The sight of a road, stretching into the distance, never failed to make him think of the Black Riders.   He dreamed of fiery Mount Doom and foul, wretched Mordor-- how the taste of its’ spoiled, oily waters had been better than miruvor.  The touch of spider-silk made him shudder. Sam could never forget how the Watchers shrieked in fury as he half-dragged Frodo away from the orc tower.   He even missed arguing with Gollum. Sometimes, in the autumn, touching the mallorn tree and closing his eyes, Sam could swear he heard the mournful singing of the elves in Lothlorién.