willpower5.txt

"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."

...

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.

...

The wind had fallen the day before as it shifted from the West, and now it came from the North and began to rise; 
and slowly the light of the unseen Sun filtered down into the shadows where the hobbits lay.

"Now for it! Now for the last gasp!" said Sam as he struggled to his feet. He bent over Frodo, rousing him gently. 
Frodo groaned; but with a great effort of will he staggered up; and then he fell upon his knees again. He raised his eyes with 
difficulty to the dark slopes of Mount Doom towering above him, and then pitifully he began to crawl forward on his hands.

Sam looked at him and wept in his heart, but no tears came to his dry and stinging eyes. "I said I’d carry him, if it broke my back," 
he muttered, "and I will!"

"Come, Mr. Frodo!" he cried. "I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you and it as well. So up you get! 
Come on, Mr. Frodo dear! Sam will give you a ride. Just tell him where to go, and he’ll go."

As Frodo clung upon his back, arms loosely about his neck, legs clasped firmly under his arms, Sam staggered to his feet; 
and then to his amazement he felt the burden light. He had feared that he would have barely strength to lift his master alone, 
and beyond that he had expected to share in the dreadful dragging weight of the accursed Ring. But it was not so. 
Whether because Frodo was so worn by his long pains, wound of knife, and venomous sting, and sorrow, fear, and homeless wandering, 
or because some gift of final strength was given to him, Sam lifted Frodo with no more difficulty than if he were carrying a
hobbit-child pig-a-back in some romp on the lawns or hayfields of the Shire. He took a deep breath and started off.

They had reached the Mountain’s foot on its northern side, and a little to the westward; there its long grey slopes, 
though broken, were not sheer. Frodo did not speak, and so Sam struggled on as best he could, having no guidance but the will to 
climb as high as might be before his strength gave out and his will broke. On he toiled, up and up, turning this way and that to 
lessen the slope, often stumbling forward, and at the last crawling like a snail with a heavy burden on its back. When his will 
could drive him no further, and his limbs gave way, he stopped and laid his master gently down.