Pairing: Frodo/Sam

Summary: Frodo and Sam continue their journey to Mordor but they will face more than the lure of the Ring. This can be read as a continuation of my story, "Just for a Moment" or can stand alone.

Disclaimer: Needless to say, these characters belong to Tolkien (except for the obvious original character). No profit is made, nor offence intended.
Rating: PG-15, Angst, UST, some violence
Feedback: Always appreciated - perhobfan@yahoo.co.uk
AN: This story deviates from both book and movie cannon but its only a little detour along the way.

Part 3

Frodo bit back a bitter cry as he struggled to find a position which would bring relief from the bonds that bit into his flesh. Oh Sam. He would give all the mithril in Middle Earth to know that Sam was safe and far from harm. He would hand over the Ring, now, without hesitation, in return for the safety of Sam. No, he thought, hopelessly, that he would not do; Sam would not expect that of him, the Ring was his to bear.

He lay still again, fearful of attracting unwanted attention. The Orcs had settled down to sleep and dawn felt near at hand, but the big one, the leader, was awake and close by. Frodo felt that there was something different about this one but he could not say what. Perhaps just that he seemed to have depths, something unfathomable about him. It was unsettling, on top of the pain of the bonds and the terrible fear of what lay ahead, torture perhaps at the hands of Saruman or even Sauron himself? Maybe it would not even come to that; might not the Ring simply be ripped from his neck, along with his head?

Sam. Please be safe, Sam. Please be far from here. Do not look for me. Do not look for me. Do not look for me. A mantra, a litany, a prayer.

Frodo thought of Aragorn, brave and fierce as he sought to protect him in Moria, and of Legolas, the graceful archer with the astonishing turn of speed, able to dispatch arrows in the blink of an eye. And Gimli! Stout, fearless Gimli the Dwarf, how his axe would sing if he were here now. But he was not here... Gandalf, dear Gandalf, lost in shadow in Moria as he defied evil one last time... Such bravery. How could he, small and insignificant, withstand the will of the Orcs? Would that Aragorn was here, but no! He was glad Aragorn was far away, perhaps in a safer place, standing shoulder to shoulder with Boromir as they made their way to the White City. Boromir. Warrior of Gondor. The fear of the Man was gone now; he felt only pity and sadness for Boromir and hoped desperately that he was protecting Merry and Pippin.

Frodo found himself quite unable to think any more of the Fellowship that was, of his cousins from the Shire, of Sam. He wanted to sleep and dream again, be reunited in sleep with Sam for perhaps the last time.

A tangible darkness fell across Frodo and he willed his limbs to still, his breathing to steady. A hand, big and hard, was pulling at the thongs, which bound him to the stake. He felt himself being turned and despite himself he opened his eyes and looked up.

By the weak light of the early dawn, Frodo looked into amber eyes and felt that death was a heartbeat away.

Sam wiped away his tears and returned to the camp. He shouldered his own pack and that of Frodo. He would find his master, that was a certainty, and when he did they would need their meagre possessions and dwindling food. It would be no good to be reunited and then starve to death.

He looked around one last time, then set off alone.

The Captain fell to his haunches beside the halfling and lowered his head to that of the prisoner. Mere inches separated them. Breath mingled with breath, and eye beheld eye. The Captain had never seen eyes that colour before, strange eyes, the colour of the sky in certain lands though not this one. Here the sky was the colour of his own eyes, amber and pale and insipid. The Captain wondered in passing if all halflings had eyes like this. Maybe he would order the company to bring back the other one after all, if only to compare eyes.

But he did not.

He saw fear in those eyes but defiance too. This creature, this small being, had a spirit within him, the will to endure. With a start, the Captain realised that he had laid his hand upon the chest of the halfling, an automatic reflex but one, which disturbed him greatly; beneath his hand the little one trembled. He withdrew his hand and turned away, then slowly unsheathed his scimitar and wiped the blade on his chain mail.

Frodo tried to slow his heart, which beat inside him like a wild animal. Be brave, be brave, be brave...

Sam stared at the ground and felt his whole world shudder and stop.

The signs were unmistakeable. He could see imprints of what could only be Frodo's meaty little feet and, intermingled with these, larger prints, the deep marks of heavy, booted feet. Sam was no Aragorn when it came to tracking but even he could make that out.

Falling to the ground beside the telltale marks, Sam sniffed. There was an almost imperceptible stench that he had first encountered on the banks of the Anduin, when the company were attacked by Orcs. Orcs. He had known it all along, but had suppressed the knowledge, even as he searched for Frodo. Orcs had taken Frodo.

Sam rubbed his eyes and squared his shoulders. Well crying wouldn't help Frodo, would it? He screwed his brain to recalling everything he knew about Orcs, which was very little. They hated the sun. Did that mean they had travelled all night with Frodo, in which case they could be miles away? They were vicious and cruel, not the brightest of creatures, that was common knowledge, but they were possessed of animal cunning. And hadn't he heard Lord Elrond say back in Rivendell that Orcs had once been Elves in an age long out of the reckoning of Hobbits?

But what good would knowing any of that do Frodo? Sam drew his sword from its sheath and thrust it deep into the earth where the Orcs had stood and - no, best not to think of that! There was no blood at the site anyway, that was one small consolation. But the best one would be to find Frodo alive and well. That left just the small matter of rescuing him from a company of Orcs. Well, it could be done.

"What do you want of me?" asked Frodo, his voice thin even to his own ears. The Captain had taken the point of his scimitar and cut the bonds around Frodo's ankles. His gnarled, filthy hands had brushed the flesh of the Hobbit, eliciting an involuntary shudder of revulsion. Now the Orc was working on the leather around the prisoner's wrists, but as he held the small hands he stared into Frodo's eyes, unblinking and for an alarmingly long time. The bonds were sliced away but still the Captain held the hands of the Hobbit.

"Please, what do you want?" asked Frodo.

"Not to be alone," came the reply.