Into Darkness
By Voldie on Varsity Track

The Summary: The Quest has failed, and Faramir sends Éowyn away into darkness in hopes to save her life. But little do they know that none can save them now, not even themselves, and that their efforts have been in vain…

The Disclaimer: I do not own Faramir, Éowyn or anyone or anything else from The Lord of the Rings. I’m not Tolkien, nor am I making a profit off of this. I’m a girl who has no money (if I were making a profit, I’d buy every Duran Duran album ever made and then form my own socialist nation and a freeloving hippie commune), not some rich genius. But anyway, none of this is mine and I beg thee not to sue my sorry self.

And The Inevitable Warning: This is not a happy story at all. I doubt there will be more than five or so happy moments; it’s one big angstfest. Also, there will be torture, character deaths, maybe a scene with rape, and, like I said previously, extreme amounts of tears, angst, and depression. That comes later, so the rating will go up after a few chapters. And even worse, this is also AU. Gollum does not try to stop Frodo (he died somehow), everyone dies, and no one lives. You have been warned; don’t complain and whine if you read this and become offended.

Chapter One – Prologue
25 Gwaeron (March) 3019

Samwise Gamgee may not have known much, that was certain, despite the foreboding in his heart. All knowledge of the Elder Days was lost to him, save the well-known tales told to him by his father back in the Shire, but still one acquirement remained: he had to have hope. But now, as Sam and his master, Frodo Baggins, neared the summit of Orodruin and the gates leading to the centre, he knew not to trust to faith and faith alone.

Daring to accompany Frodo on such a quest was quite a leap of faith for Sam, he had to admit. Whatever spurred him to volunteer in the first place seemed like a distant thing of the past, perchance a mistake he should have suspected himself of making. But Sam had agreed to escort his master to the land of Mordor, where they were to destroy the Ring; a prospect too dark and dangerous for the wandering minds of hobbits, he believed.

And it was a dangerous journey; there was no denying that fact. It had had a profound effect on Frodo, who no longer laughed, nor smiled, nor uttered a single word to offer him sanguinity. Frodo sat not far from Sam on a small granite boulder, clutching to it for support while his head spun at the speed of light, his bloodshot eyes resting on the ground in front of him. Sam turned from looking at the bleak sky to sit by Frodo’s side, and it was then that a glimpse of a dull, yellowish-white object caught his eye, and he scurried to pick it up.

“It’s. . . it’s a piece of bone,” Sam muttered in shock as he felt it. He was almost tempted to drop it at his discovery, but he cradled it in his calloused hand, unable to remove his glance from it. Perhaps it was the fact that he suspected death would come to them all quite soon that made Sam cling to the fragment. . . or else he knew not.

Frodo said nothing. Sam would have thought that Frodo would mention the Last Alliance between Elves and Men or utter hopeful words of an army of armoured Elves rushing to their rescue. But both were too far-fetched for comfort, as they both knew. Sam held the bone fragment for a second longer, then promptly tossed it aside, not wishing to meet the fate that unfortunate person did, and rose.

“Come along now, Mister Frodo. It shan’t be much farther, I’d deem, unless you wish to wait and meet the same fate as him,” Frodo, teetering upon the ashy rock on which he sat, shuddered as Sam struggled to lift his weight. “It shan’t be too much longer,” Sam repeated to himself, but somehow he doubted that.

But still Sam pulled Frodo along the steep, rocky path winding up the slope of Mount Doom, his stout will faltering and the quiet dread in his heart nearly bursting like the wakening mountain. Frodo clung to him, panting and gasping for air, as they climbed higher and higher to their impending dooms. The Ringbearer moaned softly, clutching the Ring around his neck, but Sam could do nothing. It was not his burden to bear, nor the burden of anyone else, despite how much he wished to take it himself and be rid of it.

Frodo stopped his slow ascent, gripping Sam’s shoulder with the little strength he had left. “Sam,” he whispered. “Sam, I cannot go on any longer.”

“You must, Mister Frodo,” Sam said plainly. “Though I shouldn’t like to either, it’s our part in this world, just like Gandalf said. And we’ve come so far. . . too far to turn back, I daresay.”

“Then it is a difficult part to have,” Strangely enough, Frodo laughed dryly, then, just as suddenly, he closed his tired eyes and trembled. “Sometimes I wish none of this had ever come to me.”

Sam cocked his head towards his master, taciturn unease in his glance. “Don’t we all wish it? But soon we will see the Shire again, and all the trees and gardens, and all the things we had when we left. I reckon you’ll be able to get Bag End back from the Sackville-Bagginses, and,” he paused, pondering. “And maybe I’ll marry Rosie Cotton, if I can muster the courage to ask her.” Sam hesitated again, aware of the dangerous magnitude of the hope that was beginning to fail within his very heart.

“Perhaps,” Frodo sighed sadly.

Exactly, Sam dreaded to think. They might as well have died in Shelob’s tunnels high in the mountains on the borders, or wait to die here. He knew they would stagger on until the end – whenever that would be, though Sam tried not to think of it – on a hopeless quest with barely any chance of rescue. But Sam held his head high, glancing at the thickening, turbulent sky.

“Well, Mister Frodo,” he began solemnly. “They’re all looking at the same sky we are. . . Merry and Pippin, Faramir and Strider. . .”

“And beneath this sky we shall fall like the empires of the past. . . unless. . . unless we were to change the course of the things that are to come. . .” Frodo said with a sudden fervour.

And it was then that Sam noticed it. It was not so much the fiery doom awaiting him at the summit that frightened him so, but the distant, almost bitter tone of his master’s voice. Never before had Sam heard such a voice from so dear a friend, and he shuddered at the thought. The Ring, drawn to the intense, ceaseless fire blazing past the stone door directly ahead of them, had taken a hold of Frodo so strong that it would take a miracle to break its grip from him. But it would not hurt to trust to hope, lest it destroy them.

“Have hope, Mister Frodo. It will all end soon, I am certain of it,” Sam found himself saying, though he hardly thought he could believe it himself.

“Hope? Nay, we have gone too long without it, and who is to say there is any left for us? Did you not also overhear Gandalf and the Lord Elrond at Rivendell all those months ago? Did you not hear what they said, Sam? ‘There is not much hope, and it is dangerous to trust to such hopes, but in Frodo Baggins I have faith.’ But the Lord Elrond is not wise, as he had appeared to me. Nay, perhaps his wisdom was folly in disguise.”

Frodo continued down the path to the flaming chasm, Sam following several metres behind. Only he recoiled at the foul, scorching air and the bubbling lava below, here at the end of all things. Frodo now stood at the end of the passageway, staring down, and Sam hastened to follow, while half of him wished not to. He had wanted to retaliate to Frodo’s remark, but, then again, half of him did not. It seemed to be the truth, and that Sam could not fight.

“You saw the Lord Elrond, you know he is wise!” Sam called to Frodo, flinching as he looked down at the river of fire below the path. It was a long fall, and soon the Ring would be lost to it… or so he thought. “It is our duty to destroy the Ring and save the world and—”

“I think this world is beyond saving,” Frodo interrupted, a bitter laugh escaping from his throat. “Even if I do destroy the Ring, what good will it do? What good, Sam? There is no good in this world, only suffering, and using the Ring’s power to combat it is wise! Sam, think of the possibilities!”

Sam could not speak, for his heart was pounding so hard that his head throbbed and he could not think clearly. “Get rid of it! Drop it in!”

Frodo, shaking and trembling from the heat and the dark thoughts brooding in his own mind, held the Ring out over the abyss, yet he could not bring himself to move. Transfixed by the fire reflected in the ancient gold, he stood there, his mind blank to all but the Ring, and Sam opened his mouth to protest at Frodo’s uncertainty, but he could find no words. Even Sam felt strangely mesmerised by the tantalising glow of the Ring, but he would never admit it, and now he knew it. Frodo could not break free of its permanent grasp and none could persuade him.

Still, Sam struggled to think, perhaps Frodo was not wholly lost to the Ring. Sam reached out to touch his master, who, as if on an uncontrollable impulse, caught his hand before it could touch him. Frodo turned to Sam, a deadly fire in his blue eyes, and stared at him so intently that Sam quivered and wished to turn and run back. But he could not, and he knew it.

“Frodo, you must. Think of the Shire, and Merry and Pippin! Think of the world you’ll be doing a favour…” he fought to breathe as he finally gasped, “And think of your Sam!”

“I have thought, Sam, and it is for the best. No matter what may happen here, we cannot overcome this darkness. And I have seen the truth. I can use it, and it is mine! Bilbo bequeathed it to me! It is mine, you hear!”

“It was never yours!” Sam shouted, a colour rising in his once pallid face. “Nor was it Bilbo’s, nor was it Gollum’s! It is just a tool of the Dark Lord!”

“A tool that can be manipulated to serve my needs and the needs of all those who need my power.”

“Power!” he cried. “What power do you have? What power do you have if you cannot resist the lure of the Ring? It has manipulated you! It has taken you!”

Frodo let go of Sam’s wrist and turned to him, and it grew to be very silent, save the churning and bubbling of the lava below them. “And the thought of saving me has taken you, and there is naught you can do about that, or can you?”

Sam gulped. “I-I can try, can I not?”

In response, Frodo smirked and laughed, then placed the chain around his neck and the Ring in his pocket. “You see, Sam? Your will is failing, and with it goes your life. You had best succumb to me, or else you shall regret it when I am seated on a throne!”

“Never! Never in this world!”

Frodo smirked again, slowly advancing on Sam, who, in turn, felt himself drawing nearer to the edge, but could not turn away from it. Shaking with fear, Sam looked up at his master, and he choked on a sob. “You cannot, Mister Frodo, you don’t know what you’re doing!”

“I know very well what I do,” Frodo replied. “I am simply ridding myself of something I should have tossed aside months ago!”

“I hope you mean that thing in your pocket!” he tried desperately, stuttering on his words. Frodo said naught and did naught but glare at him as he pressed forward towards him, that cold malevolence in his eyes. And now Sam understood what he was to do, and he was powerless to stop it. His hand flew to his sheath and desperately searched for his dagger, but it truly had fallen on the way up the slopes of Orodruin. He was defenceless, and he could do nothing. “You cannot, Mister Frodo! You will remember our love before the end, you cannot possibly forget. . .”

“Nay, I cannot. But so it must be, Sam; did you not say that all things must pass? And now it is your time.”

“You know not what you say!” Sam shouted in a desperate plea. Frodo still watched him without avail, and yet a vague something in his cold eyes flickered, then died. A river of tears flowed from Sam’s own eyes as then he realised it: the old Frodo would never return, nor would any hope ever again in this world. “You know not what you say,” Sam repeated, with less conviction this time, while Frodo drew a hidden dagger he had kept concealed.

“Fare you well, Master Gamgee,” Frodo snarled, sneering as he pushed his friend closer and closer to the edge. “Now I see the fault in letting you come. Fare you well!”

The rest of the tale cannot possibly be known, it was said. It was said in tales before the fall that they were brought to Barad-dûr, and there they were tortured by Sauron himself until their spirits failed and they could hold on no longer. But it was only a tale, and tales told of that gloomy time aught not to be remembered. . . save one tale that will break your heart at the very hearing, the tale of the dooms of Faramir and the Lady Éowyn…

To be continued (only if you send cake, that is).