Hello! Thank you for the lovely reviews to the last chapter, I'm sorry this one is two days late. I've been a wee bit busy, and I struggled with how to write parts of it. Anyway, here it is, so I hope you forgive my typos and enjoy.

Chapter Fifty Three: The Watching and the Waiting

It took nigh on a week to reach the peak of the High Pass. The journey was far from easy, but they did not fall into any goblin tunnels or run into any enemies, and the ponies and the wolves bore the grunt of the burden. Without any hint of complaint or weariness they climbed, bearing the dwarves, Vinca, and Bilbo mile after mile, up and up, until at last they crested the mountain and began to travel down the other side.

For Kíli, there was nothing to do but ride, and watch. He watched his mother a lot – almost constantly, in the first few days. Learning that she was with child had shaken him, and deeply. Even if everything went as it should, if the baby grew strong and healthy, pregnancy would make her vulnerable. Slower, more careful, pained and potentially burdened with vomiting and dizziness and a dozen other side effects – and that was only if it went well. If it did not – if the baby got sick, or died, if his mother got sick, or died –

It was not a thought he liked to entertain, but one that haunted his mind nevertheless, so he watched for any sign of change in Dís. So far, there was nothing alarming. The small bump she had hidden from them so easily was growing, and growing steadily, as far as he could tell. He had noticed that she often shifted her feet and held them up, but she assured him gently that swelling of the feet was perfectly normal, and nothing more than a discomfort. She had to stop to relieve herself more often than before, but there was nothing dangerous.

When he was not watching his mother, Kíli was watching the world around him. He watched the tracks and the paths and the peaks and the valleys, staring for any sign of foes until his eyes hurt.

So far, there had been nothing.

That did not comfort Kíli. Not when his kith and kin were inside the mountains, in a dead city last populated by goblins.

Nevertheless, Kíli and his companions reached the top of the mountain and passed over, beginning their descent with no trouble to speak of. In fact, there was a little good luck. After being battered rather badly at the gates of Moria, Luno had recovered enough to bother Kíli and Kanna until the dwarf returned to Luno's back. Also, Bragi and Ehren both began to eat normally again, which relieved him no end.

Without the eagles to carry them swiftly away, descending the mountains took a long time in itself. The days rolled by until nearly two weeks had passed from that hell at the gates, and Kíli knew that if all had gone well, Frodo and the others should be in Lothlórien. He hoped that they were, he prayed with every fibre of his being that they were alright.

He had no idea – he had no way of knowing – that the fellowship had already left the land of the Galadhrim, and were well on the way to the falls of Rauros, by now.

Kíli just kept watching. Watching the mountains, and the horizon, and the land below.

The cry of an eagle reminded him to look up, as well, and he saw a great bird circling above them. Luno stiffened, his hackles raising, and Kíli reached for his bow, but before he could nock an arrow the eagle swept down and perched on a rock before Fíli, who rode at the head of the group.

It was not a Great Eagle, such as those who had borne the company of Thorin Oakenshield two decades ago, but it was still half as tall as Bilbo, and its eyes and talons were sharp.

At once, Kíli's brother drew a knife, but the eagle let out a shrieking call and the wolves responded with a chorus, snarling and whining and growling like children clamouring for news. Fíli paused, and glanced at Kíli, who felt his heart speed up in his chest.

The eagle tossed its head and Luno whined, his ears flattening back against his head. He looked over his shoulder at Kíli, the whites of his eyes clearly showing.

"What is it?" Kíli asked, looking from the wolf to the eagle, and then back to his wolf. "Is he giving us a warning?" Luno nodded, sharply, and Kíli straightened. "Of what? Orcs? Goblins?" Luno nodded, twice, and gave a sad sigh, raising his paw and pointing toward the east. "On the mountain, or below it?" Kíli asked carefully, and Luno bowed his head right down. "Below it…" Kíli's blood ran cold. "Beorn's lands?" Luno threw his head back and howled mournfully, and the eagle ruffled its feathers.

"We're in for trouble," Kíli called grimly over his shoulder. "There are orcs before us." Behind him, the others muttered in dismay, but Kíli ignored them for the moment. Scratching Luno's ears, he asked, "Can we avoid them? Pass unseen?"

Luno whined at the bird, and the eagle squawked. Luno shook his head and snorted, before tossing his head upwards – movements that always meant maybe.

"Then we keep quiet," said Fíli authoritatively. "We keep quiet, we keep low, and we avoid confrontation wherever we can. No talking, if it can be avoided. Stick with Iglishmêk. And we will make no fires, and rest only when we can find shelter. Amad, Vinca, Bilbo, speak if you are struggling. We will help. Nori, Vinca and take up the rear, you have the keenest eyes of us all."

One of the other wolves pushed his way to the front of the group, so that his nose was mere inches away from the eagle. It was Denahi, and he gave a howl and a snarl, and the eagle replied with a glare and an indignant squawk. Denahi growled, and the eagle cried again, and took flight. Without another word, the company began making their way down the mountain, each with eyes opened and ears strained for any hint of orcs. They heard nothing.

They did not rest that night. Instead, they rode quietly on, keeping the pace at a brisk walk. They had to conserve energy for any fights that may come, and yet they had to be as swift as they could. They were only ten, the sooner they reached the mountain, the sooner they were safe. And if Beorn's lands were having trouble with orcs, they would find no sanctuary there.

The last time they had sheltered from orcs with Beorn's, the skin-changers house had been burnt to the ground. Kíli did not want that to happen again.

If what Legolas said at the council was still true, the Woodland Realm would have little help to offer its allies, either. Just two days ago, Glóin had admitted that the loyalty of Esgaroth still could not be guessed.

"With every day that passes, more and more folk are pouring into New Dale, with rumours of talks between the master and the men of Mordor. She may yet hold, we know not. But I would not trust to Lake-town. Not anymore."

And already, folk from New Dale were moving provisions and belongings into the mountain, in anticipation of the attacks that would come. So Kíli and his companions would not really be safe until they were inside Erebor.

And they were a month away from Erebor, at best.

They left the mountain at dawn, travelling into the thick woods that spilt out before it. They were in Beorn's land now, a region that stretched from the Misty Mountains into the outskirts of Mirkwood, and had a growing population of men and skin-changers who called it home. They were known as the Beornings, for it had been Beorn who united them.

Some said the Battle of the Five Armies had made him yearn for an army of his own, but others – Kíli among them – liked to think that the friendships Beorn had created had lured him out of isolation. Whatever the cause, Beorn had travelled for half a decade, gathering the scattered peoples of the lands surrounding his own. Those who chose to follow him formed a roaming people, for a time, while Beorn sought out the few packs of skin-changers that had survived the wrath of Azog.

Then, with a following of nigh on six hundred people and a wife and son of his own, Beorn had returned to his lands. They had begun their lives as a single people in tents and huts, but had since built villages and farms of their own, often building around trees rather than hewing them down. Their bakeries were legend, and their chief village, Beorvin, always been a place of warmth and merriment and story-telling.

Bróin always said it would be paradise if the folk there would only eat meat.

But Beorvin was also small. All their villages were – they never grew large enough to be called even a small town. Many of the Beornings liked their privacy, and as such, though they were ever connected, they were a small people spread across a great realm.

And though their population had swelled in the past two decades they were a very young people – the eldest of those born when the Beornings had still been roaming were but twenty or twenty-one years old. Even Grimbeorn, who had a son of his own, was merely nineteen. A man, but a young man by anyone's standards. Kíli did not think it an exaggeration to guess that half of their people were children under the age of fourteen.

Kíli's blood ran cold. If hordes of orcs were swarming the lands of the Beornings, a community saturated with children, a community scattered, a community barely out of its infancy –

It did not bode well. Neither did the silence they found at the base of the mountain.

Usually, the land of the Beornings was filled with birdsong to rival the Shire, and an abundance of animals who called the area home. Now, it felt like an empty room. The only bird they caught sound of was an eagle – quite possibly the same bird as before – whose mournful cry reached them two days after they had last heard it. But there was no sign of any messenger, verbal or non-verbal, so Fíli led them silently on.

Or rather, the wolves led them on, steering them often away from the path, and leading them away from dangers that the dwarves could not yet see or hear. They were nervous and restless, with their noses ever raised and ears ever twitching, and their dark eyes scoured the woods relentlessly. Luno's tail was tucked between his legs, and remained so no matter how often Kíli rubbed behind his ears.

Fíli held up his hand and halted the group, signalling with Iglishmêk that they would rest for a few minutes to relieve themselves, and eat a little, and let the wolves sit down for a moment. As they did, Kíli's eyes roamed over the group, doing their hourly headcount.

And his stomach dropped. They were missing someone.

"Luno," he murmured, "Where is Denahi? Where's your brother, boy?"

Luno gave a sad sigh, and licked Kíli's nose. Kíli raised his hand in the air to get everyone's attention and silently repeated the question. Vinca was the only one to sign back anything other than "I don't know."

"He peeled off when the eagle cried," she signed, a confused look on her face. "I thought he would be back by now."

Kíli glanced at Fíli, but his brother shook his head. "If he is not back when we leave," he signed, "he must follow. He is a wolf, Kíli, not a puppy. He can hold his own, and do what he wishes, for that matter."

Kíli sighed, and nodded. Bilbo passed him a piece of lembas bread from Elrond, and gave him a silent hug. They ate, and they rested for half an hour, and then they remounted. And Denahi did not return.

What am I going to tell Merry? Kíli thought, his heart aching. He'll be so upset…

But once again, there was nothing Kíli could do but watch. He could not call out and give away their position, he could not go off on his own and hunt Denahi down. All he could do was watch, and hope that he came back.

The other wolves rode closer than ever, and led the company ever on, deeper and deeper into the silent territory of their former master.

It was safe to say that Frodo and Sam were well and truly lost. It had been six days since they had parted from their friends and crossed the river, and in that time what had they achieved?

Four scraped knees, seven stubbed toes, and one nasty bump to the shin. And still, they were no nearer to finding the way out of the maze of razor sharp rocks around them. Frodo and Merry had anticipated that they might be forced through the Emyn Muil, and they had marked a path out on their maps as best they could. But the map was in a pack back at camp, and Frodo was doing it blind.

They had left so much behind. And though it had been six days, nigh on a week, no one had caught them up. No one. When night fell, there came a feeling that Frodo and Sam were not as alone as they thought they were, a feeling that someone, somewhere, was watching them. But it was not a good feeling. And there had been neither sight nor sound of any other soul.

They should have caught up by now. The rest of the fellowship, they should have easily reached Frodo and Sam with how ridiculously lost they had become. So where were they? Frodo's family, his friends, his fellowship – had they been caught? Killed? Worse?

Where were they?

"Not that way!" Sam said, grabbing Frodo's arm and wrenching him from his thoughts. "That way curves back on itself, we've passed it before. We're going round in circles."

Frodo groaned, staring at the path. Sam was right. As usual. "Of course we are…"

The stone before him was familiar – he had only narrowly avoided concussion this morning from a rock that jutted out at head height. He sighed, staring up at the clouded sky and trying to get his bearings. Beside him, Sam shuffled, fiddling with the straps of his pack and pursing his lips.

"What is it?" Frodo asked slowly. "What's on your mind?"

"I, I was just thinking," Sam said, looking more and more uncomfortable by the moment. "About something Bofur taught me…"

Frodo waited, raising his eyebrows when Sam did not speak. "Well?"

Sam sighed. "Well – you know how Mister Dwalin always said that when you throw a ball you ought to look where you're throwing, because your hands'll follow your eyes? Well, old Bofur says it's the same with most things. That your body goes the way your brain's looking. He says it can happen when you're on the road. That if your mind wanders, your feet'll wonder too. Frodo – I think we're going around in circles because… well, because we don't want to find our way out of here."

A sick feeling dropped into Frodo's gut, and he turned away. "What do you mean, Sam?"

Sam sighed, striding towards him with a look of miserable determination and putting a hand on Frodo's shoulder. "I mean, Frodo, that we're stalling. The longer it takes us to get through this hellish place, the longer it gives the others to catch us up, and we know that. So, we're going in circles to give them more time. But we shouldn't, we really shouldn't. It's not safe, it's not smart – and we're supposed to meet them all tomorrow. A week, Nelly said. If we're not there…"

Frodo sighed, and bowed his head. "I suppose you're right, Sam. But even when I think about it, I don't really know which way to go."

"Then we climb," said Sam firmly. "We climb like Old Bilbo did in Mirkwood. Climb to find the sun."

For a moment, Frodo considered this. True, Bilbo had had a tree to climb – not jagged rock formation with sword-sharp edges. But then again, Bilbo had not been raised by dwarves and wolves. He took a deep breath and sighed.

"Alright, then. I'll go first. Keep a lookout, Sam, I'll have to concentrate."

"Aye," Sam nodded sombrely. "Watch you don't fall."

"Good advice," said Frodo dryly. "Thank you."

He stared up the rock faces around him, cautiously choosing which one to climb. He chose the one that looked easiest to ascend and studied the path he would try to take. Climbing rock came much less naturally to him than climbing trees, but is was still something he had done for fun in Erebor. With much more care than usual, Frodo began to ascend.

The rock bit into his fingers and jutted out, scraping at his knees and feet as he rose, but he ignored it, finding footholds as best he could, and ignoring the way his fingers hurt when they gripped the stone. Gritting his teeth, pushed himself higher and higher, until at last he reached the top. There was not exactly much space to stand – the top of this particular rock was little more than a point.

They rose all around him, other rocks with equal or lesser space, plenty of places to fall to. The Emyn Muil seemed to go on forever, a sea of dark stone, until he turned to his right and saw a dim land beyond it, and many, many miles away, a ring of black mountains silhouetted against the sky. Smoke rose from beyond them. The ring sang, and dragged his heart to rise, even as his stomach plummeted.

Mordor.

Well, at least he knew which way it was.

Out of the corner of his eye, something moved. Frodo whirled around, so fast that he almost lost balance. He wobbled for a moment, throwing out his arms as his feet scrambled for firmer ground, but by the time he was out of danger of falling, whatever it was had gone. He narrowed his eyes, staring at a nearby boulder. There were a few small pebbles tumbling down its side.

"Come on, Sam," he called. "Up and over. There's no easy path around, you'll have to climb over this one. But I know the way. Let's go."

Frodo kept a watch on the boulder as Sam rose, waiting until Sam was perched precariously on the top beside him before he spoke. "There's someone here," he whispered. "We are being watched – I do not know who by, but if it was one of the others they would not have hid from me. We must be careful."

Sam went a little pale, but his jaw set, and he gave a curt nod. As quickly as they could, they scaled down the other side of the rock and returned to the dusty ground. They wove their way east as best they could reckon, skirting around the crags where they could, and climbing over them where avoiding them was impossible. For the first time in days, Frodo felt like they were actually making progress.

And for the first time in days, he was absolutely certain that they were being followed. He still had not seen or heard anything that could prove it, but he felt it in his bones. He just knew. And he had a feeling he knew who – or what – it might be. The ring seemed to know too, but it was being very quiet. Almost as if it was reluctant…

His hand rose towards it, but when he caught what he was doing he scowled, and grabbed at his shield instead. It comforted him a little, but also reminded him of what he had seen in the Mirror of Galadriel. Frodo, a child, curled up in Thorin's lap. Thorin, asleep and alone, dropping his shield. Ever since Lórien, he had worried about that. He doubted that the Mirror would just show Thorin taking a nap.

They walked until the dark became dangerous. Night fell thick and fast around them, and the clouds veiled what little moonlight the sky had to offer, and it became impossible to pick their way through the maze around them. So, instead, they set out their bedrolls, and they both laid down.

"Are you sure about this?" murmured Sam, so quietly that Frodo could barely hear him.

"Yes," Frodo replied, just as quietly. He closed his eyes. "Just as long as we don't actually fall asleep."

That was easier said than done. The moment he let his eyelids close, sleepiness flooded him from his toes up to his head, but he fought against it, straining his ears.

Waiting.

Waiting.

And then came a voice, one he had imagined in nightmares, a voice he had heard Bilbo use, a voice that dripped with malice and hatred, and hissed like a snake.

"Where is it, where is it?" it hissed, and Frodo swallowed. It sounded as though the voice was coming from directly above him.

Keeping as still as possible, Frodo opened his eyes just a little slit, and peered up through his eyelashes. Slinking down the rock-wall above them, using all fours like some wretched spider, was a creature that Frodo had never seen before.

A creature he knew at once.

Gollum.

"My Precious, my Precious!" he breathed, drawing closer and closer to the hobbits below. "It's ours, it is, and we wants it. The thieves, the thieves, the filthy little thieves, lying there with my Precious, my Precious, Gollum!"

The hair on the back of Frodo's neck stood on end and he readied himself. Just a little closer, just a little closer –

"It's ours," snarled Gollum, "It's ours!"

And Frodo felt the creature's hand brush against his hair.

He sprang upwards and Gollum gave a shriek, but the hobbit was too quick. Frodo seized Gollum's hand and wrenched him down from the rock, and Sam grabbed onto the creature's other arm. Squealing as though he had been stuck with a knife, Gollum flailed and tossed his weight from side to side, but Frodo and Sam were strong, and expecting a fight, and they held fast. Even when Gollum's foot flew up to strike Sam in the chin, they kept their grip firm, until Gollum threw back his head and wailed, going limp as a dead fish.

He began to sob, odd, choking, sounds that tore pathetically from his throat and wracked his skeletal form, and Frodo thought back to what Bilbo had said about Gollum. To what Bilbo had said when Frodo asked why he did not just kill Gollum in the first place.

"Gandalf said it best, and he's right, my lad. The greatest courage is knowing not when to take a life, but when to spare one. Killing Gollum would have done no good for me, and he was not a creature like an orc or a goblin, unable to feel love or pity or care. Although, that said, don't feel that you have to kill every orc you see either, Frodo. No matter what the dwarves say, you kill only when it's in defence of other life, or to provide for your table."

It hurt to think of Bilbo, it burnt to think of Gandalf, but Frodo swallowed, and stopped Sam before he could reach for his knife with a small shake of his head. Between them, Gollum wailed louder, his head thrown back and his chest rising and falling in deep, heaving movements.

"We'll tie him up," Frodo said softly. "Decide what to do with him."

"Decide?" cried Sam indignantly. "Why, we should kill him Frodo! That's what he was going to do to us!"

"Perhaps," said Frodo, staring into Gollum's pale, watery eyes. "But is that his fault, or the fault of the ring?"

"His – does it matter?" Sam sounded rather incredulous.

"It matters, Sam," Frodo said, a little sharper than he had intended to, as his hand twitched up towards his neck. "It matters."

"Alright," said Sam, shrugging in surrender. "But let's tie him and be done with it. We're running low on time, Frodo."

"I know. I know."

They bound him quickly, hand and foot, but he shrieked at the touch of the rope, and writhed on the floor as though his body was being wracked by lightning.

"It burns!" he shrieked, "it burns us, burns us precious! Nasty, nasty, elvish rope – take it off us! Take it off us!"

"Don't," said Sam sharply, when Frodo's hands moved toward Gollum's. But Frodo checked anyway – the bonds were not too tight, and there was no sign of irritation on the creature's skin.

"Be quiet," Frodo told Gollum firmly, a hand on his sword's hilt. "We are going to discuss what to do with you, and all this shouting will make it hard to do. If you don't want us to simply leave you here to starve, you will stop screaming and behave yourself."

Gollum collapsed dramatically to the ground, gasping and clawing at the ground with a soft keen, but he saw Frodo's blade and he kept quiet.

"I don't trust him," said Sam, slipping into Khuzdul with ease. "Not one bit – we should leave him here, Frodo. Just leave him, if you don't want to kill him."

"But it would kill him," Frodo argued in the same tongue. "And if we are to kill him, it would be kinder to do it outright. But I don't think that we should."

Sam sighed, putting his hands on his hips. "Look, I don't like killing, Frodo, I don't like it any more than you do, but we're not safe unless we do, see?"

"But Gandalf said that Gollum may yet have a part to play," protested Frodo.

Sam blinked. "When?"

"In Rivendell. He was talking to Bilbo about it, I was – passing. Gandalf said his heart told him that Gollum had some part yet to play, those were his words. But he did not call him Gollum. He used another name… Sméagol."

The creature on the ground froze, going stiller than the stone around him. His head turned slowly, and his eyes fixed on Frodo, so wide that they were almost spheres. "What did you call us? What did it say?"

"That was your name once, wasn't it?" said Frodo, reverting to the Common tongue. "Sméagol. When you were still like a hobbit. When you still were much like us."

"Sméagol," whispered Gollum, his eyes glazing over as the word hissed from his lips "Sméagol… my name… my name… We had forgotten, precious, had forgotten our name, yes we had, precious, Gollum, Gollum-"

Sam cut over him, switching back to the secretive tongue of the dwarves. "I don't care what he calls himself. Makes no difference to his ability to throttle us in our sleep. You realise, Frodo, what the choice here is? We either kill him, or we take him with us. We drag him, sneaky and treacherous as he is, into Mordor with us. Because we sure as stone can't let him go."

"No," said Frodo slowly. "We cannot let him go. But if we do take him with us…"

Sam groaned. "You've got to be joking?"

"We have no maps," said Frodo bluntly. "No paths or plans – and the road around the marshes is dangerous. An extra pair of eyes could be of use. As could a guide."

"A guide?" cried Sam, his own eyes bulging almost as much as Gollum's. "A guide? How could he guide us – how could we trust a single word he says?"

Frodo said nothing. He simply stared at the pathetic creature on the ground before him, and watched him snivel and squirm. Finally, he sighed. "At least then he has a chance, Sam."

"A chance? For what?"

"Redemption," said Frodo quietly.

"Redemp- does he deserve redemption?" asked Sam, his face taking on the same exasperated expression it took when he was arguing a moot point with one of the younger dwarflings.

Frodo shrugged. "Who are we to say he does not?"

Sam sighed, stroking his chin. Then, he shook his head, and threw his hands in the air. "Very well, Frodo. It's your choice. But if I wake up with his hands around my neck, the first thing you'll hear after I stab him is 'I told you so.'"

Frodo smiled a little, and turned to stare at Gollum face on. At Sméagol. The name was little nicer than 'Gollum', but it sounded more like a name, and less like a cough. And if they were going to let the wretch reclaim any of his humanity, a name would be a good place to start.

"Well, Sméagol," he said, trying to give his voice the same iron that Thorin used when addressing the guard. "We should like to let you out of those ropes, but for now, we cannot. Not when you might run away, and tell orcs or spies of our position." At once Sméagol began to whine, simpering protestations pouring from his mouth, but Frodo ignored him and continued to speak. "We cannot let you out unless you can give a promise that we can trust."

"We swears!" said Sméagol at once. "We swears to serve the Master, the Master who holds the precious. We swears upon – upon the precious!"

Frodo's hand automatically rose to wrap around the ring, and he paused. "The ring is fickle, and holds no alliance but to the Dark Lord."

"We swears," simpered Gollum, throwing himself down at Frodo's feet. "We swears…"

Frodo glanced at Sam, who shrugged. "I wouldn't," he said. "But it's your call, Frodo."

"I will hold you to your promise," said Frodo slowly. "I do not want to hurt you, Sméagol. In fact, I swear that I will not hurt you – unless you break your promise. But I warn you – if you do break your vow, if you betray us… The consequences will be dire, indeed."

Sméagol nodded almost frantically, holding up his hands like one praying, and Frodo untied Sam's knots – with a little difficulty. Thanks to the combined teaching of Bofur and old Gaffer Gamgee, Sam tied knots better than anyone Frodo knew. As soon as he was released, Sméagol scampered two steps back, but he did not run further, and kept his wary eyes on the hobbits.

"You know the way to Mordor?" asked Frodo, keeping his voice stern. "You've been there before?"

"Yes," said Sméagol, his voice quavering. "Yes, we knows the way, we knows…"

"You will lead us there," said Frodo. "You will lead us to the Black Gate, as soon as the sun rises."

Sméagol scowled at the name of the sun, but he caught the look on Sam's face and nodded hastily.

Frodo nodded himself, just once, and gestured to Sam. "Now, we are going to get some sleep, one at a time. If you try to run, or attack us, you will be breaking your vow, and I will be forced to break my vow not to harm you. Do you understand?"

Sméagol nodded again, so intensely that Frodo winced. Was this what the ring would do to him? Would he become this dishevelled, snivelling creature by his feet?

"I'll take first watch," said Sam darkly, his eyes on Sméagol. "I won't be able to sleep for a while yet."

Frodo doubted that he could sleep either, but he lay down beneath an outcrop and closed his eyes nevertheless. If Sméagol could find retribution, give penance for the wicked he had done… If Sméagol could put to rights what he had done, then surely Frodo could too. More than ever, he wished that he could speak to Bilbo. Just speak to him – apologise for taking – stealing – the ring, beg for understanding, for forgiveness, for advice. What he would give to hear Bilbo speaking to him, or listen to Dís hum him a lullaby.

He shivered. Dís would be showing by now – she had to be at least five or six months along. He yearned to speak to her too – to know that she was alright, that she was safe, and ready for whatever would come. More fiercely than ever before, he prayed that the baby would survive, for its own sake, but also for the sake of Dís, and Bilbo. If the worst happened to him, a new baby would help them cope, he was sure. Tears burnt his eyes beneath their lids, but he refused to open his eyes and release them.

Instead, he sighed, and sung silent lullabies in his mind until he fell into a fitful sleep.

Sam woke him late, only two or three hours before dawn, and Frodo was not happy about it. But he did not complain. It was for his sake, after all, that Sam had forsaken sleep. For Frodo's sake, and his safety. So instead of complaining, Frodo watched the world, and watched Sméagol, who also appeared to be sleeping, until the sun rose.

The sun of the seventh day.

By noon, between their resolution and Sméagol's directions, they reached the end of the Emyn Muil.

There was no one there.

"Perhaps they're further north, or south," Frodo said hopefully, but even as he craned his neck to look, he did not expect to see anyone.

"We'll wait till night falls," said Sam, sounding rather miserable. "I'm sure Gollum'll prefer walking in the dark anyway."

Frodo caught his friend's tone and swallowed. "You don't think they're coming?"

"I hope they are. But I don't know, Frodo. I don't know."

Frodo did not know either. He sat down, pressing his back against the stone and peering out at the stinking bog land before him. Looking would not make them arrive any faster. Sam, on the other hand, could not stay still, pacing back and forth and back and forth, while Sméagol lurked nearby.

The hours ticked by.

"What are they waiting for?" Sméagol said, approaching Frodo cautiously. "What are the hobbitses waiting for?"

"Our friends," said Frodo bluntly, in no mood to elaborate.

Sméagol's eyes widened, and he skittered backwards. "Elf friends?" he spat, looking at the bag that held the rope he had been bound with. "Nasty friends with nasty swords and-"

"They will not hurt you, Sméagol," said Frodo sharply, dropping his head to his knees. "Not if I tell them not to. Calm down, now."

Sméagol did not look convinced, but he nodded, and returned to skulking in the shadows beneath the Emyn Muil, away from the sun.

And the sun began to set.

Sam looked at Frodo hopelessly.

"Just another hour," said Frodo, standing and walking out to grab Sam's arm. "We'll give them another hour."

Nodding, Sam squeezed Frodo's arm back, and they both began to pace. To pace, and watch, and wait.

Until the sun set altogether.

"We have to go," Frodo said, his voice as hollow as his hope. "Come, Sméagol. Show us the way, now."

"No friends?" Sméagol asked, but Sam scowled at him.

"Don't you talk about it," Sam snapped, and Sméagol recoiled, darting in front of Frodo and hurrying on all fours towards the bog.

"This way, Master," he called. "This way now."

Frodo sighed, and put a hand on Sam's shoulder, pressing his forehead against his friend's. "It's just us now, Sam."

"Right you are," Sam mumbled. "Time to be brave, now, aye?"

"Aye," Frodo said, pulling away with a sigh. He grabbed onto Thorin's necklace and nodded. "Time to be brave. We have to see this done."

"We will," swore Sam. "We will."

And though he knew where he was going, and could see his destination before him in the moonlight, as Frodo stepped away from his fellowship and towards Mordor, it was safe to say that he felt well and truly lost.

I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! It's not my favourite, I'll be perfectly honest, and I found the taming of Sméagol particularly difficult to write, but it's necessary and needed to go here before the timeline gets too hard to follow.

Anyways, I shall see you next time – in the mean time I thank you for reading and would encourage you to please review if you have the chance and anything at all to say – any feedback is deeply appreciated.