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(A/N: It's been a while since I've updated this, so I decided I should...due to the cliff-hanger in the last chapter! Lol. Thanks for the reviews!)

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"Oh, Sam! NO!"

Tears, long clenched in Frodo's throat spill from his weakened, strength-divided eyes. A low howl of the harsh wind agrees with him, morning its sadness in a groan but also in a snicker of glee. And I laugh with it, hiding myself from view while I watch the frightened hobbit scramble to his feet, and limping, makes his way to his fallen friend.

The sight of the blood is satisfying. It trickles in a crimson brook past the boulder edge, reminding Frodo of the force he has given from the push. He cannot help a sob as he falls to his knees, softly frantic at the life that is draining away. In his internal agony, I feel his heart slowly rip. He feels responsible for this.

"I am so, so sorry, my dear, dear Sam," he moans. "It was an accident." As he speaks, he carefully lifts the curls of gold from the rear of Sam's head. His hair is matted with fresh blood, and dyed in a deep dark. Beneath, and lying upon his bruised skin is a hideous gash, new and flowing. He doesn't move.

I smile at Frodo's concern. I feel a sense of tremor – without Sam, Frodo is weak. He feels this; he knows that he cannot lose him because of it. Power courses through me. Even with Sam hurt, Frodo will find it harder to go on. He will have to search for counsel from another.

Acting quickly, Frodo tears of the sleeve of his spare shirt, and binds the wound with the cloth. "If only you could forgive me," he sighs, his tears threatening again. "I do not know what happened, Sam. It was loud, and dark. I tried to find you." Frodo's knees tremble as he completes the task.

"You are not all alone..." I chant, feeling Frodo wash with cold and his blood shiver. His heartbeat paces, and his breaths quicken. I wonder what it would create, what I would enact if I reached out and gently took him in my arms. I would be his friend now, the one to trust. He would be mine.

Though there is a sense of disapproval; Frodo is angry with me. I feel his anger thump against and surround his heart, and not even my most comfort could sustain him for the time being. He has felt the inner calling of the Shadow now, and I know my Master is becoming impatient with me. I am only stalling time for the easiness of my own task, if Sam will die here tonight, there will be no bother.

Frodo, Sméagol and I sit by the injured hobbit for three hours at most, and no change occurs. There is weeping, for Frodo is too frail to lift Sam on his journey, and he cannot bear to leave him behind. I comfort him as best I can, though he blocks me out of his soul with his sharp looks and mute words. It does not abash me, however, I am able to continue with my own dignity. Frodo's is tarnished.

Sméagol offers him considerate looks from time to time, and is suffering my inward punishment for it. One time he reaches out and pats him on the elbow. "Poor Master," he says. "Poor Master." And no more. He should not feel guilty for his decision. We have such a way to go now, and so little time.

Frodo returns a thankful smile. "You are good to me, Sméagol," he breathes. "I am sorry that I am delaying us like this. It is because of - " He turns his attention to Sam, and his voice catches in his throat. "It is because of me," he tells him. "Sam is hurt, and it is all my own fault. I remember nothing of it, now, only dark, deep voices and blindness, Sméagol. I was moving; I was being taken away…somehow. And there was no turning back. I was lost, but found."

There is a pause, as he looks down on the creature, which shivers and groans and grumbles at his words. "You understand me, Sméagol?" he asks, hopefully. It is here that I deliver another cruel blow to his mind, as if arguing his thoughts.

Rocking back and forth, Sméagol's answer is barely heard. "Sméagol has been into the dark, yes," he moans. "Master speaks of it too...he has seen the great things that hide from eyeses and hide from the bright lights. We have felt the cold, precious...so cold it is, and they watch us in the night."

"Who?" Frodo asks, his brow tightening. "Who watches you?"

"The things," Sméagol frowns, and now suddenly, he is not Sméagol anymore. At least, not for these few seconds. A transformation covers his face, and he turns away from Frodo, pawing at the dirt violently. "The things watch us – they are always watching us! They tell us nasssty words...they call us nameses. They treat us bad, bad, bad, Master...bad things they call us. Very bad."

Frodo shifts, sitting himself comfortably against the stiff rock. The conversation is interesting him, and he casts another wary look towards Sam. The blood is beginning to show through the cloth, and he tries not to think of it.

"I have heard voices, too," he admits. I feel his body flood with ice as he is reminded of the event before his friend's accident. "I try to ignore them, but they remain with me. What is this, Sméagol? Is it some curse that is laid upon this land? Do ancient spirits wander here, I wonder? I feel them all around me."

"No," Sméagol says, and now he is Sméagol once again. "No spirits."

"Then what do I hear?" the hobbit asks, confusion in his voice. "They haunt me as I sleep, they tell me evil stories and betraying thoughts. They yell when I pay no heed to their calls, and they batter me with their lies. I find no sleep because of it." Frodo whimpers, clutching his head, the weight suddenly holding him down.

Sméagol only frowns. "It was the precious, Master. The precious speaks to us."

Frodo says no more.

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A dark cloud covers the land shortly after. The scene is now moody and distant, and a fell, gloomy hand is gently stroking the sharpest points into a gentle fog. Frodo's head is bowing into sleep, yet he stays awake for Sam. I smile, easing his comfort by softly humming, hypnotising him into a sweet slumber, his eyelids flickering at my voice.

"Sleep...Frodo-love, sleep..." I calm him now, whispering and relaxing him into a peace that he may not waken from for some time. Stubborn as he is against my will, he forces his eyes to open and strays away from the boundaries of his aid. I hear him pleading for his friend's life, for him to be taken and Sam to be spared.

At the sound of my call, Sméagol comes to life, darting his ears away and casting his views aside, springing from his position and clambering his way up the rocky cliffs. He avoids my stare and focuses on his escape, snarling and spitting. He has had enough of the ongoing voices, I see. What a fool he is!

"You coward!" I roar. Frodo hears the tone of my voice, and turns his head. His eyes open in disbelief as they follow the track of his second follower.

"Sméagol?" he questions, pulling himself to his feet. "Sméagol! Where are you going?" his voice is racked with strain and panic, slight sobs clouding his throat. He grabs at his shirt, his fist tightening around my confound and his eyes shrouded with fear.

Almost singing now, Sméagol climbs up to the topmost of the cliff and calls down to Frodo in a cackling voice. "Off, off! Sméagol is off!" he chants in his crooning tone, his eyes suddenly alight and full of eager joy. He dances over the precipice and out of view, laughing as he goes on his way.

"No! Sméagol – please!" Frodo cries, beckoning and pleading with the creature. "Please return to Master! Do not go astray! Do not wander! I beg of you, Sméagol, please don't leave me here!" His calls sound as echoes, circling in the sky as of winged birds, hunting for a retreat of single prey, and Sméagol does not appear.

Poor, sweet Frodo. How lonely it feels to be unaccompanied by emptiness. You must learn what it feels to be alone. What it will feel like, for you to accept my hand and be welcomed into my own world.

He twists his body around to Sam, who has been interrupted by his shouts and utters a stiff groan. The sound is heavenly to the hobbit's ears, but instead of rather rejoicing, he sighs inwardly and moves to sit beside his servant, another batch of unfriendly tears gently flowing in the brims of his eyes. He raises a troubled hand and places it over Sam's chapped lips, hushing him quietly.

"I do not wish to hear voices," he growls, a hand slowly soothing Sam's poorly condition. I feel angered by his manner, his rage of comparing me to the sights that he sees in his dreams. Frodo's expression lowers, as he looks upon Sam's calm, undisturbed expression, though there are pinch lines from where his eyes have been squeezed tightly shut, mostly from pain.

An uncontrollable weep racks Frodo's body, and he stifles it, placing one hand over his mouth. "I do not wish to hear voices," he says again, his voice a pitiful whine. "But I long to hear yours, Sam. As you lie here, deaf and blind and dumb to the world, my own is crumbling around me."

At his words, and to my annoyance, he gathers Sam's hand in his own and holds it dearly. "It has almost been a day and night," he briefly tells, the tears now slipping down his pale cheeks as if they were ice. "And through this I have realised...I may have been either too stubborn before, or...too tired to say it, but...I need you, Sam. I can't do it without you. Please...it was a mistake – an accident. I never meant for this to happen. I never meant to hurt you.

I cannot bear to think what may become because of this. If it means your death...I dare not to think on it. It wasn't me, Sam. It was this power...it was this Ring – O, yes it was this infernal Thing! I did not know where I was, or what I was doing. You understand that...I cannot take you with me if you should fade. I'm not as strong as you." Here Frodo pauses, trapped with engulfment and grief, and he weeps for a half an hour, openly and without fear of capture.

"I know that there is no water for you, my friend," he gulps. "At least, none for yourself; from your own supply. We cannot go ahead and waste that. But here," And it was at this point that Frodo took up his own water-carrier, half-full, and put it to Sam's lips.

I scowl at him, furious. Do not wear away your own life by accepting his! He is the Light, and you are the Dark! Put him out into the shadows were he belongs! In my rage I glide down to the exhausted Frodo, and gently smooth back his hairline, revealing a line of beautiful scalp, clean and velvet.

"Let him be, love..." I drone out, my voice deep and stern. "Think not of him..."

"I must," he replied meekly. "This is my fault. Sam and I are in this together."

"You can do without...can you not? Save that water for yourself...it is such a long way..."

"Sam needs it," he said, his voice now firm. "I have enough for myself, thank you. Please, leave me now. I would rather not hear your voice; I know the peril that waits." There is something in his words that sounds dangerous, a new threat that calls and chances me to my own power.

Retreating for the night, I leave him disturbed by his only fading confidence. As I sit aside and wait for my faithful Sméagol to appear, I send another message to my Master. He is waiting for me...He wants me to return to him.

To the Shadow Mountain.

I will. I swear that come forth on whatever day; I will find a way to venture to you. If only I could bring myself without assistance. That is the only obstacle.

But Frodo will. If even he ever makes it to that final step, I will bring him down with the largest weapon he himself can muster, and carry with him to the ends. His own heart will betray him before this end is through.

And then my confidence is shattered, and also my patience.

An hour passes, and I hear the hobbit Frodo gasp in delight, and relief. Swinging back in fury, I see that his Sam has revived enough to open his eyes. The colour of them once more banishes me into the depths. How sickening! I focus all of my anger on the wounded one, and flame in rage at why his death did not take him.

"Oh, Sam," Frodo gasps, a loss for words. "My Sam, you rest now."

And Sam does not speak, only offers a smile of gratefulness. Why must their bond choose to remain intact? I do summon that by and by, they will begin to weaken and turn on their own trusts, their own love. It must happen...it must!

I remain away from the scene, disgusted at the view. The plan was not going along as quickly as one had hoped for. Things were certainly taking time, and they would continue to do so. Though I have trust that the next step, lies in the hands of my reliable Sméagol.

Then the revenge will come, through an open door and awaiting the taste of death.

A thunderous bellow rumbles through the air. The clouds are growing poison; gathering fumes to choke the lives of those so needy to brave them. I must make certain that Frodo's will and want no longer remains in the hands of that Sam. They do not belong together. Frodo does not belong to Sam.

For Frodo...is mine.

To be continued

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(A/N: Hope you liked! Feedback most appreciated. Please R&R!)