Having climbed the stairs of Cirith Ungol, Frodo and Sam
rest while Gollum scouts ahead in the caverns. They are exhausted from
the climb. Sam tells Frodo to sleep while he keeps watch.
And so Gollum found them hours later, when he returned,
crawling and creeping down the path out of the gloom ahead. Sam sat
propped against the stone, his head dropping sideways and his breathing
heavy. In his lap lay Frodo's head, drowned deep in sleep; upon his
white forehead lay one of Sam's brown hands, and the other lay softly
upon his master's breast. Peace was in both their faces.
Gollum looked at them. A strange expression passed over
his lean hungry face. The gleam faded from his eyes, and they went dim
and grey, old and tired. A spasm of pain seemed to twist him, and he
turned away, peering back up towards the pass, shaking his head, as
if engaged in some interior debate. Then he came back, and slowly putting
out a trembling hand, very cautiously he touched Frodo's knee —
but almost the touch was a caress. For a fleeting moment, could one
of the sleepers have seen him, they would have thought that they beheld
an old weary hobbit, shrunken by the years that had carried him far
beyond his time, beyond friends and kin, and the fields and streams
of youth, an old starved pitiable thing.
But at that touch Frodo stirred and cried out softly in
his sleep, and immediately Sam was wide awake. The first thing he saw
was Gollum — "pawing at master," as he thought.
"Hey, you!" he said roughly. "What are
you up to?"
"Nothing, nothing," said Gollum softly. "Nice
Master!"
"I daresay," said Sam. "But where have
you been to — sneaking off and sneaking back, you old villain?"
Gollum withdrew himself, and a green glint flickered under
his heavy lids. Almost spider-like he looked now, crouched back on his
bent limbs, with his protruding eyes. The fleeting moment had passed,
beyond recall.