Hi guys! Back on time for once, and I have two chapters for you today! I hope that you enjoy them, and that there aren't too many typos. Thank you so much for the lovely reviews to the last one - enjoy!

Chapter One Hundred and Three: The Flight to the Fire

Sam did not have a wide enough vocabulary to express how deeply he loathed Mordor, not even inside the privacy of his own head. It filled every inch of his soul with hatred, this dark, stinking place, with its aura of doom, and its lack of food and of water, and its swarming orcs. Time seemed to be different here – stagnant and sluggish and slow – and the only way that Sam could be certain it had not already been years they had been there was the fact that they still had food left. Not much – the rations the ate each morning and night were growing smaller by the day, but as the dreaded mountain grew closer and closer, Sam still believed that they should have enough food to reach it.

Even if that meant they would starve on the return.

The water, too, was running low, and they had not been able to refill their bottles since entering the Black Land. Nelly had managed to steal a few bottles of draught from an orc camp they had passed, but despite their silent hopes that it might be some healing potion like that of the orcs of Saruman, it turned out that the liquid inside was only a poorly made al0. Any hopes of it helping Bróin were dashed when he promptly threw up after the first sip.

Bróin was not getting better. On days when he was more hopeful, Sam would think that he seemed to have stopped getting worse, but most of the time he supposed that was wishful thinking. Through day and night, Bróin lay sprawled across Toothy's back, his hitched, rattling breaths interrupted only by fits of coughing or retching. Always he shivered, covered in sweat, and sometimes he slipped into sleep, and then he would whimper, and beg in broken Khuzdul, and the others would dry their own tears before they woke him up.

This place was killing him, with its sickly aura and its lack of clean food or drink, and it was not doing any good to Frodo, either.

For days now, Sam had noticed Frodo slowing down. He walked with a bowed back, and his chin against his chest, stumbling along as though the ring weighed more than a mountain. A thin sheen of sweat covered his pale face, and his eyes were shadowed by dark, bruise-like circles. He did not speak, anymore, not unless Sam or Nelly prompted him to answer a specific question.

Except that was not entirely true.

Sam had caught Frodo speaking, whispering softly in the dead of night – whispering to the ring. He had seen his friend stroking the band of gold, seen him crooning over it, murmuring to it, when he thought that no one was watching.

It made Sam want to scream. Nelly had seen it too – in several silent conversations they had wondered whether to bring it up, to confront him, or encourage him to fight harder, but they thought the best of it. Frodo did not need them second guessing him, not when it might push him further away.

Yet, amidst all this gloom and darkness, there was something that struck a little hope into Sam's heart. Over the last few days (or were they weeks, or even months?) the orcs of Mordor had been moving steadily westward, and away from the road of the fractured fellowship. By night, Sam had seen them marching in droves, their torches like a rippling fire moving closer and closer to the Black Gate far in the west, and they had passed many a smaller group of orcs making their way in the same direction.

Once, they had been forced to hide for an hour as a great battalion of the foul folk marched past, but they had not been discovered, and when they orcs had passed they had had trudged on, through a land looking ever more empty.

Sam lauded this good news, and declared to the others that it a sign of luck, but even as he clung to any sense of hope, in his heart he was not so sure. This good fortune would have to be paid for, he was certain of that, and he did not want to know what the price would be. Despair was beginning to scratch at the back of his mind now, trying to drain his will away, but Sam simply acknowledged it, and moved on. His old Gaffer used to say there was no point in worrying about what you can't do – that it was far better to just put one foot in front of the other, and do what most needs doing in that moment.

So, Sam walked on, and talked until his throat was raw. He talked about the Shire, and Erebor, and Rivendell, and tried to pull his friends' minds from the hell that they travelled through. When he could not talk anymore, he kept walking, close enough to Frodo that he could support him at need, and when his knees knocking together from the walking, he kept going. One step, and then another, and then the next.

And day by day, they drew closer to the Mountain of Fire, until at last, after what felt a lifetime, they halted at the base of Mount Doom.

For a while, no one spoke. They simply stood, staring up at the barren slopes, and the dark smoke that rose from the top of the mountain, and trying to catch their breath without choking on the stench of sulphur that rose around them.

"We... we made it," breathed Nelly, her eyes as round as the moon, and her brows low with fear. "We made it…"

"Let's go," Bróin croaked. "Get it over with, get it done."

Frodo gave a sigh, leaning against Sam. "I'm so tired… I don't think I can face a climb like that today."

Sam's knees seemed to wobble in agreement, and Nelly shook her head slowly.

"I'm not sure I can, either," she admitted. "I suppose here's as good a place as any for a rest in this place – the rocks will offer a little cover."

Though he looked reluctant, Bróin nodded, and Sam helped him down off of Toothy's back and onto the ground. The young dwarf felt worryingly light, and when Sam passed Bróin his own water skin, he knew that whatever was in there would not be enough.

"Thought mine ran out?" Bróin mumbled.

"There's still a little left," said Sam, pointedly not mentioning that the water was his own. Bróin drank greedily, but then he shuddered and laid back, and Sam locked eyes with Nelly.

"I'll scout around," she said softly. "Make sure we're alone out here. You get dinner on, eh Sam?"

He nodded wearily, digging around in the bag until he came upon their last unbroken piece of lembas, but Frodo and Bróin were both asleep by the time he reached it, crumpled against each other and looking alarmingly like corpses. Toothy curled up behind them, and he too seemed to succumb to sleep, leaving Sam alone in the gathering gloom.

A cool wind whipped over them, and he shivered, pulling off his elven cloak and tucking it around Bróin and Frodo. The dark gathered closer and tighter, into what Sam imagined was the night-time, and he sighed, drawing his sword and resting it on his lap as he waited for Nelly to return. It was a good sword, his little blade, and before it had belonged to him it had spent a good few centuries in Bofur's family. Several times, Bofur had offered to have a new blade forged for Sam, but he much preferred this one, with the funny notch in the hilt and the carven runes of every previous owner running down the middle of the blade. His own initials stared up at him, and the shadow of his face peered up in a dark reflection.

"Sam!"

He looked up and leapt to his feet, his heart plummeting as though it had been thrown from a cliff. "Nelly! What happened?"

She shook her head, taking a deep breath and sheathing her sword. Black blood was splattered across her face and her chest, and she looked paler than ever beneath it.

"There's an outpost," she panted, sinking down to the ground beside Bróin. "'bout at mile that way. It looks like some kind of workshop or ironmongers, but I can't be sure, I couldn't get close. A scout saw me – I took care of him, hid the body, but… made me jump."

"Do you think we should move?" he asked urgently, and Nelly gave a hopeless shrug.

"I don't know. I don't know if they'll notice he's gone, I – if we try up that mountain now, Sam, I'm not sure we'll make it."

"If we don't, we'll be sitting ducks here. Half an hour, and then we move."

Nelly nodded wearily, closing her eyes, and Sam sighed. He strained his ears to try and catch the sound of the orcs, but he could hear nothing. The minutes crawled by, and then half an hour had passed, and Sam hesitated. He could hear no enemy, or ruckus, and he wondered if it would doom them to let the others catch another hour of sleep.

Probably, he thought to himself, but it can't be helped. We need rest

Finally, when another hour had passed, he roused Nelly and Frodo, and then Bróin third.

"We have to get going," he murmured. "Before those orcs notice something wrong."

"Orcs?" cried Frodo softly, but Sam shook his head.

"Don't you go worrying about that now, I don't think they know we're here. But I wouldn't want to meet them. Let's go."

But as they prepared to leave, Bróin's hand closed around Nelly's wrist.

"Nell," he murmured, and Sam winced at the weak rasp of the young dwarf's voice. "I can't… I can't go up with you. Not like this."

Nelly's jaw tightened, and Sam saw a flash of fear in her eyes. "What do you mean?"

Bróin gave a weak little laugh, but then it became a rasping, hacking cough, and Sam could do nothing, except wince until it was over.

Eventually, Bróin groaned, and shut his eyes. "I won't make it up," he said. "I can't do it. I can't. You need to take Toothy. You need to get rid of it."

"And leave you here? Where there are orcs about?" she demanded, and Bróin took her hand.

"Exactly. If the orcs catch up when we're on the mountain, I can't fight. I'd be a liability." His face softened, and he swallowed. "I'm tired, Nelly. I'm so tired. I just want to rest. Please."

Nelly looked up at Sam desperately, but all Sam could do was shrug helplessly. He did not know what they should do, what would be best or safest or fairest, what would be right. The idea of leaving Bróin here, alone, was unthinkable, but in some sick way it might be safer.

"Please…" Bróin whispered, and Nelly closed her eyes.

"Fine," she murmured. "But not here. A little way up there, there're some wee tunnels, too small for orcs to want to get through. If you want to stay behind, at least there you'll have cover."

Feeling utterly sick, Sam helped Bróin up, and they followed Nelly a short way up the mountain, to several, great boulders that rested on its side. The tunnelling space beneath them was indeed small – they had to crawl to get inside, and though he agreed it was a better hiding space than being out on the open, Sam felt claustrophobia crawl up his throat.

"You be alright, now, Bro," Nelly murmured, pressing a kiss to Bróin's forehead, and Sam looked away. "You just stay here, and we'll, we'll be right back. Don't go anywhere. Don't go anywhere, please."

"I won't," Bróin mumbled. "Hurry back."

Nelly nodded, and took a sharp breath, and then she crawled back out of the tunnel, and Sam pretended not to hear her sniffing.

"We'll be back before you know it, Bróin," he promised. "And then we'll get you to a proper healer."

Bróin offered a weak smile, and squeezed Sam's hand. "Just go," he said, "and make sure it gets done."

Rubbing his eyes furiously, Sam backed out of the tunnels, and Toothy whined when Bróin did not follow him out. Nelly took a hold of the warg's halter.

"C'mon, Toothy," she murmured. "We're coming back, it's alright. We'll come back."

Toothy whined again, louder, and refused to move.

"Go," Bróin croaked, his voice sounding so horribly far away alright. "Go, Toothy. I'll wait here."

"We won't leave him here for long," Nelly promised, and Sam could hear her voice breaking. "We'll come back soon, I promise. Please, Toothy, we need to go."

With a low howl the warg hung his head, and allowed himself to be led away, and they began t to climb the mountain.

It was hideous, gruelling work. Sam would have thought that he would be used to mountains by now, having lived in one for most of his life, but the ground was hot and sharp beneath his feet, and it seemed steeper than even the summit of Erebor, and the more they climbed, the hotter it grew.

Soon, they were all panting, even Toothy, and the warg's ears pressed flat against the back of his skull as they trekked higher, and higher.

With a soft cry, Frodo collapsed, shingle flying out beneath him as he hit the ground, and Sam's heart lurched.

"Frodo!"

"I – I can't," he gasped, clawing at the chains around his neck and rolling onto his back. "It's… it's too heavy. Too heavy. I'm sorry, I'm sorry – it's too heavy."

"It's alright," Sam murmured, putting a hand on Frodo's shoulder. "It's alright, Frodo. We can rest a while here. It's alright."

Frodo shook his head slowly, shuddering, and closed his eyes. "It's so heavy…"

Sam swallowed, glancing up at Nelly. They could not stay here for long, and they knew it – they were exposed, and vulnerable, but they did not have much choice.

"C'mon, Frodo, let's get you up onto Toothy, now," Sam murmured, hoisting Frodo back up onto his feet and pulling the older hobbit's arm up over his shoulders. "One foot and then the next, Frodo. That's what'll get us there, you'll see."

Frodo said nothing, but he let Sam bring him over to Toothy, and reluctantly clambered up into the warg's saddle. They began the climb again, and Sam soon found that his back bowed, and his feet dragged through the dirt as reluctantly as Frodo's had. His eyes were trained upon them, those poor, weary stumps that he had once called feet, and it was not until Nelly cried out that he tore his gaze away.

"Look!" She pointed upwards, and as he looked, Sam's heart leapt. "A doorway!"

"See, Frodo? We're almost there!" cried Sam, pointing up, and Frodo gave a broken, ghost of a laugh –

"And that's as far as you'll be going."

Sam snapped around as quick as lightning, his sword flying into his hand as he turned, and Toothy span around with a snarl, his hackles raising. Nelly's feet were in a fighting stance before she finished turning, and Frodo stumbled from the warg's back, one hand on his sword and the other clutching at the chains around his neck.

And the foes they had turned to face began to laugh. They were orcs, near a dozen of them, but they were well dressed, and carried weapons sharp as razors – swords and scimitars and axes of fine craftsmanship that screamed of rank and status. These would not be common thugs – they were strong, and Sam had no doubt that they were trained well. Two large wargs leered out from each side of the group.

If they got into a fight now, the hobbits would be hard pressed to come out alive.

"It's interesting," said one of the orcs, running his thumb alone the blade of his axe, and licking the back blood that seeped forth with a grin. "Where you chose to go. The Great Mountain's not the usual destination of spy scum – your coming here lost me a good hunk of meat, and has made Fimbul here richer than he's been in weeks. He was the only one who bet this way."

One of the other orcs, Fimbul, gave a snort, and then a bark of laugher. "Only because you greedy rats had laid your bets in every other direction. Still, don't know why you came this way, do we now? But we will. This is where your road ends, so why don't you lay down your arms?"

"Promise we'll kill you quick if you do," crooned the leader, and the others laughed behind him.

"Doesn't sound like much of a reward to me," said Nelly coolly. She held her hand down by her leg, signing three words over, and over, and over. "On signal, go."

"Oh, but it will be," said another of the orcs, his tongue running over his lips as he leered at Nelly. "Once we've learnt what we need from you, we'll kill you nice and quick – otherwise you'll live until you've nothing left – no dignity, no pride, no arms, no legs… no teeth. You'll be old beyond your lifespan, lingering only to writhe in the torment we deal you – unless you surrender. Then, we'll lop off your heads, nice and quick. I promise." A sick mockery of honour dripped from the orc's voice, and he gave a sinister grin, but Nelly mirrored his face back to him, a bitter determination in her eyes.

"Oh really?" she said, her voice as sharp as steel. "Well I have but one thing I can say to that – Sam, make sure he gets it done." The orcs frowned, but in the beat that they paused Nelly thrust her sword into the air and roared, "Barak khazad! Khazad ai menu!"

And she charged, and Toothy dove towards the enemy with an ear-splitting roar. Though every bone in his body wanted to help, to fight, Sam turned and sprinted up the mountain. Adrenalin pumped through his veins, and even on the loose, gravel ground his feet seemed to fly – yet somehow, Frodo was even faster. He was making a beeline for the door, running as though he had never known the meaning of the word 'tired', and Sam followed.

Tears of anger and rage and fear clung hot and sticky to his cheeks, and he ran faster, but then a strangled scream of pain stopped Sam in his tracks, and he turned, looking desperately over his shoulder. Nelly was stumbling back away from the orcs, clutching at the handle of a knife that stuck out from her shoulder, and Sam let out a cry. Several orcs dove past her, scrambling up the cliffside towards him, and as she pulled the blade from her skin, Nelly's eyes followed them.

"Sam, go!"

Biting back a sob, Sam turned to find that Frodo had already disappeared, and he sprinted up towards the door himself. His feet slipped and skidded and stumbled, but still he ran, until the ground began surer, and the door became nearer, and he pelted inside.

The heat was immense, the stone beneath his feet almost blistering, and the light of fire and lava below was so bright it hurt his eyes after so many days in the darkness. A great, stone walkway stretched out into the centre of the volcano, and standing at the end of it, saluted against the furious glow of the fire, was Frodo. He was still as stone, gazing down at the lava below them, and as Sam drew closer, he did not move.

Fear clutched at Sam's heart, and he swallowed. "Frodo?"

"I'm here," said Frodo, but his voice sounded different – far away, and thoughtful, and almost cold.

"What are you waiting for?" Sam cried. "We've not got time, Frodo, throw it away! Destroy it!"

Frodo glanced over his shoulder, a flash of anger in his eyes, and Sam caught sight of the glint of the metal.

"Do it now!" he begged, his heart pounding hard against his ribcage. "Frodo, destroy it!"

"I… I don't want to," Frodo growled, drawing his arm back towards him, and Sam let out a wild sob.

"Yes you do! Think of what it's done to you, to your family! Think of Dis and Bilbo, think of why we're here! Let it go, Frodo. Just let it go. Please…"

Frodo shuddered, and his head bowed low.

"You can do it," Sam promised, feeling the hot sting of tears slide down his cheeks. "I know you can. Just let go, Frodo. Let it go."

And Frodo reached out, and the chain slipped over his fingers –

A hand snatched Sam by the hair, wrenching him backwards, and even as he yelled, Sam felt the teeth of a serrated blade digging into his throat.

Snarling, Sam grappled with the orc that had grabbed him, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Nelly, and his heart stuttered with fear. A towering orc's arm was wound around her neck, holding her from the ground, and her eyelids were flickering, and her torso was covered in blood.

Frodo span around, his eyes widening in horror.

The ring still dangling from his hand.

"No!" he cried, eyes moving from Sam to Nelly, and the orc leader gave a bark of a laugh.

"Now," he purred, taking a few, sauntering steps forward. "Fun's over, scum. Why don't you – what is that?"

"Frodo, now!" Sam yelled, loud as his lungs would manage. "Get rid of it!"

"Give that to me!" demanded the orc, his voice sharp as a razor. He thrusted out his hand, striding towards Frodo, but Frodo stumbled back, and Sam gasped out a sob as his friend's feet grazed the very edge of the rock.

"Stay back!" Frodo cried, his voice wavering. "Stay back or it goes in the fire!"

The leader of the orcs froze, and then a look of thunderous fury darkened his face. "You want to negotiate?" he snarled, and then he lurched back towards Sam, his arm flashing forward. A bright white-hot pain exploded in Sam's shoulder, and he let out a strangled gasp. Frodo screamed, and Nelly screamed, but screaming required drawing breath, and Sam's lungs were crumpling in on themselves against the pain. He glanced down, staring at the black handle of the blade for only a moment before the orc ripped it back out again, and readjusted his aim. "You give me that ring, now, or the next blow goes in his heart."

"Don't!" Sam choked, but tears and pain were forming a haze before his eyes, and his words were little more than sobs. "Don't…"

"Three," growled the orc, raising his knife, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut. "Two-"

"I – I'm so sorry," Frodo whispered, and Sam drew in a deep breath.

"One."

"No!" screamed Nelly, and Sam braced for the pain, but the blow did not fall. He opened his eyes. Stumbling before him, with Frodo's sword sticking out of his chest, was the orc leader, his eyes wide with shock. He fell to his knees, and as he did the orc holding Sam let out a shriek of rage, and Sam felt the sharp teeth of the serrated blade dig into the side of his neck.

And Frodo was gone.

They had failed.

Frodo had taken the ring for his own, he had fallen into the trap that Sam had sworn to protect him from, and they had failed, and Sam was about to pay for it with his life.

But then he heard Frodo let out a cry of rage, and something barrelled into him, sending both Sam and the orc crashing to the ground. The knife was ripped away from Sam's throat, and then the orc gave a howl of pain, and the hand in Sam's hair went limp. Heart in his throat, Sam rolled over, away from the orc, and as he did, he saw a dark, serrated blade protruding from the eye of the beast that had held him. A few feet away, an orc hoisted Nelly up like a shield, pointing a blade over her heart, then something smashed into his head and he crumpled to the ground.

The swarm of half a dozen orcs behind them surged forward, and Sam saw Nelly pulling herself across the ground, her fingers trembling as they stretched out towards a knife, but an invisible hand took hold of the blade first, and Frodo's voice echoed like the roar of a dragon.

"Come and get it, then!"

And the orcs lurched towards the sound of his voice.

And began to fall.

Sam's eyes grew wider as throats were ripped open, and orcs were thrown, screaming from the walkway into the fiery abyss below. Others clutched at their chests, falling back as blood poured over their fingers, and others still fell to their knees, their heads falling off behind them. Black blood sprayed across the walkway and soaked into the stone, and harsh, guttural yells accompanied each of Frodo's unseen blows. It did not sound like Frodo – it sounded much darker, much fiercer. Merciless.

The last orc standing tumbled down, and grunted, and then Frodo appeared, covered head to toe in black blood, with eyes that looked darker than the night sky. A fury unlike any Sam could have ever imagined seared in his eyes, and he stared at the orc.

And then, Frodo gave a roar.

"You-"

His fist smashed into the orc's face, and the creature shrieked, its arms flailing up to defend itself -

"Will never-"

The orc's skull crunched beneath Frodo's next blow, and its arms fell limp by its sides –

"Touch-"

Frodo brought his fists down again, and with a sickening squelch, black blood sprayed out over the floor.

"My family-"

The orc was dead, it was past dead, but Frodo's fists rose above his own head once more, and then they shot down to collide with the orc's skull over one last scream.

"Again!"

Panting, Frodo drew back, his shoulders raised like the hackles of some wild beast preparing to fight. His eyes were wild with bloodlust, and they looked more black than blue, and his teeth were bared, and he did not look like Frodo.

He did not look like Frodo at all.

Sam tried to speak, but his words caught in his throat, and he pursed his lips instead. He could feel tears stinging their way down his cheeks, and he could hear Nelly sniffling beside him, but he could not tear his eyes from Frodo.

Not now.

"It – it's over," Nelly sobbed, sounding utterly terrified. "It's – it's over now, Frodo. Get rid of it."

Fury swept over Frodo's face, violent and sudden, and his fists curled.

"It just saved you," he snarled, drawing himself upright. "I saved you!"

"Yes, I know, but… Frodo, please…" Nelly's whimpers trailed off beneath the heat of Frodo's glare, and she looked desperately at Sam.

"It's mine!" yelled Frodo, drawing her eyes back. "Mine, I saved you, I used it, it's mine, you ungrateful little-" He leant towards her, and Nelly whimpered, covering her head with her arms and cowering away from him.

Frodo froze.

"Please," Sam whispered. "Don't you let it kill us, Frodo, please. Don't you let it kill us, don't you let it kill us…"

Slowly, Frodo's gaze moved down, and he opened his palm. Sam could see the glint of the gold, and even while hatred rose in his heart, he could feel the ring calling to him, he could feel it begging to be claimed – to be saved.

"Please…" he begged, and Frodo drew a deep breath.

And he held his hand over the abyss.

Closed his eyes.

"No!" The screech startled a scream from them all, and Sam watched in horror as one of the fallen orcs threw itself at Frodo, and barrelled into him, and knocked him over the edge –

And then they were gone.