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mount doom 1229
‘I’ll get there, if I leave everything but my bones behind,’
said Sam. ‘And I’ll carry Mr. Frodo up myself, if it breaks
my back and heart. So stop arguing!’
At that moment Sam felt a tremor in the ground beneath
him, and he heard or sensed a deep remote rumble as of
thunder imprisoned under the earth. There was a brief red
flame that flickered under the clouds and died away. The
Mountain too slept uneasily.
The last stage of their journey to Orodruin came, and it
was a torment greater than Sam had ever thought that he
could bear. He was in pain, and so parched that he could no
longer swallow even a mouthful of food. It remained dark, not
only because of the smokes of the Mountain: there seemed
to be a storm coming up, and away to the south-east there
was a shimmer of lightnings under the black skies. Worst of
all, the air was full of fumes; breathing was painful and difficult,
and a dizziness came on them, so that they staggered
and often fell. And yet their wills did not yield, and they
struggled on.
The Mountain crept up ever nearer, until, if they lifted
their heavy heads, it filled all their sight, looming vast before
them: a huge mass of ash and slag and burned stone, out of
which a sheer-sided cone was raised into the clouds. Before
the daylong dusk ended and true night came again they had
crawled and stumbled to its very feet.
With a gasp Frodo cast himself on the ground. Sam sat by
him. To his surprise he felt tired but lighter, and his head
seemed clear again. No more debates disturbed his mind. He
knew all the arguments of despair and would not listen to
them. His will was set, and only death would break it. He
felt no longer either desire or need of sleep, but rather of
watchfulness. He knew that all the hazards and perils were
now drawing together to a point: the next day would be a
day of doom, the day of final effort or disaster, the last gasp.
But when would it come? The night seemed endless and
timeless, minute after minute falling dead and adding up to