It didn't take long before they reached the edge of the Marshes. The wet, clogged landscape slowly regained cohesion, giving way to stout yellow grasses and spindly leafless trees. It was not as oppressive an environment as Sam would have expected, given the shape of the ferocious mountain so near in the horizon- but this place did not seem evil, only sad. But the feelings of unremembered bad dreams didn't lessen, nor did the pressure on his chest; rather, both were still increasing. At least the air did not contain that lingering stench that had filled the Marshes, nor the clutching cold fog of the stone labyrinth before it. Here, there were even paths- rough and overgrown perhaps, but also made for larger beings than hobbits, and as such they were easy to tread.

The days- all clouded, nearly identical- blended into one, punctuated by moments of physical affection from Frodo- holding hands, tucking aside a lock of hair, resting his head on Sam's shoulder. Sam always flushed and felt too warm, overwhelmed by the certainty of his feelings- and the uncertainty of the recipient. He didn't know if it was a betrayal, to let his heart flutter at the sight of this other Frodo.

(Though, and he was hesitant to admit this, the two were blending in his mind. Hadn't Frodo always been so pale? His eyes had been blue, not white, but what shade exactly? For some reason Sam couldn't quite remember.)

Once, Frodo paused on the trail, seeming to listen- and then this time it was he who ushered Sam behind nearby cover, pressing into a crack formed by a rock, eyes huge in his face as he put a finger to his lips.

Sam heard it then- a disruption in the natural ambiance of the woods, so soft it was easily missed. Footsteps, nearly as quiet as those of an elf, and low voices. Sam was afraid then- not afraid in the same way he had been hearing the call of the Ringwraith-

-the other Ringwraith-

-above the plains, but still enough to make his heart start beating faster. He hoped it wouldn't be heard. The footsteps came closer, until their owners seemed impossibly near, coming to a standstill just beyond their hiding place.

"The scout came back," said a man's voice. "He said they're bringing oliphaunts."

Another man sighed at that, and replied: "How many?"

"At least six," said the first. "But the line was too long…"

"Curse Sauron and their leaders who brought them here," said the second, in a voice that sounded weary. "No army of Man should be fighting for such an end."

Neither said anything for a moment after that- their own words seemed to have sobered them. Sam barely heard what was said anyway, covering his own mouth to stop his breathing from being heard. Frodo was smiling, perfectly silent, seeming to enjoy himself like this was a fauntling game of hide-and-seek. Maybe it was for him.

The men made sounds like they were uncorking bottles and taking a drink, and within moments they had moved on, leaving the hobbits undetected. Still, at Frodo's prompting Sam happily stayed in their crevice a few long minutes more, until the quiet had continued for some time.

"Who were they?" Sam asked when it seemed safe, voice hardly more than a whisper.

"Rangers from Gondor," Frodo replied. "I'm surprised they didn't pick up your trail. Glad, too."

Frodo squeezed Sam's hand when he said that, and Sam realized that Frodo must not be leaving a trail. This made him shiver again. There were so many things wrong about this Frodo, even if he was beautiful, even if he sometimes seemed sweet- after all, other times he seemed cruel. Sam hadn't forgotten what had happened with Gollum. He still dreamt of that. Now, confronted with more proof of this unnaturalness, he found he felt almost angry.

"Why?" Sam said suddenly, before he could even really think about what he was going to say. The sound of his own voice made him embarrassed- he wouldn't have been so bold with Mr. Frodo back in the Shire- but he pushed through it anyway. "Why be glad? Wouldn't it be better for you- for the things like you- if the Ring fell into men's hands?"

If Frodo was offended by this frankness he didn't show it, his expression contemplative. He leaned over closer to where Sam was sitting (face slowly starting to burn) until the chill of him could be felt on Sam's skin.

"That would be too easy," he murmured. "And besides, I don't want to lose you."

Frodo's lips felt even softer than the first time, when the experience had been muffled by shock. The way he kissed was sweet and languid, and Sam couldn't do anything to resist it, feeling himself melt into fantasy just like before. Gently, Frodo's cold fingers intertwined with his, and he found himself kissing back, though he was sure he was clumsy in comparison.

This time, the kiss was broken by Sam's need for air instead of any undesirable presence, and he had a chance to look at Frodo, see how he licked his lower lip which hadn't taken on any hint of pink. In his mind, he saw Frodo at the midsummer festival in the Shire, wearing navy blue and a crown of flowers in his hair. He had blushed then, he had been capable of it, hadn't he?

"You don't really...like me, like that, do you Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked weakly, all of the strength in him from just moments before dissolving. To get the best of all he had ever dreamed of, but in a situation like this? Sam had thought all those dreams had died on Weathertop, which back then had been the worst night of his life; lately, Sam had begun to wonder if the 'worst night' was still to come.

"Of course I do," Frodo said, impish. "I always have. My dearest Samwise."

He kissed Sam's cheek again then, and took his hand to stand, peering over the top of the boulder. Time to leave.

"But you're not him," Sam murmured softly. "I know you aren't. Not really."

Frodo didn't say anything to that, but he looked back in a way that suggested he had heard, and Sam gave in, letting himself be led back out into the watery mid-afternoon light that filtered through the trees. There was no more sign of the men who had passed by, and no way to go but forward.