WHERE HE CAN NOT FOLLOW
The foul stench of Mordor choked the air as Frodo gasped, his eyes opening large as he clutched his hand to his chest, his heart racing within. Walls of cold stone surrounded him, while the dim light of a fading torch warmed his naked flesh. Frodo's eyes blurred with tears as he crawled towards a heap of tattered rags, drawing them up between his dry, rough fingers, shadowed with traces of his long dried blood, as he shielded himself from the crack of yet another whip. Their lingering scent was familiar… the deep fragrance of the Shire still seemed to live within their thinning threads. Frodo closed his eyes drawing himself further into the tattered pieces of clothing as the pain from the many open lashes spread across his back, burned him once more. What he would not give to see the face of his dear Samwise… to feel his hand touch his aching brow. He then began to wonder if he lived. Did his body lay alone, plundered by the orcs of Mordor never to be found again? Or perhaps he too suffered the same fate of his master, being held betweens damp walls of cold stone, under the constant hand of a flailing whip. The thought tore into the depths of his heart and he clutched his arms tightly round his chest welcoming the feel of his own touch against his bruised skin. Footsteps then echoed through the passageway below the floor and Frodo began to tremble in fear of what may come his way. Another lash of the whip or a beating with grotesque clawed hands? He closed his eyes tightly, as tears fell along his bloodstained cheeks. His hair hung with dampness over his face as the footsteps tallied on before they come to a sudden halt. A hiss then rang out followed by a snarling cry as the clash of two swords struck together. Another strike and a ring of steel, together with a growl and triumphal roar of an orc, then all fell silent. Frodo felt as though his heart would leap from his chest as it raced with a fury unknown. Another fight perhaps, amongst the orcs, for what he heard one describe as ‘the hobbit's pretty coat'. He could not bear another moment within the darkness, behind the only comfort he could find, when he shut out the world around him with closed eyes. He thought of the Shire, of Bilbo, the elves in Rivendell and of his Sam. Dear sweet Sam. He had come so far with him, and what for? To be left alone in the darkness of Mordor, stripped of all his youthful innocence… to be burdened with the weight of the ring which his master bore. Frodo reached his hand to his neck. The ring, it was gone. The orcs had taken everything… everything but the thread of life he still hung onto… the small strand that only kept hold, with the undying hope of being let free to see Samwise once more. Frodo's tears grew loud, his voice quivering as he pressed his hand to his dry cracked lips. He could see the face of his dear friend now before him. A smile on his face as he tended to the gardens below the windows of Bag End, long before the journey ever came to hand. Then it seemed as though he could hear Sam's voice through the darkness, piercing it with the light of song, deep within the vile heart of this malignant land. Frodo cried aloud and he began to sing, calling out to the voice within his dreams. Calling to the memory of a friend lost in the mountains below. His words were faint, a whisper to most ears, yet they overshadowed the sound of coming footsteps. A voice then snarled from below and Frodo opened his eyes as he fell into silence while his heart pounded in fear. He drew his knees close to his body clutching them tightly as he closed his eyes trying to hold back his tears. More words were yelled out and Frodo heard a loud thud as a ladder was thrust up to the floor he lay upon, close to an opening near the center of the room that was covered with a rusty metal and wooden door. He pulled himself closer to the wall cowering over the heap of filthy rags as he heard the bolt being drawn back, followed by ridged deep breaths of an orc bearing a leather whip. The orc hissed loudly, ordering silence as he raised his arm high above his head, making ready to strike the cowering figure at his feet. Frodo tensed as the sound of the whip cracked over him, tearing deep into his flesh leaving a crimson red whip-weal along his side. His voice cried out with pain as he flung his arm up, shielding his head. He waited for a moment for the second blow to strike but a yell came, loud as a thunderous roar. A quick struggle was heard and then a shrill cry, a thud, then nothing but sheer silence. Frodo did not dare look away not knowing what had come to pass, but then he felt two warm hands come around him as he was drawn away from his rags and into a warm embrace. Frodo then heard his name called out on a familiar voice and he opened his eyes, half blinded by tears as the loving smile of an old friend shown before him like a beacon of light in the darkness. Frodo closed his eyes, not wanting the comfort of this dream to end, yet was it really a dream after all? Frodo opened his eyes yet again as he felt himself being half lifted from the floor. It was real, he had come, dear sweet Samwise had come, fighting his way through the evils that had filtered through the darkness to rescue his Master. Frodo could feel Sam's tears fall upon his fevered skin and they felt as though they were the drops of rain that fell in springtime among the vale of the Shire. Frodo closed his eyes, faintly remembering the scent of a newly fallen spring rain as Sam's fingers held fast to Frodo's arms while he drew him close to his breast, his voice now but a whisper as he left a kiss upon Frodo's brow, bidding him to wake up. Frodo sighed, wishing that this moment would not end but nay, the end was at hand and it was time to continue on. Frodo sat up and looked to Sam, trying to pass the memory of the pain that filled his body aside as he thought about the journey still yet ahead and for the friend that followed him where no one else would dare tread.