For the next few nights, there was nothing, and Sam felt terribly throughout them all. He didn't understand why he hadn't gone out to Frodo. He knew he should have. He had been alone out there, in the dark...and it was horrible to be alone. Perhaps all Frodo had wanted was to see him- to know that Sam was well, or as well as could be expected, and that the quest was continuing on without him. That was the kind of thing a ghost would want, wasn't it? For Sam was certain he had seen a ghost. It wasn't Sam's place to deny Frodo whatever comfort he could have in death...and now it was the thought that he might have hurt whatever was left of the hobbit he had always so desperately loved that made him afraid.

(But it was not night when he saw Frodo next.)

Several dreaded, slow nights passed without any wandering presence until Sam found himself beyond the forest- leaving its tall dark trees and heavy canopy behind, he stood at the brink of the black cliffs, a curious stone labyrinth full of fog and devoid of life. And beyond it, on the horizon, he could see the mountain of fire, its red peak burning like the sun. His destination. The only place he could go.

Sam tentatively hoped, as he descended the rocky path, that he was leaving Frodo behind. Grand dark forests were eldritch places, full of mystery and ancient magic, exactly the kind of space suited for a ghost. If Frodo could not rest, he should stay there, between the shadows of the tree trunks. It was peaceful enough. Frodo- anything that was Frodo, or like him, at least- didn't need to be suffering through black rocks and sunless, orc-infested plains. It hurt too much, to think of Frodo in pain, when he should have been beyond such things.

The sight of the mountain had been heartening for Sam at first. If he could see it, he presumed it could not be so far away. But it is always easy to imagine how the crow flies when you don't have wings yourself- only little hobbit legs that have to follow grounded paths. And on those paths the mountain swiftly disappeared from sight. Sam found his travels suddenly difficult to mark- under the fog, it was impossible to use the sky for navigation, and the cliffs twisted about so thoroughly, winding back and forth in ways that boggled the mind. Every time he hauled himself up another wall to take his bearings, he found the mountain no closer- and soon, fear began to settle back into his heart. Anxiety, and under it, a current of helpless despair. What did he, Samwise Gamgee the gardener, know of quests and great legends and evil places? He could manage putting one foot in front of the other, but not much beyond that. He hadn't been meant for this. He wasn't supposed to be here- not alone, at least.

It was the second day in these cliffs, and the fog had become so thick there was no sun anywhere, and even Sam had the presence of mind to worry about that. Could there be orcs wandering these places, with no light to stop them? He checked the hilt of Sting often, and kept his ears pricked, but in the end it wasn't orcs who used the darkness to find him.

Sam had sat down on a rock to eat a bit of lembas bread, despairing at his chances of making any progress in the fog, when Frodo appeared for the third time.

"There you are, Sam," he said lightly. There had been no warning- no shift in the atmosphere, no sound of footsteps or disturbance of the stones. Sam was so startled he leapt from his seating place, and for an instant that deep and instinctual fear took hold of him again, prompting him to drop the bread and unsheathe Sting, pointing it waveringly in the air between them.

Frodo only laughed.

"Very brave of you, my dear, but you don't need it," he said and, putting one finger on the end of the blade, lowered it gently to the ground. He looked just the same as before- and though dimmed, there was still an odd light about him, almost like he emitted it himself. And his eyes were still white, but the expression in them was mild, and so painfully familiar...all the fear disappeared, and Sam tossed the sword to one side, suddenly overcome by emotion again.

"Oh, Mr. Frodo!" he cried, feeling heat well up behind his eyes. "I'm so sorry- I didn't think it was you-!"

Frodo smiled, and held up his arms, and that invitation was enough to break any pitiful thread that could have kept Sam back, and in an instant he was sobbing in Frodo's embrace.

"There, there," Frodo murmured softly, running his fingers through Sam's hair. "You're alright, aren't you? You've done very well, dearest…"

Over the onslaught of emotion, Sam had just enough presence of mind to think that Frodo was very cold to the touch. His fingers, where they brushed the nape of Sam's neck, were like ice. In no time at all shivers replaced his tears, and he had to step back, if not to see Frodo's beautiful face then because it seemed like the heat of his body was being leached from his skin.

(He didn't think any ill of Frodo for it, though.)

"Oh, you shouldn't be here Mr. Frodo," he said, wiping his face roughly with the back of his sleeve. "You're...ah, but you're…"

"Dead?"

Sam couldn't breathe well hearing that admission, and Frodo gave him a rather impish smile, though it swiftly melted into something softer.

"Oh, Sam," he said sweetly. "I am sorry I had to leave you back then."

Sam shook his head, feeling pathetic for how happy he was to be talking with Frodo like this, like nothing had come between them. It was selfish, for certain, to be feeling such relief, but he felt it anyway. Too many of his nightmares had been centered around that scene on Weathertop- seeing the cursed blade of that terrible Black Rider pierce Frodo's heart, and wondering if he couldn't have been a little faster- if he couldn't have told Merry and Pip to put out their fire- if he couldn't have, couldn't have…

He wanted to apologize now, for everything he hadn't done, while he had the chance. Frodo shouldn't be the one apologizing for nothing, no way no how. But he didn't quite have the air in him to explain.

"Let's sit down a moment, Sam," said Frodo, understanding everything perfectly, like he always did. Amidst the strewn remains of Sam's camp they sat together, the fog still heavy over their heads, and Frodo let Sam cry out the remainders of his tears, listened as he confessed all of his wandering thoughts and feelings, everything that had come to him in the lonely days since the river- and everything before it. Everything except for this: I love you, Frodo, and I have always loved you.That much he couldn't say.

By the time he finished, he really was empty, and sat there in silence, holding Frodo's terribly cold hands in his own.

"Sorry to let it all out like that," he mumbled after the quiet lost its comfortable quality. "I just had'ta say…"

"I'm glad you did," Frodo told him. "But it really is me who should be sorry. You shouldn't have been left to deal with this on your own."

As Frodo said this, one of his hands lifted up ever so delicately towards Sam's chest, trailing across the fabric there. Even through what Sam was wearing, the cold of his touch seemed to burn. And the destination of those frigid fingertips was obvious- the Ring against Sam's chest was suddenly weightless in surrender, and when he looked down, he could swear he saw the front of his tunic bulging outwards, like the hateful thing was pulling itself towards Frodo...

In less than a handful of seconds this, and a few other fleeting impressions, darted across Sam's mind. Something about the fog in the air suddenly made him nervous- like there were eyes hidden in it, or maybe ears, and that whatever used them was likely malevolent. And the expression on Frodo's face was a little strange- he didn't think he had ever seen him look like that- his white eyes glittered, and he wasn't looking at Sam anymore, not at all, and he was so cold…

And he was dead!

Sam suddenly pulled back, out of Frodo's reach, his heart beating like he'd been running just moments before. And as he did it, he could have sworn he heard some awful hiss, a sound that sent goosebumps roaring across his back- but when he looked, the expression on Frodo's face was entirely innocent once more, his outstretched hand folding delicately back in his lap.

"You shouldn't have it," Sam blurted out, and then with a shudder he came back to himself. Frodo's eyes narrowed for fraction of a second, but then he just looked confused, and Sam stuttered trying to explain.

"You...you've done enough, Mr. Frodo," he said, "Let your Sam take care o'things from here."

This was all true, but Sam still felt like he was lying- he didn't know how to articulate the true reason why he had pulled away, for it had been nothing more than an instinct, the kind of instinct that was buried in the minds of all natural, living creatures. And yet at the same time he felt badly for it- his conscious mind couldn't think any ill of his Mr. Frodo, not at all.

"It's a heavy burden, Sam," murmured Frodo quietly. The look on his face was of nothing but utmost concern. "...are you sure you can bear it?"

And that was terrible, wasn't it, because it was exactly what Sam feared. He wasn't sure, he wasn't sure at all. Everything had gone wrong that night on Weathertop, the world turned upside down, and the way things were wasn't the way they were supposed to be. He knew what he had to do...but always, with every step he took, there whispered the softest voice in his ear, that maybe he couldn't do it. He was only a gardener. Not a hero. Frodo, surely, was supposed to have been the hero.

So why didn't he want to give it up?

Sam opened his mouth, looking for a way to say this to the ghost (surely a ghost) seated so demurely on the rocks, and in the pause before he could the fog suddenly began to clear- the wind had picked up in the sky overhead, and was pushing it away, leaving space for a few rays of meagre eggshell-yellow sunlight. Frodo looked up, eerie eyes suddenly wide, and for a second his lips peeled slightly back from his teeth in a frustrated snarl.

"Sam-!" he said, and in his startlement Sam blinked, and the closing and opening of his eyelids was all the time it took for Frodo to disappear.

There was perfect quiet, and Sam stared at the spot where Frodo had been sitting, looking for any trace that he had been there at all- like the remnants of a shadow, a wisp, anything. But there was nothing, no proof that the entire exchange hadn't been entirely in Sam's imagination- even the chill of Frodo's touch was utterly gone.

"Mr. Frodo…?" Sam called tentatively, but his voice sounded lonely against the rocks, so he said nothing more. Ah, he realized then, the situation was truly terrible. Either he was going daft in the head from all this lonesome wandering, or he really was seeing a ghost- and a ghost that made him rather uneasy, at that. He had been so happy to see Frodo at first, but...had that been an illusion, or were his teeth really so sharp…?

Sam shuddered, and for something to do repacked his bag, sheathing Sting where it belonged. His first instinct upon hearing Frodo's voice had been to bare the sword. That didn't seem right.

(Why had he been so cold?)

The Ring, where it sat against Sam's chest, seemed unusually heavy, and the metal of its surface abrasive on his skin. If he didn't know better, he would think it was in a bad mood- though that made no sense, it being an object and all. Was it disappointed to see Frodo go? That thought made him more uneasy, but he buried the instinct fast. Poor Mr. Frodo, really. How pitiful it was, to be stuck wandering around in such barren places as these. Just like an old ghost story, the kinds fauntlings told each other over campfires for the thrill of getting the creeps. What would it take for him to rest? Maybe the quest had to be completed- since he had set out to do it, or something like that. Sam didn't have a good understanding of ghosts, but that sounded right.

So in his mind, Sam spited the Ring. He would get rid of it for sure. Even if it weighed a million pounds about his neck, he would make sure it was dropped into that mountain.

He decided something else, as well- he really couldn't give Frodo the Ring. In a simple way, it made sense. If Frodo was prone to vanishing from naught but an odd ray of light, then he wasn't fit to carry a weight so heavy. Yes. Sam clung to this logic, and held it up like a shield in his mind, to cover all the other doubts and strange feelings that he did not want to let himself examine too closely.

It didn't take long, this time, for Frodo to reappear. By night he was lighting up the path again, a welcome enough sight, though Sam did not reach out for his embrace again.

"I cann'at let you have the Ring, Mr. Frodo," he said firmly instead, like their earlier conversation had never been interrupted. "I have to carry it, and I have to let it go. I'm...well, since I'm still alive, see. You understand, don't you?"

For a moment, it seemed like Frodo didn't, because a look as cold as his touch crossed his face, rendering it as if in strange ice and steel. Then, like the moon reappearing through a cloud, it was replaced by gentle understanding and warmth, which was so wonderful to see it made Sam forget how tight his stomach had gotten just before.

"Of course, dear Sam," he said. "And don't worry. I'll be with you every step of the way."

And it was strange, when he said that, how Sam's heart both leapt and sank.

"I'm glad you got that sword, Sam," Frodo said after a long quiet, while Sam had prepared his camp for the night, finding he had little to say after his great confession earlier. "It is best that it went to you."

Sam said nothing still, feeling shy, and Frodo smiled a little wryly, like he knew what Sam was thinking. It was still hard to look at him. He was too painfully beautiful.

...and yet still, he felt uneasy falling asleep with those white eyes on him.