The Mage of Middle-Earth - CH - 83

The wind howled across the barren ridges of the Emyn Muil, biting through their cloaks and chilling their bones. The skies above remained gray and brooding—thick with clouds that never seemed to lift. Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins, cloaked in mud and weariness, pressed on through the jagged terrain, each step heavier than the last.

It had been days—weeks, perhaps. Time had lost its meaning. The road to Mordor was no clear path at all.

Frodo sat on a stone outcropping, rubbing his feet with aching hands. His skin was chapped, his eyes dull with exhaustion. Sam crouched nearby, trying to light a small fire with a flint and a few damp twigs.

After a few failed strikes, he gave up with a groan. “Blast this weather. This flint’s been no better than a pebble since we came out of that last ravine.”

Frodo looked over at him, then out at the endless, winding valleys and jagged slopes ahead. “Do you think we’re getting closer?”

Sam paused. “Closer to what, Frodo? We haven’t seen a single sign of a trail. We’ve been going in circles. I’d swear we passed that split rock twice already.”

Frodo sighed and nodded. “I know. I thought I had a bearing on the mountains to the east, but they seem to shift in this land. Even the sky doesn’t look the same each morning.”

They had no map. No guide. Only a direction: Mordor lies east. But east, in these lands, was a winding puzzle of stone, chasms, and cliffs.

At one point, the pair stood before a steep rock face—a sheer slope that rose higher than the trees. There was no going around. They had already backtracked too far.

“We’ll have to climb it,” Sam said softly.

Frodo’s face went pale. “Climb that?”

Sam unhooked the elvish rope from his pack, the one given by Lady Galadriel. He ran his fingers over it with gratitude.

“If we anchor it properly, we can make it.”

They tied it to a jutting stone, checked the knot twice, and began the ascent—inch by inch, hand over hand. Rain began to fall halfway up, making the rocks slick and treacherous.

They reached the top soaked and shaking, but alive.

Another day, they had to descend a steep fall, this time into a dark, misty valley. Frodo slipped halfway down, and Sam had to anchor him with the rope, holding on with all his strength until Frodo regained footing.

As Frodo collapsed beside him at the bottom, he said with a weak laugh, “I’m beginning to think we’re not meant for this kind of adventure.”

Sam smiled, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “Hobbits weren’t meant for cliffs and shadow, Frodo. We were meant for gardens and good bread.”

Sleep came rarely, and never comfortably. They huddled together in caves, under overhanging roots, or behind moss-covered stones.

Sometimes they heard distant cries, or worse, footsteps echoing behind them when there should have been silence.

Every few hours, Frodo would stop and listen, eyes scanning the horizon. “I swear something’s followin’ us,” he muttered more than once.

Sam tightened his cloak, feeling the weight of the Ring grow heavier with every mile. The silver box remained tucked beneath his tunic, but it felt like it pulsed with an inner fire that only he could feel.

One night, they sat near a dying fire under the lee of a boulder. Frodo had barely eaten, and Sam was gently toasting a few remaining bits of lembas bread.

The silence between them stretched.

“Do you remember the Green Dragon Inn?” Frodo said suddenly, his voice soft.

Sam smiled despite himself. “Aye. Friday nights. Music, laughter… and old Gaffer’s pipe filling the air so thick you could hardly see the ceiling.”

Frodo chuckled. “Pippin always spilled his second mug. He said it wasn’t a proper night until the floor got its share.”

Sam nodded. “And your uncle Bilbo telling the same stories, but each time with something new.”

Frodo looked away, blinking quickly. “Seems like a lifetime ago.”

Sam leaned forward, poking at the fire. “Maybe we’ll see it again. When this is all done.”

When the fire died out and the stars were hidden behind thick clouds, they lay in silence. Frodo kept his hand on the hilt of his knife. Sam clutched the silver box. Sleep was shallow.

The journey ahead was unknown, the path unclear. But still, in the morning, they rose.

They tightened their belts. Packed their meager supplies. And began to walk again.

One step at a time.

Toward Mordor.

Toward the darkness.

But never alone.


Sam crouched low behind a slab of rock, eyes narrowing at the slope behind them. Frodo was nearby, sitting with his cloak wrapped tight, cradling the silver box close to his chest.

Sam whispered, “He’s there again. I know it.”

Frodo looked up slowly. “I feel it too. The hair on my neck won’t stay down.”

They had felt it for days now—a presence that never came too close, never attacked, never even spoke to them directly. But always... watching.

Sometimes, in the night, they heard hissing, or soft snarling, as though two small creatures were bickering.

One voice would growl, scratchy and guttural:

“We needs it, precious. We must takes it back...”


The other would whimper and mutter:

“No, no... we follows. We watches. Good Smeagol... yess... good.”


At first, they had believed two spies were trailing them—perhaps some wandering goblins or bandits. But over time, they began to suspect the truth.

It was one creature. two voice. One twisted soul.

One night, after a particularly grueling climb through a narrow mountain path, they made camp under a crooked ledge. Sam had had enough.

He waited until Frodo was sitting quietly, sipping cold water from a flask.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” Sam said. “This thing—whatever it is—it’s not gonna leave us alone. It’s been followin’ us for days, takin’ the same turns, even the same wrong paths we took.”

Frodo nodded, tired. “It wants the Ring.”

“Aye. That’s clear. But it’s not attacking us. So I say... we make it come to us.”

Frodo looked up. “What are you thinking?”

“We make camp. We pretend we’re asleep. Let it think we’re vulnerable. And when it comes close... we catch it. I’ll do the grabbing if you watch the rope.”

Frodo hesitated. “It’s dangerous.”

“I know,” Sam said. “But we can’t keep walking with that thing breathing on our backs. The Ring’s already heavy enough.”

Frodo nodded slowly. “All right. Tonight, then.”

They lay out their blankets like usual and dimmed their small fire. Frodo lay close to the silver box. Sam lay with one eye cracked open and his hand curled loosely around the elvish rope.

The moon was barely visible, a sliver behind the clouds. The wind had died. Silence fell.

Then—a soft shuffling.

A scratch of claws on stone.

A whisper:

“Yess... there they sleeps, precious... quiet now... so close... so close...”

Sam tensed.

The creature crept near on all fours, thin as a skeleton and wrapped in rags. Its limbs were too long for its body, its skin sickly pale. Its head was bald, its eyes huge and pale, glinting in the dark like twin lanterns.

It reached a bony hand toward Sam, toward the silver box—

“NOW!” Frodo roared, leaping from his blanket and throwing the rope.

“NOOO!” the creature shrieked, trying to twist away.

But it was too late. Frodo's rope wrapped around its arms and legs, and he yanked it hard to the ground.

“Got you, you sneaking worm!” Frodo snarled, wrestling the creature down.

It hissed, twisting violently, but as the elvish rope touched its skin, it screamed in pure agony.

“Let us go! It burns! It freezes usss!” it wailed.

Sam was on his feet now, watching, panting, the box held tightly in his hands.

The creature flailed, snarled, and then suddenly collapsed into a pitiful heap, trembling and sobbing.

Sam glared. “So it’s true. You’ve been following us. What do you want? Speak!”

It whimpered, rocking itself back and forth.

“Only to help, yes... help the hobbitses, yes precious! Smeagol means no harm!”

“Smeagol?” Frodo stepped forward. “That’s your name?”

The creature nodded furiously. “Yes! Smeagol is good! Smeagol helps! Not Gollum, no no. Gollum is bad! But we’re good! We swear!”

Sam growled, “What about that hissing voice, then? Sounds like two devils arguing over a bone.”

Smeagol cowered, covering his ears. “We doesn’t want to listen to Gollum! He says bad things. He wants the precious. But not Smeagol! Smeagol is loyal!”

Frodo’s voice was quiet. “The Ring. You had it once, didn’t you?”

Smeagol froze. His eyes locked on Frodo’s hand. “Yesss...” he whispered. “We had it... it was ours... we loved it. It was stolen. Stolen from us!”

Frodo’s eyes hardened. “It didn’t belong to anyone. Not truly. And it’s not yours now.”

Smeagol hissed and tried to lunge forward—but the rope held him fast, and he howled in pain again.

Frodo turned to Sam. “He knows the way. To Mordor. He’s followed us long enough.”

Sam blinked. “You can’t be serious. He’s mad! And dangerous!”

Frodo looked at Smeagol, who now lay sobbing and whimpering in the dust.

“I’m not saying we trust him,” Frodo said. “But he might be useful.”

Sam scowled. “We should just tie him to a rock and leave him.”

“We need him. For now.”

Smeagol lifted his head, lips trembling. “Yesss... we help the master. We help the clever hobbitses. Take you to the Black Gate, we does.”

They kept the rope around Smeagol’s neck like a leash, and Sam didn’t let go of it for a second. Frodo gave him water and spoke gently to him, though he never let the creature come close to the Ring.

As they resumed their journey, climbing down into another dark ravine, Smeagol led the way, twitching and muttering, occasionally praising Sam... and occasionally cursing him.

Sam whispered to Frodo, “I still don’t like him. One moment he’s pitiful, the next he’s ready to bite your hand off.”

Frodo nodded. “I know. But sometimes, to reach the end... we must walk with shadows.”


The world was a blur of jagged hills, crooked trees, and endless, pounding footsteps. Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took were not walking—they were being carried like sacks, each lashed tightly to the back of a goblin. Their arms were bound around the creature’s greasy necks, legs tied beneath them. Their captors ran without rest, through night and day, foul breath puffing from cracked lips, reeking of sweat, blood, and rotted meat.

It had been three days and three nights.

Three days of being jostled and bruised. Three nights of fear and whispered hope.

“Where are they taking us?” Pippin murmured, his voice hoarse from thirst. His head bounced against the goblin’s shoulder with every step.

Merry shook his head from his own goblin ride, just a few paces ahead. “Somewhere bad. That’s for sure. But I’ve been dropping things.”

“Dropping things?” Pippin asked weakly.

“A pin from my cloak. A button. Bits of the Lorien rope, whenever I could tug a piece off. Small things. Signs.”

Pippin gave a tired smile. “You clever Brandybuck. I hope they’re seeing them.”

They both knew in their hearts that Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were following. The orcs had noticed it too—every time they paused, sniffing the wind, they growled and barked in their twisted tongue.

“Man-flesh is near. They follows usss!”
“Smells like fire and steel… we keep running!”
“Kill the halflings now!”

“Not yet,” a larger goblin, wearing jagged iron armor, growled in the Common Tongue. “Orders is to bring 'em alive. They're wanted.”

Merry glanced back at Pippin with wide eyes. “Did you hear that? Wanted? What for?”

Pippin grimaced. “Nothing good.”

The goblins barely spoke Common, but their tone was clear when they did. Most of the time, they barked and hissed in the Black Speech, snarling at each other as they raced on. The pace was brutal. They stopped only long enough to grab filthy handfuls of dried meat and swamp water.

The orcs kicked each other, fought constantly, and stank worse than a troll’s armpit. Merry and Pippin had no comfort, no privacy, and no choice.

Whenever they tried to ask questions, the goblins smacked them with the hilts of their blades or hissed threats through yellow teeth.

But still—Pippin clung to hope. “The orcs are restless. They know someone’s behind them. Our friends… they’re close.”

Merry nodded. “When they get here, we just need to stay alive. Cooperate enough to keep breathing. Until then, we wait.”

That night, the goblins made camp under a low cliff. A small fire was lit, barely more than a few glowing coals. The goblins didn’t like the light, and they took turns sleeping and watching the trail.

Merry and Pippin were thrown roughly to the ground, still tied. A guard sat a few feet away, sharpening a curved blade.

Pippin whispered, “Think we can run for it?”

Merry shook his head. “Not yet. Too many, and we’re still tied.”

“Right,” Pippin muttered. “Just thinking aloud. That’s all.”

They lay back against the dirt and stared at the stars. It was the first time in days they could see them.

“Remember the night before the fireworks festival?” Merry said suddenly. “We snuck into Gandalf’s cart. Got chased out by that snarling squirrel of his.”

Pippin chuckled. “We were covered in soot for a week.”

Merry’s smile faded. “I wish we were back there. Just for an hour.”

Pippin looked at him and nodded. “We’ll get back. I know it. I feel it.”