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– A Francis Ford Coppola adaptation of Lord of Darkness, by Joseph Conrad
Frodo stood before the stinking, cavernous entry to Mount Doom's heart, fingering the ring on its chain. They all want me to do it, he thought to himself, Sauron most of all. He just wanted to go down fighting, like a soldier of doom, a walking talking embodiment of evil, not some ragtag renegade ghost of a Maiar bound to his black tower. Frodo remembered the words he'd heard from afar when he'd donned the ring at the Falls of Rauros.
"Who are you?" came a cold voice, thick with malice. "Are you a Ring Bearer? Are you an assassin?"
"Certainly not, sir! I'm a hobbit!" squeaked Frodo.
"No... you are an errand boy... sent by grocery clerks... to collect a bill."
"I think it's Sam you want there, Mister Sauron, sir! I'll go get him!"
"No! Wait... I am afraid, that if I am... defeated - Frodo - my Ring destroyed... that they may not understand what I was doing here... that they may make up lies, Frodo, to protect themselves from the truth. Will you see to it, Frodo, that they learn the truth about me?"
Frodo sighed. Sauron had broken from the Valar. He'd broken with them, then he'd broken with himself. Frodo had never seen anyone so broken up and smashed apart. They're going to make me a hero for this, he thought bitterly, and I'm not even in their fucking Fellowship anymore.