Author's Notes: As long as I've been a fan of both the books and the movies, I'm kinda surprised I haven't taken the time to write a Lord of the Rings fic before now. Maybe I was just lazy, or maybe the scope of the stories just seemed too huge for me to effectively break into without making a complete fool of myself. I tend to be more critical of my work than other people are, after all. Whatever the reason, though, I want to rectify it. Thus was born this story.

This fic is pre-trilogy, so Bilbo is still in the Shire, Frodo has yet to officially come of age, he thinks Bilbo's ring is just a fancy trinket, etc. I haven't decided how long before the trilogy, but that's not relevant, so I won't stress on it. It's not terribly long before the trilogy; I'll just leave it at that.

I don't want to classify this as a "movie-" or "book-related" fanfic. I'll try to keep it neutral in terms of character portrayal, timeline, etc. However, if something seems biased toward the movie canon, I don't want to hear book-purists whining about it. I swear, the people who nitpick at the movies just because they don't follow the books to the letter really need to get a life. They're just detracting from their own (and other people's) enjoyment of it. And yes, I'm a huge fan of the books (I've read them at least three times), so don't tell me I don't appreciate the masterpiece that they are. You'd just be fooling yourself.

Anyway, personal opinions aside, The Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are copyright J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate. I'm only hoping to pay a bit of homage to one of the greatest stories of our time with this humble little endeavor of mine.

The Thirtieth of September
By Annie-chan

"Hullo, Mister Frodo!"

Frodo froze, momentarily frightened, before he realized that it was just old Tom Cotton passing by in his pony-driven cart. The cart was piled high with sacks, and some baskets of apples and pears were balanced precariously on top. The sacks, it was easy to deduce, were likely stuffed with freshly-harvested vegetables. The harvesting season was just getting started, and Cotton was taking the first yields of his crops to the market in Hobbiton to sell.

Frodo gave a half-smile and a wave, indicating that he had heard, but the old farmer was already past the younger Hobbit, and didn't see his acknowledgement. He just drove on, whistling absently to himself, contemplating the rest of the harvest that had yet to come.

The young Baggins watched Farmer Cotton go, though his mind wasn't entirely registering what his eyes were seeing. His thoughts were elsewhere, as they had been for the entire day now.

He stood up from his seat on a small grass-covered knoll by the roadside, brushing stray dust and blades of grass from his pant legs as he did so. He ought to move. That was the third interruption since he had chosen this spot to sit, and he wasn't in the mood to talk to anybody. Absently, he wondered why in the world he had chosen to sit by the road if he didn't want to talk to anybody, but barely gave the question any thought.

I may as well go home, he said to himself, turning in the direction of the Hill.

The walk home was short, as he hadn't come far from Bag End, but he took it slow, his hands in his pockets, watching the wind play with the grass below him and the trees above him. Walking aimlessly and observing nature's many beauties was one of his most beloved pastimes, something he had apparently picked up from his Uncle Bilbo. It was enough to ease his current mood, and he found himself smiling softly in spite of himself.

Eventually, however, he reached the old house that he called home, and his smile faded. Part of him urged him to stay outside, to go back to the small spray of woods that he often spent many long hours daydreaming in, but he shook his head minutely to himself and went inside. Today was different than any other day, and he knew that staying in his favorite spot ultimately wouldn't release him from the melancholy that had settled over him. He didn't want to feel let down by his old "friend", so he chose to leave it behind for the time being and take refuge in Bag End.

I don't know why I still feel this way, he wondered silently, going into his bedroom and plunking down on the bed. After so many years, I should be over it. I should have moved on in my life. I shouldn't keep dwelling on it like this.

No matter how much Frodo told himself he should be over it, he knew he wasn't entirely. As happy and as carefree—if a little on the thoughtful side—that he was on the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year, this one day always threw a blanket of inescapable sadness over him. Years had passed, and he had moved on, for the most part, but this one day…this one day was different.

Uncle Bilbo says I have spirit, he smiled wryly to himself. What would he say if he knew I still felt as if the world had ended every year on this day…?

It was the thirtieth day of September, eight days after his birthday, and the anniversary of the worst day of his life. That day so long ago, barely over a week since he had turned twelve years old. The day that had broken his young, naïve, and foolish heart.

The day his parents had died…

He didn't know how long he had been staring at the ceiling. He didn't even know what time it was, to be honest. It was dark outside the little round window above his bed, and if he had cared to look, he would have seen stars twinkling in the clear sky. He hardly cared about the stars at the moment, the dark, featureless ceiling taking up most of his attention.

Tear tracks stained the child's face, his startlingly blue eyes wide with shock and despair. He felt like he was floating in nothingness, suspended in a dark void. His whole world had ended that day in the space of one moment.

Earlier that day, he had been playing a game with his friends in the fields, a combination of hide-and-seek and tag. He had been the first one to be "it", but he had snuck up on and tagged Camellia Boffin as she hid in the hollow of a tree, passing the "honor" on to her. He had lost himself in the excitement of the game, laughing and squealing with the rest of the children.

He had nearly shrieked in startlement when a voice had suddenly said his name behind him as he took refuge under a farm cart. He had looked back to see a grownup's feet standing next to the cart, and he had crawled out of his hiding place, mildly surprised to see that it was his cousin, Merimac Brandybuck.

One look in his cousin's eyes was enough to put a nervous roil in his stomach. The Brandybucks were a festive and merriment-loving clan, like most Hobbits of the Shire, and the bleak look in his eyes was enough to tell Frodo that something very, very bad had happened.

Merimac had led him home with hardly a word, ignoring the child's anxious questions as to what was wrong. When they had walked through the door, Frodo had expected to see his parents, but instead there was Merimac's older brother, Saradoc, and Saradoc's wife, Esmeralda.

Seeing his other cousin and his wife just made the simmering nervousness in Frodo's stomach erupt into a full boil. They, too, had that despairing look in their eyes, and Esmeralda looked like she had been crying.

When they told him, with as much gentleness as they could manage, that both his parents had died, it was like someone had kicked him in the gut. He had merely stood there for a few seconds, staring up at his three relatives, his mind unable to comprehend what it had just heard. And then, it was like the entire world collapsed around him as the shock of it all finally hit him. He had lost his balance, falling hard on his backside, tears raining down from his wide eyes. A miserable wail had welled up in his throat, escaping as a strangled sob. He finally lost it when Esmeralda knelt down beside him and pulled the twelve-year-old into her lap, letting him cry into her white, flower-dotted apron.

Now, hours later, he was lying in bed, supposed to be asleep, but very much awake. He had lost track of time, and for all he knew, he could have been staring at the ceiling for hours or even days. He had no way of telling in his current state.

His door was slightly open to let some light in, and down the short hall that led to the living room, he could hear the voices of Merimac, Saradoc, and Esmeralda quietly talking. He couldn't hear everything they said, but he would catch sentences here and there.

"The poor boy. I had never seen anyone so heartbroken."

"Do you think we should check on him to see if he's all right?"

"It will have to be decided where he'll live from now on."

"His mother was a Brandybuck. I'm sure Father would gladly let him stay at Brandy Hall with us."

"Foolish of them, to go out on the Brandywine after so many days of rain. I haven't seen the river so high and swift in a long time. They were practically asking for it."

"Shh! Do you want the boy to hear you?!"

"He's probably asleep anyway."

"How will this affect the public? Drogo and Primula were so well-loved in the community."

Frodo buried his head under his pillow, unwilling to listen to any more.

His mother and father had drowned in the Brandywine River that afternoon. The two of them had gone out to cross the wide river on a boat to visit his mother's family in Bucklebury, but had never reached the other shore. Several Hobbits on the far side had reported seeing a boat suddenly overturn as it struggled to cross the rushing water, and a few hours later the husband and wife were found washed ashore several miles downstream near the Sarn Ford, broken fragments of the boat scattered throughout the area. The discovery had sent an uproar through Buckland, and it was only a matter of time before it spread throughout the rest of the Shire.

The boy started to cry again as he fervently asked for the thousandth time why they hadn't crossed on the Brandywine Bridge, or gone south to the Sarn Ford. Why did they risk rowing across when the river had been swelled so by a week and a half of rain? Frodo knew even at his young age that any sensible Hobbit wouldn't take such a gamble. Then again, his father had a reputation for being reckless, apparently following the Baggins standard set down so many years ago by Frodo's uncle. That recklessness had finally caught up with him, it seemed, claiming the lives of both him and his only slightly more sensible wife.

Eventually, Frodo found crying while his head was under a pillow to be near suffocating, and he threw the pillow off and to the floor. A sudden surge of anger welled up at his parents' stupidity, and he felt an almost irresistible urge to strike something. The feeling faded as quickly as it appeared, however, leaving the poor boy confused and scared by its emergence. Confused, because of how quickly it had come and passed; scared, because the idea that he should blame his parents for their untimely death filled him with horror.

The sudden rush of emotions made him cry even harder, and he bit the sleeve of his pajamas to keep from wailing and alerting the three adults that he was awake.

For countless minutes, he sat there, hunched over, sobbing as quietly as he could. This fresh batch of tears seemed to have no end, but it finally started to taper down after a time. Soon, he had managed to reduce it down to sniffling, his eyes and face red and puffy from crying. His back was sore from being bent over, and he was sweaty from exertion.

Feeling overwhelmingly alone, Frodo slipped from his bed and exited the room. The candlelight coming from the living room was enough to temporarily blind him, and he stepped into the light squinting and hiccupping, rubbing at his eyes with a tiny fist.

"Frodo, dear!" he heard Esmeralda exclaim, and before he knew it, he was caught up in a tight hug. "Sweetheart, what are you doing up? You should be in bed! It's after midnight!"

"I c-can't sleep," the boy stammered, his chin quivering.

Esmeralda clucked her tongue. "Poor dear. Here, come into the kitchen with me. I'll get you some warm milk and something to eat."

"I'm not hungry," he said dejectedly, though he didn't resist when she gently led him toward the kitchen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his cousins watching them, their expression and posture uneasy. It was like they weren't sure how to deal with a crying child. To their credit, they probably didn't, as neither of them had children yet.

Esmeralda made him blow his nose before sitting at the table, and then busied herself with getting him the promised snack. He could tell that she was also feeling uncertain, and found comfort in giving herself something to do. Drowning—accidental death in general, actually—was such a rare occurrence in the Shire that it was a huge shock when it did happen. Having to deal with the aftermath such as a brokenhearted child was an unnerving concept for most Hobbits.

Frodo accepted the milk and buttered bread without a word and ate in silence. The bread felt like ash in his mouth, the milk having little more flavor than warm water. After finishing, he felt it sitting in his stomach like a leaden ball, making him feel slightly sick.

Bidding a numb goodnight to his elders, he trudged back down the hall to his bedroom. He had gone from hot and sweaty to cold and shivering, and no amount of comfort food would alleviate it.

He climbed back into bed and huddled under the covers, trying to find warmth in a seemingly cold, dead world.

It was near dawn before he finally fell asleep.

Two days later, he was at Brandy Hall, surrounded by his mother's family. He was familiar with the place, as he had visited many times on holidays and other such occasions, but today he was seeing it in a new light. This was no longer just a grand house carved out of the immense hillside surrounded by Bucklebury. Now, this was his home. Or it was to be his home, rather. Rorimac, Saradoc and Merimac's father and the Master of Buckland, had agreed to take Frodo in and have him live here with the Brandybucks.

Now, Frodo was curled up on the bed of a guestroom. The room was familiar to him, as he and his parents had stayed in such rooms during their visits. The belongings that he had brought with him were set here and there in the room, making the place looks rather disorganized. He had been told that the rest of his belongings would soon be moved here from Hobbiton, and he would be given a permanent room. For now, however, he was to stay in this guestroom.

I feel like such a stranger, he thought gloomily. He knew he shouldn't, as this place was far from strange to him, and he was surrounded by relatives. The terrible incident two days past, however, had drastically altered his sense of self. The sedate life that Hobbits embraced meant that untimely death was exceedingly rare, and orphans were quite an unusual thing. One day had changed Frodo from normal Hobbit child to unfortunate anomaly, and he suddenly had a distinct feeling of being an outsider. With a sinking sensation, he realized that he would never be considered "normal" again.

There was a short knock on his door, prompting him to sit up. The door opened to reveal someone who he knew he had seen before, but couldn't place a name with the face. Brandy Hall had a very large number of residents due to its size, and as Frodo had before only been here for a few days at a time, he couldn't say that he knew everyone by sight.

That will probably change soon, he thought.

"Frodo?" his nameless kinsman said. "There's someone here to see you."

"Who?" the boy asked, wondering who in the world had come to see him so soon.

"You'll see," the other Hobbit said with a bit of a smile. "Come with me."

Frodo slid off the bed and silently followed. He realized after a moment that they were going toward the outer rooms of the Hall, where guests were received and entertained. Apparently, the person who had come to see him had just arrived.

"Here he is," his guide said, leading him into a tearoom whose windows overlooked the Brandywine as it wound its way through Buckland.

Frodo took one look at the wide brownish river, shivered, and looked away. The Brandywine used to be a welcome sight, as it meant he was nearing the land his mother had come from, and where he and his parents had attended many memorable parties. He knew it would be a long time before he would be able to look at the river with ease again.

"Frodo, my lad!" a voice said, taking his attention away from avoiding the windows. The voice that reached his ears was instantly familiar, and he felt a surge of excitement despite his dark mood.

"Uncle Bilbo!" he cried, running toward the visitor. In the turmoil of the past few days, he had almost forgotten Bilbo even existed. That was quite a feat, and attested to Frodo's disoriented state of mind, as Bilbo Baggins had a far-reaching reputation as one of the oddest folks in all the Shire.

He threw his arms around his uncle—actually his cousin a few times removed—and immediately was in tears again. The Brandybucks were his family, so he felt comfortable with them, but the fact that someone from his home had come to visit him in his time of need was extraordinarily comforting. The feeling of being an outsider dimmed a bit, and he felt a twinge of normalness return to him.

"Now, now, my boy, don't cry like that," Bilbo kindly admonished, ruffling the child's hair as the Hobbit who had brought him silently exited and closed the door. "If you keep on crying like that, you'll dry right out and shrivel up like an old apple!"

Frodo felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth at his uncle's jest, and tried valiantly to stop his tears.

"In all honestly, Frodo, I don't blame you for crying," Bilbo said, his voice gentler. "If you have to cry until the sun goes down, it's your right to do so." The eccentric old bachelor knelt down to the child's level, wiping the tears from Frodo's face. "But chin up. Your mother and father wouldn't want to see their little boy looking so sad. They'd want to see you smiling."

The smile that had been playing on Frodo's lips broke out in earnest, and he even giggled shortly, though it was interrupted by a hiccup.

Bilbo guided his little cousin-nephew to a chair, then sat down himself, tugging a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and handing it to the boy.

"Well! It's a good thing that you can still smile at a time like this! You're handling this situation very well, Frodo."

Frodo wiped at his eyes with the handkerchief. "I'm glad you think so," he said, clearing his throat to speak more clearly. "I feel like the world has dropped out from under my feet."

"I'm not surprised by that," Bilbo nodded, "but I'm glad you haven't forgotten how to smile in all this."

He reached for a small tea set that Frodo hadn't yet noticed. He poured himself a cup of tea, then a cup of apple juice for Frodo from a pitcher sitting to the side of the tea tray. He handed the juice to the child with an encouraging smile.

"Thank you," Frodo said quietly, taking a sip of the juice. Apple juice was his favorite, and its familiar tart sweetness was a welcome comfort.

"I'm glad that your mother's family is so willing to take you in," Bilbo said after a sip of tea. "These things happen so rarely, that oftentimes no one knows what to do when it does." Taking a small pipe and leather pouch from another of his pockets, he placed some leaves of pipeweed into the bowl and struck a match, lighting it. Taking a long draw and letting it out in the form of some smoke rings, he looked out the window at the ever-present river. "I had mentioned wanting to take you in myself, but the look of horror on everyone's faces at that was a definite 'no'." He smiled a bit dryly. "Seems old Bilbo Baggins is just a bit too 'queer' to be trusted with raising children."

Frodo smiled softly again, looking down at the amber liquid in his cup. "Thank you, Uncle, but I…don't really care where I go to live. I don't care about a lot of things at the moment."

"That's to be expected," Bilbo nodded again. "They told me it was better for you to come to Buckland. If you were ever to come live with me, we'd have to wait until you hit your tweens to make the decision for yourself."

It was Frodo's turn to nod, still looking down into his cup. Living with his Uncle Bilbo didn't seem like a bad idea, but on the other hand, his world had just been turned upside-down. It probably wasn't the best idea to immediately go live with someone who was seen as "odd". He wasn't sure if his poor confused brain could handle it.

"Don't listen to me, Frodo," Bilbo said with a kind smile after a few more smoke rings. "Wherever you choose to live, I'm sure everyone will support you. They're just concerned with giving you peace and stability right now. You would be able to get that much better here than with me."

They sat in silence for a while, Frodo gradually draining his cup of juice, Bilbo smoking and drinking his tea. Frodo felt a welcome sense of tranquility descend over him, and for a moment he almost forgot his troubles.

"Thank you for coming, Uncle," he said quietly after he had drunk the last of the juice in his cup. "Seeing someone from home is such a comfort. You give me the feeling that somehow things will turn out all right."

"Things will turn out all right," Bilbo said, reaching across the table and patting the boy on the head. "You'll heal over time, and soon you'll be enjoying life again with all the vigor of any Hobbit."

"I'm glad you think so. It's hard for me to imagine ever being happy again, though."

"That's just your sorrow speaking, my lad. But Hobbits were never meant to be a sad people. Believe me when I say that you'll learn to find joy in life again. It's carved into your bones that you will."

Frodo silently considered that. It was hard to disbelieve anything Bilbo was saying to him right now, as fantastic and far-fetched his tales could be at other times. He knew in his heart that what Bilbo was telling him was true. It was just a far-off truth, and it would be some time yet before he would reach it.

That's okay, he thought. I have family here, and Uncle Bilbo wants to see me through this. I'll…I'll get through it…eventually.

"Now, have some more apple juice, Frodo," Bilbo said, pouring some more from the pitcher into Frodo's cup. "Are you hungry? Shall I call for lunch to be brought?"

Frodo's stomach suddenly growled at the mention of food. He hadn't eaten much the past few days, especially by Hobbit standards. His body was starting to protest the lack of adequate nourishment, and the thought of lunch with his uncle was a very welcome concept.

"Thank you, Uncle," he said, his face noticeably brightening. "I would like that very much."

Frodo sighed, withdrawing from his memories, finding himself back in his room at Bag End. He had had his first glimmer of hope his first day at Brandy Hall, and remembering it had helped to lighten his mood.

He had gotten over it eventually…for the most part at least. Now, in the waning years of his minority, he found himself with as much lust for life as any other Hobbit, just like his uncle had said. Every year on this day, however, his mood took a turn for the worse, whether he wanted it to or not. Some years it was worse than others, while some years it seemed as if he had almost conquered his annual mourning.

It was like a ritual, as if his spirit was dampened on this day simply because of what the calendar said. He knew he was beginning to be seen as "odd", just like his uncle, but he doubted anyone knew just how "odd" he was. It was not in Hobbit nature to dwell on sorrows long past, and for the first few times it occurred, Frodo thought something was wrong with him. He had learned to roll with it, however, and every year on September thirtieth, he largely secluded himself, riding out the melancholia as peacefully and easily as he could.

"Mister Frodo?" a voice suddenly said from the door, making him look up.

Sam stood there, some flowerpots in his arms. Frodo realized belatedly that the pots that decorated his windowsill were gone, and the flowers in the ones Sam was holding were just like the ones that usually stood above his bed. Sam must have been outside, transferring the flowers to larger pots to allow them to continue growing. They had been starting to overcrowd their little homes, after all.

"Hello, Sam," Frodo smiled softly, greeting his longtime friend.

"Are you all right?" the gardener asked, concern on his face and in his voice. "You looked so sad just now, like you had lost someone dear to you."

"I'm okay," Frodo replied, his smile brightening somewhat. "Just feeling a bit moody."

Sam seemed to accept that, yet still looked concerned. Bag End's younger occupant had always seemed more thoughtful and quiet than most other Hobbits, and it wasn't unheard of for him to fall into long stretches of eerie silence when he thought no one was looking. Sam had learned to read Frodo's demeanor over the years, however, and knew the difference between a simple quiet spell and genuine moodiness.

Sam crossed the room to the windowsill and placed the flowerpots in their proper places. He then turned and looked Frodo in the face. "You'll tell me if you're ever really hurting, won't you, Mister Frodo?"

Frodo smiled again. "I will. I promise." He reached up and flicked a stray bit of hair out of his eyes. "But don't worry about me right now. I'm fine."

Sam nodded, returning Frodo's smile, if a little muted. He lingered for a moment, as if waiting to see if Frodo had anything else to say, then eventually went out, leaving his employer alone again.

Frodo sighed and leaned back against the headboard. Don't worry about me, Sam, he thought, echoing his earlier words. I don't want to burden you with my problems. He felt bad about making the other Hobbit worry, but that's just how Sam was. The gardener cared a lot about his friends, and when one of them was unhappy, he was unhappy.

The young Baggins looked over to his bedside table, finding a book lying there. He had been reading it by candlelight the evening before, taking time to relax before settling down for the night. A ribbon stuck out from the pages, marking the place he had left off.

Reaching over and picking the book up, he rested it in his lap and opened it, continuing the story again from where he had stopped.

I'll be fine tomorrow…

End

Author's Notes: Thus ends my first LotR fanfic. I hope I didn't make Frodo too angsty in this. Like I said in the story, though, it's very rare for Hobbits to die untimely deaths—especially a violent death like drowning—so the shock of losing both his parents to such a tragedy hit Frodo especially hard. I tried to portray that without going overboard, as well as include a candle of hope near the end. Only you guys can tell me if I did all right, though. I'm a little too close to the situation to give myself an accurate critique.

I'm trying to break myself out of a dry spell and continue with a long-running multi-chapter I have going, and this is one of my little exercises aimed at getting my writing muscles back into shape. As a result, this story might seem a little rusty. I'm sorry if that's the case.

Anyway, let me know what you think of this. I don't write just to get feedback, but it is a nice bonus to hear people's reactions to my work. Both positive and negative feedback is welcomed, as long as the negative feedback has some form of constructive value to it. Outright flames will be printed out and shot into the sun.

…and if you know who I paraphrased that from, you are so full of win.