As Frodo and Sam ran, their feet pounding against the jagged pathway, the mountain erupted around them, the ground shaking violently beneath their feet. Ash and smoke billowed up into the sky, a chaotic symphony of fire and destruction. They leapt over a crack in the earth, the sound of the chasm opening behind them like a scream of fury. Lava poured down the mountainside, its orange glow chasing them, but they barely managed to make it onto a high rock, their hearts pounding.

Frodo stopped, his breath ragged. His face, covered in ash and sweat, now seemed oddly still, a calmness settling over his features. He looked out over the fiery landscape, his eyes distant. "It's gone. It's done," Frodo said, his voice almost a whisper, but there was a clarity in it that hadn't been there before. The weight he had carried for so long seemed to lift, like a shadow melting in the light.

Sam stood beside him, his eyes wide, staring at the swirling inferno. A sense of peace was settling over him too, but it was accompanied by a deep, weary sadness. "Yes, Mr. Frodo," Sam answered softly, his voice breaking. "It's over now." He swallowed hard, looking out at the destruction around them, but his gaze always returned to Frodo, that steady figure, standing tall even amidst the end of all things.

Suddenly, there was a crash, the ground trembled violently, and the rock beneath their feet lurched. Sam staggered, and Frodo barely managed to keep his balance. The lava was closing in, its waves of molten heat licking at the edges of their perch. Sam struggled up, grabbing Frodo's hand to help him rise. But it was clear that the mountain was giving way, and they were trapped.

With a final effort, Frodo managed to crawl up to a higher ledge, where he collapsed onto his back, his breath ragged but steady. The lava flowed around them, the roar of the mountain like a beast in its death throes. Frodo lay there, staring at the sky. For a moment, he was silent, eyes closed, as if he had retreated into a world of his own.

"I can see the Shire," Frodo said quietly, his voice distant. "The Brandywine River. Bag End. Gandalf's fireworks. The lights on the party tree."

Sam's chest tightened at the mention of their home. He could almost hear the music, smell the sweet air of the Shire, see the warm glow of his mother's hearth. The memory was bittersweet, a reminder of the simple life they had once known.

"Rosie Cotton dancing," Sam murmured, his voice faltering. "She has ribbons in her hair... If ever I was to marry someone, it would have been her." His voice cracked, and he looked down, wiping his tears with his sleeve.

Frodo, despite his exhaustion and the weight of the world that still hung upon him, sat up with a quiet strength. He moved towards Sam and placed a comforting arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. Sam, overcome with emotion, rested his head against Frodo's, his tears falling freely now, his sobs quiet but painful.

"I'm glad to be with you, Samwise Gamgee," Frodo said, his voice soft, yet steady. "Here, at the end of all things."

For a moment, there was only silence between them, the sound of the dying mountain and the distant rumble of the earth beneath them filling the air. They held onto each other, two souls bound together by a journey neither of them had ever expected, but one that had shaped them in ways neither of them could ever explain.

Some time passed, though how much, they could not tell. The world seemed to slow around them, and their bodies, though spent and battered, were still. Sam was the first to stir, blinking through his tears. Frodo remained still, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling gently, as if the weight of the world had finally been lifted from him. His mind was at peace, and for a brief moment, it felt as though everything had come full circle.

Then, in the distance, there was a sound—a sound like the beating of wings. Sam looked up, his heart leaping in his chest. A shadow loomed over them, and soon, the silhouette of great wings spread across the sky. Eagles. Majestic and fierce, they swooped down from the sky, their wings beating the air with a grace and power that only they possessed.

One of the eagles flew closer, and Sam could make out the figure upon its back—Gandalf, his white robes billowing in the wind. The eagle descended carefully, its great claws extending toward them. Sam reached out, his hand trembling, as the eagle landed softly on the rock, its massive wings folding back.

Gandalf dismounted and looked at the two hobbits, his expression filled with a quiet understanding. He knelt beside Frodo, gently touching his shoulder. "It is done, my friends," he said, his voice heavy with meaning.

The eagle extended its claws toward Frodo and Sam, lifting them gently, carefully, from the crumbling rock. Frodo's eyes were closed as they soared into the sky, but Sam looked back one last time, his heart aching for the land they had saved. It was gone, but in a way, it was still there—alive in their hearts.

The great eagles carried them higher, toward the light. And in that moment, Sam knew that no matter what came next, they had done what they had set out to do. And for the first time in a long while, the world felt right.