Archive of Our Own ^beta

The fog was so thick in the air that day, Sam had no idea how Gollum was determining their path. He could barely see the black cliffs until they were before his face, looming from the mist wet and glistening and vicious. And this wasn’t the kind of fog that appeared in the Shire- there, the mists were light and sweet and well-intentioned, drifting lazily over the fields in very early mornings, making the grass wet with dew and casting pretty pink and purple shadows. This fog felt like it was trying to suffocate Sam- it wrapped around his face and neck and clung to him there, both heavy and cold, causing him to sweat fearful sweat and strain to catch his breath with every step. It seeped under his elven robe and rubbed against his skin, holding tight as though it had mind to pinch shut his veins, if only it were stronger. Sam hated this fog.

He hated the rocks, too- with every step they seemed to poke deliberately into the softer arch of his foot, like tiny rodent teeth. The craggy walls that surrounded their path were malevolently towering figures- he was reminded of the kingly statues on the river, back when the Fellowship had still been one, only those stones had been reassuring to see, and these ones consistently disturbing. If he didn’t know better, sometimes he would have thought that the paths changed while they walked them- that this horrid place wished deliberately to leave them lost, to force them to seek guidance from Gollum, a creature that- to Sam’s mind- was just as much a fixture of the awful air as everything else.

“This way, hobbitses,” Gollum called from down a fork in their road, his voice catching strangely in the fog and bouncing back and forth. “Keep following Sméagol. Sméagol knows the way through the fogs!”

“We’re coming,” Sam replied with a bit of an edge in his voice. Gollum could move fast through these unkind places, seeming to know them like the back of his hand, movements slippery and quick like a fish in water. But Sam couldn’t move like that- nor did he want to. It seemed unnatural, like so much of the landscape became the further East they traveled. “No need to call out every few moments or so.”

“He’s only trying to be helpful,” Frodo chided lightly, and Sam acquiesced, even if only because it was his Mr. Frodo saying it. He didn’t understand at all the tolerance with which Frodo treated Gollum. The slimy little beast didn’t deserve even a single sapphire ray from the light in Frodo’s eyes, as far as Sam was concerned. Oh, how he wished he knew somehow the secrets of their path- wished he could escort Frodo by himself, could break all the barriers for him, lead him down a path of soft grass and gentle wildflowers to their destination. But there was no soft grass, and no gentle wildflowers, not in a place like this.

Sam looked over at Frodo from the corner of his eye- not trying to be sneaky, he just wanted to see. If he asked, or made any show of concern, Frodo would just brush him off- say he was fine, that it was all fine. But that had to be a lie. Frodo’s white skin, in the days since they had separated from the Fellowship, had started to take on the kind of sickly shine it had back in Rivendell, when he had been suffering the curse of the Black Rider’s blade. Of course he had always been beautifully white, but now that whiteness had a kind of hollow quality to it- pressed too close to the bone, showing too much the hidden blue of the veins.

And that wasn’t all- he had lost weight, too. A lot of it, and very, very quickly. So quickly Sam couldn’t picture how it had started- it was like he had blinked, and in that blink Frodo had gone from fairly healthy to...this.

It was frightening. Not the way a hobbit should be- but then, they weren’t where a hobbit should be, either.

Frodo didn’t notice at first that Sam was watching him. His eyes drifted idly up through the fog, like he wanted to see the sky hidden behind it, only truly it didn’t seem like he was looking at anything. The blue of his eyes was glazed- though thankfully not milky like it had been after that night in Weathertop. The way he walked, it was like he was slightly off balance, why would that be? And Sam could see his chest rising and falling deeply, like he was out of breath but didn’t want to show it.

After a moment Frodo’s eyes drifted over to Sam- seemingly of their own accord- and there they cleared. Instantly the vacant look was replaced by a sweet- if somewhat tired- smile. Even like this he was so pretty that Sam’s heart melted at the sight- but he wasn’t going to be distracted, he thought with determination, and reached out to take Frodo’s hand, which under his touch seemed chilled.

“Are you alright, Mr. Frodo?” he asked, watching Frodo’s smile become warmer as he said it, eyebrows coming together in the very sweetest expression he could make, enough under any circumstance to make Sam blush. “If you’re not feeling too well, we can always rest.”

“Don’t worry for me, Sam dear,” Frodo said softly- but his voice sounded airy and weak, in discordance with his words. “It’s just that this fog is so thick…”

That couldn’t ‘just’ be all. What Frodo was carrying was heavier than anything on Sam’s back, because it weighed down on the spirit. Sam had seen it, and the thought made him sick to his stomach.

“No dallying, hobbitses!” Gollum suddenly shrieked, launching himself through the mist at their feet. Frodo squeezed Sam’s hand a little tighter in surprise, and things like that always brought out the lion in Sam’s heart, which had him move to stand in front of Frodo like a shield.

“Don’t be yelling things so sudden-like!” He scolded, but even as he said that Gollum’s eyes flickering over his shoulder to Frodo’s face. “You don’t need to go scaring us. We’re coming along as fast as we can.”

“Of course, of course,” Gollum said, bowing his nigh-hairless head to the ground, crawling hand over hand back the way he came. But Sam heard what he muttered under his breath.

“Stupid fat hobbitses...always stopping for kissy-kissy, blegh!”

Sam flushed, half in anger and half in embarrassment, but Frodo didn’t seem to have heard at all. As always, he was deaf to the poison that fell from Gollum’s lips. Indeed, he seemed deaf to many things, these days.

But Sam was soon surprised. Though it seemed like the wet black rocks and choking fog would go on forever, they didn’t even last the day. Within a few hours Gollum was hopping back and forth excitedly, waiting for the hobbits to catch up, like a happy dog- though that comparison seemed unfair to dogs.

“Look, look where Sméagol has led you!” he called. “We’ve made it to the Dead Marshes!”

The fog lifted so suddenly it could have been an enchantment, and where it had obscured his eyes a vast waste stretched out before him- stopped only at the horizon by the huge black mountain that was Mordor. To see it so clearly again made Sam shiver- it must be monstrously huge, to still appear so large from so far away. And the sight of the ominous marshes was hardly reassuring. There seemed to be paths above water and bog here and there- dead grasses that emerged from the mulch- but they were twisting and winding, hardly any better than the cliffs from where they had came. Sam almost sighed aloud at the sight, but refrained, because there was no need to get Mr. Frodo’s spirits down. And besides, now that the fog was gone Sam could see the sky- and the sun in it was clearly setting, turning the light to a mix of weak yellow and bloodlike red. The dark would come again soon.

“We should camp here for the night,” said Sam resolutely. Of course Frodo was tired, he thought, they had been walking all day- the sunless fog had distorted time, made it seem like fewer hours had passed.

Frodo said nothing for or against his decision- he just stared out at the marshes, the slightly sick and vacant look finding its way onto his face again. Yes, he should rest. It was a pity the scenery was so terrible. Frodo deserved a better bed than this. Something as soft as the pillows in Rivendell, that would be just in Sam’s mind.

While Sam set up the bedrolls for the night (and Frodo, somewhat distractedly, helped) Gollum shifted back and forth on the last of the black rock, his tongue slipping in and out between his teeth.

“Going to bed now, hobbitses?” he said. “Going to eat hobbit food?”

“Yes, Sméagol,” Frodo replied. “You’ve done a good job today. You can go find something for yourself, if you’d like.”

He was always so cordial with the little stinker. Gollum definitely didn’t deserve it, Sam thought, watching him bound away on all fours like some deformed animal. But it didn’t do any good to dwell on someone so awful when he had someone so lovely to be with instead. When the bedrolls were settled next to each other Sam sat down beside Frodo, cuddling close to share some of his body heat. Frodo had seemed rather chilled lately. The wide-eyed look Frodo gave him was enough to warrant a light kiss on the cheek.

“We made it plenty far today,” Sam said. “And tomorrow we’ll at least be free of that awful fog. So don’t worry, Mr. Frodo.”

“Ever the optimist, aren’t you, Sam?” Frodo murmured, his words seeming to contain a melancholy sigh. And up close Sam couldn’t help but find his eyes drawn to all the little signs of ill health that had touched upon his companion’s features. He needed a good meal and a warm bed- a pot pie, Sam suddenly fancied, that was good hearty food for both the weary and the ill, it would do perfectly. A fat slice of pot pie, and some sweet boiled greens from the garden, and for dessert cherry cobbler piled high with whipped cream. That would do the trick. The thought made his stomach growl, and Frodo laughed very softly at him, no doubt having read his mind.

“Well, it’s the lembas bread for today,” Sam said, trying not to let his own words discourage him. There was nothing wrong with lembas bread, after all. It was very useful. It just became a little boring after a while.

Unfolding one of the leaflike packets, Sam broke off what he felt were two healthy-sized pieces from one corner of the waybread- it wasn’t enough, he knew from experience, to leave him feeling full, but it would have to do. There was a long way to go yet, and as Frodo had sadly reminded him, there probably wasn’t any roast chicken in Mordor.

When Frodo made no move to take his piece of the bread, Sam held it up against his lips, prompting him to take a bite- though when he did, it was really the tiniest bite possible, and he chewed it slowly, like it was some unsavoury thing.

“Now, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, a hint of desperation slipping into his voice, “You need to keep your strength up. That’ll hardly do you- have the rest.”

“I’m not very hungry, Sam,” Frodo said sweetly, folding the remainder of the bread back into its package. “And the elves really bake wonder into their bread. That was more than enough.”

Sam struggled with this for a moment, and, eyes opening wide Frodo seemed to realize something, and spoke up again:

“But you eat what you need!” he said quickly. “Your strength is important too, Sam. Just don’t mind me…”

“But that’s hardly enough, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said in a tiny voice. He was shy to say this, but it had to be said, because nothing was changing- or rather it was changing, only for the worse. “You’re going to be sick yourself.”

Frodo only hummed when he said that, almost like he hadn’t heard, shuffling about on the bed to settle down. Sam guessed he had heard. It was painful to see him this way.

It was that awful Ring that was doing it.

Sam ate all of his bread in a few large mouthfuls, and then joined Frodo in lying down. He supposed he shouldn’t push too hard. Frodo looked very sweet lying there, but also very delicate, like he was made of glass. Like an errant wind would be enough to break him and scatter the iridescent shards across the earth. What a horrible thought, that was. Sam didn’t want to be that wind.

Frodo fell asleep almost immediately, as soon as Sam’s arms were around him, which was at least a little comfort for Sam’s troubled heart. With any luck he would sleep well, despite the dreadful environment. And even though Sam himself was very tired- and there was nothing nicer, as far as he was concerned, than falling asleep next to his Mr. Frodo- he was reluctant to drift off right away. He could hear Gollum moving about in the marsh, hands and feet splashing in the mud, could hear the creature muttering. He had seen the way Gollum watched Frodo when he slept, having woken by chance a few times during their travels, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.

It was very easy for Sam to hate Gollum. He seemed like a character from a fauntling tale- and in such tales, the bad were always ugly and malformed, their wickedness apparent on their face as much as in their deeds. It was an easy comparison to make out here, so far from home, where evil took the shape of monstrous Urukhai and twisted orcs, black shapes on black horses with no faces to be seen. Gollum was awful, just like the rest, and Sam couldn’t stand the way he looked at Frodo. He didn’t have the proper words to articulate the expression that came over Gollum’s face- it was something like desire, ugly and possessive and lewd, and Sam absolutely hated it.

But he knew- as much as he could know anything- that the Ring about Frodo’s neck was far greater an enemy. He couldn’t even think about that thing without feeling strange- especially when he was lying so close to Frodo like this, where it (though hidden from his eyes) could be only inches from his own skin. It was a funny feeling that came over him, trying to contemplate the monstrous artefact at the center of their quest- like blurry vision, from crossing one’s eyes too hard, only located in his mind instead of his sight. He didn’t understand it- so Sam found himself more afraid of the Ring than he was of Gollum, for which he held more distaste. And he couldn’t bring himself to think about the Ring too much. It would give him bad dreams, and he didn’t need to be wasting anyone’s time with that. All he had to do was focus on what was really there- the path that needed to be taken, the lembas rations, the water bottles, awful old Gollum…

Thinking of everything that was to be done, it was not so easy to fall asleep, but like always Sam managed it anyway. Even if there was nothing else of comfort, the careful rise and fall of Frodo’s chest was enough to turn the harsh realities of the world into heavy darkness and dreams. But as of late, Sam’s dreams had rarely been comforting ones.

That night, Sam had a nightmare.

In it he found himself walking down a path he couldn’t see, his footsteps making no noise. There was a thick, pure-white fog in the air, and it obscured everything, hollowing out the world to its own vague constraints and nothing more. Sam had the sense that there were no walls on this path, no rocks, nothing that could be used as a marker- there was only the flat ground beneath his feet, and the endless white fog. But he knew, in the way that people knew things in dreams, that he had to keep walking. That it was of crucial importance that he keep walking. He had somewhere important to be.

At the same time, during this, things began falling out of Sam’s pockets. A handkerchief. A wooden spoon. He bent down in the fog to pick them up, because surely they were important, only to find that once fallen they didn’t fit back into his pockets anymore. So with these things in hand he kept walking- only, every few steps, something new would work its way out entirely of its own accord- a rack of pots, a woman’s bonnet, a stack of elven bread- and soon his arms were laden, while his pockets seemed never to empty. The fog in the air obscured his vision, almost sinister, and Sam knew that with every fumbled misstep he was getting further and further behind schedule. Wherever he was going, he was afraid of being late getting there, and with his things piled up and dangling from his shoulders he had trouble seeing the path.

And where, Sam dream-thought suddenly, was Mr. Frodo? He couldn’t be seen anywhere in this fog. So much had begun to pour from Sam’s pockets, he couldn’t keep it all in his hands anymore- had Frodo been one of the things to slip through the cracks, like a tiny jewel or moondrop, small enough to fall through Sam’s fingers? Was he lost somewhere back on the path in the fog, left all alone? Sam tried to call out his name, but he found he couldn’t speak, his voice paralyzed in his throat when he summoned it. He couldn’t see Frodo anywhere. By now he was practically drowning in the weight of all the pointless things piling over him, he couldn’t even walk and could barely see, and despite all the layers there was a chill pressing in against his body…

The panic of this dream was enough to force Sam into wakefulness again. The chill had been real, he became aware of that very quickly, though disoriented by the harsh light of the moon overhead, and the pain in his shoulder from lying pressed against it. On instinct he reached out, wanting to put his arms around Frodo, knowing blearily now that he had been asleep, and that it hadn’t been real-

-Sam’s entire body seemed to shock, a feeling like being struck across the face, when his hands fell upon empty air where Frodo should have been sleeping.

Instantly wide awake Sam sat up, the leftover fear from the dream taking ahold of him completely and soaring to new heights. His throat was still closed, heart beating too quickly, already thinking that he shouldn’t have let himself sleep so deeply, where had Frodo gone? The black cliffs behind them loomed, the eerie marshes ahead silent, and for an instant that was far too long Sam couldn’t see Frodo anywhere at all.

Until, that was, the moonlight blear finally cleared and he was able to focus, eyes catching on a hunched figure in a Lothlorien cloak, sitting a few feet away. Frodo’s back was turned, and he didn’t look around at the sounds of Sam’s struggling. Shaking still, Sam stood up and went to him, the pure relief of seeing him again easily outweighing any sense of unease that a better rested mind might have summoned.

He touched Frodo’s shoulder, and the other hobbit started, making a motion to close his hands and bring them close to his chest. Sam’s heart sank- he knew now exactly why Frodo hadn’t been sleeping. But at least this was explainable. It wasn’t the first time it had happened.

“Sam,” Frodo said, his voice sounding weak and dry, but at last he turned to look, bright blue eyes set on fire by the moonlight. Sam thought he was pretty, but his eyes were still drawn to the various undesired markings, so emphasized were they by the brightness of the night- discolouration on his eyelids, cracks in his previously soft lips, a new sharpness to his cheek and jaw. As he watched Frodo fumbled with the chain about his neck, slipping it back beneath his robe, and when it was gone something inside Sam collapsed, and he found he could do nothing but embrace him.

“Oh, Sam,” Frodo said, voice slightly muffled. “...are you alright?”

Sam sighed, inhaling the sweet smell in Frodo’s cloak, and found himself suddenly close to tears. Oh no, that wouldn’t do. He didn’t want to worry Mr. Frodo, no more than need be. But he couldn’t seem to stop it.

“I dreamt I lost you,” Sam said, instead of showing his face, and he felt the embrace delicately return, melting as Frodo’s arms found their way around his back and neck.

“It’s alright,” Frodo murmured, close to his ear. “You haven’t lost me. I’m right here.”

Are you, though?

That thought was unwelcome, for it was undeserved, so Sam pushed it away. Frodo wasn’t at fault for the terrible way he had begun to fade, or for Sam’s bad dreams. He was sick. The thing around his neck was making him so.

After a breath Frodo turned his head slightly to kiss Sam on the lips, a chaste kiss that Sam eagerly returned- feeling guilty, somehow, for losing Frodo in the dream, guilty because he couldn’t do anything to make him better. Frodo’s skin was dry and slightly cold, it caught on Sam’s almost painfully in some places, not so soft as it used to be. Sam didn’t care.

“I love you very much, Sam,” Frodo said quietly when they parted, his voice little more than a whisper. “Even though I wish you could have gone back to the Shire, where you would be safe...I’m a little selfish. I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I,” Sam replied, and the words shook in his throat. “Even all the Shire isn’t very much without you.”

Frodo smiled a little at that, and Sam had a moment to admire the clarity in his blue eyes which so often these days was absent, and then he turned away, taking Sam’s hand.

“Then we should try to sleep, shouldn’t we?” he said. “There’s still a long way to go.”

“Yes,” Sam let himself be led back to their bedrolls, curling up beneath their warm cloaks, wrapping his arms around Frodo again, ignoring the golden glitter of the chain about his neck. Once more, it seemed easy for Frodo to fall asleep, his breathing slowing in his chest.

Sam didn’t sleep this time, though. Every time he began to, thoughts of the dream intruded on his mind, and his heart would pick up in his chest. He didn’t want to lose Frodo. He didn’t want to wake and find him absent, having wandered away to some horrible place behind his eyes to which Sam couldn’t follow.

When the bloody sun rose the next day, neither hobbit was well-rested- Sam because he hadn’t slept, and Frodo because he never was, not anymore. Every day the colour in his eyes faded a little more. A fog was growing there.

Today they would enter the Dead Marshes.