Authors note: This story, and "The Mirror" are my first attempts at fan fiction. Although I have written all my life, mostly poetry, I find a new awakening come over me when I am writing about my two favorite characters, Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee. These are sweet, sad, simple stories, but hopefully you will find them pleasing to your heart, as they are to mine. I write for my own pleasure and hopefully, for yours. Any feedback or comments are welcome.

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Sam watched as Frodo took step after halting step, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, every so often losing his balance on the loose rocks, not caring if he fell or got back up again. It was a terrible sight and Sam could only trail behind his Master. His strength was failing him now as well, and he knew it would soon be time for them to rest again. The periods of rest were coming quicker and lasting longer these days, but it could not be helped. Frodo was in a terrible state after the betrayal of Gollum and his confrontation with the spider, then his ordeal in the high tower with those horrible Orcs. If they were ever to accomplish their task, it would have to be in their own time. Waving his arms about, as if warding off blows from some unseen foe, Frodo began to mumble to himself; so wretched now was he that Sam thought he had lost his mind.

"Poor Frodo…" was all he could think, and then he said it to himself again, this time out loud. Frodo had heard him, and turned around slowly to face Sam, the look in his eyes dim and drained of any light or hope.

"What did you say, Sam?" he asked in a strangled voice. They had run out of water many miles back, and their tongues cleaved to the roofs of their mouths, making any conversation difficult.

"I…I said…poor Frodo." He looked at his master's face, and saw a slight shadow come into his eyes. Frodo stood there now in front of him, teetering slightly, his face dirty and covered with dried blood from scratches when he had fallen.

"Poor Frodo…" he said to himself now with a faraway look in his eyes. Frodo remembered when he had heard that phrase before, a time long ago now it seemed, when he was a lad, not even in his tweens.

He was lying in the warm, sweet grass in a cleared patch of the forest, just over the hill from his small hobbit-hole where he lived with his mother and father. He stared up at the sky, imagining shapes in the clouds, and generally thinking of nothing. His mind drifted and his thoughts wandered, his senses becoming duller as he strayed out of time and let sleep overtake him…

Frodo woke with a start- he heard voices just on the edge of the clearing, and giving his head a shake, his dark, burnished curls danced across his forehead. He turned over onto his stomach and peered into the shadows made by the tall trees, but saw nothing. Instead, the voices seemed to be coming closer, and as he tuned out the buzz and hum of the insects around him, he thought he heard a mention of his name. He came up onto his elbows, and strained to hear, turning his head from one side to the other, testing each ear. There… he heard his name again. The voices continued and seemed to get louder, and Frodo, for some reason he did not understand but felt instead, backed up onto his knees and crawled quietly to a more dense section of the wood. He could still hear the voices, but felt better now about not being seen.

"Poor Frodo," the voice said again. "I wonder what will happen to him now? After all, being an orphan is something almost unheard of these days among the Hobbit folk. But those Baggins'- they always were a queer kind of folk, if you know what I mean…"

"Shh… what are you doing now? Talking ill of the dead! It may be true what you say, but don't go saying it out loud. After all, poor Primula and Drogo- drowning like that… very queer, if I say so myself…"

With that, the voices trailed off, and all was suddenly quiet again. Not even the insects buzzed now and the wind had died down to a slight rustle through the trees… and there sat Frodo Baggins in the underbrush, not quite knowing where he was any longer or what had happened to make him break out in a sweat.

"They couldn't be talking about me, could they?" he whispered to himself. He felt dampness now on his cheeks and his throat tightening, and his breath coming in bitter heaves. "Orphan… orphan?" Frodo knew what that word meant, even at his young age, but he dared not believe it. It was impossible- he had just kissed his mother good-bye that morning as he ran out to play with the others, and then, as usual, found himself alone in the woods. Before he even could feel his legs moving, he was running, running as if his life depended on it, tripping over tree roots along the way but taking no notice of the scrapes and bumps he incurred. Over the hill, he finally reached his home, and stopped abruptly. He waited there, outside the front door, willing his mother to come out and give him a fake scolding for getting his breeches dirty and torn, then bending down to give him a kiss on his forehead. But nothing happened- the door remained closed to him. He walked slowly, his feet and legs like lead, and he took hold of the latch. There was no warmth from a fire going in the kitchen, no aroma of poppy-seed bread baking (his favorite), and no glow from lit candles on the sill greeting him home… nothing but a stillness and heaviness. Frodo knew in his heart now that what the voices said was true. He would never see his parents again and his life would never be the same…

"Poor Frodo," he heard himself saying, no longer now that lonely hobbit lad of years ago, but Frodo, the lonely Ring bearer, on his way to Mt. Doom, and to his own.

"Mr. Frodo, are you alright? Please, we can rest now if you need to." Sam was so concerned now- Frodo had seemed as if he was in a trance, barely breathing, only tears coming one by one from those distant eyes.

"Yes, Sam, rest would be good. Rest, only rest now…" Frodo let himself drop to the ground, like a rag-doll that been abandoned by its owner in favor of a new toy. His head lolled to one side, his arms hung listlessly beside him, and as Sam found a place beside him, he heard Frodo speak.

"I was thinking about the day I learned my parents had drowned, Sam. They called me 'poor Frodo' then as well. Only when dear old Bilbo took me in did I ever think I would be loved again…"

Frodo' voice trailed off and his tears ran freely, running like little rivers from those deep aqua pools. All Sam could do was to hold Frodo's hand, and caress it. He knew that Frodo had a hard time of it, growing up without any parents, always seeming to be the odd one out in everything. It didn't help that Frodo didn't look like your average hobbit. Where most hobbits were round of face and body, Frodo was slender, almost Elfin-like. Most hobbits had a ruddiness to their complexions with close eyes and chubby cheeks, and a sturdiness to their demeanor, whereas Frodo was fair, almost transluscent, with high cheekbones and huge blue eyes, and quite refined in his manner. The worse being, though, that he was an orphan. Rumors and gossip accompanied Frodo on his way to live with his Uncle Bilbo, and people were always giving him sideways glances. Even some of the other hobbit children wouldn't play with him, thinking that what happened to his parents might happen to theirs. Frodo did as best he could to join in, succeeding sometimes, but often failing. Then, he would make for the nearby woods, taking comfort in the quiet and the solitude. Sam would often watch him from afar, curious about this young hobbit that came to stay with his Gaffer's Master, Mr. Bilbo.

As Frodo tried to rest, the torment of the Ring ever-present, he thought back to a time after he had come to stay with Bilbo. Being curious about his new surroundings, he told Bilbo he would be gone for a while to explore. "Be careful going out your door, Frodo Baggins…" he heard Bilbo say as he walked out of Bag-End. Dear Bilbo, always looking out for him, not wanting him to get hurt. He knew that some of the Hobbits whispered rumors about his Uncle, and now that Frodo had come to stay with him, there was even more gossip to spread about "those Baggins" during the slow and balmy evenings at the Green Dragon.

Frodo walked briskly down the lane, his hands in his pockets and whistling a tune his mother had taught him. Heading towards the wood, he soon came upon a group of hobbits around his age and a little older playing a game of tag. He slowed down to a tentative amble, standing just a ways back, waiting. The group of lads continued playing for a while, and then one by one they stopped, noticing Frodo, just standing there, his foot digging into the ground. One of the older lads walked towards him, and yelled at him from a distance.

"What do you want?" he said, not altogether pleasantly Frodo perceived.

"Well, I thought… maybe I might be able to join in on the fun. I'm a pretty fast runner, if I do say so myself. I'll be "it" first if you like." Frodo said this with all the hopefulness of a playful puppy, its master waving a stick for a game of fetch.

"Oh, sure, you can play," the burly hobbit lad said, "but not with any of us." And with that, all the boys made their way off in the opposite direction of Frodo, laughing and poking at each other, leaving him there, alone. Frodo couldn't move for a moment. His mouth was open, wanting to say something, but what? He shrugged to himself, trying to brush off their unfriendliness and the hurt he felt, but his eyes filled with tears anyway, and he turned to head back to Bag-End. As he did so, he heard a voice say, "Wait." He looked around and there stood young Samwise Gamgee. He was the son of Bilbo's gardener, Hamfast Gamgee, and Frodo had seen him often enough, helping his father pick the ripe vegetables and plant rows and rows of beautiful flowers.

"Hullo," Frodo said, with just an air of hesitation, not knowing if Sam would walk away from his as well.

"Hullo there, Frodo, I mean, Sir, I mean… oh, Mister Frodo!" Sam stumbled his way through the greeting, and Frodo felt his apprehension give way.

"Oh, you needn't call me sir or Mister- just Frodo will do." A tentative smile rose on Frodo's lips as he looked at Sam, a sturdy and handsome hobbit, with bright eyes and golden hair.

"I… I guess the other lads had to go." said Frodo, self-conscious now, remembering that he still had tears on his cheeks.

"Oh, I shouldn't bother about them, Frodo. If truth be told, they're not all that much fun to be with anyway. For myself, though, I'm a pretty fair runner… want to have a race? Say… from here to that big old tree over there?" Sam had a mischievous side to him and wanted to see just how game this fine Hobbit was for a bit of fun.

"On your mark, get set… GO!"

And off they ran.

Given that Frodo was a few years older and more than a few pounds lighter, he was out in front in no time at all. However, the lack of any regular exercise during those long months of mourning had made Frodo somewhat soft and to both his delight and chagrin, Sam quickly overtook him. Frodo watched now as his new friend, Sam Gamgee, put a fair distance between them, and Frodo smiled to himself.

Watching the figure of Sam get smaller and smaller, Frodo did not see the rock that was partially hidden in some of the longer grass and catching his toe, he tripped, going down with a thud. A searing pain went through his left ankle, and try as he might, Frodo could not stop from letting out a yelp. At this, Sam spun around quickly, and there was Frodo, quite a few yards back, lying on the grass, writhing and holding his ankle.

"Oh, Frodo, what's happened?" and Sam ran back to his friend. Stopping just short of Frodo, making sure perhaps that this was not just some trick of his to gain the lead again, he quickly saw that it was no such thing. Frodo was in real pain, and Sam noticed some blood on his lip from where Frodo had bitten it, either from the fall or to stifle a cry.

"Here, let me have a look at that," said Sam as he bent down to examine Frodo's ankle. Frodo gasped and closed his eyes tightly as Sam examined it, now swollen and tender to the touch. "Well, it doesn't appear to be broken, Frodo- I know what to look for because one of my Gaffer's calves had done the same thing down in the pasture year before last. Just a sprain, I'm more than guessing… but how to get you back to Bag-End, that's another problem." Sam stood up and scratched his head some, and Frodo could only laugh through his tears now. What a predicament! He didn't think he could hop the whole way back, and it would soon be dark. He tried to stand up on it, but he only managed to cause himself more pain and more than a little embarrassment.

"Well, c'mon then, Frodo. I guess I'll just have to carry you back." And with that, Sam picked up Frodo with one easy hoist, making a mental note to himself to let Mr. Bilbo know that Frodo could afford to put on a few more pounds- why, he almost felt as light as that calf did back in the pasture!

Frodo started to protest at once, but his ankle began to throb now and he felt light-headed, so he let himself be carried by Sam, feeling how strong the young Hobbit was, and gentle as well. Sam avoided all the bumps in the road, and whistled a lovely little tune along the way, hoping to calm Frodo and take his mind off some of the pain. Frodo found himself almost lulled to sleep by the time they reached Bag-End, and before he could explain what happened to Bilbo, he was in his bed with some hot compresses around his ankle and a soothing tea to warm him. Sam was there beside him as well, eating a well-deserved meal and sipping on some hot cider.

Frodo looked at his friend, and felt happy for the first time in many months. Not that his Uncle Bilbo had not loved him and given him everything he needed since he come to live with him, but Frodo now knew that Sam would be his friend forever. With that, he shut his eyes, and let sleep overtake him…

Frodo felt a jostle at his elbow, and reluctantly, after the jostle became more of a shove, he opened his eyes. He looked around, and Sam was there, still beside him, except he was not enjoying his meal, and Frodo was not in his bed at Bag-End. They were here, on the slopes of Mt. Doom, dirty and exhausted and without hope, and Frodo wondered how he would ever make it to the end of his quest.

"C'mon, Mr. Frodo, we should try and walk a little more."

"Sam, do you remember when we first met? You beat me in a race, and I sprained my ankle, and you carried me all the way back to Bag-End… I remember thinking that you would be my friend forever that day… and so you have been. But now I feel like I've sprained more than an ankle, Sam… and the Ring is so heavy for me to carry… how will I ever finish what I set out to do?"

Frodo spoke with such weariness and Sam looked at his Master with such pity, that a strength and determination suddenly seized him, both in heart and body.

"Yes, I do remember that day… and so I say again, Frodo dear, I will carry you…" and Sam did, hoisting him up as on that day long ago, thinking how light Frodo was to carry, and trying to whistle with parched lips and cleaved tongue. Frodo clung to his friend, feeling how strong he was, and gentle as well…