His palm was clammy. And cold.
So cold.
An ember from their campfire was crumbling between Sam's fingers as he grasped Frodo's hand. It was still slightly warm, but not doing much to keep Frodo's icy hand from trembling.
Somehow Sam knew that the only alternative he had was the smouldering-hot gold band in his pocket. His calloused fingers were still slightly tender from claiming the thing, and it lay heavily against him through the worn fabric.
Strider had led them down from the peak of Amon Sul and under the cover of nearby trees before stopping to tend to the wounded hobbit in his care. He helped Sam lay the Ring-bearer against a mossy boulder, and carefully pulled the singed and torn fabric away from the wound.
"Merry! Pippin!" he called and whistled softly. Merry came rushing up, and Pippin came panting with Bill the pony still reined, with the straps in hand.
"Is he alright?" he inquired breathlessly. "Is he going to die?"
Strider evaded both questions. "Look around for athelas. Kingsfoil it is, by the Shire tongue. It'll be small and close to the ground. Hurry!"
Pippin frowned, looking blankly at Sam.
Sam looked quickly at Strider, then down at his master. "Kingsfoil? Aye, but isn't that a weed?"
"Its virtue is stronger than you may think, Master Gamgee."
Frodo was dozing, and seemed to be at ease, at least for the moment.
"Come on, Pip," he said finally, releasing Frodo's hand reluctantly. "I'll help you look."
Down on their hands and knees, they crawled about in the dimly lit clearing, squinting at the damp ground. Pippin's normally pink and cheerful cheeks now held a grey pallor; his lips were tightly pressed together and his grey eyes were bright. Sam caught his eyes, and they smiled weakly, yet somehow comfortingly, at one another.
Sam spread the unruly brush apart, slowly raking through the foliage with his fingers. Where was it?
"Here!" Pippin cried in relief, his face hidden in the brush, his hands holding the branches apart. They were scraped and bloody from the thorns.
Sam rushed over. Indeed, it was! Sprouting from the moss was a bundle of small leaves with tiny, blue-white blossoms. Pippin was prying the roots from the ground, to no avail.
Sam hurriedly reached into his pocket, fingers searching for his small knife. But they touched the Ring first. He frowned and paused, an odd feeling coming over him.
Pippin looked swiftly at Sam. He was stock-still, staring unseeing before him, his hand frozen in his pocket. His breath was suddenly ragged in the chill air.
"Sam?" Pippin said in annoyance, nudging him. The older hobbit blinked once, muttering, "Sorry…" and extracted the knife from his pocket. Out with it slipped the gold ring, and it fell to the ground.
An unearthly shriek pierced the chill air from a distance, causing all who heard it to cast themselves upon the ground and cower.
"They're close!" Merry cried in a hissing whisper.
Pippin turned his head from his prostrate position on the ground. Sam's eyes were shut and his face white. His fists were tightly clenched.
Sam had never known such trial.
Voices.
Evil, hissing voices he was sure no one else could hear. Coaxing, demanding. The Ring felt warm and pleasant in his closed fist, and against his will his fingers were working to pick it up and put it on.
Make it end! he screamed within his thoughts. No!
The shriek faded away, and he could hear only the pained yell of his master, and suddenly it passed. He slumped on his side, and opened his eyes. The Ring had made it as far as the first knuckle on his first finger, and still it rested there, glimmering innocently in the firelight. He pulled it off hastily, breathing heavily, and held it tightly in one closed fist.
Pippin got up carefully, crawling over to Sam. He put a hand on him, shaking him gently, rousing him.
Sam sat up, rubbing at his eyes. He slid something back into his pocket. Pippin watched concernedly as the gardener cut the roots of the herb and gathered them up.
"Sam? What is it?"
Frodo had awoken to the grey light that preceded dawn. Sam sat beside him, head back against the tree they had made camp under. Dark lines were under his eyes, and his lips were pale and set in a firm line.
But as his master stirred, he snapped out of his sleepy reverie and moved closer.
"What? Oh, nothing, Mr. Frodo. I'm just a bit tired, is all."
He got to his feet stiffly and picked up a bit of the athelas plant left over from the long night, dipping it in the pot of water that hung over the smouldering coals.
"You're going to be alright Mr. Frodo," he said, lifting the bindings that covered Frodo's wound and pressing the plant into the cloth, then replacing it.
"You're going to be alright."
But Frodo had already drifted back off.
Sam sat there for a long while. One hand held his master's, and the other was in his pocket, one finger brushing against the smooth band of gold.
Come now, Samwise. It's not yours. You know that. You know how dangerous it is.
He did. But the incident the night before had scared him…frightened him out of his wits. He had realized then that he was a danger to everyone…realized he might not be strong enough. Not enough to resist its lure.
You can't keep it. You know that. It's the Enemy's ring. It will destroy you…and everyone else!
Uncertainty.
To be continued…