Disclaimer: Frodo isn't mine, but Elijah Wood is…he just doesn't know it yet.
"Sixth of October"
Frodo woke up sweating, tears of panic streaming down his face. No….it's gone he thought as he searched desperately for the Ring. Smeagol has betrayed us….Sauron will have it…I failed….
Soon, though, the panic subsided and he realized he had only been dreaming and feverish. He climbed out of bed to open the window with his legs shaking under him. Suddenly the familiar mist fell over his eyes again and he fought to blink it away. His legs collapsed under him and his sight cleared when his head struck the ground.
He opened his eyes to find decaying figures standing over him. "Boromir, I'm sorry," he whispered softly to the man in the shadows. "I'm so sorry."
"Where is the Ring, halfling?" Saruman demanded. Frodo tried to tear his eyes away from the grotesque form; worms were moving through his beard and where his eyes once were. "Where is it?"
Frodo licked his cracked lips, holding back tears from the terror. "It is over! The Ring has been destroyed!"
"You think this is over, dear cousin?" Lotho sneered. "Far from it." He picked Frodo up by his shirt collar while the creature next to him began searching his pockets.
"We knows he has its somewhere. Where is its? Where is my Precious?" Smeagol hissed to himself.
Frodo wanted to fight him off, but his arms were cold again and pinned to his sides. "They are dead! They can't be here," he said, his voice pleading and he closed his eyes, trying to block out the images.
Then his head snapped back. "You are gone!" he screamed. "You were destroyed!" But the Eye only continued watching him.
Sam raced down the hall and into Frodo's room. The blankets were pulled off the bed and Frodo was tangled up in them on the floor.
"Mr. Frodo?" he reached out to hold him, but Frodo pulled away. Sam picked him up gently and noticed how light he was, almost as light as he had been at Mount Doom and he his clothes were soaked in sweat. "It will be alright, Mr. Frodo," he said, trying to calm him.
The orcs of Cirith Ungol surrounded him once more. He knew what they wanted. The Ring. The Ring he didn't have. One held him up by the back of his shirt while another dragged a claw along the scar on his shoulder. Blood flowed down his arm from the reopened wound and along his side, while the orcs laughed and licked the blood off of their hands. He could smell their breath and rotted meat in their teeth when they mocked him.
"Sam! Please help me," he cried.
Sam cleaned the sweat and tears off his master's face with a cool cloth. Frodo was calling to him, unaware of his comforting words and Sam's heart was breaking because of it. He pulled the blanket closer to Frodo's wounded shoulder, trying to warm the icy skin and, at the same time, get rid of the fever that had attacked the rest of his body.
He wanted to get help, but couldn't leave his friend's side, not when no one else home to care for him. If only Rosie weren't visiting her mother he thought.
There was nothing he could do except comfort Frodo and wait for the sixth of October to pass.