A few more days of walking passed before Sam saw Frodo again, and in that time he had nearly forgotten about his beautiful dream. He dreamt of Frodo all the time, after all, both in wake and in sleep. Trudging through the heavy trees with his pack weighing down his back he thought of the garden in Bag End, where he had planted white lilies under the window by Frodo's bedroom, because Frodo reminded him so much of a lily himself. Quite a sight it would be, his lovely Frodo sitting out among the flowers, with a bright midsummer sun to turn the crown of his head gold. The Shire would be blooming green, at that time of year, the thick grasses the most vibrant they ever got, and wildflowers would dance on the hilltops. But this place, where he was now, was nothing like that. The trees were elegant in their own way, but the foliage sparse- and there was a thin coldness in the air that he had never felt before. Winter was coming, not summer, and even though he was further south Sam was worried about what kind of winter it would be.

And always, as he thought these things, the Ring lay patiently against his chest- the pressure of it was faintly uncomfortable, just enough so that Sam couldn't forget it was there. It made him rather nervous, that weight. But what else was to be done?

Every night Sam found a place to hide himself, tucked away off the path, where there might be prying eyes. He had become accustomed to sleeping in uncomfortable places now, though he always wrapped himself tightly in the lovely cloak Lady Galadriel had given him, which somehow seemed never too thin nor too thick for the weather. But he never slept very deeply. He was too aware of the Ring on his chest- how it seemed to pulse sometimes, growing active in the dark, making his dreams strange and his body feverish, not lucky in finding proper rest.

And on one of these nights- sometime after the witching hour, if Sam had to guess- he saw Frodo for the second time. It happened when he had been just on the cusp of sleep- stirred by the sound of footsteps, and a soft, familiar voice.

"Sam?" Frodo called, and Sam knew it was Frodo instantly, even from just one word. But the sound faded in the air, decaying in the breath after it passed and, lying in the dark with his eyes wide open, Sam supposed he must have imagined it. But-

"Sam, dear, I know you're here somewhere," Frodo said, and Sam's heart started beating so hard in his chest he felt it might burst. Still, he didn't move, for the utter joy he felt at hearing those words was tempered by an excruciating grief which rose to meet it. The sound of Frodo's voice- it was terrible to hear, for it was exactly how Sam remembered it. How easily he spoke! Like they were both back in Bag End, and it was but another ordinary day. Like the world hadn't become so terribly wrong. It was a little ray of memory, his voice was, a sunspot on an otherwise clouded field. But Sam made no move to return the call. Still, he was not convinced.

"Won't you come out? I'm very lonely," Frodo continued, and the little melancholy note that entered his voice broke Sam's heart all over again. Helplessly now, he sat up, eyes wet with hot tears and straining against the dark, needing to see. The more he woke, the more confused he became- was he not dreaming? Well, even if he was, that was no good excuse to leave poor Mr. Frodo alone out there, where who-knows-what could bother him! And strangely, the weight on Sam's chest seemed so much lighter, almost like it wasn't there at all- almost like it agreed with him...

Sam almost cried out. It would have been so easy to stand and yell- I'm here, Mr. Frodo, right here! He felt so weak, listening to Frodo's sad voice. And then, peering through the thicket where he had hidden, he saw Frodo again- still lit up by a moon that seemed brighter on him than anything else, still so clean and unburdened, still beautiful beyond any reasonable comparison. He was much closer than he had been on the first night- so much closer that when he turned, Sam saw something new, something that made it feel like his insides had dropped from his body and been replaced by a void of ice water.

All the joy and all the grief disappeared, replaced by only one high, piercing feeling of fear. The kind of fear that took control of his entire body, freezing him in place, a rabbit caught in the eyes of a fox. It sent slivers of ice through his bloodstream, this fear, so cold and deep and dark it seemed his heart would stop, were it not beating so desperately. Sam almost couldn't breathe with it, this sudden and unnatural fear. A fear he was certain he had only felt once before...on Weathertop.

On Weathertop, where Frodo had died.

The fear had paralyzed Sam utterly, and what had created it was this: Frodo's eyes were white. Not the familiar bright blue Sam had seen so many times, and had come to think of so fondly. A terrible flat white, with barely any distinction between the iris and sclera, a white like the head of poisonous mushrooms or the tops of treacherous stormclouds. Eyes that should have been blind, but instead seemed to see very clearly, sharp as they pierced the foliage of the forest. A wicked wind was blowing, filling the air with strange whispers, warnings he did not understand.

So Sam didn't move. Even though his heart cried out for him to act, the fear kept him lodged in place, until Frodo went away again. The moment he stepped from Sam's view the terror passed away, and all that remained was grief- and guilt, and confusion, because he just didn't understand. This night, he cried himself to sleep, and when he woke he felt like there was nothing left in him.

He hadn't been meant to withstand this kind of pain.