Writer's Block
Beta: Pipspebble
Disclaimer: The Shire and everything else in Middle Earth belongs to Tolkien. I just get to visit from time to time.

He spent his days in the study, staring at the Book. He was supposed to be writing down a record of the Quest. Mainly what he was doing was staring out the window, pacing idly about the room, doodling in chalk on the small slate he’d used when Bilbo was teaching him Elvish. All of that was so much easier than sitting down and reliving that year of pain, fear, exhaustion, hunger, cold, heat, and misery.

He’d done well, at first. In Minas Tirith, he’d spent hours writing down the stories that Merry and Pippin told him, lest he forget their words. He’d locked himself in conference with Aragorn, Gandalf, Eomer, Eowyn, Faramir, Elrond and others, taking notes, trying to make everyone’s accounts fit together somehow, making sure that he missed no detail of any part of the Quest.

In Rivendell, he had gone over his notes with Bilbo, saddened but not surprised when the old hobbit handed the red-bound journal over, saying he was too tired to finish the thing. He had started working on the first draft of his first chapter, picking up the story where Bilbo had left off, at the Birthday Party so many years ago.

He’d continued to make notes in the long evenings by the campfire all the way back from Rivendell. He’d put the journal away when they returned to the Shire and found so much work awaiting them, but it was only a few months before things had settled enough that he could start working again, in the evenings, by a cozy fire.

Only, by then, he’d found that he didn’t really want to think about the Quest anymore. He wanted, more than anything, to forget. Not to pretend it had never happened, but to let it go and be done with the whole ordeal. Poor, dear Sam was so upset that his Master didn’t get more acclaim from the hobbits of the Shire. What that kind and generous friend could never understand or accept was that Frodo didn’t want the acclaim. He would be perfectly happy to slip back into relative obscurity and spend his days quietly doing the things that mattered most to him.

But it was no good. The tale demanded to be told, and so Frodo spent the days, needing to write his story, but at the same time wanting nothing more than to escape from the it, to find a way out of the turmoil and suffering that lingered in his soul. Migrating from window to desk to fireplace to window, he paced restlessly like a caged beast, unable to leave the cage even though it was open.

Resolutely moving back to the desk, he settled into his chair and once more took up his quill. He would finish this chapter today, he vowed. Then he would go outside with Sam and Rosie in the twilight and enjoy the fresh, evening breeze blowing across the Hill. With this determination, he managed three paragraphs of rough text before he threw the quill down and wandered back to the window, staring out into the garden, wistfully thinking that it would be a lovely day to take a picnic lunch down to the Water. That old stand of beech trees made a perfect spot for sitting and reading a book on a quiet summer afternoon.

But no, he reminded himself, those trees weren’t there anymore, they’d been cut down during the Occupation. Sighing, he turned back to the desk and stared at the words on the page for only a moment before crumpling up the paper and tossing it into the wastebasket, already half full from the day’s efforts. With nothing else to do and no escape at hand, he returned to his task, once again scratching away with quill and ink, trying to make his peace with the events that had so drastically altered his life, fearing there was no peace to be had but knowing he had to make the attempt.