Chapter 12 – The One Ring

The following morning, Rick finds Sauron rooting for herbs a short distance from camp while the hobbits are helping Semira pack up and tend the horses. Sauron looks up as Rick approaches and Rick dazzles him with a wide, eager grin.

“Sauron,” the young man says quietly, so as not to be overheard, “do you think we could—”

“No,” Sauron interrupts.

“No? You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Rick accuses.

“Yes I do. You were going to ask if we could tell Semira who we really are. The answer is no,” Sauron says.

“We can trust her,” Rick says. “She is working for King Elessar, after all.”

“Is she? Last night, she made it rather clear that she is working for someone else. We don’t know her politics, nor her master’s,” Sauron says. “Besides, even if she is trustworthy for seeing us through Near Harad, there’s no guaranty she won’t try to kill me if she finds out who I really am. Or have you forgotten what I said about the Haradrim wanting me dead?”

Rick huffs impatiently and stares stubbornly at his friend. “The King isn’t going to give us a guide who wants you dead.”

“You heard him – there’s sabotage. They could be lying to him about their true intentions,” Sauron shoots back.

“Lying to him? On what? The off-chance that you’ll just happen to need their help?” Rick replies. Sauron just looks at him. Rick huffs again. “They can’t know it’s an actual possibility. You just have to learn to be more trusting of people. Besides, I doubt that all the Haradrim want you dead.”

“And you need to learn that not everyone can be trusted,” Sauron counters, just as stubbornly.

“My mother said the same thing about you,” Rick says dryly.

“Besides,” Sauron continues, ignoring this last comment, “those who do not want me dead will want the hobbits dead for defeating me. We tell her nothing.”

Rick has no choice but to agree for the moment. He returns to camp with decidedly less bounce in his step. 

That day, they enter lands unspoiled by Men, and they ride past grazing herds of gazelles and a strange sort of antelope with straight, upright horns that Semira calls oryx. The grass grows wild here, trimmed only by the animals that feed on it, and from the grass grow wildflowers unlike any they have seen before. Even Semira does not know their names, but when they stop for their midday meal, she helps Sam to gather what seeds they can find. Frodo also helps, delighting in the flowers as much as the gardener, and they speak freely with Semira about their love of growing things.

Now that they are beyond the reach of Men, the hobbits no longer wear their veils, for which they are much pleased. Since Semira also knows that they are not children, they are able to help with the cooking and wood-gathering, and they had each kept a watch the night before while the others slept soundly. Yet their feet remain covered and they are careful not to sweep their hair behind their ears to reveal their slightly pointed tips. Semira may not have been fooled into thinking them children, but she does not know they are hobbits and they are as intent to keep it that way as Sauron.

“Here are some seeds for this yellow-red blossom, Master Matfrid,” Semira says, handing the small, flat brown seeds to Sam. 

“Thank you,” Sam says, smiling gratefully. He places the seeds in a bare spot of his handkerchief and ties the cloth into a knot around it. He has used all of his handkerchiefs, as well as Frodo’s, and he has nothing more to stow the seeds in. They end their gathering efforts and return to camp, where Rick has been giving Sauron a cooking lesson. 

The hobbits look cautiously at the food in the frying pan then quirk their eyebrows up at Rick. “Don’t worry,” the young man says, “I didn’t leave him alone.”

“Haha,” Sauron says dryly. “Just eat it and don’t complain.”

They sit and accept their plates, and after some more mild teasing, they taste the food. The hobbits nod with approval, but Semira takes longer to decide if she finds the seasoning of the larks favorable. This is the first meal she hasn't cooked since she joined them, and Rick had not used spices familiar to her. At first, the meat seems rather bland but once she grows accustomed to the subtler spices, she decides she enjoys it well enough and eats without complaint. 

Rick watches her from the corner of his eye, nervous that she will not like the food. It is hard for him to tell, for she is not like the hobbits, who will easily tell you what they enjoy about it, and she is not like Sauron, who shovels everything into his mouth whether it’s good or not. She eats slowly, considering every bite with great care and attention. About halfway through the meal, after the hobbits finish their eager analysis of the spices and the tenderness of the meat, she finally looks up to find Rick watching her. She smiles unassumingly and nods her head. 

“It is not the duty of men to cook in my country,” she says. “I did not think that they could.”

Rick smiles in return and breathes with relief. This is the best compliment he will get, but it’s a compliment all the same. “I can do more than just help stir things.”

Semira smiles again and returns to her food. She is still eating when the others finish. They are always careful to ask her if she will have a second serving before finishing the food, but she always declines, saying one serving is enough for her. Today proves no different, so the hobbits and Sauron finish the rest of the food while Rick readies the horses for the next leg of their journey.

The mountains loom closer on the horizon the farther east they travel and by the next day the high peaks tower over them, blocking the sun for most of the morning. Frodo feels a tight clenching in his chest and he finds at times throughout the day that he has difficulty breathing. He often feels like someone sinister is watching him and he scans the vacant slopes and crevices of the mountains with keen eyes. 

Sam watches him closely and when they camp that night at a small pond in the shadows of the mountains, he lightly suggests that he and Frodo gather the wood while the others set up the camp. When they are far enough away to be unheard by the others, Sam puts out a hand to stay Frodo and turns his master to face him.

“What’s the matter, Master?” he asks.

Frodo shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he lies.

“It’s not like the last time,” Sam says. “There ain’t no Dark Lord behind those mountains no more, and we don’t got to be climbing any unending stairs this time.”

“I know, Sam,” Frodo says and sighs. “I just…”

“Can’t help but remember?” Sam finishes for him. He crosses his arms and shivers involuntarily, despite the warm evening air. “I remember also. I remember losing you, thinking you were dead. I remember that dreaded spider and that treacherous Gollum, those orcs making you run so long your legs nearly fell off, climbing that mountain until the skin on my feet burnt clear off, then all that ash and lava and rumbling. But they’re just memories, sir.”

“Dear Sam,” Frodo says and takes Sam’s hand to press it gently. “Of course you would have your own dark memories, more than me even, for I hardly remember anything of that dark time. Even now, I remember so little, but it must have been worse for you.”

“Now, Mr. Frodo, I didn’t go telling you that so you’d stop worriting about yourself and start worriting about me,” Sam says, gentle but insistent. He pulls his hand away to clasp his master’s hand instead. “I told you that so you’d stop worriting, flat. Like I said, they’re just memories, and they can’t be hurting now unless we let them. Best not to think on it.”

“But I have to think about it,” Frodo insists. “I have to figure out what I did wrong before. I was so certain, Sam, so certain I could destroy the Ring, but at the last moment when it mattered most, I failed. I’ve been telling myself all this time that I can do this too, but what if I can’t? What if, at the last moment, I fail again?”

Sam doesn’t answer. He has never been able to convince his master that he had not failed at Mt. Doom. Sam has tried to convince him that he had succeeded beyond everyone’s wildest hopes. It never makes any difference and Sam knows that anything he says now will fall on deaf ears. He simply pulls his master into a hug and holds him until Frodo pulls away.

Frodo isn’t finished. Sam can tell by the reluctance in his eyes and the way he bites his lower lip. “Sam,” Frodo begins then pauses for many moments, unsure of how to proceed. Finally, he draws a deep breath and plunges ahead. “Sam, I risked your life once before. I couldn’t bear to do so again. I think it would be best if-”

“No,” Sam says softly, but it is enough to stop his master. Frodo starts to speak again, but Sam holds up a hand and shakes his head, his expression firm. “I ain’t leaving you, Mr. Frodo, so don’t you even try to leave me.”

Frodo lets out a relieved sigh and he smiles sincerely for the first time that day. He nods, all he can manage at the moment as relief mingles with guilt. 

“Come on, now,” Sam continues. “That wood’s not going to gather itself.”

Sam wakes with a start at midnight and blinks up at the star-filled night with confusion. At first he is not sure what woke him, then he realizes that no one had woke him: it is his turn for the watch and Frodo should have shaken him awake before taking to his own sleeping roll. Sam sits up and rubs his eyes, yawning tiredly. He stands and stretches, then looks towards the dead fire where his master should be sitting, but there is no one there. Semira is slumbering peacefully in her usual spot at the edge of camp. On the other side of the fire pit, Rick also sleeps deeply but the roll next to him is empty. Sauron is awake.

Sam is wondering what this means when he hears a soft splash coming from the direction of the little pond. He turns away from the camp and walks towards the pond nearby. There he can see Sauron standing by the shore but he does not see Frodo until he reaches Sauron’s side. When he attempts to dash into the pond after his master, Sauron gently takes his arm and stays him.

“I woke to find that Frodo had left his post,” Sauron says, quietly so as not to disturb Frodo. “I believe he is sleepwalking, but I can’t imagine why he is just standing there.”

“He’s done this before,” Sam informs resignedly. “Back home in the Shire, sometimes I’d wake up to a chill draft in the smial and I’d find that Mr. Frodo had left and wandered down the Hill to the Water. He’d be talking, but not in any language I could ever understand. It sounded like madness to me, like he was cursing or something. Sometimes he’d be begging, wailing even. It didn’t make any sense, but then you showed up and started in on your talk about the Blue Wizards. I figured it had something to do with them, and I was going to ask you about it, you know, once you proved yourself. Only by then the dreams had stopped and I clear forgot about them.”

“They will likely begin again, the closer we get to Khand,” Sauron says. "Do you remember what he said when he would dream before? He hasn’t said anything so far that I can tell.”

Sam shakes his head. “I couldn’t understand any of it, couldn’t even imitate it if my life depended on it. Just sometimes he’d sound so angry, and sometimes he’d be so sad and scared. What does it mean?”

“He was seeing visions of the wizards and their victims,” Sauron says. “That is part of the reason I wanted to train him, so that he would be able to block the visions once the wizards regained their strength. It seems that instead of blocking them, he has gained a control over them, and that can be equally dangerous.”

“Why? Ain’t that what he’s supposed to be doing?” Sam asks.

“Not yet, not until the last moment, or they might sense him. We are still too far away to be in danger, I think, but I will have to show Frodo how to block the visions in his dreams,” Sauron says. “He could unconsciously give us away if he does not learn to do so.”

They watch Frodo for a few minutes longer. In all that time, Frodo does nothing more than look out over the pond. Every now and then, he’ll tilt his head as though listening for something or someone, but that is the only movement he makes. When a cold wind comes through the plains, Sam steps forward. Sauron again attempts to stay him but he pushes away Sauron’s hand.

“I’ve done this before,” Sam says simply. He walks into the pond, which only comes up to his waist at its deepest point. He reaches Frodo and gently steers his master back towards the camp, mumbling soothingly to him the whole while. “Got to get you to your bed, Mr. Frodo. We can’t change your clothes I’m afraid, as you don’t got a spare, but I’ll get the fire built back up and you can dry out as you sleep. The heat of the day will dry you the rest of the way. The days are getting warmer and warmer, aren’t they sir? I know as that can make you itch for a bath, but I don’t think this is the best time to be taking one.”

Sauron remains where he is, listening to Sam as he settles his master into his sleeping roll. Sauron watches the pond, his brow crinkled with thought. So, Frodo can still see the Wizards in his sleep and has come to control the visions so that they do not overtake him. This is a promising development and he will have to speak with Frodo in the morning and discover what the hobbit saw. Then he will have to teach Frodo to block the visions entirely. A spy will not go undetected for long by the wizards. They will soon be able to sense his presence and hunt him out, or use his abilities against him. 

The next morning, Frodo awakens tired and drained. He is surprised to find that his breeches are damp with pond water but after a few moments, he remembers his dream and realizes what has happened. He looks over at Sam, who is cooking quietly at the fire and discreetly keeping an eye on him. 

“I’m fine, Sam,” he says automatically, then cringes. He looks about quickly to find that Semira is gone and his words are unheard. He sighs and yawns. “Tired, but fine.”

“Are you sure, sir?” Sam asks as Sauron approaches from the pond, hair wet and clothes clinging to damp skin.

Frodo nods and smiles tiredly at Sauron. “Had a swim of your own?”

“Sam’s suggestion of a bath sounded good,” Sauron says. “Rick and Semira are gathering some herbs that she found growing nearby. I’m glad you woke before they could return. We need to talk.”

“About my dream?” Frodo guesses. 

Sam puts down his spoon and sets the pan over the fire for the food to fry. He remains where he is, so as to keep an eye on the food, but he listens as curiously and attentively as Sauron. Frodo only ever gave brief descriptions of his dreams before, and Sam wonders how detailed his master’s account will be this time around.

“Yes, about your dream,” Sauron says. “What did you see and hear?”

“I saw them, the Blue Wizards. They are not like Gandalf, or even Saruman. They are old and bent, and they have wisdom, but they are filled with malice, like Saruman, but also with… disappointment. They feel you have betrayed them. They have built a moat around their fortress, or else built their fortress on a small island surrounded by a lake. It will be difficult to get in.”

“Do not worry about that yet,” Sauron says and returns to the dream. “What else did you see?”

“They torture their victims in the water, hold their heads under until they are nearly drowned, like the orcs did with me,” Frodo says and shudders at the half-remembered torment. “What they do inside their fortress is even worse, indescribable. How can they do such things?”

“Because they can,” Sauron says. “It’s not a good excuse but it’s enough. We’ll talk about it further later.” 

He nods his head in the direction behind Sam, and the hobbits look to see Rick and Semira approaching. Semira is holding a bag and a twig she had fashioned into a digging stick, and she is laughing at some story that Rick is telling her. As they come closer, they can hear Semira say, as she shakes her head, “Master Wulfram, the stories you tell are most delightful.”

“I’m glad that you enjoy them,” Rick says.

“I am glad to hear them,” Semira replies. She reaches out and lightly touches Rick’s arm. “I will be glad to listen to more.”

“I will be glad to tell you more,” Rick says, his cheeks coloring at the touch. He watches as Semira returns to her sleeping roll and begins to pack her things. 

“Wulfram,” Sauron says. Rick looks at him in a daze and Sauron taps at the corner of his own mouth. “You have some drool.”

Rick’s hand flies to his mouth and finds it dry of the accused drool. He narrows his eyes at Sauron as the hobbits snigger. “I think I’ll take my bath now,” Rick says.

“The water’s nice and cold,” Sauron calls after him with a grin. Rick only waves his hand distractedly.

“Don’t tease him,” Frodo admonishes, still chuckling.

“That would sound more convincing if you weren’t laughing,” Sauron points out. 

“You’re both terrible,” Sam says under his breath and goes back to stirring the food.

They reach the feet of the mountains the next day and begin to follow the range as it runs south towards its eastward bend. The days grow warmer as they continue their journey and after a few more days the landscape begins to change. First the horizon becomes a long brown line obscured by a dusty haze. Around them, small clumps of bushes appear, the grassy fields turn to arid earth, and the brilliant sapphire skies fade to a dull topaz. The heat radiates off the desert floor and the days grow immeasurably long with the heat.

When they come to the bend in the mountains, they find a small cave to shelter in during the day. Though Semira tells them that no orcs have been seen in these lands for nearly a year, Sauron insists that he and Rick check the security of the cave before the others enter. After they ensure that there are no crevices or openings within the cave, they bring the horses and ponies inside and settle down for the day. From then on, they travel by night under the warm moonlight.

When they come to the borders of Near Harad the next morning, they change into the white mourning robes of the Haradrim. They had not thought to look at the robes earlier, and they are now surprised to discover that the robes are each made of one long piece of linen that they must wrap around themselves. There are no ties or buttons, and Semira is amused when she is asked how the robes will stay in place without them.

“You must wrap the cloth around yourself correctly,” she says and demonstrates over her dress the correct way to wrap and fold the lightweight cloth so that it will stay in place. “Remove all your clothing, including your underclothes and your boots, and wrap the robe as I showed you. There are sandals that I will give you to wear if you need them. I will check when you are done to make certain all is correct.”

“No underclothes?” Rick says when Semira is gone. The hobbits look down at their boot-covered feet. “No boots?” they say.

“She’ll see the hair on our feet,” Sam protests.

“It is not the custom of the Haradrim to wear shoes, but I do not think it is a matter of propriety,” Sauron informs. “You should continue to wear the boots to keep your identities secret. Or, you could shave your feet.”

The hobbits look at him with appalled expressions. Sauron chuckles. “That’s what I thought you’d say,” he teases. 

When they are finished dressing, Semira returns to check them. She adjusts the robes as necessary, and even though she frowns at the hobbits’ boots, she says nothing about it except, “These will be more comfortable in the heat, yes?” as she hands them the sandals. 

“Aren’t you going to change?” Rick asks her.

Semira shakes her head. “There is not enough water for me to bathe properly. It would be unclean. Besides, I am your servant, yes? It is not my place to mourn with you.”

“Should we have bathed first?” Sam asks.

“You are already unclean, Master Matfrid,” Semira answers. When Sam and the others only look at her questioningly, she explains further. “You are not Haradrim; you are of the West. You are… how do you say? Tainted. You cannot be cleansed.”

“Is that so?” Sam says, bemused and more than a little insulted.

“Try not to take it personally, Matfrid,” Sauron advises gently. “We do not have the most flattering ideas about the Easterlings either. Most would say that they are barbarians.”

“Maybe in Gondor they would, but in the Shi— I mean, where I’m from, they wouldn’t say those things,” Sam amends, but it is too late. Semira looks at him sharply.

“You are not from Gondor?” she asks. “I thought—”

“And Rohan,” Rick quickly interjects. “Now, is there anything to hunt around here or are we cooking from our supplies?” He pulls Semira away before she can ask anything else.

The nights pass without incident. The heat of the day dissipates to a humid warmth under the moonlit skies, and gentle winds blow along the mountainside to cool them as they ride. Every now and then, they pass camps of slumbering nomads, and the night watchmen will bow their heads in respect of the passing mourners. One watchman even makes signs with his hands over his forehead and chest, which Semira later explains are protection signs so that the souls of the Lost Ones do not get confused and stray from those who mourn them.

Frodo remains restless as he had been that night by the pond. With each day, his restlessness and uncertainty grow and he has difficulty sleeping during the heat of the day, even when they find a cool cave or overhang in which to shelter. He mumbles in his sleep and he wakes often from dreams both of the past and of memories that are not his own. He reports these dreams to Sauron when Rick and Semira are gathering what herbs or game they can find. 

Sam sits silently nearby, listening quietly but growing ever more worried with each dream related. The less rest his master gets, the more the dreams trouble him and drain him of his energy. Even the lessons that Sauron manages to give him do little to help. 

After one particularly troublesome dream, Frodo sits huddled near the fire, rocking himself back and forth as he stares into the cold ashes.

“They’re only children,” Frodo says hollowly, rubbing his eyes as he attempts vainly to dispel the images from his mind. “They make them work until their hands bleed, they pit siblings against each other. Their parents can only watch. If they try to save their children, the wizards will torture them, the children I mean, and they’ll make their parents watch. Even you never tortured children. Did you?”

Sauron shakes his head. “I killed their fathers, confused their mothers, brought their brothers out to war against me, besieged their homes. I hurt them just as much as anyone else. No one was safe.”

After a week of traveling along the mountains, Frodo has his worst dream yet. He sees many things that he later will not remember, but what he does remember is harrowing. He sees the Ring, the Elvish script glowing red hot upon the flawless golden band. He sees two more rings, gold also, but lesser and with stones of amethyst. He can feel again the heat of the fires of Mt. Doom upon his face, feel the grime and sweat of his travels clinging to his skin, feel the intense desire to both destroy the Ring and protect It. He sees himself claiming the Ring for his own, and when he does this, the two lesser rings begin to glow and shimmer with a golden light. The rings call the wizards towards them and they put the rings upon their fingers. They gaze at the rings in amazement but soon cry out in pain, even as Gollum bites the Master Ring from Frodo’s hand. As Mordor crumbles, the wizards fall to their knees and despair, but soon their rage begins to grow and they refuse to let their powers fail. Frodo can feel their wrath as if it were his own, can feel their betrayal and their desire to retain their dark positions among the peasants of Khand. Frodo glimpses everything they have done since, understands that the wizards have tortured hundreds, even thousands, and he knows that the moat that surrounds their fortress is stained red with the blood of their victims.

“FRODO!”

Frodo wakes to find himself crying with despair. He is shaking violently and attempting to remove the blood from his skin that he can still see and feel from his dream. He uses only his right hand, his damaged left hand clutched close to his chest, the missing finger aching him like it has not done in many months. 

“Mr. Frodo, please,” Sam begs and grabs his master’s clawing hand as he wraps his arms around him. “You’re awake now, it was only a dream.”

“They’re dead, Sam! They’re all dead!” Frodo wails. He cannot stop his frantic movements, cannot regain control of himself. Every time he closes his eyes, he can still see the images of those poor people and the Blue Wizards standing over them, gloating. 

Semira comes over to them and kneels before them. “Be at peace, Master Remi,” she says gently and holds a small vial of oil beneath Frodo’s nose. “Breathe deeply of this.”

Frodo manages to obey and does what is asked of him. The potent scent of frankincense wafts up towards him and surrounds him. As he breathes in the fumes, he finds himself calming considerably and his mind clears as the last strangling cobwebs of the dream fade. 

“What is that?” Sam asks as Rick and Sauron return from scouting ahead. 

It only takes them a moment to guess what has happened. They rush to Frodo’s side and Sauron crouches to look at Frodo closely. “Did you dream again?” he asks.

Frodo can only nod. He has stopped struggling but he still clutches his left hand to his chest. Sauron looks at Sam and knows from the gardener’s blanched complexion that the dream had been quite horrible indeed. He then notices the vial that Semira holds and takes it from her. He sniffs at it and nods approvingly. 

“Get a fire going and warm some water. Use the oil to make a poultice. Bring it to me when you are done. Semira, help him.” Rick and Semira rush to do as they are bid. When they are gone, Sauron attempts to reach for Frodo’s hand, but he instinctively pulls it away. “Frodo, you are in pain. Let me soothe it.”

“Please, sir, you know you have to,” Sam says. He is still holding Frodo protectively and he puts a reassuring hand to Frodo’s left arm. When Frodo relaxes, Sam nods at Sauron.

Sauron reaches again and is about to take Frodo’s hand when Frodo suddenly changes his mind and pulls the hand away again. There is shame in his eyes behind the haunted expression. Sauron breathes deeply and after a third failed attempt, he sits back and holds up his own hand. The hobbits look at it and Sam suddenly gasps, just as Frodo’s expression changes from haunted to dumbfounded. There, between Sauron’s middle finger and pinky, is a gap. 

“Your finger,” Sam says lamely and then looks down, not wanting to stare.

“Did you never notice before?” Sauron asks them.

Sam shakes his head. “I noticed, I just… didn’t think about it,” he admits.

“And you?” Sauron asks Frodo.

Frodo sits up and looks at Sauron’s scarred hand more closely. Then he holds up his own and notices that they are both missing the same finger, and for the same reason. “Isildur cut the Ring from your hand,” Frodo states, his voice dull.

“Yes he did,” Sauron says. “And just between you and me, I think I am the one who should be ashamed. You lost your finger destroying the Ring. I lost mine trying to destroy everything else.”

“But I didn’t,” Frodo says. “I didn’t destroy it.”

“You didn’t?” Sauron says. “I beg to differ.”

“Gollum destroyed it when I could not,” Frodo elaborates. “It was my task, my burden, to cast the Ring into the fires and I couldn’t do it.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” Sauron says and looks hard at Frodo. “Do you think I’d be so careless to make a Ring of Power that, on the chance I should lose it and it should be taken by someone else, would allow itself to be destroyed?” He allows Frodo to process the question before continuing. “Frodo, there is a reason why everyone who ever came into contact with the Ring instantly claimed it for themselves – so they would not even think to destroy it, much less attempt it. Everyone, that is, except you. Isildur had the Ring less than a day and could not destroy it. Gollum would have taken it back to his cave in the mountains and hid with it again, until he eventually became a wraith and returned it to me. Bilbo would not have been able to resist it much longer himself, had he not given it up to you. But if you think that giving it up is the same as destroying it, you would be wrong. As difficult as it was for Bilbo to pass the Ring onto you, it would have been impossible for him to destroy it, or even to think of doing so, so long he had possessed it. You are the only one who not only accepted what needed to be done, but attempted it. That you actually reached Orodruin is a testament in itself of your strength. No one else could have got that far, as you well know. Boromir attacked you in an attempt to gain it. Another week longer with the Fellowship, and the others would have turned on you as well. You knew this, which is why you left them behind. 

“As for failing to throw it into the Fire, you could not have, not even if you attempted to throw yourself into the Fire with it. You would have gone into the Fire, but the Ring would have abandoned you before you jumped from the precipice. Only by tricking it would you have been able to destroy it, and trick it you did. By allowing Gollum to live, he was there at the last moment to take it from you, and in his joy, the Ring relaxed, and when Gollum fell, the Ring fell with him. You give Gollum the credit for destroying the Ring, but he would not have been there to do so if you had not shown him mercy. So yes, Frodo Baggins, you did destroy the Ring.”

“By destroying Gollum?” Frodo asks, appalled at the notion. 

“Gollum was already destroyed. There was no saving him, other than to grant him the gift of mortality, long robbed of him,” Sauron says. 

“So, by showing Gollum mercy, Gollum got to die?” Sam says, frowning. “That don’t make any sense, Mr. Sauron.”

“Mister?” Sauron asks with a smirk. “I do believe that’s the first time I’ve earned that honor. I would almost think that you’re being sarcastic.”

“Well, it doesn’t make sense. How can not killing him be showing him mercy, when by showing him mercy, that led to him dying anyway?” Sam persists.

“How long do you think Gollum would have lived had the Ring gone into the Fire without him? Only days, if not hours, and every moment would have been an unending torment to him. Instead, he died with the Ring, ensuring its destruction. His death had meaning and it redeemed him of all his misdeeds,” Sauron says. “And it redeemed you Frodo, whether you accept it or not. Now give me your hand, so that I may treat it. It was injured because of me after all. Will you at least allow me that much credit for the Ring’s misdoings?”

Frodo smirks weakly and extends his hand for Sauron to examine. Sauron is just finishing with his massage when Rick and Semira return with the wood and begin to build a fire. Sauron keeps his head bent as he whispers, so quietly even the hobbits have difficulty hearing him, “In your haste and worry, did you use your real names with each other? Did she hear you?”

“We did,” Sam whispers back. “I don’t know if she heard. She still called Mr. Frodo ‘Master Remi’, but… well, I don’t see how she couldn’t have heard, sorry to say.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” Sauron soothes and looks up just in time to see Semira look away. 

To be continued…

GF 3/19/07