Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters from here on in. Please don't sue me, I'm a poor college student and it wouldn't be worth the legal costs. Promise.
The darkness was so overwhelming it seemed to press on the small travelers, adding to the weight in their packs. Fingers scraped against cold, sharp rocks; bare feet stumbled on the craggy, unforgiving ground. And yet somehow they crept forward. Were they going forward? Without light, it seemed no matter how many steps they took, they remained in the same spot.
Samwise Gamgee, the faithful gardener of Bag End, could stand darkness for his master. It was the noises of legs skittering in the darkness that raised goosebumps on his skin, setting him on edge. The sounds were so close, yet he could not see them. He couldn't see anything. Not even Frodo, who he knew was so close to him. He could hear his master's breath – slightly ragged and irregular – just ahead and to the left of him and he knew that he was there. But he couldn't see him. In this dank cave that horrid creature Gollum had led them into, Sam felt very much alone.
'Oh, Mr. Frodo, what have you gotten your Sam into?' Sam despaired, almost directing his thoughts to the breaths ahead of him. In this moment, the darkness seemed to be a tangible presence around him, weighing down on him. It was as if a great hand was pushing down on his back, trying to flatten the poor hobbit into the torn ground. But he took another weighted step forward, berating himself for thinking such a thing about his Mr. Frodo. 'It's not his fault…it's that Stinker and that Ring. Keep going Sam…keep going…you've got to look out for your master.'
If he thought about Hobbiton and the Bag End garden, the dark, though didn't recede, seemed to fill with something at least. There was something in it other than just a poor hobbit trying to find the courage to follow his master. He closed his eyes for a moment to rest them, but it didn't seem to make a difference, open or closed, all there was was darkness. When he opened them, he could almost see the clouds passing over head. Frodo's breaths next to him were not ragged but calm and deep. It didn't take much more thought to hear old Bilbo rattling around the smial, small snatches of song drifting through the window. The grassy hill that made the roof of Bag End felt cool to the touch despite the sun.
"That one, Sam," Frodo waved his hand lazily to the sky. In the heat of summer, the movement was superfluous, but Sam was grateful to Frodo for making sure he knew exactly what cloud he was talking about. "It looks like Bilbo's dragon, doesn't it?"
"It does, Mr. Frodo," Sam murmured, eye half-closed. "Old Smaug hisself. I wouldn't be surprised if this heat was the fault of his fire."
The sun began to sink behind the Brandywine, giving Hobbiton and its grassy hillocks a warm, almost magical glow. If he listened hard enough, he could here the little ones yelling and giggling at their play, maybe could even hear the chatter of hobbits in the Green Dragon. This was his home; he knew every inch of it. Everything outside of it made no difference to him. It could disappear and as long as the Shire was still intact, he would never know – or care. Even his fascination with the Fair Folk would grow out of him in time, as he was told by his elders.
Sam was by no means an educated hobbit. In fact, any reading or writing he was capable of was directly the result of Frodo's or Bilbo's patient teachings. But he knew certain things that most learned hobbits wouldn't. He knew how to coax a sickly plant into full blossom again, how to melt into any background, how to make a good stew out of just taters, a few spices, and a bit of any meat he could find, how to stick by a friend through thick and thin, and he knew what truly mattered to him
All that mattered was that he was by his master's side, the Shire was rightfully peaceful, and that Bilbo was murmuring lines from his book to either the open air, or perhaps to his old memories – Sam couldn't tell which. Nights like this one could only reinforce those ideas.
"Sam," Frodo beckoned. So intent on the silky dark sky and tying to catch phrases Bilbo's rambling, Sam had not heard Frodo stand up and make his way down from the smial's roof. Sitting up, he saw Frodo's form in the darkness, small and almost elf-like. He now could see in this light why the hobbitfolk called him queer and unusual, but it was because of that otherness that made Sam love his master all the more. Frodo wasn't like the others; he needed Sam more than any of other gentlehobbits could.
Silently, the humble gardener, slipped over to his master's side and the two started to climb down the grassy hillock. In the darkness, Sam stumbled, flailing forward. But Frodo was right by him and caught his friend up in his arms, heaving him back to safety. "Careful, Sam!" He cried. "You don't want to fall, you'll break something."
Still without a word, Sam put himself on surer footing and nodded. He always knew that Frodo would never let him fall.
Scraping his hand against a particularly sharp side of the cave threw Sam out of his daydream – was it day out? It was impossible to tell in this atrocious black. The black that seemed to swirl about, containing – not pleasant summer nights – but the dark cold fear that always sat in his stomach. Frodo's white, thin face – much too thin than was right for a hobbit to be. The terrifying Ringwraiths, black-clad and right on their heels. As he could hear his heart beat faster with fear, it seemed to be the hoofs pounding against the solid packed earth. It felt to Sam as if he was pulling himself along the bottom of the Anduin. 'Stop those thoughts, Samwise Gamgee, you're only makin' yourself worse.' But, the air caught in his chest. The watery darkness was suffocating him. Again it was like he was drowning in those great waters.
He had doubted his master then…for one terrible moment, he was sure that Frodo was going to leave him to drown. As he had sunk, he wondered what story the hobbits back in Hobbiton would tell.
"I always thought the Gamgees of good hobbit sense. No one ever knew what went wrong with that Samwise; I say it was that Baggins lad. Always filling his head with nonsense."
And almost on cue, Sam's foot caught a crevice and he lurched forward. Reassuring arms were around Sam, steadying him and pulling him back into the air. Frodo was no longer simply intangible puffs of air, but flesh and bone. So glad was he to feel his master's touch, Sam's knees nearly gave way. Perhaps Frodo felt his friend's need (or maybe he needed the comfort himself) for when Sam was righted again, his hand remained clasped on Sam's. With Frodo's warm hand in his own, Sam knew he could face the darkness.
"Watch yourself, Sam," Frodo whispered and squeezed Sam's hand comfortingly.
Sam knew that he didn't need to reply. This was where his master was, this is where he had willingly followed him. And he would follow his master out of that dank hole.
In the darkness, Sam could hear the scratching of a quill pen and Bilbo's voice, teeth still clenched around his pipe, mouth pulled into a smile. "So, Frodo, There and Back Again," he would say in a pause.
"Yes, Bilbo," Frodo would reply, leaning back easily in a comfy chair. "We came back again."