Author's Note: Some quotes in this story are taken from the chapter "The Choices of Master Samwise" in The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers by Tolkien. Also, some are taken from the movie The Fellowship of the Ring.

Chapter Three: The Dream

It had seemed so simple when he was sitting underneath the mallorn tree. He had even felt mild excitement as he had cleared the study and prepared his leave.

Now he wasn't so sure.

His youngest children were just barely out of their "tween" years. They couldn't take care of themselves on their own if he left...

Or could they?

But to lose a mother, and then their father, within such a short time would break their hearts. Wouldn't it?

"Well, Samwise, you've got yourself into such a fix you don't know which way's up. Think straight. Don't go running off...is this really what you want to do?"

He was staring at the round door of Bag End, seeming to stare intently at the fading green paint upon the wood. But his eyes were turned inward, where the battle raged. He, once again, was torn between master and duty, except this time as a father.

"Why do I feel like this has happened before?"

He sank into his chair by the hearth, putting his face in his hands. He had never felt so torn in two before...well, maybe on one occasion.

He frowned, closing his eyes, falling deep into thought. The fire burned itself out and still Samwise Gamgee sat, dozing.

Sam opened his eyes and felt pressing darkness. He put his hand to his face and waved it about, and still he saw nothing. He began to panic, and began to feel about the ground, groping in the dark on his hands and knees. Stopping suddenly, laughing at himself, he yanked his hood off his face. The darkness lessened only slightly. Suddenly his grasping fingers happened upon something cold and smooth. He picked it up and heard a sloshing noise, as water makes within a glass when disturbed. He passed his fingers over it, feeling its pear-shape and the coolness of the crystal. Quite unexpectedly, words spilled from his mouth he did not know nor command.

Aiya elenion Earendil ancalima!

A white glow blazed from the palm of his hand so suddenly, he toppled backward with a yell. He recovered and stood up, marveling at the glowing phial in his hand. Galadriel's phial.

Frodo!

As if on cue, voices clamored a distance away. Sam cautiously moved toward the noise, holding the phial high above his head, illuminating damp, rocky walls. That smell...that smell...

Where had he known that stench from?

He began to move faster, following the voices, his bare feet smacking against the cold stone ground. When he stopped to pant for breath, he quickly took stock of himself. What...?

He was wearing a heavy pack he had not noticed until then in his haste. He groped at the pack, feeling a canteen, pans, and a length of rope. His eyes widened as he noticed a sword scabbard swinging against his filthy pant leg. He drew the sword out of the sheath and...

It's edges were tinged with an eerie blue glow.

Sting.

He cried out in wonder. What in Elbereth's name was going on? He held it up carefully, and closing one eye, looked at his reflection. It was still the same careworn face of a century-old hobbit, with the gray still regretfully tinging his hair. He looked at his clothing...

He had not worn these clothes in many, many years. Everything was worn, dusty, and filthy. The hair on his feet was matted and his legs were dirty, and he was wearing a canvas sack, his regular shirt and pants, and a vest he hadn't seen in years. He resheathed the sword.

He began to run again. The voices had gotten away from him as he tarried. They returned to earshot, and he flew around the tunneling corners and stopped short. There before him was a younger version of himself. He was hidden among pointed rocks, with his back to Sam, watching the source of the noise carefully.

"Sam Gamgee, control yourself. There's some devilry a-going on, and no mistake. But it's no sense losing your head over it. Why, it's probably nothing but a dream!"

Only a dream. It was only a dream.

Sam knew. He was dreaming, but he was not yet awake.

He stood rooted to the spot, waiting for what would happen next. Young Sam suddenly convulsed, reeling like a drunken man and clutching at the stone. Sam marveled as he heard a young voice he only recalled in his memories.

"You fool, he isn't dead, and your heart knew it. Don't trust your head, Samwise, it's not the best part of you. The trouble with you is that you never really had any hope. Now what is to be done?"

It was Shelob's lair. It must be. He scooted along the rock face, and peered out towards where young Sam was watching. Orcs were surrounding a small body. As small as he himself was.

Mr. Frodo.

Sam fell to his knees. He had seen Mr. Frodo within so many dreams over the years, but never in this way. Never...dead. Or so he seemed, anyway. He listened again as the vision before him spoke.

"I got it all wrong! I knew I would. Never leave your master, never, never, that was my right rule. And I knew it in my heart. May I be forgiven! Now I've got to get back to him. Somehow, somehow!"

Never leave your master. Never, never. My place is by him. By Mr. Frodo.

"Don't you leave him, Samwise Gamgee."

"I don't mean to! I don't mean to."

And with a start, Sam awoke in his chair before the fire at Bag End.

"I don't mean to, Mr. Frodo. I'm coming."

What did you think? The point of this chapter is to bring back a bit of Sam's memories, and connect them with the indecisiveness he was feeling at this point in time. Please review! Next chapter arriving soon.