DISCLAIMER: The characters, place names, and most other references therein are property of Tolkien Enterprises. I in no way claim any of these as my original creation. This is a fan fiction.
It was a cold night. A dark night. A suffocating, saturating night. The stars struggled to peirce through the milky blackness, and ultimately failed. The air stubbornly refused to be inhaled. One breath proved too little to be sufficient enough for survival. The fabric of the sky itself appeared to be made of winter wool thrice dyed in the blackest pigment, swallowing the world in a deluge of darkness and hopeless despair that light would never come to hail the morning.
In the lair of the spider, the night lay thicker and heavier than anywhere else on earth. The ground itself seemed to bow under the weight, lengthening the distance between earth and sky. Such an alteration made one feel as though his significance had dwindled tremendously. Though there may have been many previous nights spent under a seemingly similar sky, the increased sense of inconsequentiality made one feel rather unnerved. The difference was slight, but felt twice as extensively within the deepest crevices of the restless soul. It was a feeling felt, rather than a vision seen. And to a humble, simple being such as the one that crouched, alone in the ebony soup of such a night as I have described, the result was altogether terrifyingly upsetting. Clutching a fading crystal showing an ethereal radiance in one hand, and a sharp, delicate sword of Elven-make in another, the small figure seemed so still as to be under a spell. Perhaps some mad deity had turned the little creature to stone.
Upon closer examination, this theory proved to be entirely untrue, as the almost childlike person could be observed shivering uncontrollably. Whether this action was the result of a chill, or an unsettling experience could not be readily determined without surveyance of the surrounding enclosure.
The little man sat on a flight of stairs leading up to what seemed to be a wide rip or tear in the framework of the sky. The heavens about it faded in comparison to the black abyss behind. This black abyss, upon closer examination, appeared to be a rather ominous and imposing gate of jagged black stone. An object beneath the sky, and not behind it. The place in which the little one found himself was surrounded by steep walls of similar black stone. Perhaps it was the lack of light that made the rock seem so sinister and threatening. Perhaps in the day’s revealing radiance this place wasn’t as bad as all that. But at the moment, such a possibility looked to be highly unlikely. No less than 50 yards distant from the base of the stairway, there seemed to be an entrance into the enclosure, thick with cobwebs hanging down like flowing drapery. The opening gaped wide like a mouth, spewing innocent victims from it’s throat into the barren prison to await their fate. The webs choked it so, and once in a while it coughed, sending a gust of wind rushing through it’s throat into the valley, which startled the stagnant air within. Slightly northeast of the entrance there was a greater menacing darkness poking through the stone. This aperture seemed wider and blacker, as if the darkness did not merely lay in wait there, but poured out like a thick smoke billowing from harsh machinery intent on the destruction of all that lived and breathed good, clean air. Every grade of air offended it immensly, for it quickly dispensed it’s stench and smoke into the enclosure to suffocate the air which spewed forth from the coughing entrance. This orifice seemed to go on for miles, far inwards and down into the depths, perhaps to the very core of the earth. The faintest thought of what lay within caused the mind to panic, for something organic must reside there in order to manufacture such a smell as that which permeated the air. And such cries as emitted from the hole could only be created by something terrible, and alive. So distant they seemed, and yet too close to be comfortable for anything still trapped within hearing distance. A trail of a sickening green and yellow substance lead from a spot merely a few yards away from the small person, to the chasm from which the angry, painful cries originated. Entrails of some fearsome creature. The spider which inhabited this lair. How she came to be in such a state required much more information. The same substance coated the sword in the hobbit’s hand, leading one to believe he was responsible. And yet how could such a small personage inflict such extensive damage upon Shelob, the spawn of Ungoliant herself?
All in all, the whole situation was too bleak and desperate for the figure, which had the height of a human child, the build of a rather slim dwarf, the stature and bearing of a man, and rather large feet covered in thick, curly hair alike to the hair on his head. He was indeed a halfling of the Shire. Samwise Gamgee, to be precise. The faithful manservant to Mr. Frodo Baggins, and his companion throughout the endless journey towards the land of Mordor. Everything seemed a blur or emotions and events to him. Joy, fear, anger, desperation. They all stumbled over each other in a pile of confusion, a sensation the helpless hobbit did not like in the least. Bewildered and frightened, the halfling’s thoughts ran rampant through his mind.
He didn’t belong in such a place. Such adventures as those in which he had found himself as of late, and such places as the one where he found himself at that moment, were not things that respectable hobbits were to be concerned with. Adventures were bothersome things. Made one late for dinner, as this particular adventure had made this frightened and exhausted hobbit for too long now. The only desire that remained in poor Sam’s head was to be back in his hole on Bagshot Row, smoking a pipe in front of his cozy fire, his belly full of supper and his heart full of contentement. His mind wished to go over the things that had happened only moments ago, but he would not allow it. Hoplessness gripped him for the first time in nearly eight months, Shire Reckoning. For so long during this endless, harrowing journey, Samwise had been his master’s strength. He’d never thought of what danger lay ahead for him. His only concern had been for Mr. Frodo’s health. The greater threats Mr. Frodo faced, both physical and otherwise. Now that Mr. Frodo seemed to be lost to him, all that remained was himself, and his thoughts. His situation seemed to become far more dark and horrible than it had been before. Alone in the shadows, with no one to talk to. No one to look after. It was horrid to think of.
The terrifying encounter with the spider had sapped poor Sam of all his strength. He could not find a reason to go on. In the beginning, there had been a reason. Watch after Mr. Frodo. He’d promised Gandalf he would.
“Don’t you lose him, Samwise Gamgee.”
It had been because of that promise that he had insisted on accompanying his master on the remainder of his journey towards the last place either of them ever wanted to be any closer to. He’d failed, miserably. Mr. Frodo was lost. Sam had lost him. Sam had allowed him to be captured by those foul orcs. Those horrid abominations. Sauron’s lackeys. Sam wanted to spit on them.
And what of the Ring? What would become of the quest now? If he did stand and continue the quest, where would he go? Which direction would he take? Back through the entrance? No, there was no other way into the dead land of Mordor that he could discover on his own. Through the menacing gates above? He feared to attempt such a daring feat on his own. His courage had left him completely. What valor he had shown in his battle with the monster had been spent, and he found himself the frightened, simple hobbit he had been at the start of this journey. Had he known he would be walking into a nightmare, would he have come along in the first place?
“Stop being silly, Samwise!” he shouted aloud inadvertently. He was startled at how his voice shattered the silence and bounced off the ebony walls. It somehow decreased the terror of the night.
Sam, a tad shocked at the sound of his own voice, sat up straighter and seemed more alert, though he continued along the same path of thought.
What would Gandalf say at a moment like this?
“Fool of a Gamgee! Have you cotton for brains? You should never have eavesdropped in the first place.”
Yes, that sounded like the old wizard. How he missed him. Sam recalled the poem he had written in memoriam of the Grey Pilgrim during the Fellowship’s stay in the Elven haven of Lothlórien. He attempted to recall it then. Perhaps it would bring him comfort. His mind would not bring it forth without error, however, and any alteration would decrease it’s effectiveness. So Sam gave up with an audible sigh and attempted to compose another:
Courage unmatched by lords and Kings
Famousest of hobbits, Frodo of the Ring
Strength to endure, with his faithful Sam
The quest for Mount Doom, in Mordor-land.
It was not the best he could do. But Sam had to admit, considering his current situation, it was not indeed the worst he could do either. What now would become of the quest for Mount Doom? The quest had to be completed, that was obvious. The Ring had to be destroyed. But somehow, Sam himself felt as though this was not his task to complete. He indeed held the Ring, now that Mr. Frodo seemed lost in the hands of the enemy. Still, it felt as though he was not the one meant to bring about the destruction of this seemingly insignificant gold Ring. As though he was simply keeping it safe until someone else took it from him and performed the task.
But who? Mr. Frodo could not. Although it seemed that he was indeed alive, contrary to what Sam had believed when he took the Ring from his pocket, Mr. Frodo could not do anything now. It seemed his fate was sealed. Sam felt a tear trickle down his cheek. He angrily wiped it away.
“Crying about it won’t fix it, Samwise Gamgee.”
A thought struck him. What could fix it? Mr. Frodo was alive. He wasn’t dead yet. That meant he could be rescued. It was not yet known how this could be accomplished, but it was still possible. It became clear to Sam that something must be done to rescue his master. What exactly was still not readily apparent. His feeling of helplessness remained. He wiped Sting against a tangle of webs nearby, glad to be rid of the monster’s foulness once and for all, and returned the Elven dagger to it’s scabbard. Gingerly he reached into his pocket, grasping a cold, metal object and pulling it from the safety of his coat. The One Ring. The very thing which had caused him to be in this situation. The very thing the Dark Lord pined for. The very thing Gandalf had died for.
“It is strange that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing. Such a little thing.” Boromir’s voice echoed within his head.
With a melancholy smirk, Sam mused at how similar his thoughts were to his companion’s now. He wondered where his friends were at that moment. Were they thinking of him? Were they thinking of Mr. Frodo? Were they still alive? He could never know. It seemed that Mr. Frodo had been right all along. They would never see them again. The thought saddened poor Sam more than anything before had. For the first time in a long while he actually missed the idiocies of Merry and Pippin. The image that slowly formed in his head of their fragile, broken bodies pierced with arrows made his heart leap into his throat and he hurriedly dismissed it from his mind, shoving the deuced Ring back into it’s respective pocket. Immediately, an image of kind Mr. Bilbo surfaced, his wrinkled, aged face grinning at him with a warmth that brought a smile to Sam’s face, even in that dark and terrible place. He remembered what the old hobbit used to say.
“It’s a dangerous business, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
How true that statement had proved to be. Sam looked at where he had been swept off to, and wished he had never stepped onto the road. He wished Mr. Bilbo had never found the ring. He wished Mr. Frodo had never agreed to destroy it. He wished they had never come this way. He wished a lot of things he knew would never come true.
“What a tale this whole event would make.” muttered Sam, with a sense of irony. “Too bad I shan’t see Mr. Bilbo again. He would be delighted to write it.”
The hobbit stopped short in wonder. How could there be a story? No one would know exactly what happened, or what ever became of Frodo of the Ring and his faithful Samwise the Brave. The songs would always be incomplete, for their half of the story would be a mystery. And what if the quest failed, and the Ring fell back into the hands of Sauron? What if the world were plunged into darkness? There would be no songs, for there would be no one left to make them. No, the quest had to be completed. Sam couldn’t do it, so that left one other. Mr. Frodo had to be rescued. Yes, Samwise the Brave had to rescue Frodo of the Ring. The songs just wouldn’t be proper otherwise. The only question left was how to go about doing just that. The whole thing seemed entirely insurmountable to such a small hobbit. A hobbit who was before accustomed to gardening and handling gentle flowers and other manner of growing things. A hobbit who was accustomed to several hearty meals a day in his comfortable, if moderate, hole. This was no task for a hobbit, and he had to figure out a way to do it regardless.
Then he looked up the steps at the horrid doors blocking his entrance into the Black Land and his rescue of Mr. Frodo from the cruel clutches of his captors. He thought of Mr. Frodo waking up in the company of such horrible creatures as the orcs which had taken him. The fear that would most undoubtedly grip his heart at that moment made manifest itself in a miniscule dosage to Sam. Mr. Frodo’s plight was far greater than that of himself. Far greater.
Suddenly, Sam felt ashamed of himself.
“Look at you, Samwise. Sitting here like a halfwit feeling sorry for yourself while poor Mr. Frodo is trapped in some horrible place!”
This inner scolding of his filled him with anger. Anger towards himself and the cruel orcs for taking Mr. Frodo and treating him the way they undoubtedly were. The very notion filled him to the brim with frustration so that he felt as though he might explode any moment.
Sam quickly stood up. He became aware of the crystal in his hand. The phial of Galadriel containing the light of Ëarendil. It had handicapped the spider. It could aid him within the walls of Mordor. He carefully placed it in his pocket and felt the cold of metal against his fingers. Holding up the Ring he reluctantly put it upon his finger and entered into a world of shadows. He was prepared to weather much to save Mr. Frodo. His courage returned in a torrent. He drew Sting out once more, hoping it’s bite was still just as sharp as before. Feircly he climbed the stairs towards the impassable gate. He would get past it. He had to. Mr. Frodo’s life depended on him.
The fate of Middle-Earth depended on Samwise Gamgee. Samwise the Brave.
