Author's note: I'm rubbish at angst-fics, so I can certainly use your advice! This is my attempt to reveal how Frodo felt on October 6th, 1420, the two-year anniversary of the attack in the dell under Weathertop, a day he fell ill again, and perhaps the day he began fighting with himself over whether to pass over the Sea to healing.

Disclaimer: I own naught but myself. if I even own myself. Maybe my best friend owns me, who knows?

Frodo couldn't bear the fire that seemed to be consuming his left shoulder, nor the dark memories of the cruel Morgul-blade that had pierced his shoulder two years before on that day. He felt exceptionally cold, as if the warmth sustaining his life was draining out of him. His left arm felt tingly and oddly limp, nearly unusable. As the memory of the grim wound tortured the 52-year-old hobbit, he was cruelly reminded of the simple fact that he would never be fully healed of the wounds of the long burden in the form of the Ring. On every other day of the year, it took one glance at the missing middle finger on his right hand and he remembered every detail of his role as Ring-Bearer with a wave of anguish.

The Ring. Frodo knew it was odd that such a tiny thing could wreak so much malicious havoc. It was ironic how an unobtrusive object could contain the life force of the cruelest servant of the dark Vala Morgoth, the fallen Maia Sauron. The hobbit couldn't help but wonder if yet another Dark Lord could come to Middle-earth, as Sauron wasn't Morgoth's only supporter.

Frodo shifted position in the chair where he sat and felt another slice of pain cut across his own wound. His face paled as he bent forward massaging his shoulder. Was there no end to this ceaseless torment? Was there no hope?

Suddenly, the ailing Halfling's hand brushed against something: a white gem hanging about a chain on his neck. Frodo's right hand closed around the gem, a gift from Arwen upon his departure from the High City, and he willed it to be a source of comfort. It did seem to lessen the pain, as it had back in March on the anniversary of his poisoning by Shelob. Nonetheless, Frodo's heart was still grieved. He knew that he had failed in his task, and the only factor that had saved Middle-earth was Gollum's biting off the finger wearing the Ring. If Sauron had managed to regain the One Ring, as he doubtless would have had Frodo attempted to act upon the vision he'd seen putting on the Ring for the final, crucial time, Middle- earth would have been doomed, and Frodo would either had been killed or reduced to a gibbering servant, either way responsible for the fall of Middle-earth and the descending of a great, impenetrable darkness.

"Is there no way out?" Frodo bitterly said aloud. He was heartily weary of being reminded of his failure day in and day out, particularly on the anniversaries of attaining any of his bleak physical wounds. Nevertheless, it was the emotional torture tat Frodo found excruciating. He knew he would be able to handle two laborious days of the year if only he had succeeded in his task. Why couldn't I have just died on Mount Doom? This bitter thought crossed Frodo's mind with a flash. I just want an escape. Frodo still held fast to the question he had asked Gandalf the previous year. "There is no real going back. Though I nay return to the Shire, it will not seem the same, for I won't be the same. I am wounded by knife, sting, and tooth, along with a long burden. Where shall I find rest?" Gandalf had not answered, but given an odd look of pity and.. something unexplainable. Characters such as Gandalf had a lot going on in their heads, Frodo knew, that he would never be able to comprehend.

Suddenly, another memory came to Frodo's mind: Arwen's words at their parting. She had explained how she had chosen mortality and certain death for the love of Aragorn as the renowned Luthien had done for Beren One- Hand. She had told Frodo that as she'd chosen not to depart over ea, Frodo would be able to go in the stead when the time came and if he desired it. Frodo considered that Arwen had said that if his hurts still grieved him and the memory of his burden was crushingly heavy, then he would be permitted to pass into the West, a rare exception of mortal creatures, until all his wounds and weariness were healed.

Frodo exhaled raggedly, a small sigh of wistful yearning. He had thought of what Arwen had sad about the Grey Havens previously, but this was the first time he had began to seriously entertain this thought of hope. Merely returning to the Shire was doing naught for him. It would be a wrench to leave behind Merry, Pippin, Sam, Rosie, and the other precious few close friends he had, but Frodo knew that his near-constant feeling of despair was unquestionably a heavy recollection of his long encumbrance.

He also desired to see Bilbo once more. Frodo suddenly recalled what Elrond had said upon taking leave of Rivendell. Elrond had said the puzzling words of, "I think Frodo, that maybe you will not need to return unless you come very soon. For about this time of the year, when the leaves are gold before they fall, look for Bilbo in the woods of the Shire. I shall be with him." If he remembered correctly, Elrond had said those words this very day a year before. Frodo had never spoken of these words to a breathing soul, but he puzzled over them, and wondered when Bilbo would make his appearance. Could indeed this year be when Bilbo would make his final long journey? Frodo felt a faint glimmer of hope, wishing that Bilbo would visit this very day. His glassy blue eyes flickered in the direction of the window to his study, half-wondering if Bilbo would be outside. Could something good possibly happen on this accursed day? Frodo was disappointed to see nothing but the blue sky, and golden leaves blowing about in the faint wind.

Frodo brought to mind another depressing memory: that of the scouring of the Shire. He couldn't help but feel an involuntary shudder pass through him every time he passed through the door to Bag End, his home. He could remember the passing of Saruman and Grima Wormtongue with a burning clarity. Saruman, after having attempted to end Frodo's life only to be foiled by the hidden mithril corselet, had told Frodo that he'd "grown very much" and was now wise and cruel, and made the dour prophecy the Frodo would have neither good health or long life. Frodo knew the fallen wizard had been correct about Frodo's lack of good health, but long life? Frodo had to wonder: how much of his life span, exactly, had been cut away by the wounds of his long burden? Was it possible to die from a crushed heart and broken spirit, or from physical distress?

After walking away, Saruman had ordered Wormtongue to follow, Frodo remembered. He, Frodo, had made an offer to Wormtongue to be permitted to stay a while, and have food and rest in Bag End for a while. Saruman had mimicked Frodo, and then mocked Wormtongue, saying that the deluded man had murdered Lotho Sackville-Bagins of his own free will when in reality, Saruman had corrupted, confused, and enchanted the wretched man. Wormtongue had finally reached the end of his tether when Saruman implied that Wormtongue had no mind of his own and kicked him in the fact, and had slit the wizard's throat, therefore committing the most heroic, honorable deed of his career. When he ran off, three hobbits mercilessly shot him in the back, ending the miserable story of Grima Wormtongue's life.

Immediately following his death, a grey, sickening mist departed from the shell of Saruman, leaving behind a horrible spectacle, rags of skin on top of a hideous skull. Frodo remembered that, unable to stomach the sight, he had covered Saruman's corpse with the skirt of a dirty cloak lying next to him.

There was a knock at the door of the study, and Sam, friend of friends, most faithful of servants, entered the room. At the sight of his servant, Frodo brought up memory upon memory of pain, darkness, and Sam's support throughout the entirety of the ordeal, whether it was his attempts at comfort en route to Rivendell after Weathertop, or carrying him for the final portion of the journey, taking pity upon his master yet holding him in utmost reverence, after Frodo was obliged to crawl toward his destination, unable to walk.

"What's the matter, Mr. Frodo?"

These words echoed in Frodo's aching head, and took a while to register. "I am wounded," Frodo said glumly, "wounded, it will never really heal." Suddenly, the pain evaporated. Surprised, Frodo rose to his feet, perhaps the gem had been responsible for this sudden freedom from pain. His hopes revived, Frodo rose to his feet, ready to comfort Sam.

The End

Author's Note: Well, that's it, hope it wasn't too crappy. Please give me your feedback, advice, and opinion. Flames are welcome with open arms, as I find them rather amusing. I hope I did at least a halfway decent job of remaining in Frodo's character, retaining his core personality traits. If you think I have even the slightest glimmer of decency as a writer, please read the fanfic of mine titled, "The Two Unknown," and give me pointers (or "counsel", in Middle-Earth idioms) on improving the story.