He's drowning in him. Solid hands on his face, sturdy legs tangled in his, the lines between them bend and then blur.

He kisses the side of Sam's hands and the hair on his fingers is rough against his lips. Sam fingers the white jewel around his neck, seems to consider it for a second as he raises the chain up, tugging it over Frodo's head, but after looking at his expression, Sam drops it to the side.

"Let me take the burden, Mr. Frodo," Sam said once, years and years ago. Back when his face was still untouched by time and his pants were dotted with fraying holes instead of neat, hand stitched patches. Before a ring disappeared into flame and ash and a hobbit saved an entire world, and discovered that saving the world meant carrying the weight of it on his back for eternity. He supposed that was better than around his neck.

"How will this end?" Sam asks now, looking up from Frodo to examine the woods, as if he expects an answer from the aging pine tree.

"It never does, Sam. The story never ends, "he says, thinking of Bilbo, who had said that at the beginning, although neither of them had really believed it at the time.

Sam's fingers move slowly, tenderly along his thigh. Good, strong, reliable Sam, who remembers the weight of the Ring, even if it isn't burned into his skin.

"Does this help?" he'd asked, stroking Frodo's face. In Mordor it had always been cold, a brutal, raw wind that he could lose himself in. And when they reached the top of the mountain, his fingers remained brittle and he could feel tiny splinters of ice behind his eyes. Sam's hands were covered in ash and earth and blood, both black and red, but at least there was life pulsing through his veins.

"Sometimes," he'd admitted, continued to say that after it stopped helping because after the cold comes the numbness.

He brushes his lips against Sam's neck and lays his ear against Sam's chest, listening for the throb of a heartbeat. He can't imagine saying goodbye to Sam, even if Sam's happily married, even though in the end the Ring was too much for him too. Frodo can't imagine it, so he doesn't, and instead he thinks about sunlight and high, chattering Elvish voices and Sam trotting through his new field of mushrooms.

You can't wash away darkness. He knows that, has known that for longer than he remembers. But he tries anyway.

Sam sits up, his familiar, brown eyes meeting Frodo's. "I was hoping for a happy ending," he says.

Frodo shrugs, lays a hand on Sam's shoulder, pushing himself up. "Then write one, Sam. The world will never know the difference."