It might have been a dark and stormy night.  It was dark enough, certainly; it had been dark for several days by Sam's reckoning, and though no rain came to relieve the unrelenting thirst of this parched land, the air was thick and oppressive, tingling with borrowed energy as though before a storm.  There were occasional rumblings, too, that could have passed for thunder, low growls of discontent rising from the bowels of Orodruin to emerge somewhere near the hidden summit, adding layer upon layer to the already thick ash-clouds overhead and now and again tinting the lower ones with a sudden flare of red.

Sam hardly spared them a glance as he trudged up and down the uneven ridges.  Ahead of him, Frodo stumbled, and for what seemed like the hundredth time that march Sam checked himself from suggesting another halt or offering help he couldn't give.  He took a deep breath and another step.  The only way to reach the Cracks of Doom was to keep straight on, no matter how hard the path.  At least they had a little water left, though not as much as he would have liked.  He mentally weighed the bottle against his shoulder and eyed the mountain in front of them, trying to calculate how much it would take to keep them both on their feet to the top; wincing, he resolved to drink less and prayed they'd find a stream.

There was a sudden warning rattle of stone on stone and a weak cry of surprise, and Sam reached out just in time to prevent Frodo from rolling past him down the hill.  He lay motionless at Sam's feet, his eyes closed, and Sam immediately dropped his walking stick and knelt beside him in dismay.

"Mr. Frodo!"  The name was a hoarse whisper; it was all that he dared in this place, and all that he could have managed in any case.  He laid a hand on the sallow cheek, raising Frodo's head gently, and was relieved when Frodo's own rose to cover it.  He felt movement beneath his palm-- a slight smile, and a fluttering near his fingertips.  Twin glints of blue shone up at him through the gloom.

"I'm all right, Sam.  I am only tired, and a little frustrated.  Lend me your hand a moment, and we'll be on our way."

Sam nodded, shifting his grip to help his master rise, and then stopped as he felt stickiness and moisture on the back of his hand.  "You're bleeding, sir!"

Frodo sat up and lifted his palm to examine a small cut near the wrist.  "It doesn't hurt," he said, and his voice sounded strange and flat, somehow less reassuring than... disappointed, was the nearest Sam could put a name to it.  Wistful.

"You'd best let me see to it just the same," he replied.  "No telling what might get into it round here."  He felt Frodo move beside him, trying to stand, and set a hand on his shoulder as he shrugged out of his pack.  "You just sit still, sir.  This won't take but a minute, and we can't have it getting infected.  You'll need your strength if we're to make it to the top."

Frodo relented and sat back, surrendering his wrist to Sam's critical eye and gentle fingers.  "I'm sorry," he murmured, barely audible.

"Now, none of that, do you hear?  'T weren't your fault.  I reckon there's not many as could bear what you're carrying and not fall a good deal more, and worse, if you take my meaning."

"I suppose not.  Ah."  He winced as Sam brushed a bit of debris from the wound.

"It's not so bad.  Just knocked off a bit of skin."  Rummaging in his pack, he drew out their water-skin and a relatively clean handkerchief.  He sprinkled a few precious drops of water over Frodo's wrist, then handed him the skin while he bound the cloth around it.  "Here, sir.  Drink a bit.  We may as well rest a moment, seeing as we're already down."

Frodo nodded, took a sip, and passed the skin back as Sam released his bandaged hand.  "Talk to me, Sam," he said, curling up against him and resting his head on Sam's shoulder. 

Sam shifted automatically to support him.  "Talk about what, Mr. Frodo?" he asked.  He took a tiny sip of water, just enough to ease the ache in his throat, checked to make sure the skin was tightly sealed, and slipped it back into the pack.  He leaned back with the pack for support, settling Frodo carefully against him.

"Anything.  Tell me about the Shire.  Tell me something you remember about... before."

"All... all right."  He cleared his throat.  "I remember when you first came to Hobbiton," he began, hesitantly.  "I wasn't nobbut a lad then, eight or nine summers maybe, and I spent a good bit of time up at Bag End.  My Gaffer had me up helpin' him in the garden from the time I could tell the weeds from the vegetables.  Mr. Bilbo, he did most of the flowers himself in those days... real proud of 'em, he was, and rightly so, I reckon.  He taught me all I know about flower-gardening-- My old Gaffer, now, he's a fine hand with taters and cabbages and such, but he never went in much for posies, 'cept for marigolds to keep the bugs away.  He taught me my letters, too, Mr. Bilbo did, and I remember how once you came to stay, the three of us would sit in the library on rainy days and we'd have our lessons, yours a good deal beyond mine, of course, and we'd take turns reading aloud and speaking poetry out of those old books of his.  Those were some of the best days for me, though I never would have thought it beforehand.  It's hard to remember it now, sir, but I... I hated you, before you came.  I heard tell old Mr. Bilbo was bringing a new lad to stay with him, and I thought he wouldn't want me hanging about any longer."

He felt Frodo smile against his shoulder, and Frodo's arms tightened around his waist.  He cleared his throat again and continued.  "It was summertime when you came, so my Gaffer was keeping me pretty busy and I hadn't much chance to get to know you, even if I'd wanted to then, though I saw you now and again when you came outside.  You always smiled at me, real nice and polite-like, but we never talked much.  I could hear you, too, through the windows or out under that old apple tree you liked to sit under, talking and laughing and taking your lessons with old Mr. Bilbo.  He had you reading tales out of the big old books I'd never even seen open before, and speaking Elvish, too.  When I heard that, I thought it was the end of my reading lessons for sure, now that Mr. Bilbo'd got himself such a fine new student."

Sam coughed slightly.  "He noticed, of course.  I don't reckon much ever got by him.  So one morning, when you'd been in Bag End and I'd been keeping out of it for a couple of weeks, I showed up to work with my Gaffer to find you and him waiting outside on the doorstep with your morning tea and a great pile of crocks and bowls.  Mr. Bilbo asked Dad if he could borrow 'your wheelbarrow and your assistant,' as he put it, meaning me, I suppose.  He agreed, so I put away my shovel and the three of us loaded all those crocks into the wheelbarrow and set off.  I hadn't no idea where we were going, and neither did you, I don't think.  Mr. Bilbo led us on until I was sure we'd come to the end of the world, farther than I think anyone in the Shire 'cept him had ever been before, over the hills and under the trees.  It wasn't bad going, though, taking turns pushing the wheelbarrow and swapping tales.  I'd nearly decided you weren't such a bad sort after all when all of a sudden out we came from under the trees onto a sunny hilltop that was just covered as far as you could see with brambles, and the brambles covered from top to toe with the biggest, blackest blackberries you ever saw.  Bigger than your thumb they were, three to a handful, and all just as ripe and juicy as could be. 

"We picked all the rest of the morning, and after lunch you put me up on your shoulders to reach the high ones.  We filled every one of those crocks we'd brought, brimful and then some, and ate so many besides that I thought I'd burst right open.  We must have stopped at a dozen smials on the way home, giving them berries away by the bowlful just to lighten the load, and singing all the way.  You would've thought it was all of our birthdays together, the way we carried on."

Sam paused again to moisten his cracked lips.  "The next day you had me up to the hole again, and we spent the whole day cooking, making jam and pies and the like.  Dad wasn't none too pleased at my being away two fine days in a row, I imagine, but so long as I was helping Mr. Bilbo, he never minded too much.  I brought a fair bit home with me, too, and that sweetened him up considerable.  We made a good deal more than would fit in Mr. Bilbo's pantry, though I reckon he could have made room if he'd a mind.  But we took the rest all up and down the Hill, and all those as didn't get the berries got the jam, seemingly.  Folks asked where we'd got 'em, but Mr. Bilbo, he wouldn't tell.  It was a family secret, he said, and he made you and me swear never to tell a soul."

"Did we ever go back ourselves?"

"Every year.  First the three of us together, and then just you and I.  Sometimes we'd take our things along and camp, once I was old enough.  We had a time of it this last summer, giving the slip to Mr. Merry and Master Pippin.  They came into town soon after we'd gone and run into Mistress Lobelia, who told them all she knew was that we'd passed her place that morning, headed out of town with our packs on our backs and she hoped we'd decided to leave early!  They were nigh frantic by the time we came back-- they'd got into the smial and were just fixing to set out after us, though of course they couldn't say why.  We had a grand party, though, we four."

"I wish I could remember it," Frodo murmured sleepily.

Sam's hand crept up and entwined itself in his hair.  "You will."

And for a moment, there was a brush at his lips as of some faint remembered sweetness, and the dark veil that lay over his mind seemed to slip aside, allowing a brief glimpse of a time and place where darkness had not been unfriendly and secrets had been a game.  And in that moment, he smiled as he slipped from darkness into darkness.

END