The next few days were spent crossing the marshes, and were largely uneventful, though Sam was always on edge, expecting to hear an echo of that terrible scream cut through the air at any moment. He always kept an eye out for nearby places to hide- the last thing he wanted was to be caught out in the open, with the only shelter under the stinking green water.

There were more bodies than just that one man. Deeper in, they were everywhere, the waters teemed with empty white faces and slack dead hands- hands that, from the corners of Sam's eyes, often seemed to be reaching for him.

Frodo wasn't scared of these things. He was very confident choosing their path, never letting go of Sam's hand, though his touch also never became warmer. Sam hadn't the courage to speak to him about what had happened before the attack of the Black Rider- even out here, far from the standards of propriety that so held up the Shire, with a Frodo that might not be really Frodo at all, he felt shy.

The burning mountain in the distance slowly edged closer.

Sam's dreams, when he did sleep, were bad ones. He never remembered exactly what happened- waking to impressions of fire, or watching gazes, or a deep pain that ate away at his bones. But each night nearer to the mountain they seemed stronger, and the weight of the Ring heavier, lessening slightly only when he held Frodo's hand. He never felt rested anymore.

"What comes after this?" Sam asked one morning, trying to force himself out of the miserable fog of ill rest and nightmares. "After the Marshes?"

"There's no man's land before the gates of Mordor," Frodo murmured. Frodo, who never slept. "Men wander there- we'd best keep away from them."

Sam shivered slightly- he did remember the glint that had occasionally slipped into the eyes of Boromir, back when the Fellowship had still been one. He remembered being warned of such things. Though, Strider- Aragorn- had never had such a look to him. But then something else in Frodo's words caught his attention.

"Gate?" he said, and Frodo smiled. "Is there...some kind of wall?"

"Mordor is surrounded by a ridged ring of mountain," Frodo said sweetly. "There are few ways to get in."

Sam looked at him, trying to uncover intent in those eerie white eyes. Was Frodo leading him this far only to have him captured at the door of the enemy? But if Gandalf and the elves had sent them on this quest, then surely it must be doable. Sam sighed, closing his eyes a moment. Everything was so difficult out here, it was hard not to despair. The world was so big. But it did no good to wallow in stress and ill feelings- he had a job to do, even if the only other job he had ever held was that of a gardener.

"What are the...options?" Sam asked after a moment, trying to sort through his thoughts. Before he could get to planting he had to discover what needed to be planted, and where. Take things one at a time, his Gaffer would have said.

"We could go through the gate," Frodo said, still smiling like this was some kind of game, which was pretty even if it was out of place. "But it's heavily guarded. The beasts they keep there are thrice as tall as a man, nevermind a hobbit."

He laughed a little, maybe at Sam's expression, and put one white finger to his lower lip, thinking.

"Or," he continued. "We could go up...go see the seamstress."

"Who?"

Frodo looked back at him, and for an instant his expression was unrecognizable, something cold and penetrating that Sam had started to associate with danger. On impulse, he looked up at the sky, but it was still empty of any unwholesome flying things.

"There's a way up the mountain," Frodo said. "A secret way- one without any guards at all. At the top of it lives a very old woman who spends her days spinning silk."

Frodo held up his arm, plucking lightly at the fabric of his shirt, that glowing white silk that felt smoother than anything that could be made in the Shire.

"She made this for me. It's nice, isn't it?"

Sam nodded, feeling vaguely uncomfortable, since what Frodo was talking about didn't seem possible at all. Frodo wasn't...good anymore, not in the way he had been, and so any new companions of his couldn't be very good either.

"What's she like?" Sam asked hesitantly, and Frodo shrugged.

"She likes me," he said. "Finds me rather cute, I suppose. But she does have a bit of a temper. And…"

Frodo learned in as he said this, eyes glittering with that same glass-edge mischief, and whispered:

"...she has quite the appetite, if I do say so myself."

For some reason, Sam didn't really like the sound of that. He held Frodo's gaze a moment more, and then turned back to look across the Marshes, thinking.

"And these are the only ways to get in?" he asked, and Frodo nodded, the sharp part of him retreating until he looked almost like he used to again, graceful and sweet and well-meaning.

"Do you think we could sneak past the guards?" he asked, though this was barely a hope, and Frodo didn't even say anything, only raising one eyebrow and offering a wry little smile. Sam huffed, and then stood up, gathering his pack about his shoulders. It was time to be going anyway.

"Then I suppose we'll have to go see the seamstress," Sam said, the air making his statement definitive, and Frodo took his hand again, looking pleased in a way that made Sam wonder if he should regret it or not.

"Very well, dear," he said sweetly. "You are the Ringbearer, after all."

...somehow, hearing that bolstered a part of Sam's confidence, deep in his heart. He had never thought of having fancy titles or grand destinies before. He had never let himself feel proud, not really. But why shouldn't he?

He was the Ringbearer. This terrible thing, and the quest that went along with it...they belonged to him.