There is no place in this scorched and barren land of ash and stone that Sam can bury his master. His own strength is running out, drained by heat and thirst and hunger and the Ring. Gently then he takes up the body, surprised at its near-weightlessness, and remorse stabs him to the heart.
Might Frodo have survived if Sam had given him more food, more water? If he had allowed his master more time for sleeping? If he had carried him for part of each day?
Nearby there is a shallow depression in the land, guarded by a huge boulder. No one will find him here. He lays Frodo down, takes off his own cloak, and arranges it over the body so that it seems only sleep, and not death, has taken him. Frodo's face is thin and drawn, but no pain remains there and Sam is glad at least that the Ring's hold did not continue into the grave.

"Master," he begins, his voice cracked and dry. But his words trail off and in the end he simply takes one last glance and turns away.

Frodo's sword is at his side, the Lady's Light in his pocket, and the Ring around his neck. Mount Doom is still two, perhaps three, days away. Sam sets his teeth; if there were no Ring, he would keep watch over his master until he too had taken his last painful breath. But Mr. Frodo had a job to do, and Sam is the last of the Fellowship; though he had promised not to leave him, the job to be done is even more important. Frodo's long suffering and journey are all for nothing if Sam does not carry it on.
And so he goes, picking his way among the stones, with the Mountain always straight ahead.

Loneliness reaches out and takes him into its grip; though in the last days he and Frodo had hardly spoken a word apiece, the mere company of his master had given Sam comfort. Now, he crawls among the rocks and ash-pits alone, like a tiny insect, and he can hardly bear it. The Ring, too, drags him down hour by hour. Remorse eats at him. How little pity he had felt for Frodo, who had borne the hateful thing so long; he had not understood, had not given the support he should. But he is too dried up for even a tear to fall, and so his sorrow clenches in his chest and almost chokes him. He must make it to the Mountain. He must. He must. The thought of saving the whole world is far from him; even the Shire seems dim and faraway, a dream world that no longer exists save in a tiny corner of his mind. His only thought is to 'do Mr. Frodo's job'. He has no longer any doubt that he will die at the end of it, but he must finish the job first.

As he lies alternately shivering and sweating, trying to rest yet not daring to close his eyes lest they never open again, a vision comes into his mind unbidden. Frodo is alive, brought back by Samwise the Healer using the power of the Ring. Frodo returns to the Shire, healed of all wounds and weariness, while Sam goes throughout the land healing the hurts of Middle Earth. It is so vivid that he stands suddenly and is going back in the direction of his master's body before he has time to think. Then he stumbles and looks around. No, no. It's another of the Ring's tricks. Frodo never let the Ring steer him from his course, and neither will Sam. If It breaks his heart, if It kills him, if It twists him into a Gollum-like creature, the Ring must go into the fire and he will fight until It has conquered him or has been destroyed.

He finally reaches the Mountain. Climbing it on hands and knees, so dry that he feels as if he is a part of the landscape, he makes his way inch by inch, higher and higher. The heat grows more intense; the sullen red glare of fire grows closer. At last, when the concept of time and distance have grown meaningless, he is on level ground and the opening into the Mountain is before him. He may reach it in one step or a thousand, he does not know; he only knows that he must go into the mouth of fire and somehow, with his last ounce of strength, throw in the thing around his neck. Without hesitation he makes his way forward, propelled by hobbit stubbornness and the memory of his master.

It is hot in the cracks of doom, so hot that he finds himself sweating even though he thought all moisture had gone from his body. He can hardly breath. His chest heaves as he gasps in breaths of heated air. Below him and all around him are the roiling insides of the Mountain, fire and steam and molten rock. Each step grows heavier, more reluctant. The Ring drags him almost backwards.

And then a feeling, as of something behind him. He turns and dodges Gollum's spring just in time. The wretched creature goes in for another attack, but Sam holds out the Ring.

"You swore to the Master of the Precious," he says, anger and a wild, heady sense of power warring within him. "I am the Master now. I command by the Precious that you leave me be."

Gollum stares at him, shrinks back, and Sam feels something clench tightly around his heart, first grief and then panic. He has used the Ring. He has used the Ring. The idea of throwing this precious, hideous thing into the fire is repulsive to him, and he knows he will not be able to do so. It is clear before him what he must do. He pulls the Ring off of its chain, holding it tightly in one hand, and in the other hand he takes the Lady's Light. It gives no light here, but it is cold despite the heat, and the only beautiful thing in this place of death and fire. He goes to the edge and looks down, and his heart nearly fails him. But even now the thought of his master strengthens him. Taking a deep breath, he leaps from the precipice. He cannot let go of the Ring, but it doesn't matter any more. He and Mr. Frodo have done the job they were sent to do.

Finis