The woods became lonelier as the days passed. Any signs of movement, of waking or breathing things, seemed to fade away until the air itself was barren. They began to pass ghostly structures- collapsed pillars of smooth stone, statues of what may have once been kings. Some of these things were defiled, parts broken off by what looked like claws, slathered in vandalistic red markings- but even these insults seemed ancient and long forgotten. There was a sense that very little- if anything- traveled this way. Sam was always exhausted now, even though he slept deeply (albeit not peacefully) every night, and the eeriness of the landscape made it feel like he never truly woke; all he did now was walk, travel paths that might not even be real, barely even strong enough to hope that he was making progress.

Still, Frodo seemed to know where he was going. The light that he gave off was Sam's beacon, his touch an anchor to the path. He often seemed like the brightest thing in the world- the realest thing. Without him, Sam was sure he would have been long lost.

Passing through the trees while consumed with these fatigued thoughts, Sam saw another forgotten sight- a tremendous statue disrupting the path. At first, it rather frightened him, as for an instant he thought it was alive- some kind of hulking beast or troll like old Bilbo's stories. After all, it looked like a giant in sweeping robes, a giant with the body of a man and the head of a monster- a head which was not a head at all, but instead merely a giant eye, the pupil a slit painted in red.

Frodo laughed to himself when he saw the statue, unbothered.

"I suppose it's not a bad likeness," he said sweetly, pointing to the rough-hewn boulder which made up the eye. "Graffiti like this is never very nice, though."

A likeness of who, or what, Sam did not want to know. But something else caught his attention as they moved around the statue- off to the side, half buried in the undergrowth, was another head. This one was surely that of a king, his face was benevolent and serene, and the moss growing around his eyes made it look like he was asleep. Sam understood what had happened to the statue then, and it made him feel suddenly sad, for even though this had happened years upon years upon years ago, he wished it hadn't happened at all.

As he was thinking this the clouds in the heavy sky above parted, and this was so rare an occurrence these days that Sam had to stop and stare. The ray of light that filtered down was weak, but it illuminated the king's fallen head, drawing out the colours of the little white flowers that had grown across his forehead.

Frodo let go of Sam's hand and stepped into the light, which made him shine even brighter, the sun glowing on his black hair in a halo. Looking just as perfect as he ever had, he reached out and plucked one of the flowers from the king's crown, tucking it behind his ear.

The sight made Sam weak at the knees, and weaker in the heart, which throbbed with all the reasons he had fallen in love with Frodo, from the moment he had first seen him as a fauntling until the night he had died. Frodo noticed him staring, and smiled, holding out a second flower.

"Would you like one?" he asked, and Sam said nothing (could say nothing), letting Frodo press the flower into the same spot on Sam's head, biting his lower lip absently as he did so. Too pretty, it should be impossible. Sam closed his eyes.

"I thought the sun made you go away," he whispered, his voice ragged in his throat with tears he hadn't realized were rising.

"Oh," Frodo said, sounding surprised. "You know, you're right. I must be getting stronger."

He laughed then, an icy crystal sound, and when Sam opened his eyes the sun had gone away, leaving the world gray and hollow again. The red of the eye was brighter than the white of the flowers in this light.

(But neither was brighter than Frodo.)

"I know you think I'm not the same," Frodo said lightly, turning his head a little like a cat. "And in a way, I suppose you're right- I have changed some. Dying will do that to you. But I'm still your Mr. Frodo."

Sam shook his head, and his vision blurred, the heat in his cheeks and the back of his throat too much to hold back.

"I am," Frodo insisted, and cold hands cupped Sam's face, the contrast so great it hurt. "I have all the same thoughts. The same memories."

Some of the tears came out despite Sam's best efforts to hold them in, and Frodo wiped them away with his thumbs.

"I remember when Bilbo introduced me to you and your father. You were so nervous, it was your first day on the job, and you hid behind him the whole time. I only saw your eyes."

The images bloomed behind Sam's eyelids, clearer than any dream, almost as if he was standing there now- a memory with colours more vibrant than reality, but a memory nonetheless. Sam remembered. Didn't he?

"I remember being so embarrassed one day in spring- you caught me singing an elven song down by the river, and I thought I'd made a terrible fool of myself, acting so strange. But I guess you were staring because you liked it, weren't you? Back then, I thought you didn't."

Sam remembered this, too. Was that really how it had happened? It must be, he could see it so clearly now...

"I remember being sad every winter, since it meant you wouldn't be coming by everyday without the garden to tend to. I wonder if Bilbo knew? I bet he did. I could never sneak anything past him."

Sam shook his head, not to invalidate anything that had been said, but because it was too much, hearing these things (seeing these things). The grief he had been carrying in his heart since Weathertop was bubbling up in full force again, and it fought alongside his mistrust against the joy and love and want that was rising inside. If he accepted this, then he would be accepting the dead Frodo fully, and what would become of him then?

"I remember being so frightened the night he left- back then, I didn't even know why. The night Gandalf came back to tell me of the Ring, that was more frightening still. But once I knew that you would be coming along, everything seemed much better."

Sam sniffed, and his eyes finally cleared long enough to get a good look at Frodo, who even without any pink on his cheeks seemed bashful, a nervousness in his white eyes as he searched Sam's face.

"Then I went and kissed you," he continued, voice much softer than before. "Because I've loved you for so long, and I thought you felt the same. Was I wrong…?"

"No, you weren't wrong," Sam choked, covering Frodo's cold hands with his own. "Not about that, not ever."

This time, it was Sam who initiated the kiss, surprising himself as much as Frodo. Even if his voice had become hard, his skin was still soft, unimaginably soft. Sam tasted his own tears where they had wet his lips, hot burning salt, because Frodo didn't really taste of anything, and smelled faintly like the wind. For the moment of that kiss, everything was wiped away save the glowing points where his skin touched Frodo's; there was no pain nor hunger, no chill in the air, no Ring. There weren't even any memories. Sam loved, loved, loved Frodo, something he had never before been able to express, and all those feelings consumed him entirely, until he no longer seemed to have a will of his own; the kiss broke, and Sam pressed his lips next to Frodo's cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, any and every part that could be reached. Maybe this was to make up for lost time, maybe it was merely an impulse, Sam didn't know. It didn't matter. He had never been meant to struggle, to handle complicated emotions, and to remove the weight of these things was an unimaginable relief.

"I'm sorry I doubted you, Mr. Frodo," Sam managed when he could, his voice still shaking with the effort of crying. "I'm sorry I pushed you away. I-"

Frodo hushed him, and guided him to sit on the grass beside the path before Sam's wobbling legs gave out, and held him much the way he had back in that labyrinth, enveloping him in the cold. Only this time, it wasn't despair that flooded Sam's heart, but joy. He really wasn't alone. Frodo may have 'died', but he wasn't dead in the normal sense of that word. 'Ringwraith'- what did that even mean? Sam didn't know, he wasn't a great elven lord or sagely wizard, something must have been misunderstood, because Frodo couldn't be evil. Everything that had been done up until now- all the things that had made Sam's heart shudder- had been done to help Sam, had been done for love. Gollum had to have been killed, otherwise Sam wouldn't have survived. All of the eerie things- the teeth, the cold, the sunlight, the strange ways of talking, the fear- these didn't matter. They weren't Frodo's fault, Frodo had been cursed, and how horrible it was that Sam had assumed him wicked for it!

The Ring on Sam's chest felt like nothing after these realizations. Perhaps, then, the weight he had been carrying was truly his guilt and sorrow- after all, the Ring was such a tiny thing. It couldn't be all that bad. Now he knew that Frodo loved him, something he would never have considered possible, and everything could only be better from here.

"Why don't we rest for tonight," Frodo murmured softly, bringing the world back into focus. Sam looked up at him- he was smiling so sweetly, it made Sam's heart flutter, now weightless enough to spread its wings fully. "The sun will go down soon enough anyway."

"Alright," Sam murmured, and he started to move but Frodo stilled him, taking the pack off Sam's back and preparing the bedroll on his own. Sam watched, amazed as he always was at the delicacy in those pale features, overwhelmed by the thought that now he could lay claim to them. He felt ridiculous and ungainly crawling into the bed Frodo had made, having the blankets tucked around him and his hair brushed from his forehead, but at the same time there was nothing else he felt he could do- nothing else he wanted to do.

"Goodnight, precious," Frodo whispered, kissing Sam's forehead once more. "It will all be easier when you wake."

Then, as if commanded by some kind of spell, Sam's eyes closed and he fell asleep instantly.