I snatched the most recent preview of The Lord of the Rings online a few days back and this is what came of it . . . .

                I hope you enjoy!

                DISCLAIMER:  J. R. R. Tolkien owns any and all things to do with Middle-earth.  He must count himself lucky, for such a gentlehobbit as Frodo Baggins held the fate of Middle-earth in his small hands--and never dropped it.

FOR MIDDLE-EARTH

                "Frodo!"  Night's silence was shattered at the scream.  Horse hoofs pounded upon the hard earth, thudding as would a drumbeat proclaiming war.  Merry's cry sent shivers up Frodo's spine and his stomach twisted painfully.  All around him was darkness; naught could pierce this evil gloom.  He knew the Dark Rider came.  He could feel the land shiver as the chill creature neared, drawing nigh it's goal.

                "Run, Frodo!"

                No.  Frodo looked around but he could not find the other hobbits.  My friends. 

                The ground rumbled beneath him.  His shaking hand slid to the hilt of Sting and he pulled it forth in a burst of radiant light.  Night vanished in the twinkling of an eye--to be replaced by the blue swell of the ancient elven blade.  He held it on high, a beacon in a sea of evil.

                "Behind you, Frodo!"

                The hobbit turned, his cloak shushing softly in the still night.  The glare of Sting washed over the steele visage of both fell Rider and horse as they bore down on the tiny figure.  Screams that ought to have held words filled the air, though Frodo--in his own terror--could not distinguish them.  He held Sting before him, even as he knew that ought he tried would fail. 

                The Black Rider was too close.

                Frodo never even saw the sword fall down in a fatal arc.  He never felt the pain erupt in his breast; never even felt the ground whelm up before him.  All he knew was that he now looked into heaven's eyes.  Stars from up high stared down at him from their heavenly thrones--twinking in recognition, as if they knew (in their own secret ways) he would soon be joining them.

                "Frodo!"

                His name was screamed in three different voices.

                He felt the pain now.  Oh, how he felt it.  His chest burned as though he laid face down in a dwarven forge.  As if the fire of Smog whelmed in his very chest.  The brilliant stars faded in their glory and night began to overwhelm them.

                "Mister Frodo!"

                Run, he tried to call to his friends but it came out in naught but an imagining of his own mind.  My dear friends . . . .

                Frodo felt arms engulf him.  A face filled with grief blotted out the remaining stars and looked into the Ring-Bearer's clouded eyes.  Frodo couldn't be certain, but it seemed tears stained the hobbit's cheeks.

                "Die, demon spawn!"

                Frodo heard the cry as if from far away.  It took him a moment to untangle the words in his pain-ravaged mind but when he did, despair and dread assailed him.

                Pippin!

                "Pippin!"

                The scream echoed Frodo's cry, and held naught but pain and grief.

                The arms that he numbly felt beneath him shifted, and the beautiful face before him turned.  Sam fell away from Frodo, to be swallowed up by the darkness.

                "Sam!  Go to Frodo!  Protect Frodo!"

                "But Pippin!"

                "Protect Frodo!"

                Darkness overwhelmed him; crawling forth from the corners of his conscious to spread and conquer like a diseased spider.  Frodo's mind reeled.

                "Protect Frodo!"

                No, not Frodo.  The hobbit's breath slowed.  The Ring.  Protect the Ring . . . .

                Clashes of metal on metal rang out sharply.  "For Pippin!" a deep voice cried above the music of the swords.  "For Frodo!"

                For Middle-earth.

                A cry of pain told of the battle's end and Samwise's voice carried to his Master's ears, "Merry, no!"

                A triumphant scream split the air, unhuman in every and any aspect.  The forest's leaves shivered and trembled as a cool breeze sprung up.  From the shadows, Sam ran to his fallen Frodo and he knelt beside him, tears running from his brown eyes.

                "Mister Frodo, Mister Frodo!" Sam cried to his beloved Master.  "Forgiv--"  Sam's eyes sprang wide and he cut off in a choking gasp. 

                A sword had blossomed from his chest.

                His lips parted in a silent scream, his eyes glazing over.  In that moment, as death passed over his friend's face, Frodo fancied that perhaps Sam saw the small town of Hobbiton nestled comfortably in the very heart of the Shire.  A place where evil never came.

                With a jerk and a shudder, Sam fell to the ground and lay still, never to rise again.

                A cloaked figure rose from the shadows, its hand wrapped firmly around the hilt of a bloodied sword. 

                The Black Rider gazed down upon the broken Ring-Bearer, held out a gloved hand and hissed into the still night air, "The Ring . . . ."

                Frodo jerked awake with a start and a cry.  His breath came out in sharp, ragged gasps and his body trembled--of a chill or fright, he knew not.  He brought his hands to his face and felt tears upon his cheeks.

                Sam!

                Frodo scrambled to a sitting postition and looked around in fear and dread.  A small cooking fire crackled before him, radiating a soft warmth that kept night's chill at bay.  Staring into its dancing depths, Frodo swallowed some bile that had worked its way into his throat.  He looked around him, his body trembling in what could've been but wasn't.

                Not two feet away, Samwise laid snoring softly, his cloak wrapped securely around him.  Tears streamed down Frodo's face.

                A dream.  Naught but a dream.

                Past Sam--snuggled almost too close to the fire--laid Pippin.  He breathed deeply, enwrapped within fair dreams.  Beside him, Merry twitched uneasily and moaned.  Rolling over in his sleep to face Pippin--his nose naught but three inches from his cousin's--he sighed contently.

                Naught but a dream.

                Frodo looked to the far side of the fire and saw Legolas resting against the thick trunk of a tree, bow near to hand.  Three feet away, Gimli slept with his back to an ancient stone, snoring loudly with his dwarven battle ax laid across his lap.  Boromir laid stretched upon the earth.

                At first, Frodo could not spy the Ranger, but as his eyes adjusted to the dark he searched the shadows outside the fire's reach.  There Strider sat, watching the sleeping company with eyes like a hawk.  His dark eyes fell upon the hobbit.

                "You should be asleep, Frodo," he said softly.

                "I--I know," Frodo returned in a whisper.

                "Tomorrow we go to save Middle-earth."

                The hobbit turned from the Ranger and looked at the fire's blaze.  It's tendrils licked hungrily at the night about it, its light reflecting in his eyes.

                "Aye, to save Middle-earth," Frodo said to himself.  He looked to the slumbering forms of his fellow hobbits and wondered if they knew this simple truth, and--if not--would the realization come too late.

                There you have it--another fic where Frodo is tormented by the Ring.  Review for me, k?