he would think Sam had deserted him to these creatures, he would think Sam had broken his promise of fidelity unto death.
Frodo would hate him!
Sam tortured himself with images of how the Orcs would treat him.
They would torture him for information, red weals and burns on porcelain skin, a grimace of pain on an angelic face. A moan of agony produced by trembling lips, lips never meant to scream in torment.
Lips made but for kissing, not ever to cry.
Sam fancied he could hear Frodo's cries coming from the very top of that dark, forbidding tower.
'Oh, I'm sorry mister Frodo, I'm so, so sorry.'
Sam no longer had any doubt about his duty: he must rescue his master or perish in the attempt.
'The perishing is more likely, and will be a lot easier anyway,' he said grimly to himself.
Sam walked and walked, and after a time came to the great gates of the tower of Cirith Ungol.
He had failed in his previous attempts to fight darkness with light, but he was willing to try it again - it was what Frodo would have done, he felt sure.
He used the phial of Galadriel to gain entry to the Orcs' tower. The gates, wrought in darkness of dark materials, could not withstand such an onslaught of goodness.
Sam had gained entry to the tower.
Inside, he found desolation.
Orcs lay dead and dying around the corridors. He hurried around the tower, looking for his master.
There was nothing to be found but yet more signs of some internal struggle between the Orcs. Devastation and misery were all about him.
But not within him.
Frodo was alive, and it was that glimmer of hope that kept Sam from despairing at the adversity of their situation.
They might be fighting a losing battle against a power so great it commanded half of Middle Earth . . . they might well never complete their task. But Sam had faith in his mister Frodo, more faith than Frodo had in himself.
Sam did not want to let his spirits get down, and he began to sing. The tune was Bilbo's, but the words his own.
'Though here at journey's end I lie in darkness buried deep, beyond all towers strong and high, beyond all mountains steep, above all shadows rides the Sun and Stars for ever dwell: I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell'
These words put a little more hope into his heart, and he carried climbing the tower through all the debris left by some Orc power-struggle.
Sam began to think the tower might be empty except for corpses. He heard not a sound as he roamed the tower.
But as he climbed yet another set of stairs, he heard a sudden noise.
His first instinct was to cower against a wall, in anticipation of an attack.
But none came.
He listened intently, and heard a rasping Orc-voice almost directly above him!
It was shouting viciously in its own dark tongue, but after a while Sam heard it break into Common Speech.
'Dirty little Halfling! Stop your squealing, or I shall give you something to scream about!'
Sam then heard a whip crack, viciously.
Sam bounded up the spiralling staircase, two steps at a time.
He stood in the doorway to the attic room, gripping the doorframe and breathing heavily.
He looked to see an Orc, hunched over but holding a whip high in the air.
He saw Frodo, lying on a pile of dirty sacking, naked and cowering from the Orc's blows.
He had a red weal across his shoulder, marking the last impact of the whip.
As Sam looked on, horrified, the Orc brought the whip down again. This time it marked Frodo's back about halfway down.
Sam noticed that it had drawn blood.
That was the point where consciousness deserted Sam.
He existed only in the blade of Sting, in his cries of vengeance, in his one purpose of protecting Frodo.
Sam had never realised he had any skill with a blade at all . . . until he blinked his eyes open to find himself standing next to a mutilated and very dead Orc.
He had assumed Frodo was awake, but it seemed he was just instinctively protecting himself against the whip as part of some fevered dream.
He lay, naked on the dirty sacking, moaning as if injured in his dream.
Sam ran to him and knelt down beside him, gripping his shoulder and shaking him.
'Come on, now mister Frodo! We've got to get you out of here! Who knows how long it will be until some more filthy Orcs coming a-running up here to see what's going on?'
'Sam?' a feeble voice replied.
'Yes, it's me mister Frodo, your Sam is here, he's found you!'
'I thought you must be a dream. But all the other dreams were horrible . . .' he tailed off.
Sam's eyes filled with tears as the adrenaline from the fight left him, and he saw what a pitiable sight Frodo was, lying there naked and delirious in a filthy attic room.
He rubbed the tears away fiercely as he began to feel them trembling on the edge of his eyelids.
Sam lay down next to Frodo and held the trembling hobbit in his arms, whispering softly to him.
'It's alright mister Frodo. Your Sam's here now, and everything's going to be all right. Everything's going to be fine. No more Orcs is coming. You're safe, you are, you're safe.
'No, Sam!' shouted Frodo, pulling quickly away and sitting up. 'Nothing is going to be alright! They've taken everything. Do you understand what that means, Sam? They've taken EVERYTHING. The quest has failed.'
Sam looked at Frodo. He looked as broken and dejected as Gollum.
'Why, no, mister Frodo, they didn't take everything!'
Sam wasn't even sure if Frodo was listening.
'I thought you were dead, see. So I, and, I hope you will forgive me for this mister Frodo sir, I took the ring from round your neck with the intention of destroying it myself.'
At this, Frodo's head jerked up, attentive and very much awake.
'So, you have the ring, then?'
Sam nodded.
'Then give it to me! Give it to me at once!'
Frodo frightened Sam with the ferocity in his voice, and immediately took the ring from around his neck, and began to hand it to Frodo.
'I've felt how heavy it is, mister Frodo. And I thought, as we're getting to closer to the place that it was forged, it's only going to be getting heavier. I thought, perhaps, I could help you to carry it?'
On hearing those words, Frodo's whole appearance changed.
'No!' he snapped, 'Why should you have it? It's mine, mine alone! It was given to me! You can't have it. It's mine - my own.'
Sam was shocked to see Frodo behaving like this - he had felt a little of the effect of the ring, and he had a small understanding of how powerful it could be.
But what Sam had felt was nothing compared to what Frodo was feeling.
Frodo clutched the ring to him. He could feel it, branding itself into his palm, marking him and him alone the owner of all the power it posessed. The power to defeat Sauron, the power to make history. The power to be the most famous hobbit that ever lived, and live for ever to tell his tale. Infinite power, power which only he, Frodo, could ever be trusted with. It must not be shared! Never could such power be shared! It was his, his alone, and he would defend it to the very death.
A fiery, lidless eye burned in his mind, promising him infinite power and glory.
Sam stammered, terrified of the change which had overcome his master, 'I'm sorry, it was presumptuous of me. Of course it's your ring, mister Frodo, it's not my place to carry it, of course it isn't.'
Frodo staggered forward, as if he had suddenly awoken from a trance.
'Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry!'
His voice had returned to its normal, soft tones.
Frodo was trembling again, and looked as if he were about to swoon onto the floor right there.
Sam rushed towards him, putting his arms round him to hold him up.
'It's alright, mister Frodo,' he whispered, 'Everything is going to be just fine.'