Hmm, a review for a different story cause me to look back at all the work I had posted on this site; I seem to have forgotten about it, as you can probably see. I was checking back and today is this fic's birthday (at least when I started writing this chapter!). Phew, it certainly doesn't feel that long to me. It must to you guys though, and I'm sorry about that! I have another Frodo/Sam fic that I found in my archive that is aching to be finished – a rather long one shot, more poetic, less plot – but I feel the need to update this first. Update… wow… I bet you weren't expecting that one!

Part Four

The door slammed behind Frodo as he dashed down the path as fast as his legs would carry him. The second he stepped outside he felt the effects of the cold; it wasn't a simple snowstorm: it was a blizzard. Coupled with the wind, the snowfall was a force to be reckoned with. Although he was bundled up with his coat, hat, and scarf, the small pieces of Frodo's face open to the cold were pelted with the flakes that flew in all directions. This was no place for a hobbit.

His running slowed to a quick-paced gait as he lost his breath. He kept his head down, trying desperately to be free of the wind. One thing he knew for sure: he had to find Sam, and quickly. But where could he have gone? Frodo began to see how hopeless his situation had become. How was he supposed to find Sam? He could be anywhere!

Frodo looked around, but in the dying light and the tornados of snow he could barely see the path beneath his feet. It was a fool's search, but he knew that it was the only thing he could do. It is what Sam would have done for him. He can't say it is what Sam would have wanted him to do, and that hurt, but it was worth it for once to disobey Sam. He had to take this into his own hands if he wanted to see his gardener healthy again. Now where had he gone…

Ah! He had remembered. Sam was going to get more firewood. 'I knew I never should have let him go,' Frodo thought, frantically. 'But how was I supposed to stop him? He hasn't been listening to anything I've said for a long time now! I would have had to drag him inside and bolt the door…' He shivered as the snow found its way inside the neck of his coat.

'But this is accomplishing nothing.' Frodo slowed to a walk and began to formulate a plan. 'Sam went to cut firewood. The east grove is a ten minute walk on the mildest of summer days, but Sam says that's where the best wood can be found in the winter. He's got to be there.'

Hopelessness began to creep over Frodo. Even if he could make it to the woods, even if he could find his Sam, what made him think that Sam would be okay? What made him think that he would be able to drag Sam back to Bag End? In all honesty, Frodo was at all loss; he had no idea what to do. But what was he doing right now? He was not moving forward at all, just simply staying in the same place and worrying. He had to go to the forest, whether he had a chance of finding Sam or not. He had wasted enough time already, and he hoped against hope that he would not be too late.

Frodo didn't think it was possible, but the wind had picked up and the snow seemed to be piercing his thick winter coat with the force of knives. He struggled to keep his footing against the wind, grabbing vainly at the fence so he did not slip. The ground was wearing an icy blanket and Frodo knew that with one misstep he could twist an ankle, making it impossible to save Sam, and maybe impossible to get back inside himself. Everything mattered now; he could not make any mistakes.

He trekked on.

The sun was emitting a dim glow from the horizon, but it was barely noticeable; the snow was falling so thick. Frodo clung to the fence, knowing that he might as well take advantage of it before he had to turn and take the path down to the woods. How he would manage from there, he didn't know. But his will was set, and he would not turn back without Sam. He couldn't.

Frodo's feet were numb, his hands trembling, and his eyes watering but he didn't even notice anymore. He had to put his own pain aside if he was ever going to bring Sam home. Sam deserved so much more than this, and Frodo had to make sure he was safe. Then he could begin to treat Sam as he should have since this trouble began. He had to talk some sense into him. And he would, that is.. if he ever got the chance..

The snowflakes began to increase in size, and the sun sank even lower. Frodo knew that he would not be able to last too much longer under these conditions even with the proper clothes. His worry for Sam increased a thousandfold. Sam, Sam…

His mind clouded and all he could think about was that warm smile, those hazel eyes, that soft voice so selfless and caring. How could he let this happen? He crushed his half frozen hands into fists and doubled his speed. He wasn't going to let this happen. He wasn't going to let a simple mistake, a wave of stubbornness, interfere with.. no.. destroy his friend's life. He couldn't do that to his Sam. He turned towards the woods.

As he reached the edge, the trees loomed up in front of him. The branches were swaying with the wind, not in a gentle manner but a rapid whipping of limbs every which way, snow falling in clumps from the canopy and onto the floor. It was treacherous; Frodo hoped that no fallen branches had gotten in Sam's way…

Ai! He winced at the thought. "Sam, Sam!" he called, his voice hoarse. "Sam, just say anything! Let me know you're with me!" His voice was lost to the howl of the storm. It was swirled up and taken away, never reaching its target. But Frodo didn't notice. He couldn't feel the wind; he couldn't feel the snow. All he could feel was his anger, his determination. He had to find Sam, and soon. If he didn't… Frodo didn't even let himself finish that thought. He wasn't going to let Sam die. Sam, so young, so strong, would not fall to nature's icy grasp.

Frodo tried to walk in a straight line, to follow the path, but in truth he had no idea whether or not he was headed up or down, east or west. It was impossible to tell, with the snow, but he let his senses guide him. They were all he had left now.

Frodo blinked, keeping his eyes shut for a moment longer than necessary. Behind his lids shot a horrible image. Sam was huddled under a tree, clutching his bear arms for warmth, shivering uncontrollably. Frodo rushed to him in his mind's eye, but it was too late. His friend's once gleaming eyes were dimmed, and as they looked up at their master, showed a look of defeat. And moments later, they were closed and Sam moved no more.

"Sam!" Frodo shouted, and this was followed by a yelp as he crashed into something in front of him. "Ack!"

His cry faded to nothing. Frodo tried to steady himself so he didn't fall, so he didn't let the storm get the better of him. He grabbed onto the closest thing, something waist height. He quickly took a closer look, squinting through the snow.

"What.." Frodo pondered, until all at once it was clear in his mind. "The wheelbarrow! Oh, Sam, Sam, where are you!"

Frodo knew that Sam had to be nearby. He had never once seen him go far from the wheelbarrow when chopping wood – no need to carry the wood further than necessary he always said – and there's no way the wheelbarrow could have moved without Sam's pushing it. Frodo scanned the ground but could not see through the snow. Try as he might, he could see nothing but white against the black of night. The sun had set, and the world was truly black.

He started. Black or not, Frodo was going to find Sam. He was going to, he was going to…

And all at once, the world whirling around him and the snow spinning, wind snapping, he stumbled. His foot caught a root, and he fell to the ground, dropping the clothes he had been helplessly attempting to carry in order to give to Sam when they were reunited. They scattered across the ground, atop the snow.

Frodo cursed. He crawled, unable to stand for the time being as the weight of the darkness pulled him down. His hands reached blindly for the clothes he had dropped, willing them to come back into his grasp. And to his surprise, his hands grasped something else entirely.

"Unghhhh."

Frodo heard a sound. It was barely audible above the roar of the storm, but it didn't matter.

"Sam!" Frodo shouted.

And before his very eyes, the scene unfolded in front of him. There was Sam, his jolly, healthy Sam, crumpled and broken on the ground. Inching closer, Frodo found himself even with Sam's drooping head. He could see his hazel eyes, half closed and unfocused, staring into nothing.

Frodo panicked. He did the only thing he thought to do; he pulled Sam's half frozen body to his own, ripping off his glove in an attempt to feel Sam's face. The second his hand made contact he wished he hadn't; Sam's face was ice. The cold around him seemed thwarted as his hand came in contact with Sam's flesh. Frodo felt ice cold, no, colder flesh below his fingertips. He felt the tears appearing in his eyes freeze over as the touched the wintry air. No. No.

"Fr… Frodo…"

Frodo heard Sam's weak whisper, and that was all it took to snap him out of his reverie and bring his mind back to the task at hand; there was time for worrying later after they were both safe. Safe. Warm. The thought seemed so alien to him now, along with the dinner he had cooked for Sam so long ago. He shuddered, and his heart broke as he looked down at Sam, whose eyes had slowly drifted closed.

"Damn it all!" He shouted to the depths of winter, who mocked his pain with its icy frost. A limb fell somewhere in the distance.

"I have to get you home; I have to get you home…" Frodo repeated, over and over, as he tried to drag Sam up. This was harder than he could have ever imagined. Sam, even after he lost so much weight, was still larger than Frodo himself and still weighed quite a lot, though not by normal hobbit standards. Frodo knew he could not bring himself and his Sam back to Bad End; it was not possible for a hobbit of his stature to make such a journey. It seemed impossible.

"We're going to freeze; the winter is going to win. We're not going to make it. I'm going to let him die; I'm going to let Sam down."

As Frodo's thoughts span inside his head, frantic as the storm, he backed up, dragging Sam as well as he could, and his back hit something hard. He cried out, cursing again, before turning around to see what he had backed into.

It was the wheelbarrow.

Almost as a sign from the heavens, Frodo rejoiced for a split second. He could manage this now, he thought; he could bring Sam back. With all his might, he hoisted his now unresponsive Samwise into the wheelbarrow, being ever so careful that he did not hit Sam's head. But secretly Frodo knew Sam was too far gone to even feel it.

Once Sam was inside the arms of the wheelbarrow, he set his mind to the new, strenuous task at hand. Frodo had never been good with wheelbarrows; he had spilled many a barrel full of wood in his day. And this was totally different. It was not a matter of wasted time or a sore back upon picking up the dropped wood; it was a matter of life and death.

"I have to do this. I have to do this. I have…" Frodo repeated over and over, again and again, as he took one step, then another. His steps were in time with his mantra.

Step.

"I have to do this."

Another step.

"I can do this."

Two steps.

"I must do this."

Another step.

And as the wind howled, the snow beat at his body, but he didn't notice anymore. All his mind, all his body, his entire being was focused on the wheelbarrow and Sam's unconscious form. The storm was beginning to become irrelevant. Sam was the only thing that mattered. He had to bring him back.

"I can do this."

The woods began to fade behind him.

"This will happen."

He could see Bag End.

"I have to make it."

The gate was on his right.

"I have to save Sam."

He could see the door.

"I can, I can."

He pushed, to the doorstep, and grabbed for the doorknob.

"Sam will be okay."