Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, just borrowing.
AN: I just read over the last chapter again, and there are so many typos that I'm ashamed of myself. I'm going to blame it on too much caffeine, and at some point I'll fix as many as I can find, I promise.
Last Ring-Bearer by shrinni
Chapter 3
Sam thought that it took another day for him to get to the foot of the Morgai. It was nearly impossible to tell however, the sun may be shining down on the west, but Mordor existed in perpetual smoky grey from the ash spewed into the sky by Orodruin.
As soon as he reached the valley floor, Sam turned northwards and began his attempt to get past the great host of orcs camped on the plains of Gorgoroth.
It was slow going, though faster than his climb down the cliff from the pass of Cirith Ungol. The foot of the Morgai was rocky and strewn with boulders and ditches. And while this was idea terrain for Sam to make his way without being seen, the footing was treacherous and he had to watch carefully where he was going to put each foot.
Occasionally, Sam came across crevasses that made his journey all the more perilous. Most were too deep to climb down and then out, so he had to make his careful way around, either climbing back up to cross or creeping out into more open terrain and around it.
The first few crevasses Sam came across, he would throw pebbles down to see how deep they were. The third one he found seemed to have no bottom, at least no matter how he strained his eyes he saw nothing, and he never heard the pebble he threw hit the bottom.
It was long, extending into the open plains of Gorgoroth, but narrow enough for Sam to leap over once he found the courage. Before he leapt, he finally parted with his cherished pots and pans.
"I don't suppose I need them anymore anyway." Sam muttered as he watched them tumble from his sight. I don't think I'll live long enough to ever need to cook again. He thought sadly.
Sam was convinced he would never make it out of Mordor alive, even if he could get to Mt. Doom and destroy the Ring. Even so, he kept his gift from Lady Galadriel safe in his beast pocket, as a reminder of the beauty and good in the world that he was trying to save.
When he felt that the weight of the Ring was too heavy for him to bear any longer, he would take out the box and run his hand over it, imagining the Lady's face, the mallorn trees with their golden leaves, and his colorful gardens at home, which would be blooming soon without him.
He would also take out the Lady's phial, her gift to Frodo, and cup it in his hands so that the light shining from within would not be seen by any eyes but his own. And with the memory of good soil on his hands and starlight shining in his eyes he could get up once more and carry on the journey.
And so Sam traveled, sleeping when he could walk no further, eating sparingly when he felt faint from hunger, and drinking even more sparingly.
As chance would have it, he came upon streams running into the Gorgoroth, and though they tasted bitter and warm, he was thankful that there was enough to keep his water bottles full.
The Ring weighed heavily on his mind, as he knew it would. But, either because he had not carried it for long or perhaps because in his heart of hearts he knew he was not destined for greatness, it was slow to work upon his waking mind.
His sleep, though, was haunted by a wheel of fire that burned him alive. Sometimes Frodo would appear and make the fire recede, but often he didn't and Sam would wake shaking and beating out imaginary flames on his clothes.
He was suspicious of the lack of pursuit. He knew that the orcs suspected him alive, though they thought him an elvish warrior. He finally decided that they must have assumed he had fled back to Ithilien when his companion was killed, but he didn't lose his caution.
After an uncertain amount of days, Sam had gone as far north as he could manage without coming in sight of an old tower that sat squarely in his way, and still he could not see a way to sneak past the camped army of orcs. He was still no closer the rising bulk of Mt. Doom, either.
Trying to circle around behind was probably folly, anyway. Thought the depressed Sam.
As he sat, trying to think of a way to Mt. Doom, he noticed something that at first he dismissed as a sleep-deprived vision. But as he continued to watch, he realized that it was no vision; the army was moving.
And indeed, the entire orc-host seemed to be moving south, towards the Black Gates (as indeed they were, to destroy once and for all the last king of the West).
Sam filled his water bottles from the trickling water-course that he had been following, and then waited for hours until the last orc had gone from his sight.
While he waited, he thought he heard a noise, like the creeping footsteps of bare feet, but when he strained to listen he heard no sound. Sam was not reassured. He had wondered when he would catch sight of Gollum, and now he wondered why Gollum hesitated to attack him. He was alone, and weakened by the burden of carrying the Ring.
He must be starving. Sam realized. He doubted there were any bugs here that Gollum could survive on, and there was certainly no fish. He didn't have any way to carry water either.
Stinker's starving to death and dying of thirst, most likely. But still he follows me, he can't help it. Sam thought, for the first time truly pitying him. He'll die if he follows me forever, and I don't think he can survive if the Ring is destroyed. So why does he hesitate to kill me and take it for himself?
Resolving to sleep with one eye open when he could no longer stay awake he crept out, his wary eye on the ruined tower that he was still in sight of. He drew back hurriedly when he saw a lagging troop of orcs go running down the road that curved towards the Isenmouthe, covering himself in his Lorien cloak.
Hidden in the shadows, cloaked in a grey against grey rock, the marching orcs went past without noticing him. When they had passed out of sight, and Sam heard more no iron-shod feet on the road, he set out. He jogged as long as he could on the road, trusting to luck.
His luck held, and when he had run for as long as he could manage he turned off the road and slowed to a careful walk, making a direct line for Orodruin thought the broken landscape of Gorgoroth. When could walk no more he sat, ate the last bite of Faramir's provisions, and drank sparingly from his water bottle.
Unable yet to sleep, but too weary to go on, Sam surveyed the land he must still cross to get to the rising bulk of Mt. Doom. It looks every step of fifty miles. The thought made his feet ache. If I get no weaker, which Sam doubted, I might make it in five days, but who knows how long it will take to get to the top?
Sam once again went through his dwindling supply of food. What he found made him smile. More than enough lembas to get there... and maybe even enough to get back to the Gate, if I'm not slain on the way.
For the first time since Frodo's death, Sam realized that he might actually see the Shire again. If he wasn't killed or captured by orcs, if he managed to escape after he destroyed the Ring, if he had enough food just to make it to Itilien...
I can go home, after this is all done. I can see the Shire again... If I can just destroy the Ring and get out of this broken land alive.