Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings since Tolkien wrote the book, and I am not him; and PJ did the movies, and I'm not him either.

What is life when so much has been taken from me? My happiness, joy, friends, contentment? I am no longer the "innocent," happy Frodo who left Bag End a year ago. Something's missing inside that was there before. Something I need to go on. What is it? I wonder. I feel drained of it, whatever "it" is. Peace. That is what it is. There is no peace within.

I can hardly rest, though I try my best to hide it from Samwise whenever he is around. He's too busy seeing how his gift from Galadriel is working to notice me, to sit me down and have a nice chat like we used to. Nightmares, horrible, wicked nightmares keep me from sleeping peacefully – from feeling peaceful even when I'm awake. I have no one to tell them to as I did on the Quest, no one to reassure me. No one cares what happens to me now. I am like a garment that has been worn and worn then tossed aside, or a child's toy that has become boring and set aside. Even my own kin and country don't respect or care for me.

What does living mean when you are neglected and unwanted? When you are unable to love or to be loved? Care or be cared for? No joy is found in such living. It's just simply existing. Death seems to me like a comfort now. It is my desire to die. No one would care or notice. Maybe I should end it now. End this miserable existence I have. F.B.

Frodo set his journal under a few other books and wiped away a tear. He rose slowly and walked to the bed, lying down with his face buried in the clean pillow. Where was Sam now when he needed him the most? Did he not care anymore? Did anyone not care about him? Mesmerized, Frodo rolled over, unbuttoned his shirt a bit, pulled out a white gem, and clutched it tightly as though his life depended on it. He began to speak to himself,

Little did he know that Farmer Cotton was watching him quietly from the open doorway, feeling sorry for the ill hobbit.

"I can't go on without It. My precious." Frodo unchained his necklace and began to stroke the gem as he used to stroke the Ring. "I need It. Everything is empty. I cannot feel anything anymore but pain and grief." He began to drift off into a restless sleep.

Frodo was wandering through a dark maze. There was an eerie presence nearby, and he was feeling scared.

"Sam!" he called out. "Sam!?" He took a few steps further and whimpered, "Sam!?" Before him stood Sam and Saruman with an army of orcs. "Sam, help me! Why are you looking at me like that?"

"That's him, the Ring-bearer, sir," Sam told Saruman who handed over a bag. Sam greedily poured the chunks of solid gold into his hands, not caring about his friend.

"Frodo backed up in fear. "Sam!? Why are you doing this?" he asked, bright blue eyes wide with fear and shock. Sam just looked on with an evil smirk. Frodo backed into a corner, covering his head protectively. "Sam!" he tried again. "Please, help me!" But he was alone, without a soul in the world that cared for him.

Frodo sat up drenched in sweat. Tears were flowing freely, and he was gasping for breath. He wiped the sweat from his brow and stood, supporting himself for a long time on a bedpost. After five minutes, he walked to the mirror and peered in. He looked horrible. Oily hair, sweat- and tear-drenched face, a sweat-soaked shirt and pants. He doused a washcloth into cold water in a basin and wrung it out. He put the cool rag against his hot face. The water was refreshing. After washing the sweat off his face, Frodo removed his garments and put on his nightclothes as it was evening. He dampened the cloth again after closing the door and returned to his bed. He laid on his back and placed the cloth over his face, moaning as he did.

The hobbit welcomed the cool feeling created by the evening breeze blowing against the smooth cloth. It was the most relaxed feeling he had had since returning to the Shire. He was afraid to sleep again, afraid that another nightmare of his friends betraying him might happen. He had already dreamed of Merry, Pippin, and Sam – Sam three times.

Frodo lay still, trying to think of nothing. Even when relaxing, his soul was tormented, his mind, his body. He had no true rest, only shadows of what they once were. Reading his old journals from before the Quest made him feel more miserable than anything else, so he had resorted to locking them in a chest and throwing away the key.

Frodo took a deep breath, his face still covered. It was going to be a long night. He began to toss and turn as memories of the Quest flooded into his mind against his will. "No!" he yelled on the top of his lungs. "No, no, no!" He clutched his head, crying out. "Leave me alone! Go away!"

Farmer Cotton ran to the door. " Mr. Frodo!" The hobbit did not respond, only continued yelling, fighting the air. "Frodo Baggins, sir! Is everything all right?" he asked in alarm. When the hobbit still did not respond, he opened the door and rushed in. What he saw amazed him in a horrific way.

Frodo was screaming at an invisible Sam, punching the air wildly as if in a trance. "Sam! How could you!? You left me when I needed you most! You no longer care for me, you stupid, fat hobbit! Leave me! We are no longer friends! Ah!" Frodo backed up into a corner screaming in fear, protecting his head. "Orcs! Sam! SAMWISE! Help me! Help me…"

Frodo fainted, and Farmer Cotton ran to his side, placing his candlestick on the nightstand. He gently tapped Frodo's face, "Mr. Frodo, wake up!" The younger hobbit did not wake. Desperately, the farmer grabbed a rag lying about on the side of the bed and wet it, placing it on Frodo's face. Frodo stirred, reaching for the farmer's neck, toppling him onto his back.

Frodo's eyes widened in horror as he realized what he was doing. He slowly moved away, panting heavily. "Wha-what happened?" he asked, stuttering, yet not sure he wanted to know the answer.

"You-you were screaming, Frodo, sir, screaming. I came here to see if you needed help. You were yelling at Sam and punching, and then suddenly you were yelling for Sam to help you – something about orcs. Next thing I knew, you were lyin' on the ground, fainted. So, I did what I thought best. I revived you. Then, you attacked me."

"You should have left me," he replied louder. At the Farmer's confused look, he added, "Left me to die. I –" Frodo stopped suddenly, trembling fiercely.

"You know I couldn't do that, Frodo." Farmer Cotton was shocked. He had always thought Frodo to be a quiet lad, but the farmer had never thought he concealed such desires as ending his life. "But, i-if you think you'll be alright alone, I'd best get back to bed." He stood and picked up his candlestick.

"I'll be fine," Frodo answered, forcing a smile. As the farmer reached the door, he added, "Farmer Cotton?" The farmer looked at him. "I would appreciate it if you don't say anything of this to anyone – especially Sam."

Frodo returned to his bed, sitting down once the door closed. "How can all this be happening?" he asked himself quietly. He lay down, once more drifting into sleep, absolute misery filling his entire being.

A/N: If there is any rule that this may offend, please notify me, as I was not entirely sure. I shall remove it, if anyone says anything. Please, review. Thank you for reading.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings since Tolkien wrote the book, and I am not him; and PJ did the movies, and I'm not him either.

I nearly killed Farmer Cotton last night! Now, I can't live with myself knowing I am a danger to everyone. There goes another friend. What's worse? He was trying to help me! I had fainted. I was punching and yelling at an invisible Sam and then begging for help from orcs, according to Farmer Cotton. To think the Quest affected me to the point that I've become a lunatic in the sight of others! Cotton promised he would not tell anyone, so hopefully it will not be all over the Shire. The S.B.'s would be all over it, trying to make me seem worse – if it's even possible to make me feel worse about myself than I already do.

I hate myself. No, loathe myself. I am a worthless, maimed hobbit without any use to anyone. I am uncaring, unloving, mean. I am worthy of no respect or love of another – even friendship is too good for me. I am stained, my innocence lost on the Quest as the evil of the Ring of Power slowly seized me. Look at how weak I was at Mount Doom! The Ring was almost not destroyed because of Its hold on me! Because of me. Sam would have been stronger than me. He would not have been prone to becoming prey to the Ring. No wonder he does not like me. Perhaps he told Merry and Pippin what happened, and that is why they do not either. Even when they come over, I sense hostility in them. F.B.

Frodo set his journal down, once more falling into the depths of despair. He looked into the mirror. Bags were under his eyes, which looked dull, even though the darkness would have made them brighter had he been his old self. His smile lacked warmth. Frodo shook his head in sorrow. He was himself a shadow of what he once was, not just his senses of joy, relaxation, and peace. He was beginning to look more and more like the unfortunate Sméagol.

Even after the destruction of the Ring, he was still a victim of and a slave to Its power. When It had been destroyed, so had a part of himself.

Forcing on a smile and correcting his slumped posture, he walked briskly out of the room. Upon reaching the kitchen, he greeted, "Good morning, Mrs. Cotton! Rosie!" in an overly cheerful voice.

"Oh," Frodo replied, falling into silence. So he was for the rest of the morning.

Afternoon came, and with it came work. Frodo noted miserably that Farmer Cotton did not trust him with a rake, shovel, or hoe anymore, not allowing him to use them at times, and even when he did, he kept a watchful eye – two when he could spare them. Out of anger, hurt, and a strong desire of acceptance, Frodo worked all the harder, taking out all his fears and frustrations on the hard, tough soil until he could work no more.

He sat down onto a bench, and, wiping sweat off with the back of his hand, he took his water cup and drank. Rose Cotton came by with a pitcher of water. "Rose?" Frodo called. The young maiden stopped and turned back. "May I have some water?"

"Why, of course, Mr. Frodo." She poured some water into his cup and sat at the end of the bench, waiting for him to finish drinking. When he did, she offered, "Would you like some more?" She smiled cheerfully. She could tell something was seriously wrong with the older hobbit, but she dared not ask.

Frodo wiped the water off his mouth with the back of his hand before answering. "If you don't mind pouring some. I'm going to go back to working." Rosie nodded. Frodo smiled gratefully and stood. "Thank you, Rosie."

"You're welcome, sir." She curtsied slightly and walked off to the other workers.

Frodo walked to the patch of the garden that he was preparing for planting crops in. He picked up the hoe and began to till the ground. It was hard work, but he did not feel comfortable with a pony and plow. He swung the hoe at the ground with great force. Long ago Sam would have been there helping him – possibly not even letting him do anything – but he would have had a cheerful companion, talking with him. Now, without a soul in the world that seemed to care for him, he felt alone.

Farmer Cotton walked up cautiously. "How's it coming along, Mr. Frodo?" Rosie eyed her father's nervous movements, and watched him from the barn doorway, worriedly.

Frodo looked up from the ground and wiped the sweat and his clinging curly bangs away from his face. "Good afternoon!" he replied, cheerful smile on his face. "It's coming along pretty well, though it's pretty hard work when one is not used to it."

"That it is," Farmer Cotton agreed. "Why don't you take a plow and pony? It would be a great deal easier," he offered, waving toward the wooden contraption with the pony attached to its front.

"Believe me, Frodo, if there was another way, some hobbit would have thought of it already," the farmer replied, patting the other on the back, forgetting the happenings of the previous night.

Frodo gave in with a loud sigh. "I will do so, if you think I will be able to do it."

"Believe me, Frodo. You can do it." Farmer Cotton walked off with a reassuring smile, leaving a nervous Frodo to deal with the pony. He had ridden one before, but the idea of walking behind one, grabbing onto the plow, submitting his will – or so he thought – to the animals, was quite overwhelming to Frodo.

So much overwhelmed his tortured mind. He was incoherent much of the time. He overlooked all signs of friendship or care, mistaking normally meaningless talk or actions for hints of lack of desire to be with him. Why, just the other day, he had taken Merry yawning while speaking with him as a manifestation of being bored and not simply a sign of being tired! He read too much into these things. He was very cynical. This was one of his better days.

Frodo nervously took hold of the plow's handles and told the pony to go. They slowly worked their way up and down in straight lines. Frodo grew more confident as he started down his fifth row. This isn't so bad, he decided.

The blazing sun was high in the sky, and the hobbit became more and more worn with dehydration. "Whoa," he said softly, and the pony halted. He walked limping to the bench and picked up his water cup. He drank longingly, his need being fulfilled with each swallow. How clean the water tasted and felt as it bathed his chapped lips, streamed down his parched throat. He sat, taking weight off his aching knee, and rubbing it tenderly. How good it felt to sit. He leaned against the barn close behind him. Noticing Rose Cotton in the corner of his eye, he spoke, "Have you and Sam spoken since we returned?"

Rose looked down at him, interrupted from her daydream. "Yes, Mr. Frodo, but I don't see –"

"Feels?" the lass asked with a confused tone and expression, taking a seat with a reserved, cautious air.

"Then, he has not," Frodo said quietly. Quickly, he changed the subject. "It's a nice day, is it not?"

"That it is indeed – even for mid-day," Frodo agreed with a nod. "Why don't you go inside the cool house, my lady?"

"You're welcome. Tell me, what was Sam – I mean, Mr. Gamgee – like on your journey?"

Frodo took that as a blow to the face. Inwardly, he cringed. "He-he was brave, strong, loyal…valiant, kind…" he paused, as if in thought. No longer is he that friend, he thought sadly.

Frodo did not like talking of his "friend," who had betrayed him. To stop it, he insisted, "But it's not proper for me to speak of Samwise to you, lass."

A year prior, Frodo would have chuckled from happiness for his friend, but now, he felt nothing but bitterness. No one cared what he had gone through, how he had suffered, what he had lost. How that angered him! "No. It would not be proper," he repeated to the anxious lass.

Rosie sighed. "Tell me one last thing, please!" Frodo looked at her, wearing a stressed smile. Rosie seemed not to notice. She continued, hope filling her voice, "Did he speak of me?"

Frodo looked away and rolled his eyes. How like a lass! Concerned only of the lad she was interested in and not the lad who she was speaking to! Well, he would show her for reminding him of his misery. He would deny her the information she longed for. "I must return to working," he replied as he rose.

Ah! Backfired! Frodo walked back to the plow without so much as a glance or head nod. He began to make more rows in the softened soil, muttering to himself. How he longed for a companion! Even a temporary companion. There was something about that lass…but, no! He could not allow his thoughts to dwell on her. He would not betray Samwise even though he had betrayed him.

Frodo walked slowly, squinting to keep out the dust being kicked by the plow and pony. He felt dirty, but not nearly as dirty as he had felt on the Quest. His thoughts dwelled on happier times unwillingly. Things reminding him of his friends. Coming to Bag End…meeting Samwise…gaining friends…befriending Sam. They all used to seem so clear when he dwelled on them before, but now they were clouded, tainted by his misery. Even in them, he managed to read un-friendlike actions and talk. His squinting eyelids started drooping more and more.

He was wandering through a field by Bag End. He laughed gaily at the butterflies dancing in the wind currents as he chased after them. He smiled at the passing hobbit children. One he knew to be the gaffer's son, the others he did not know except for Lotho, who was trailing behind grudgingly.

Frodo expected them to go on walking and talking and laughing like they usually did, but instead the gaffer's son stopped his group and huddled with them. Frodo tilted his head curiously, watching. His gut told him to run – that something was wrong.

The boys motioned for him to come over. This he did quickly, quite willingly. Suddenly, a steep hill appeared on the other side of the group. They welcomed him openly, and if any doubt had filled him, it fled from his body.

Many pats on the back, then, the gaffer's son gave a nod, and Frodo was tumbling, rolling down the hill, gaining speed as he rolled, pain filling his entire being.

Frodo awakened with a start. He was being dragged by the speeding pony; the reins were caught about his wrist. He jerked to get them loose, and gratefuly he made the pony slow down slightly.

"Help me!" cried the terrified Frodo Baggins as he tried to turn himself upright.

"Frodo! Lads, drop your tools. Help him!" Farmer Cotton called as he looked away from the hobbit he was conversing with. "Whoa, Bill!" he yelled to the pony.

Almost immediately the pony stopped, tossing Frodo back on the ground with a thud. Farmer Cotton was at his side immediately, as was Rosie. The lass asked with concern, "Mr. Frodo, are you alright?"

Mere formality, he reminded himself as he grunted out, "Yes, thank you." He stood, ignoring Farmer Cotton's extended hand, and rubbed his sore back.

"No, I'm fine. Just a bit winded, really," Frodo said as he took a few painful steps, hiding his pain with a reassuring smile.

"No, Mr. Frodo, you are not. You are limping. I insist you sit for a spell. You'll be of more use uninjured."

Frodo cringed miserably. See? Only to their benefit. No one really cares. he told himself. Aloud, he said, "No, I'll be fine," with a reassuring smile once again, though he still clutched his back and the well wall for support.

Supper came, and the family, friend, and hired hands ate hungrily and happily. They had not eaten since luncheon, which was very unusual for hobbits, but the work had been completed. It was estimated that nearly half of the younger hobbits of Hobbiton had come to help.

Frodo sat alone in a corner eating slowly off his plate, hiding a round pillow between the arch of his back and the wall. His meager meal consisted of roasted potatoes, steamed carrots, and a salad – all from the small bit of crops Farmer Cotton grew beside his home. Frodo shifted in his seat, wincing as he did so.

Pain was his entire existence. Pain was his friend. Pain was the only emotion he felt. He found an odd sense of comfort in it.

Just as he was about to stand, Wilcome Cotton came up to him and sat. "How are you doing, Mr. Frodo?"

"Just fine," he replied sarcastically, but Wilcome failed to notice. "And you, Wilcome?"

"Just what I thought. When my father said you took ill, I says – when I seen you workin', rather, I says, 'Mr. Frodo wasn't ill. Just-a look at him working! And if he was, I sure ain't never heard of a hobbit recovering so quickly.' My father just laughed, patted me on my head, and returned to work."

"No, I did not. Now, if you'd excuse me, I'd best get to bed." Frodo smiled somewhat and left when the younger hobbit returned to his friends.

"I've remembered where Mr. Gamgee is. He's in Crickhollow tending to various gardens. Reckon it's too late for you to go see him about whatever it was that had you looking for him."

"Yes, I reckon it is too late for me to go have a chat with him. Thank you for letting me know," came the defensive, yet confused and paranoid reply.

"You're welcome, sir." Rosie watched him walk to his quarters. Was it her or had he in but one day lost the stately posture that was so rare at his age? She scratched her chin and returned to the kitchen to see to the guests.

Frodo opened the bedroom door and shut it behind him, blocking out what little noise drifted in from the kitchen. Sighing, he took out his clothes and pulled out bandages to wrap around his injured back from his drawer. Moaning in pain, he twisted, trying to see if he had any visible injuries. There was a bruise. He would have to be more careful the next time he worked, he resolved.

Slowly, he began to wrap the bandages around his lower back as tightly as he could bear. It was difficult to do by himself, but he refused to admit pain in front of others. They would only help out of charity, he had convinced himself.

After a long while, Frodo was prepared for bed. He lay down under the cold, soft blankets, his worn body welcoming the softness and warmth. Sleep, for once, was desired as he fell into a dreamless one.

I have never felt so alone or miserable in my life. No one trusts me anymore. Any "care" they show toward me is so they can have things to their benefit. I injured my back yesterday and they all faked concern. I felt so upset that I just ignored the pain and continued. I am in agony right now. I shan’t work today. I’ll go to my favorite spot and read – if I can’t get up to the branch, I’ll sit under the tree. I will more or less end up thinking.

I do not enjoy living anymore. I have no friends but pain and agony. Ha! Quite the opposite of what the old me would say. There is no one who loves me, not even myself. I fear the thought of ending my own life for fear of staining the Baggins’ name for any future generations, for fear of what people will say of me. Ironically, what Sam and I were talking about on the Quest has already come true – wanting to hear more of "Samwise the Brave" rather than "Frodo the Ringbearer." Ha! My title sounds like a wedding person’s title, and his sounds like that of a great champion from afar. Perhaps that is why they like him more.

I am feeling extremely bitter and in agony. Who I may have been before is no more. Now I am a miserable excuse for a hobbit. I am barely alive. I do not know to end this life of mine, but I will. I just hope someone comes before it is too late. F.B.

Frodo closed the weather- and use-worn book and hid it once more. A yellowed page fell out and caught his attention. Picking it up, he groaned. He had forgotten his back was injured.

It was a note from his Uncle Bilbo given to him with the journal before the Quest. He read over the note.

It is a perilous journey you set out on, full of many dangers and things beyond your imagination. Frodo lad, be careful. Wear the mithril and have Sting with you at all times.

Be careful not to be reckless with your life. The hope of the success of the Fellowship lies with you, I fear. Though it be a tough burden you bear and a tough journey ahead of you, be strong and do not give up. You can make it – you are a Baggins! Bring honor to the name again, boy, for me, at least.

I am afraid for you and your gardener, Samwise, for I fear most of the journey lies with you and him. He will never leave you. He is a true friend, one you can trust. Your cousins will need much looking after if they are to return the Shire alive.

Within this journal, record your daily thoughts, progress, and emotions. You will do this for me, lad, won’t you? When you get back – not if – we shall have to sit and record your journey. Be careful, lad. Come back unharmed.

Frodo placed the note back in the hidden journal. Uncle Bilbo was wrong in so many ways, he thought bitterly. Sam is no longer a true friend, and, thus, never was. Merry and Pip made it back without much looking after. Plus, even he does not care for me any longer. If he did, he would have returned with me to the Shire, and we would have had that talk.

Frodo’s thoughts had incessantly been poisoned by the Ring during the Quest. Even now, though it was destroyed, the Ring continued the deadly poisoning. Frodo Baggins would never have considered ending his life, save his mind had been horribly twisted in its manner of thinking. Neither would he have thought his uncle no longer cared for him under normal thought patterns.

He sat down again and pulled out he book with the contents "There and Back Again" by Bilbo Baggins. Grabbing his quill pen, which he dipped in a bottle of ink, he began to write his own story after Bilbo’s own. He recounted it all from the moment the Ring had come to him, but he stopped writing at the point where he reached Rivendell in pretense of taking a break.

He stood stiffly and walked out of the room, heading for the clearing in which his favorite tree was located. The sight of the familiar setting, the smell and gentle touch of the grass and wildflowers beneath his feet, and the soft breeze and gentle caressing of the waving leaves against his face sent chills up his spine as he sat, reliving memories of the days he remembered and longed for but could not have. His tortured soul silently hated the days, which were filled with the happiness he no longer felt or had.

Frodo pressed his back softly and carefully against the tree, breathing in the familiar scents slowly. He truly smiled, though it was barely noticeable, for the first time since he had returned to the Shire, though the happiness was short-lived as he remembered that this was where he was when Gandalf came to the Shire on his coming of age, the day Bilbo left the Shire, never to return, the day he had received the Ring, the day several years later he had left the Shire on the nearly hopeless journey that had cost him nearly his entire soul.

He shut his eyes abruptly, trying in vain to block out all the memories that were flooding quickly in. He began to sob, violently trembling despite the great pain it added to his already hurting back. He buried his head in his lap, crying out like a frightened child. How he longed for a comforting arm to wrap around his shaking shoulders! No relief came, however, as the tears released the anguish bottled in his hurting soul. Gone were the days of hope and joy, replaced with the bitter coldness and emptiness of the wells of sorrow contained within.

Stubbornly, he stopped the steady flow of tears and stood. He walked tot he pristine brook nearby and washed his face to hide the fact that he had cried with much effort as his throbbing back gave no relief. It seemed to get worse with every move.

Stubborn as he was, Frodo resolved to see a doctor, refusing to spend his last days in pain. Now to figure out how to keep the news from spreading through the entire Shire. The hobbit scratched his chin thoughtfully before foolishly taking off his vest and putting it over his head to cover his face. He would be the laughingstock of Hobbiton if it was discovered it was he who had roamed like that, but he did not are.

What is one more stain to the Baggins’ name? he asked himself. He looked at his reflection in the water. Oh what’s the use? The doctor’s an S.B. after all. He removed the vest from its perch upon his head, put it in its rightful place, and headed off to Doctor Sandy Sackville-Baggins’ office.

He made it there noticed by barely anyone, much to his delight and dismay. He knocked on the rounded door to announce his arrival before turning the perfectly centered doorknob and entering.

Sandy looked up. "Well, well, what have we here? Why, if it isn’t Master Baggins himself!"

Reluctantly, Frodo replied, "I – err – injured my back while working yesterday." He cleared his throat.

Frodo’s cheeks slightly reddened. "The pony took off while I was plowing, and I was dragged."

"Take off your shirt and let me take a look." Frodo obeyed with a grimace. "That’s a nasty scar you have on your shoulder," the doctor noted as he began to remove the bandage.

"I see. Now, where are you hurting?" Frodo motioned to the spot. "That’s a bad bruise. I need you to lie down on this bed." Frodo lay down. The doctor pressed in various places, Frodo squinting in pain at each touch. Was he trying to hurt him?

"Well, Master Baggins, you seem to have popped a disk or two out of joint. With your permission, I can try to fix it." Frodo nodded, and a few minutes later the sharp pressure was relieved, though he was still sore from the bruise and the impact.

"You’re welcome." The doctor turned. "I’d keep that bandage on for at least a week if I were you. No walking more than necessary. Have you a ride back to the Cotton’s?"

"Frodo nodded and kept walked to the cart outside. He requested to be dropped off at his tree, but was silent the rest of the journey, hoping the doctor

Frodo sat down beneath the shady tree once again, desiring to stay there forevermore and never to leave for a hobbit hole again. The tree grove was the only place he could find any semblance of solitude in the world around him. He listened to the birds chirping merrily and unrestrained from the trees about and above, though he himself was not merry and was himself restrained, keeping his every thought to himself. The bright, blazing sun declared its presence high in the noon sky, whereas he kept to himself, thinking no one noticed him. The white, billowy clouds with large patches of gray suspended gracefully, yet somehow threateningly in the blue sky above. Frodo was not so threatening, but instead felt threatened by everything about him. It was as though he need to be in a black, unseeing void to live without fear.

The clouds opened up and began to release a tumultuous flow of water as Frodo began to mope and withdraw more and more. The sun was covered as though it had a fluffy, gray blanket tucking it in for an afternoon nap. It was an odd sensation for the pained Frodo as he stood, looking toward Crickhollow, where there was still no rain. It was to the east, south, and north of him that was being drowned. Part of him longed to go to Crickhollow, but the other part wanted to stay in Hobbiton where the weather mirrored his emotions. Or was it that he wanted to be where the treacherous traitor, Samwise Gamgee, was not?

Frodo ran blindly, head downward and hands in pockets to avoid the onset of rain, unable to make out anything that was more than two feet ahead of him. True, the hard downpour of rain blinded him, but, mostly, it was the sharp pain that ran up his spine combined with the chill he felt that blinded him. Frodo felt safe in this world – the world of the blind – felt that no one could harm him again, and he longed to live in it – longed never to see the waking world again.

Harder and harder, the rain shot down from the darkened sky. More and more Frodo learned to like and enjoy the blindness, though he had no idea of where he was going, if he was heading in the right direction; however, he did not care. He wanted to die – to fall down a cliff and never be seen again. His mind was clouded with hatred towards the people he had once called friends – Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, Merry, Pippin, Sam. The longer he was out in the rain, the more his blood boiled with anger and fear.

Finally, Frodo reached the Cotton farm where he was being anxiously awaited by the entire family.

Mrs. Cotton rounded the corner swiftly, "Why! He’s soaked to the bone! Rosie, go set some water in the fireplace. Mr. Cotton, help Mr. Frodo out of his clothes, and I’ll get him some warm clothes." The entire family began their appointed tasks.

Frodo struggled profusely as Farmer Cotton tried to help him out of his clothes. "No!" he protested. Rosie returned with a kettle of water and set it on the fire to boil. "No, Sam! Not in front of her!"

One glance from her father, and Rosie was out of the room to help her mother. Finally, Farmer Cotton succeeded in removing Frodo’s vest form his body and hung it by the fire. His once puffy shirt clung tightly to his body, revealing the bandage around his lower back.

Mrs. Cotton came in right as he fell. Her look at her husband inquired as to why he had fallen and was still wearing most of his clothing.

Mrs. Cotton felt Frodo’s forehead. "Well, it’s no wonder. He’s burning with fever! Hurry! Gently get him changed into his nightclothes – I brought them just in case – before he wakes up and starts a fuss. She bent down beside the fireplace and tended to the fire and took the pot out, dipping a rag into the warm water.

Frodo awoke an hour later covered in white. Where am I? Am I – dead? he asked himself, struggling to sit up.

"Whoa there, Frodo!" the farmer exclaimed, pushing him gently down. "You mustn’t get up, and you shan’t – not while I’m around. You are ill."

Frodo protested wordlessly, and once again the farmer pushed him down. "Please!" he begged, bright blue eyes sparkling with moisture. "I can’t…be ill. I haven’t the time."

Frodo shot a quick glare at the farmer. His mind had taken the double meaning – that none had time for him to be ill because they had to have him work, instead of that no one has time to be sick, as Farmer Cotton had meant it. "How did I get here? And in my nightclothes?"

"Well, you stumbled in here soakin’ wet, and me wife, daughter and I prepared you to come in here and tended to you all night. We want you to get better, you know." The farmer smiled. Frodo had fallen asleep. His face bore a frown, which the farmer passed off as just an external reaction to being ill.

Finally Cotton's out of here! I'm ill and he's been hovering over me like a moth to the flames. Too much for me. I know he's only doing it so I can work again. He seems genuine enough, but I suspect it since he doesn't spend every moment nursing me to health. Now Sam – perhaps he spoiled me when he was "being my friend" so as to keep me from seeing his plot.

Everything he did on the journey was because he's my servant and part of it was an act, a visage. He must have been after Bilbo's treasure that is hidden in Bag End (unless Lobelia and Lotho found it and took it). Why didn't I see through it before? I look back and I can see it now, but I was too late. It must have been such a laugh to him when he was back at his gaffer's to think on how gullible I,, his master, was. You were smart and cunning, Samwise, but all traitors are caught at some point in time, and you have been found out, though I've not declared it publicly for I want you to admit it to me. To confess. That would prove to me that our brotherly friendship meant something to you and not only to me.

You were the first I considered a friend; you were also the first friend to betray me, and one by one turn my cousins from me. Because of you, I must die. F.B.

Frodo quickly hid the leather-bound book beneath his mattress and faked being asleep as he heard Framer Cotton's footsteps approaching.

"Frodo, I brought you –" he began while entering. "Oh, the lad's asleep. And how peaceful he appears!"

Indeed, Frodo was feeling peaceful. He had once again escaped to the dark, void safe-haven of the waking world, thinking of nothing. It would not last for long, but it was the only form of relief he had found, so he journeyed there as often as he could.

So, the farmer sat, marveling at how peaceful his patient appeared compared to the other times he had found him in slumber. Perhaps the lad is getting better, he told himself. Or perhaps he only has his eyes closed. Cotton stood and walked over to Frodo. Should he wake him? He rarely was this peaceful. Hesitantly, he shook Frodo's limp body.

Frodo opened his eyes, groaning in protest. Why did someone have to bring him back to reality so soon? "Yes?" he asked.

Frodo looked at the bowl full of steaming liquid while pondering at whether he should take it or not. He decided to take it and ate, more for show than hunger. Thankfully, he thought, my taste buds are not working properly. How I dislike broth! When finished, Frodo gave the bowl back to Farmer Cotton without saying anything. He wanted more than anything to escape once more to his sleep.

Thus, he spent much of his day eating, sleeping, though even more restlessly than usual, and escaping to his dark safe haven where nothing existed and he could just be.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings since Tolkien wrote the book, and I am not him; and PJ did the movies, and I'm not him either.

I am still feeling ill, but I refuse to stay in bed today. Farmer Cotton will surely not like it. Well, if he objects, the choice is mine. The one bonus to being sick is people will leave you alone if you close your eyes.

Whenever I wake, I feel lost and out of place. The surroundings are familiar, but they are not those of home. Home. Bag End. How I long for it! But, it seems as though whatever I long for is out of my grasp. The Ring, Bag End, companionship, friendship – all is gone, not for me (or anyone else) to claim again. There is nothing to even temporarily fill the void I have inside. I long, but I cannot have. I search, but I cannot find. Life. What is it? What does it mean? What is its purpose? It always comes back to those three questions of late. Gandalf and Elrond are not in the Shire to answer the questions that may save me. Couldn't they have seen this? Couldn't they have answered them for me? I was told my wounds would never truly heal, but are these the effects of them? Life would have been much simpler had the Quest not happened – if the Ring were truly mine as I claimed.

Why? Why did It betray me? It drew Gollum to me. I relive the painful memories every time I look at my maimed hand. Why do I go on? What have I to look forward to? Pain? Suffering?! Betrayal!? F.B.

Frodo sat up and looked around. He put his journal in the drawer of the nightstand by the bed and ran his hand quickly through his matted hair. Then, he dressed, dimmed the light, and left the room, glancing around the corner. Farmer Cotton and everyone else were asleep still. Wonderful! He thought, while tiptoeing through the front door.

The sight of something – or someone – moving quickly toward him made him jump in fear.

Frodo turned abruptly and sighed, half-relieved and half-disappointed. Flatly, he said, "Rose, it's just you." He had partially hoped it was Sam when he had heard "Mr. Frodo."

"I'm feeling much better. Thought a bit of fresh air might do me some good," he replied, shifting his feet.

"Oh. But really, if you insist on doing so, at least let me come with you. You still look like you are not feeling well."

He looked aside and rolled his eyes. Sighing, he agreed. He wanted to go to the clearing, but letting someone else know where it was could take away any hope of an hour's peace. He had only told one person where it was anyhow, but that was a long time ago when he thought he had friends. Samwise had respected his master's solitary time, coming only when invited, and, when he was not, he would stand guard as a "protector of the peace." Frodo had laughed at Sam's self-proclaimed title. Those were the days when Frodo could laugh and enjoy himself.

Frodo and Rosie walked, the cold air stinging their faces, making their cheeks and noses a crimson color. Rose occasionally would make comments like, "Look at that rose! Isn't it pretty with the dew on the petals?"

He was annoyed by such girlish comments, but he did not show it. He would just reply in agreement. He was in his own world as he walked the familiar paths, thinking of days past, finding even more suspicious actions in the activities of others. His anger and hurt grew with each one. Suddenly, he forced himself to stop thinking and began to listen to Rosie who had been speaking for a while.

Rosie halted and put her right hand on her hip. "Mr. Frodo! Where have you been this morning? Not with me, I should say!"

"No, I am sorry. I had forgotten you still are not completely better. It should be expected."

Frodo smiled gratefully, and Rose smiled back. They took a few more steps before she announced with a smile, "One more step, and I'll be the farthest from home I've been," she paused to end, but added, "today," when she noted Frodo's pained expression. The memories were flooding back to his head of when he, Sam, and Pippin had set off for Crickhollow to his new house. The pain of selling Bag End to the Sackville-Bagginses. The beginning of the Fellowship. So many things were triggered by her innocent sentence. "What's the matter? You don't look so good."

"It's nothing; I assure you. I'm just a bit tired," he said, pasting on a weary smile. Why does everyone keep asking me that? he asked himself, rubbing his burning eyes.

"No need to go through the trouble; continue on your walk. I can make it on my own. Thank you for offering though." That said, he began to go towards the Cotton's home, his mind troubled once more.

Frodo managed to get inside the house and back to his room unnoticed. Judging by the sun's position in the sky, it was about six in the morning. What on earth had Rosie been doing up at that hour? He had heard that farmer's rose early, but the lasses?

He lay down in bed, not wanting to sleep but to escape as long as he could. Life outside of his mind was unbearable, and the more he escaped, the more he wished he could stay there, though he knew he could not. It was like his drug of choice. Instead of drinking pints or smoking pipeweed, he escaped from reality through sinking into nothingness.

It was dark. He saw nothing. He knew nothing. He heard nothing. All was void of feeling. He just existed without a care in the world, that is, until a ray of light would shine through his eyelids or some noise or hobbit would force him back to reality. Those interruptions happened all too soon each time for Frodo.

Though the time spent in his haven was peaceful and relaxing, it worsened his view of the outside world. He was more paranoid, more untrusting, more distant…more desirous of death.

Farmer Cotton awoke, stretching. He was startled by the sound of a bedroom door nearby closing. He silently went though a list of people. Rosie? No, she would still be out on her morning walk. Sam? No, he will not be back for yet eight more days. Frodo? No, unless – The farmer jumped out of his bed and put on a robe, rushing to the ill hobbit's room.

Frodo was found lying on his back, eyes open and unblinking. Farmer Cotton's face went pale with dread. Surely, if Frodo weres dead, Sam, his favorite of his daughter's beaus, would be angry. He had seen how loyal Sam was to his master. Why! If he were upset enough, Sam might turn his own daughter against him! He knew his daughter cared more for Sam than she ever had another hobbit though she denied it. The faint, sweet rose-color that rushed to her cheeks at the mention or thought of his name or the sight of him, the slight, faint traces of her primping when she saw him come up the lane or into the room were undeniable. His daughter had never been happier.

It was with such thoughts that he shook Frodo to rouse him, but he would not blink or move a muscle. Farmer Cotton sighed, and shook Frodo harder. "Frodo!" he yelled in a hushed voice, as to not wake anyone else in the smial. Still, the younger hobbit would not move. He continued in that manner for about five minutes, but Frodo refused to come out of his thoughts. The farmer walked head downward out of the room. How would he break the news to Sam? To anyone? The hobbit he had taken such careful care of had died in his charge.

He went to the sitting groom and used it for the set purpose. He was deeply troubled. How could Frodo have died? He had seemed to be on the mend the day before. He looked up as he heard his daughter enter.

Rosie bounced up to her father and threw her arms around his neck, smiling brightly. "Good morning! It's a beautiful day outside!" She looked down at her father who had not so much as nodded in recognition. She moved in front of him. "What is the matter?" she asked, eyes widening in alarm "Is it Mister Frodo?" she asked, eyes widening in alarm. "Has he gotten worse? Oh! I knew I shouldn't have let –"

"Dead?" She placed her hand over her mouth and slowly sank down onto the chair behind her. "No!" she said in barely more than a whisper. "It's all my fault! I let him –"

"Rose Cotton! Don't you speak like that!" he commanded firmly but gently while putting his hands on his daughter's shoulders.

Rosie stood quickly, anger flashing in her eyes. "But it is! Don't you see? He was up when I was about to take my daily walk! I found him at the door. He insisted, and I allowed him to come with me…and then – he walked back alone!" She began to sob audibly, and her father drew her close.

"Shh! It's all right, Rose; it's all right. It is not your fault. He was a stubborn but kindly hobbit. You could not have kept him here against his will. You – a young lass. Shh-hh! Everything will be all right, my dear lass. I am here, and I will protect you…Shh!" He stroked his daughter's hair and patted her back comfortingly. His soul was deeply grieved, and he searched for something to make her happy in his mind, but to no avail. All at once he felt helpless, like he was fighting a foe he could not overcome.

He stood there with his daughter until his wife and other children entered, each responding in his own way with shock and sadness when told what happened. It was his son Wilcome who wanted to see for himself.

Wilcome stood and walked to the bedroom in which his role model was. He had taken the news the hardest, but he knew Frodo's servant Sam would be even more grieved. He opened the door and walked to the motionless form of Frodo, closing the hobbit's eyes with a shudder, but something was wrong. His body felt warm. Quickly, Wilcome checked for a sign of life – breathing…a pulse! Both, Frodo had. "He's alive!" he shouted, and the rest of the family ran into the room where Frodo sat looking around in confusion.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings since Tolkien wrote the book, and I am not him; and PJ did the movies, and I'm not him either.

Frodo stood and put the small book in his inner vest pocket. He walked out of the room to join the others for elevenses though he was not very hungry. The family welcomed him. He sat in his usual spot and served himself some biscuits, gravy, and mashed potatoes.

He watched the family talk happily. He felt like an outsider. Everyone was happier when he was not involved in their activity. He ate quietly and put his dishes by the sink and rinsed them. He left, announcing, "I am going out!" He received no response, so he headed sadly to his spot.

Upon reaching the clearing, Frodo climbed to the first limb of the tree despite the ache it caused his bruised back. He pulled out a small book he had found of gardening techniques and began to read. He had never understood why Sam had been so fond of gardening. It seemed to him as a boring activity, but now he decided he would have to learn to love it if he were to live.

Soon, he grew bored of reading and set the book down with a sigh. He closed his eyes to rest them for a moment, but he soon fell asleep unwillingly.

"Sam, no!" Frodo yelled as he awoke, looking around. His back was now throbbing in pain. He had fallen from the tree branch. He lay still, not sure what to do. How could he move when he was in such great pain? He would have to since no one ever came out there. That was why he had like the spot so much. He had never dreamed he would be injured in the secluded area.

Perhaps I could just get near enough to the roadway and hope some people riding by will see me, Frodo thought, tying to think of how to be found. He struggled to get to his feet, but it was too much weight for his back to bear. Slowly, as that of an old man, he got up on his elbows, his chest toward the ground. Slowly and painfully, he crawled to the roadway, and upon reaching it, he leaned against a tree, though it hurt to do so.

An hour had passed, yet nobody had traveled down the road. Frodo was beginning to worry that he would never be found. His back was still throbbing, his hands gripped tightly at the grass as he tried to keep from crying out. He had already bithis to the point where blood ran out and his tongue as well. Tears streamed down his pale face, but he uttered not a word nor made a sound.

He gritted his teeth tighter and tighter; the stress and pain his body was feeling amplified a hundred fold. "Ah!" he cried out, but it was barely audible even to himself. He screamed out as loud as he could, hoping beyond hope that someone would hear him and run to his help.

Hours upon hours passed, and Frodo could not even go to his haven of darkness for relief. How he longed for it! The sun began to lower. Barely above the hills could he see it. The sky was a pretty purple-orange color with pink hues throughout and white, fluffy clouds surrounding it, but Frodo could not enjoy it, for the pain blinded him still.

Finally, footsteps faintly approached, though Frodo could barely hear it. So great was the throbbing of his spine. For a moment he was able to concentrate on what was going on around him.

"No, lad, I'm not," he managed to say through gritted teeth. "My back…fell out of a tree…Doctor, please."

The lad, Sancho Proudfoot, struggled to make out the slurred words and phrases. He understood enough to know Frodo's back was hurt, though how Sancho could not tell, and that Frodo needed a doctor. Carefully, Sancho lifted Frodo, noting his unusually light weight, and silently wondered whether or not Frodo ate properly as he carried him slowly to the doctors. It was a rather uncomfortable task as Frodo was sweating quite profusely and kept grabbing his rescuer's shirt as the pain escalated.

After half an hour they made it to the office of Sandy Sackville-Baggins. The doctor opened the door, quite annoyed to see that it was Sancho Proudfoot, but upon seeing Frodo in his arms, he smirked. "Sancho, good evening. Come in," Sandy said. "Put him here on the bed."

"Well, I found him near the road, and he was in deep pain, and he said his back was hurt…" Sancho continued to babble on, but the doctor cut in.

"Turn him over on his stomach." Sancho did so as gently as possible. Frodo cried out and grabbed the sheets beneath him, reeling in pain.

The doctor looked at Frodo's back as soon as the patient had calmed down a bit. His face was contorted deeply with pain, making him look older somehow no matter how "well-preserved" he was. "Dislocated again… this time more severely. A wonder he can move at all!" he noted.

Sancho's eyes darted from Frodo's back to the doctor's face. "You mean, sir, that Mr. Baggins has been injured before."

"An accident while he was working, though I cannot say more. Now, Sancho, would you please hold him down as I attempt to fix the disk's positions?"

"As you wish." Sancho managed to get Frodo to stop thrashing in pain though it meant knocking him out, and soon his vertebrae were realigned in their proper places. Some pain was relieved, though a vast majority was still there.

"I'm afraid he will have to stay overnight. On your way home, would you mind stopping by the Cotton's and tell them he is staying with a friend?"

"But then they will worry. Everyone knows that the Bagginses and Sackville-Bagginses don't get along too good," he protested.

"Aye, sir. Goodnight, then." Sancho walked out of the office, leaving an unconscious Frodo behind.

Rosie hurried to the door as soon as someone knocked on it. "Well, it's about time you showed up. We were –" Her face fell and she stopped in mid-sentence as she realized it was not Frodo. Where was he? "Oh, Mr. Proudfoot, come in. We were expecting Mr. Baggins."

Sancho entered quietly. "I am just stepping in on Frodo's behalf to let you know that he's staying at a friend's house tonight."

"Yes, miss, you may. He is staying at the doctor's." At Rosie's confused look, he added, "A-a debt the doctor had to repay."

Sancho was caught off-guard. He had not thought to ask what to say to that. If he told the truth, the family would be glad he told the truth, but Frodo would be angry with him – or so he and some of the Shire would have thought. On the other hand, if he lied, Frodo would be happy, and the family might never find out. He decided he would rather not face the wrath of Frodo Baggins, for he heard that it was horrific and could be fatal.

All that thought was but one reaction to the horrible rumor that the Sackville-Bagginses had began. Others refused to go out on the rare occasions they heard Frodo was out, too. Yet others who knew Frodo well just ignored it and laughed about how funny it sounded in comparison to the real nature of Frodo. It had yet to reach Frodo's ears as he more often than not kept to himself in the Cotton's farm.

As to what the rumor was, everyone disagreed; the only ones who truly knew were the Sackville-Bagginses who had started it. Sancho had heard it about the third time it had circulated in which it had become: "Frodo Baggins is the most dangerous hobbit alive! He's gone mad during the time he went away. Just the other day he nearly killed Lily for preparing his food improperly! And he killed a baby for crying!" The claims were obviously false. Lily Cotton had not had a single hair harmed, and, as for the baby, no one had heard of her before the day it all started. Sancho, being gullible when it came to the things told to him by the S.B.'s, did not believe it false but true!

"No, he is not injured, but it may be a few days until the debt is repaid in full. Adieu, miss." He tipped his hat and left Rosie standing at the doorway flustered.

Sandy lay in bed that evening, plotting. How perfect it was! The situation would be prefect for Frodo to stay at least seven days – just long enough for his back to be well enough for him to walk. Oh, yes. Everything will work, Sandy told himself, smiling wickedly.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings since Tolkien wrote the book, and I am not him; and PJ did the movies, and I'm not him either.

Where am I? No one has come by. I can't seek them; my back hurts too much. I can barely write. I have no idea how I got here, wherever "here" is. It is a hobbit hole, I can see that much, but whose home?

Does this mean I have a friend? I am very hopeful. I want a friend a lot. Perhaps it would take my mind off of my pain. This back of mine must have been worn a lot during the Quest for it to be getting injured as easily as it has been.

Or does it mean someone is doing this out of charity? How I hate that word! Charity. How can one accept help from one he does not know? A friend can lend a helping hand, but for a complete stranger to offer help? Preposterous!

Perhaps it means someone has some plan to destroy me out here? Who knows how far this hole is from town. He could do anything to me so long as no one knows I'm here.

Now I've scared myself. Think optimistically, Frodo Baggins. But how can I when there is nothing to look forward to, to hope for, to do, to live for? Optimism, what an idea! I cannot be it. It's hard to watch those who are. They walk around happy all day. It only serves to remind me of my daily misery. Where am I? I am feeling miserable and hungry. I need someone's assistance now. F.B.

Frodo placed his faded journal in his pocket, lying still. He was filled with fear, knowing he was at the mercy of another's will until he could move. He clenched and unclenched his fists. How he wished he were not in this predicament. His stomach grumbled, and as though answering its call, the doctor walked in with a tray that had a bowl of oatmeal and a cold glass of water on it.

"Dr. Sackville-Baggins, morning," Frodo replied, feeling relieved, yet somehow unrelieved at his location.

"Pain," Frodo protested as Sandy tried to give him the medicine, "though aggressive, is friend, not foe, helping one grow stronger till pain exists no more. I shall take nothing to relieve my pain, doctor."

The doctor shook his head in disagreement. This would put a dent in his plans if he could not get Frodo to take the medicine. "No, Frodo, I disagree." He sat on a bench in such a way that he looked authoritative in what he was saying. "You see, there comes a time when pain exceeds the mere muscle fatigue and ache of doing a new exercise, when it is the result of injury instead. This, Mr. Baggins, is the result of injury. I've a feeling you fell out of a tree somewhere judging by where Sancho found you."

Frodo's face tensed. "Sancho Proudfoot saw me – knows I'm injured?" The doctor nodded. "I was hoping it was only you who knew I was injured."

Frodo nodded as the pain came to a climax. "Aye, doctor." He drank down the foul-tasting liquid and then eagerly gulped the water.

"I am going to go to town for a while. I need to pick up a few supplies," the doctor said while standing. "Do not leave this bed no matter what. The pain is only being masked; your back is not nearly healed."

As soon as he was out of sight, Sandy rent his clothes and cut himself in a few places and messed up his hair as best he could and limped out the front door. His plan was working perfectly.

Peregrin Took watched in disbelief as he sat in the Green Dragon Inn that evening. Sandy Sackville-Baggins was telling a tale.

"Then, he grabbed my clothes as I walked out to get his food and tore them. His eyes – oh! the look in those eyes! It was that of anger. He grabbed his dagger out of its sheath and cut me and tore my clothes. He's gone mad; he has! To do such a thing when I was only trying to help him! The poor lad," Sandy finished.

Pippin stood, enraged. "My cousin did no such thing! Harm you?" he scoffed. "He would not sink that low. He is a gentle, mild-mannered hobbit."

Sandy glared at him, then turned to the rest of the people with a kindly face. "My dear friends, who would you believe? Me, a sober hobbit, or him, one who has been drinking pints of beer?"

Pippin drew closer. "You all know that the Sackville-Bagginses do not like the Bagginses!"

Pippin scoffed. "It did not! Friends, fellow countrymen, do not listen to him. Frodo is not who he is presenting him to be."

"I must discredit him. Firstly, he is his cousin. We all know how family members are partial and they stick together! Secondly, he went on that trip with Frodo. For all we know, he could be insane, too!" The crowd was silent, eagerly awaiting Pippin's reply, whose face had turned crimson.

"I assure you, I am not insane. Also, I just now got my first pint, so, my dear sir, I am not drunk. Is it I who goes about and overcharges people for a service or him?" Pippin turned to the folk. "Whom do you trust?"

The crowd began to dissipate. They all wanted to get home to their wives and children before Frodo could reach any of them.

"Sirs, sirs, rest assured that Frodo shall not harm you – not tonight or any other night!" Pippin exclaimed as everyone left, leaving Pippin and Sandy alone. "Now look what your outrageous claims have done! Frodo's reputation is ruined forever!" shot Pippin to Sandy

"Nothing, apparently. It will only be something to you if someone discredits you! You snake! Leave."

"Leave! And never lie about Frodo Baggins again! You dare mess with my family, my cousin in particular, again, you will have me to deal with, and I won't be this civil next time," Pippin replied, face red with anger.

Sandy left, satisfied with the reactions of the other hobbits. His plan was set in motion. Now, Frodo would not be able to go anywhere. He would be disowned by the Shire and forced to go live in Bree, the name of Baggins forever removed from the Shire.

There has been a terrible racket outside all day. It is hard for one to rest when such a thing is going on. The doctor has tried to get them to leave, but they refuse. He has had to barricade the doors and windows, and he has apologized several times. The noise is muffled though, so I cannot figure out what they are yelling. They sound scared and angry. Doctor said there are even women outside. What has the Shire in such an uproar? I only hope this protest or whatever it is dies down before too long.

The doctor refuses to say what this is about. He said something about a rumor that his overcharging his patients puts everyone out to get him. However, that would not bring everyone out of their homes; they would have sent two lads out to speak diplomatically.

Why did I have to injure my back? I am not only miserable from pain and being stuck indoors, but also from being stuck with a Sackville-Baggins. Their kind were who took charge of the Shire, were after Bag End nonstop for years.

The Cottons probably have no idea of where I am. Perhaps part of the noise is a search party? I am too hopeful for my own good. No one cares now, nor will they ever. F.B.

Putting his journal in its respective place, Frodo waited for the doctor to come with dinner. He looked out the window where the stars glittered in the evening sky. The window could be seen only from one tiny area where the wood did not cover. He wished the noise would die down for it would soon be time fore rest – if he could get some. Amazingly, he had slept dreamlessly the night before, yet he was still tired, as though he had been under a trance and not truly asleep. He could not understand why.

The doctor came in the room, carrying a bowl of stew and a glass of milk. Frodo ate eagerly, saying nothing. He felt somehow sorry for being a burden to Sandy even though he was a Sackville-Baggins. Nobody cared for him, yet here was an old acquaintance caring for him with a servant's heart. It was odd if simply for the tension between the two families. He finished his meal quite quickly. Even though he did not have a large appetite, the meager meals the doctor provided were a bit to meager even for him.

Frodo felt he should not trust the doctor, but he could not bring himself to trust him. There seemed some ulterior motive behind this kindness. Frodo could not put his finger on it though, so he decided to submit to the doctor's will.

"I reckon so. By the way, you may call me Frodo, seeing we will be spending a while together, seemingly."

"Seemingly, indeed. And you may call me Sandy, Frodo," replied Sandy with a faint smile.

The doctor stood and pulled back a curtain. "The crowds have left. Perhaps we will get a good night's rest, after all."

"You still have milk to wash the taste out with," Sandy pointed out, handing the medicine to Frodo who drank it in one gulp and quickly drank the milk.

"Sandy?" Frodo said as Sandy turned to leave. The young doctor looked back. "Thank you."

"You are welcome." The doctor left, turning the peg on the oil lamp, leaving Frodo in darkness, the one place Frodo felt himself safe.

I do not understand it. I have been sleeping dreamlessly the past two nights, yet when I awake I feel as tired as when I'm asleep. It could not be the medicine, for it does not make me sleepy during the day in the least bit. I am restless in the day. I cannot escape to nothingness either, as I would like in order to pass the time.

Perhaps the medicine wears off during the night and the pain returns, causing me to toss and turn, but that does not explain the sudden lack of dreams. It is nice not to dream such dreams I have been having, almost like I am back to my old self, but, if having dreamless sleep causes fatigue now, I would rather have the dreams though they are horrible.

Why was I having such dreams anyhow? They – well, in a way, I am thankful for them, for they showed me what traitors my friends and cousins are. But, at the same time, I am glad the dreams are gone because I no longer fear sleep. They were…disturbing, to say the least. Sam delivering me to Saruman and a host of orcs. Pippin delivering me to a Ringwraith on our way to Crickhollow. Merry drowning me to get the Ring. Absurd, yet they helped me see the small acts of betrayal they did. F.B.

The journal and ink bottle were closed, the quill pen placed in its holder, and the book went inside the dark depth of Frodo's pocket. Frodo attempted to stretch, but it made his already aggravated back muscles burn. He yelped in pain, and his hand quickly met his back, rubbing gently at the aching muscles. Oh, how did I injure my back? he asked himself. I just remember the clearing, dragging to the road, and nothing else.

Frodo's face contorted with confusion. If only he could remember, then he could possibly guess how long he would be in Sandy's home. He wanted to be back at the Cotton's, somewhere he could feel somewhat safe from harm. How he longed to see Rosie's dainty face and fair smile again! He had no romantic thoughts toward her, but she was the closest he had to a friend.

He missed Bag End, but it was ruined now. He could not retreat there to suffer alone, to keep himself from becoming a burden to anyone. The confines of his home were where he longed to be. He supposed he would feel safer there, though it was not a surety. He could at least be alone, just as he felt inside. He felt as though his current surroundings were not his own for the fact that many came by, interrupting him from his solitude.

No one seemed to know he was at the doctor's, which relieved him. He absolutely did not want anybody to feel sorry for him and consider him a charity case. He was not. He would not ever be so long as he had food, clothing, a roof over his head…. How could they think him such when it was he who had set out on the perilous journey? He had seen poverty at its greatest extent as he knew on the Quest.

He wished he had never gone. He would not have so many friends to feel betrayed by; he would have the Ring for comfort. He would have a normal life again, a whole life – as whole as one could feel. He still longed for the Ring as a poor hobbit longed for crumbs of food. It had become his life, what it was about, and when It had been destroyed, so had life itself for the hobbit. How could I have let it become everything to me? A little gold band with the power to destroy the world…so precious, yet so treacherous, so betraying. First, Isildur…then Déagol…after him, Sméagol. My uncle It did not quite betray, but me? It was treacherous! Drawing that horrid creature Gollum to me at Mount Doom! It could have continued existing had it stayed with me.

Such thoughts filled Frodo's mind throughout each day. It was like Hosea's wife of whoredoms.., seeking one creature after another like Hosea's wife her lovers. Had it but realized he was the one who could have given it safety, as Hosea's wife realized her husband had been the provider of her needs, it would still be around, though it would have eventually betrayed him to reach its master. That always escaped Frodo's thoughts.

Now, life had no meaning to Frodo. No feelings but grief and despair – how could such a hobbit truly live? His scarred soul could never heal completely, but it could be restored almost in full if he would find the joy in living again. He could not do so, however, with the constant desire to die that he felt all too often.

On such thoughts, Frodo fell asleep again. This time, he was tormented with dreams again. So many fears he had been running from all along filled his dreams as he struggled greatly in his sleep.

I had dreams again yesterday, day being the operative part of the word. I did not have them at nights. Is the doctor drugging my evening meal somehow to keep me restless so I am unable to fully perceive that he is up to something? Can that be why I am feeling tired every waking moment?

No, Sandy would not do that. What good would it do him? Or would he do it? He is a Sackville-Baggins after all. I feel so tired I cannot think properly. Why would he do that? There is no purpose I can see. I do not understand what could drive one to do so. To take advantage of an injured hobbit is unperceivable.

I hate it when I am skeptical like this, but I feel I have to be. I cannot trust anyone, for I will only be hurt again when I find they have betrayed me like all others before him. I am foolish. I desire a friend, but why and how do I expect to get one when I cannot trust? When I cannot live? When I cannot give myself, as being one's friend requires? When life and all that it includes seems pointless? When just being alive is no longer fulfilling? When I plan to take my own life? To start a friendship in such conditions would be cruel to the other. F.B.

Frodo lay still, the journal open upon his chest and his arms beside his body. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to keep the flood of tears from being released. He felt so alone now that he had convinced himself Sandy was drugging him. He had hoped Sandy's kindness toward him had been genuine, only to be let down again when the idea struck him. He wished he had not had so much time to think; life would be so much simpler, for he would just do.

Frodo rolled painfully onto his side. Why did he have to wake at all if he was just to stay in bed all day by himself except at meal times?

Frodo was brought back from his thoughts by the sound of Sandy's voice. "Good morning!"

"Hello," Frodo replied dryly as Sandy handed him a bowl. Frodo began to eat, though he looked for traces of anything odd in the porridge.

"Today you are going to work on walking. I aim to have you out of here in three days," Sandy told him.

"Why? Because I do not like to have to charge my patients more than what I have to. Besides, your back has had time to heal, and I think you are ready to walk again – just for a little at a time. Don't you think?"

"And why so great a 'no' when you are in pain?" Sandy asked, smiling, slightly amused.

"Because – because," Frodo faltered, " I – what I said a couple days ago…pain's a friend, not foe – that."

"I see. Well then, get up." Frodo still did not move, not even to sit up. "Go on. Get up." Nothing. "Oh, at least sit! You aren't afraid now, are you?"

"Do you have your bandage on?" Sandy asked, since it seemed the most apparent problem.

"Then, you will have to ease yourself into a sitting position and take off your shirt so I can put it on. You won't be going anywhere without it on for a while."

Frodo groaned. This was not going to be easy. He gently began to ease himself to a sitting position on his arms. Once he was high enough for the doctor to put on the bandage, he stayed in that position, supporting all his weight on his arms. Quickly, the doctor wrapped the bandage tightly around Frodo's back. He noticed the bruise from a few days prior was still there, but he said nothing of it to Frodo.

"Alright, I will try." Frodo sat up. Pain was still there, but it seemed dim compared to how it was before.

"Good. Now, I would like you to try to stand. You may lean on me until you feel stable enough to stand on your own," Sandy instructed.

Frodo stood, face contorting greatly in pain. He began to fall, but Sandy caught him. Frodo used him for support, thankful that he was there, though he still did not trust him. A couple of minutes later, he attempted to stand on his own. Pain shot up his spine and he cringed, but he did not collapse as he almost had before.

"No, I don't. I remember a clearing and dragging myself to a road, but nothing more."

"That is rather odd. I spoke with Sancho, but he did not know. I was hoping you would. However, an educated guess based on where you were – could you have fallen from a tree?"

"Anyhow, now that that is settled, why don't you try to walk? I will be here to catch you if you fall."

"I suppose," Frodo replied as he took his first unsteady step. Another step, and another, and another. His back muscles began to hurt after a few steps. "May I rest now?"

"Well, the only way to toughen up is to bear the pain, as you implied by your own words."

Frodo silently regretted ever saying those words. He could not bear this. The pain was too fierce. "May I take some medicine?"

"No, not now. You can make it. After five minutes, you are going to get up – no, weight off your arms – and you may return to the bed and rest some more. Then, we shall be done for the day and you and I can eat lunch together. You can always practice on your own, later."

Frodo gladly welcomed the passing of five minutes and the short trip – long to Frodo's throbbing spine and hurting muscles – to the bed. He lay down as quickly as he could. The soft pillows beneath his head and the arch of his back helped him bear the pain as they provided something to squeeze.

Sandy returned with a meal consisting of bread, and – yet again – stew. Frodo had never been more tired of stew. Sandy was a bachelor, and did not know how to make a good stew, which added to Frodo's growing dislike of the food. Why couldn't he be like Sam? Frodo would ask himself constantly whenever he ate.

After eating, Frodo continued to lie there until the drugs took effect and he fell asleep until nightfall.

I started working on walking again yesterday. However, when I had to sit again after walking, I could barely bear the pain. The doctor would not give me any medicine, though. He said it would give me no use at all since I had already done the task. Still I suspect he must have already put some drug in my food because after I ate, the pain disappeared and I grew tired. I still have not had dreams. I guess I can trust him. The medicine was used probably because I seemed to be in pain. My ideas must have been wrong. Even before it must have been used only to keep me from waking in pain during the nights, never for some evil intention.

If I can trust Sandy, perhaps I can learn to trust others. Perhaps I am getting better. Life seems full of opportunities again. Possibly, I was wrong about Sam, Merry, and Pippin too. Maybe I can trust them, learn to love again, learn to be happy. Wouldn't that be marvelous? I need to get up and walk to the table for breakfast or I shan't eat the whole day, Sandy says. F.B.

Frodo stood and placed his journal under his pillow. He grimaced, but his growling stomach drove him on. It would be porridge again, no doubt. Even that Sandy could not make well somehow. Frodo entered the kitchen slowly, until finally he was able to ease himself onto a chair. "Good morning!" he greeted cheerfully.

Turning to the hobbit, Sandy noted the cheerfulness in Frodo's voice. Good. His plan was going to work better than he had expected. Sandy had noticed Frodo had been depressed and untrusting when he had arrived, and now, with him trusting and open to new things, he would take the rejection more severely. "Good morning, Frodo." Sandy placed the eggs and biscuits in front of Frodo. "Glad to see you make it to the kitchen."

"Is that your way of saying I was slow? I must admit myself that I was a little slow."

Frodo took a knife and cut open the biscuit before placing the eggs in it and taking a bite. It tasted better than anything else Sandy had cooked. "This is good."

"I see," Frodo replied. He continued eating speedily, for his back was hurting and started to become numb. He groaned as he stood and the blood rushed through his body. It felt as though he had a million bugs all over his body.

"Then, let me help you to the bed. Your back isn't yet used to bearing weight again." Sandy walked to Frodo's side. Frodo placed his arm around his shoulders, and Sandy placed his arm around Frodo's upper back.

Soon they reached the bed, and Frodo lay down gently, favoring his back. Sandy covered Frodo with a blanket and left the room. Frodo was tired, but he could not sleep as the numbness departed from his back, pain rushing in to take its place. He groaned quietly and kept still. The doctor had left for town – he had told him the evening prior that he would do so after breakfast – and Frodo had no idea where the pain medication was. He would have to tough it out. How long could he be anyway? Frodo asked himself as he lay there awaiting the return of the doctor.

Peregrin Took scowled as he crossed paths with the doctor in town. "Out to ruin Frodo's reputation some more?" Pippin asked, hostility filling his voice and being.

"Why, good day to you, too, Master Took! Actually, I was out to get something to help your cousin," Sandy replied.

"Watch who you throw such wild accusations at, Peregrin Took! No, he hurt his back somewhere. Sancho Proudfoot found him and brought him to me. He's working on walking again now, and he's doing quite well, if you ask me."

"Well, I can't trust you," Pippin exclaimed with his arms crossed. "I'll have to see for myself."

"Go ahead. I have nothing to hide. If he's in pain, you may give him some of the medicine I left on the kitchen table, but, mind you, follow the instructions precisely."

"Good-bye, Master Took," Sandy replied, mockingly bowing low. As soon as Peregrin left his sight, he continued to the mercantile to seek out the drug that would help his plan greatly.

"Yes? Who is it? I'm in the room across from the kitchen," came the small voice of a hurting Frodo in reply.

"First, because of my carelessness, I was dragged by a pony on a plow, and then, I suppose, I fell from a tree."

"Cruel? No. Actually, he's quite nice – quite the contrary of how I would have thought an S.B. would treat a Baggins."

Pippin, seeing the happiness of his cousin (the happiest he had seen him in a long time) even in his present condition, had not the heart to tell him of what Sandy had done. "Really?" was all Pippin said as he sat by his cousin's bedside."

"Yes. He started to have me walk yesterday," told Frodo. "Speaking of which, do you happen to see any medicine?"

Pippin returned a few minutes later with some medicine and a glass of water. "Here you are, Frodo."

"Thank you, Pippin." Frodo drank down the horrid-tasting liquid and quickly downed the water afterward to rid his mouth of the taste. "What are you doing in this part of the Shire?" he asked afterward.

"Oh, I was going to the Cotton's to visit you when I ran into the kind," Pippin cringed inwardly as he used the adjective, "doctor, who told me you were here."

"No, please don't," Frodo requested, his arms outstretched. "'Tis but a result of fighting the pain for so long,"

"If you wish," Pippin replied while taking a seat. Frodo soon fell asleep, but Pippin remained with him until Sandy arrived, at which point the Took made a beeline for the door, requesting that he tell Frodo he had said he was sorry, but he had to leave.

Sandy agreed and checked in on his patient. Frodo looked worn out, still more each day. This would doubly secure the success of Sandy's plan. Frodo's emotions would be overly sensitive. He gave Frodo a small dose of the harmful drug to ensure Frodo would remain asleep before he stepped out of the room to return to his evil plotting.

Pippin came by yesterday. I suppose Sandy must have told him I was here. How many others will know before I leave here? Surely, he only told Pip because he is my cousin; surely, he would not just tell anyone. I was relieved that Pippin stopped by because my back was hurting badly, and I could not get up to even search for the medicine.

Just how much longer will I have to stay here? I hope to be at the Cotton's before tomorrow afternoon, for that is when Sam, my former friend, returns, and I don't want him to "worry" over me. I think I shall take Arwen's place on the ship if he proves for sure not to be a friend. The only one I have is Sandy, but he is not that close. I shan't ever miss him as much as I will those who I cared for more deeply – Merry, Pippin, Sam, and Uncle Bilbo (though Uncle Bilbo may come with me).

Perhaps being with the elves can keep me from having those dreams I now have. Everyday I am here; I fear I shall have them again. They are horrible. I do not wish to have them again, nor do I think I can bear them again. I just feel down still, though I am beginning to feel happy. How long will the ability to be happy, the privilege, stay? I hope forevermore. F.B.

Sandy smiled evilly as he returned the journal to the spot where he had found it. Frodo had made the mistake of leaving it out in the open when he had hobbled slowly, yet much quicker than before, to the kitchen. Sandy had seized the opportunity to look for ways to play Frodo for a fool and further his plans.

What he had found at the beginning was a bunch of nonsense as far as he was concerned – tales of the outside world, riders dressed in black upon black horses, something called an orc, a giant spider, a creature named Gollum – and he skimmed through that. Then, he got to where it interested him. It was perfect. Frodo was suicidal, which he thought a bonus. Perhaps he could get rid of Frodo a little more permanently than he had ever thought possible.

Sandy quickly composed himself and prepared to act as Frodo's friend. He walked in the kitchen quietly, finding his patient sitting serenely in a chair deep in though. "Hello, Frodo."

"How is your back doing?" he asked, cringing inwardly. It sickened him to speak in that manner with the hobbit that, as he saw it, was responsible for the downfall of Lotho. He had to avenge that for his relative. Bag End was theirs, not any Baggins, Brandybuck, Gamgee, or Took's (related to the Baggins). The others were not noble enough to have it, as they spent time with the Bagginses everyday. Nevertheless, he continued talking to Frodo only to ensure the success of his plan.

"It still hurts, but it is much better," replied Frodo with a grimace as he turned his attention to his back.

Frodo sighed. "Thank you, Sandy. I reckon it is good that I no longer need as much."

"Yes, it is," Sandy answered, while digging through the cabinets until he finally pulled a bottle out triumphantly. "Here you are," he added, while pouring the purplish liquid into the small cup and handing it to Frodo.

"Thank you." Frodo quickly drank down the medicine and took a few sips of water to cleanse his mouth of the taste.

"When do you think I can go back to the Cotton's?" he asked after the flavor was out of his mouth.

"Ah…a good sign that you are feeling better, wanting to return to your dwelling place," Sandy replied, forcing on a wanton smile.

"Oh, nothing. It's just that I'm – well, I am going to miss you." He took a seat across from Frodo. "You see, I've never had a friend before that was like you, none so trusting, so kind. None, other than you, ever fully trusted me, depended on me…oh, there was one not too long ago that I thought was my best friend – he'd go wherever I went – but he turned out to just be after a good reputation by spending time with me. He would do so with any member of my family if they would let him be their friend, just for the reputation our upheld name provided. I would not put it past him to even marry one in our family…my sister even, just to get back at me for figuring out he was not a true friend and scarring his name."

Sandy grew silent suddenly, as though remembering something from long ago, allowing Frodo's emotions to get him worked up as he contrasted Sandy's friendship with his friendship with Sam.

"We were practically brothers," continued Sandy as he saw emotions of sadness, longing, and hurt appear in Frodo's face. "It was like a blow to the face when I found him out. I thought I was dumb and very naïve at first…even a fool, but then I realized –" Sandy began to break down to make it seem real, which it was to some extent. "I'm sorry; he was just such a good friend. I realized that he was the fool; it was he who was naïve and dumb for thinking I would never find out, for playing me for a fool. A lot of time invested in that friendship – a lot of wasted time it seems now." Sandy was no longer crying, but his voice was bitter.

"I'm so sorry," Frodo said quietly. "I know what that feels like. I too, recently, have lost a friend, one who was like a brother."

"Yes, my gardener, Samwise. I now think he may have been after Bilbo's treasure. No matter, let's not dwell on the unfortunate past hurts."

"Let's," replied Sandy in agreement. The second phase of his plan was complete. Now, he would stop putting medicine in Frodo's food, allowing the dreams to come back, and let him go to town and return to the Cotton's. Then, he would be rejected and would either flee to Bree, or, even better, be gone form the world for good. He had Frodo's trust, so if he ran back, he could convince him to flee to Bree, never to return, promising occasional visits. It was all too easy. He would get what he wanted. Frodo would be miserable, while he was living in luxury, happy the Baggins name was removed from the Shire forever.

Sandy stood. "Well, I must open the doors for patients. You stay back here though so you can easily get to the medicine when you need it."

"Yes, I will stay back here, but you need to eat your breakfast first," Frodo replied, looking up.

"I ate it before you got up. I'll check on you later." With that, Sandy walked to his office on the other side of his home.

As soon as he unlocked the door, a worried-looking Sancho Proudfoot came in. Worried without cause. He had no idea that Sandy had any plans to eliminate Frodo from the Shire. "Sandy, the Cotton's are worried. They are getting suspicious."

"Yes, Sancho, I am sure. He's almost got his strength back. Anyway, go! Frodo wishes the Cottons not to see him until he returns. Assure them before they come over here."

Sandy stood and shut the door. I hope that he can keep them away, he thought. My plan will be ruined if they come. At that time, his first patient came in, and he had not time to worry the rest of the day.

March 25, 1420 S.R.

Life is better now, more bearable. I possess no desire to escape to the nothingness I formerly considered a haven. There is no need, for I have a friend whom I can trust. Sandy is a Godsend; just in the time I needed a friend, he was there. It all seems so selfish now, the course of actions I was considering to take, the way I viewed everybody, though I still doubt Sam, Merry, and Pippin were truly friends. Why did I consider ending my life? I was miserable, falsely thinking that no one would want to be my friend. I still feel worn, feel the emotional damage from the Quest at times, my longing for the Ring; the physical damage, as well – the wound from the Nazgǘl blade, Shelob’s sting. However, life is a bit more bearable with a friend.

It is as I feared though. The dreams returned all throughout yesterday whenever I slept. It is quite discomforting. I awoke absolutely terrified, limbs shaking, beads of sweat upon my brow. I was at Mount Doom the first time (Sam), then Bree (all four betrayed), and lastly before the mines of Moria where that creature attacked me, and the entire Fellowship left me to die without a second thought. F.B.

Frodo closed the burgundy book after placing the white bookmark on his page. After he bathed and dressed (for he felt he was to leave today), he put it in his weskit pocket and walked out of the room toward the kitchen. All his movement was still slow and painful, but not nearly as painful and slow as before. His back muscles were rapidly regaining their strength, for he had mostly lied down in the bed.

Sandy looked up from his morning gazette as Frodo greeted, "Good morning, my friend!"

Sandy smiled. "Glad to see you up and dressed. That’s good, for I was planning on sending you back to Cotton’s today," he replied cheerfully.

Frodo’s heart sank. He thought Sandy would keep him until he was ready to go. Even though he had planned to leave that morning and wanted to announce it, Frodo longed to have Sandy insist on him staying another few days, which he would have insisted he did not need because Sandy had done too much for him already. "Oh," was all Frodo said, swallowing his disappointment.

"Of course, I will give you some medication to take with you, friend," Sandy continued while stuffing food onto a plate for Frodo and giving it to him.

"Thank you," Frodo said gratefully as he received the plateful of food.

"And, you will need to buy another bandage for your back so you can have one on while you’re washing the other. Then, may I suggest, some new pants would be nice. Those have quite a few patches, good for work but not for special occasions."

Frodo looked at his pants. They did have quite a few patches, as could be expected since he had not yet thought to buy new ones since returning to the Shire as he had been spending much time away from other hobbits. "Right."

"You can do all that before returning to the Cotton’s home," Sandy added with faked feigned friendliness.

"Alright, then. I will do it." Frodo began to eat, and Sandy returned to his gazette.

Frodo walked down the lane to the fence as quickly as his slightly throbbing back allowed him to. He opened the gate and closed it behind him, continuing on at a decent pace. Before he knew it, he was at the mercantile.

Everyone backed away as he entered. Odd, he thought. A boy backed into him while playing with a friend, and everyone gasped in fear.

The boy’s brown eyes watered as he timidly begged, "Please, Mr. Baggins. Please, don’t hurt me! I d-didn’t mean to, sir, honest!"

Frodo stood there horror-stricken. The little boy was afraid of him – they all were! Questions buzzing in his head, Frodo ran out of the mercantile, not caring about his throbbing back as tears blinded him. The sky, dark with storm clouds, grew even more threatening as thunder sounded and lightning flashed in the distance. No one cared. Even Sandy probably did not truly care. What else could Sandy’s eagerness to rid Frodo’s presence from his house mean? Everyone thought him a grumpy old hobbit who would hurt someone over the smallest things. No doubt various Sackville-Bagginses had caused this.

Sandy had always acted so standoffish, but Frodo had overlooked it. And, what of the reoccurrence of dreams last night? Did that not prove that Sandy was not who he seemed to be? Then, there was the constant disappearing Sandy did when he was sleeping. Into town, Sandy had said he had gone, but why? Could he not be the cause of some of the fear Frodo had just witnessed in the mercantile?

Frodo thrust his body forward, running through the rain, the mud recoiling beneath his feet. The trees passed by in a blur. Lightning flashed in the distance. Thunder roared in the sky, and the wind howled as it gusted by, pushing everything in its path. Frodo nearly stumbled into a tree, but his eyes, keen from the morgul stab, spotted it before hand.

Why had everyone believed a lie? That hurt him the most. They all knew him so well before the Quest. How had they come to fear him so? Sam had become the unlikely hero, that he had known and respected, but this fear that his fellow hobbits possessed toward him was unnatural. How did they believe that he was – well, whatever it was they thought he was? He had been a gentlehobbit, well-to-do, simply a member of the community, yet they thought the Quest had changed him so much. It had changed him, but he would not act any different. He would not hurt his beloved kin. Had he not shown that when he refused to bear a sword in their battle against Saruman and Grima? Had he not shown that through going to Mordor and nearly dying so they could continue in freedom?

Frodo reached the bridge, no longer crying, but he bore a pained expression. He clutched the railing tightly.

"This is it, Frodo; this is it," he murmured to himself in the dark as rain began to fall. His breath was shallow. "It’s now or never. No one is here to stop you." Frodo began to sob, afraid to do the crime he was thinking of committing.

Never in his life had Frodo felt more alone, more frightened, more rejected in his life. Never before had he needed someone as much as he did, standing there above the flowing stream.

The rain pelted down in the pretense of a storm upon the jagged rocks that towered slightly over the brook. Frodo did not even notice the water hitting his face.

"Come on, jump. You need to do it. No one can stop you. No one cares what happens to you anymore. There’s no point to living, fool! Jump; jump…" Tears came down his face, intertwining with the raindrops. "Come now, sit down on the railing and fall, plummeting to the waiting rocks below. Quickly, now."

Frodo moaned softly as he stepped onto the railing and lowered his body to a sitting position.

"Mister Frodo?" came a familiar voice faintly through the roaring pit-pat of the rain falling from the heavens above. "Mr. Frodo?!"

"Go away, Sam."

"Mister Frodo, what are you doing?" Sam asked, hoping he was not witnessing what he knew deep down he was witnessing.

"I think you know, Sam. Now go away," Frodo demanded, his voice harsh to cover the fact that he was crying.

"Why, Mr. Frodo; why!?" Sam shouted to be heard over the rainfall.

"No one cares about me, not even you!"

"Yes, I do! So do Merry and Pippin!"

"How do I know that? You abandoned me. So often since we returned. Then, Merry hardly came over, and when he did, the visits were short-lived. Pip’s the only one of you three that even slightly seems to care!"

"That’s not true, Mr. Frodo, sir! Sure, I reckon I done gone off too much, but ya see, sir, I had to. I’m here now, ain’t I? Please, Mr. Frodo, let me show you something, give me one chance to prove it to you, and if what you see don’t prove it, then, you can come back here," Sam replied hurriedly. He only hoped what he wanted to show him – the reason he was gone so long – would make his friend reconsider.

"What could you possibly have to show me that would prove you to be my friend?" Frodo asked; his head cocked as he was listening.

"Sir, it’s a surprise. You got to trust me, Mr. Frodo. Please, just this once? I’ll – I’ll let you come back here and do what you set out to do. It’s the whole reason I gone off so much – a surprise for you. Please Mr. Frodo!" Tears choked Sam’s voice now.

Frodo began to stir, "Alright, but when I don’t see it prove anything close to you being my true friend, I am coming back here." Suddenly, Frodo screamed. He thrust his body to try to grab hold of the railing with his other hand, succeeding only in making his one hand slip on the wet railing.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam screamed, rushing to the aid of his friend.

Frodo’s body dangled and he looked down. He quickly looked up, fear filling his face. Sam looked painfully down at his master’s helpless form revealed by the small amount of moonlight allowed to shine through the dark clouds and blanket of rain. Frodo began more violently to thrust his body toward the railing. "Help me!" he screamed before his hand completely slipped off the railing.

Like a flash of lightning, Sam’s hands quickly grabbed Frodo’s. He struggled to pull his friend back up, and his efforts seemed in vain until suddenly he slipped, falling backwards, pulling Frodo’s body upon his own.

Frodo stood instantaneously. "Come now, let’s go see this little thing you want to show me." He was shocked, though he did not show it in any way, that Sam had rescued him. Perhaps he is a friend indeed, he thought hopefully, but a stronger voice replied, More likely he needs you to find Bilbo’s treasure in the ruins of Bag End. Frodo shook his head violently.

"Are you alright, Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam with genuine concern.

"Yes," Frodo replied curtly. "Now, let’s go quickly."

Frodo could not understand it. Why was Samwise taking him to the site of his former home? It had been destroyed. Nothing was there, save ruins of the walls and furniture that had made and decorated the home. It is as I said. He is after the treasure, Frodo thought sadly.

Sam led on, his face sober yet stoic as he thought of what had almost happened to his friend. He had just been on his way to town to find Frodo and tell him some wonderful news. Then, the storm came in and he had found Frodo climbing on the railing of the bridge. To him, it had only meant one thing.

But why had Frodo wanted to do something like that? He had said no one was his friend. What had given him that idea? Perhaps they – no, he – should have spent more time with his friend. Were the emotional effects of bearing the Ring so long deeper than just a few bad dreams as Frodo had let on?

Sam shook his head sadly before rounding a corner, the corner on which hinged all his hopes of his friend, his master deciding to persevere, to go on, any hope of Frodo viewing life as worthwhile and valuable. The wooden door glistened in the sunlight, including the perfectly centered doorknob. The windows sparkled. The newly restored hobbit hole looked inviting. Sam turned his head to see Frodo’s reaction.

Frodo’s face remained stoic even though inside his heart caught in his throat from pure excitement. Amazed, he walked up to the fence post and ran his hand around the adorning ball. Slowly, he walked to the door and turned the knob. It seemed to him that his own limbs were hesitant to move, afraid it was all just another dream. How he wished Bilbo were there! His knees were wobbly, but he found strength to go on. "Good workmanship," Frodo noted, still without any sign of emotion. "Who did this?"

"Merry, Pippin, and I, sir," replied Sam, cheeks crimson.

Frodo turned to look his gardener in the eyes. "You did?"

"Yes, sir. We did. That’s why we ain’t been out much to visit you like we should." Sam shifted, silently hoping Frodo was at least entertaining the idea that they could be trusted.

Frodo turned the knob and stepped inside. The furniture had carefully been made to look like that which had been destroyed. Everything was precisely where it had been when Frodo had sold it to Lobelia begrudgingly a year ago. "Wh-who did this?" he asked, near to crying tears of happiness. Someone did care enough to do this for him!

"My gaffer made the frames; my mother made the cushions with Rosie’s help, and Merry, Pip, and me placed everything," Sam answered earnestly.

"And you all did this for me?"

"Yes, cousin," Merry said as he and Pippin emerged from behind the wall.

"For me?" Frodo repeated. He received assuring nods from all three of his companions. Frodo fell to his knees, facing his cousins and his arms uplifted, tears threatening to spill. "All this for me, while I was thinking badly of you? While I was being selfish? I don’t deserve this; I don’t deserve all of this." Frodo remained on his knees in disbelief. His eyes saw all that surrounded him; his ears heard his friend’s voices; he felt his surroundings. This was not a dream, but reality. "Thank you," came a quiet voice as he stood and hugged and kissed each of his friends on the foreheads. "Would you please forgive me?" Tears flowed freely now.

"Of course we will, Frodo," Pippin replied with a smile as he embraced his cousin. "In fact, nothing needs to be forgiven," added Pippin quickly as an elbow landed on his ribs.

Frodo smiled shyly. I’m not alone, Frodo realized. I was never alone.

.El Fin.

Alone by FrodoBaggins_88