DISCLAIMER: All of the herein used places, characters and otherwise fictional elements are the sole property of J.R.R. Tolkien and/ or his heirs. I do not claim ownership nor is any copyright infringement intended. The plot of this work of fanfiction is mine, though.

AN: A sad day indeed is September 2nd. On this day 40 years ago in 1973 Professor Tolkien passed away. May he rest in peace.

My thanks to FairyTaleLover6 who has not only graciously agreed to beta read this story but always offers her unrelenting support. For that I am eternally in her debt.

"He was in a land of darkness where the days of the world seemed forgotten, and where all who entered were forgotten too."

The Tower of Cirith Ungol – The Return of the King, J.R.R. Tolkien

The Crow's Lament

*~March 12th to 14th of 1421 S.R.~*

Part I

"Good night then, dear cousin," cried Merry and began to laugh uproariously- a laugh that could only be a result of the vast amount of the splendid brew he had enjoyed that evening. "Don't you dare to trip and fall and land flat on your nose." Merry's voice slurred and he grinned as he became aware of the bright red blush of the addressed cousin's cheeks. Merry got up from his seat and circled the table on unsteady feet to pull his older friend into a tight hug.

"You should go home too." The one in Merry's strong embrace gasped, obviously finding it a bit difficult to pump a sufficient amount of air into his lungs. "Wouldn't want you to suffocate anyone but your own kin," he said. He chuckled and freed himself from the other Hobbit's arms.

"Well spoken, my dear Frodo, well spoken indeed." Merry laughed, holding his stomach with both his hands. "Master Samwise!" he yelled and searched the inn's large room with his eyes. "Master Samwise," he cried again, a little louder this time, since the other guests' chatter was easily drowning his claim.

"No need to shout, Mr. Merry." The sought for Hobbit appeared out of the blue next to Merry. Or at least that's what said Hobbit thought, for in his hazed state of mind his vision had grown somewhat dim.

"Master Samwise!" Merry laughed, referring to his cousin's loyal friend in a manner that was most unseemly for a Hobbit who was a simple gardener. "Frodo wishes to retire for the night, even though I think he has not yet had enough of this splendid-…." He grabbed his half pint and emptied it with one gulp. "ale," he finished, waving his cup. "Can't you convince him to stay a wee bit longer? The evening's only just begun." He watched his cousin's best friend to see what his response might be.

"It's nearing midnight, Mr. Merry, and if Mr. Frodo wishes to go home then he should do so," Sam said, then sighed. "Come, Mr. Frodo. Bag End is a mile or two away and you look mighty tired." In a quite friendly manner he placed his arm around his friend's shoulder, but drew it back instantly when he noticed Frodo flinch. "What is it, Mr. Frodo?" he asked, concern evident in his large brown eyes.

"Nothing," came Frodo's quick answer. But something in his slightly reddened blue eyes told Sam that this was not quite true. "I'm just tired and you startled me." The older Hobbit smiled at his friend in an attempt to convince him that everything was indeed all right.

"Well, then I suppose it's better I brought you home, Mr. Frodo. Masters Bilbo and Gandalf certainly would have a word with me or two, were they to find out that I did not take proper care of you," said Sam, his forehead wrinkled with determination. "And Rosie, too. She is not in the best mood with that wee one growing inside of her, and no mistake," Sam added and looked stricken. Frodo laughed when he saw the almost desperate expression on his friend's face.

"My dear Sam," he continued and smiled fondly at the younger Hobbit. "I am not a wee lad anymore and I'm perfectly able to take care of myself. You worry too much over this old Hobbit."

"That is beside the point, Mr. Frodo," Sam argued, feeling the effect of the ale himself and, as a result, was at the mercy of his somewhat loosened tongue. "You see, I made a promise once and I intend to keep it. I'm still not convinced that Master Gandalf won't turn me into something…" He hesitated for a moment obviously thinking hard. "… unnatural."

"Rosie probably wouldn't find that very agreeable," Merry chided. Again his hearty laughter could be heard throughout the inn. Sam blushed furiously at Merry's loud words. Even though Rosie was his, he still had not grown quite accustomed to the thought that such a lass like her would set her eyes only on him. "Go on then, and take Mr. Frodo home. We wouldn't want good old Gandalf to turn you into a toad." Obviously the ale had loosened Merry's tongue as well.

"Good night, Merry," Frodo said. He headed for the door where he waited for Sam to join him. And that Sam did after he had said his own goodbyes.

They stepped into the cool spring night and almost instantly the fresh air made their heads swim just a little more. On wobbly legs they trudged over Bywater Bridge and up the hill, traveling the nearly two miles from the Green Dragon through Hobbiton towards Bagshot Row in a little less than an hour. Sam's gaze wandered over the soft hills where the previous year's saplings had grown into small trees. With time they would banish the image of the destroyed land into the world of heinous memories. Dew misted the lush meadows and the moon bathed the tiny droplets with its silver light. Here and there the round windows of rebuilt Hobbit homes were still illuminated by the flickering light of candles, but most of their fellow Hobbits had already retired for the night. Or else they were still enjoying their ale in the Green Dragon, that is. Peace had returned to the Shire and the Hobbits who lived there. The wounds left on the land and its inhabitants were healed, tormented souls were pacified. Most of them at least.

"Here we are," Sam announced as they reached the gate of No 1 Bagshot Row. He looked questioningly at Frodo who had come to a halt right next to him. In the dim moonlight his face shone white; the flush in his cheeks was gone and he seemed drained of all color. "Are you ill?" Sam asked bluntly. He remained unconvinced when Frodo shook his head.

"I had too much of the ale, I suppose," the older Hobbit explained. He walked up to Bag End's front door and sat down on the bench right next to it. He smiled at Sam. "Go to your Rosie, my dear Sam. She needs the comfort of your embrace even more so now than ever."

Sam sighed. "Do you think she'll be mad? I promised to be back way before midnight and now look at the time. It's tomorrow already."

Frodo chuckled. "Rosie mad at you? No, Sam. I don't think she will be. She adores you just as much as you adore her. It's probably beyond her all together to be mad at you at all." He gave his friend an encouraging wink. "Go to her, Sam. I'll just sit here for a little while and enjoy some of the Old Toby and the peace and quiet of the night."

"All right then," Sam grumbled reluctantly. He opened the large round green door. "Good night, Mr. Frodo."

"Good night, Sam."

The door finally closed and Frodo heaved a relieved sigh. He knew that he could not have fooled Sam for much longer. What had begun as a dull throbbing pain in his neck hours earlier in the Green Dragon had long grown into a stabbing agony. The intensity of the pain made breathing rather difficult and Frodo instantly stowed away his pouch of pipe weed in his waistcoat's pocket. Leaning forward he rested his elbows on his knees, hoping that this position would be more comfortable rather than sitting up straight. He felt dizzy and sick and he was certain that those were no longer the aftermaths of too much of the Green Dragon's fine ale.

It was happening again and he knew it.

And had Sam realized what the date was, he would have known too.

"You cannot always save me," Frodo whispered to the last lingering remainders of Sam's presence and closed his eyes. "Not when there is no way to save me." He should try and go inside and into his own small bedroom. Rosie and Sam now occupied Bag End's largest bedroom, although both of them were for a long time unwilling to accept Frodo's gracious offer.

On the day they had told Frodo that they were expecting their first child, Bag End's owner had quietly packed all his belongings and had moved back into the room of his tweens. After that he retrieved the Bagginses' old cradle from one of the storage rooms. Both Bilbo and he had been lulled into sleep as infants in said cradle by their respective parents.

The sight of the cradle saddened Frodo even through the growing haze of memories and pain. Not too long ago he had dreamed of singing lullabies to his own child; he had dreamed of a family of his own.

"It was not meant to be." What were supposed to be comforting words sounded hollow, even to his own ears, but indeed that dream had died. Loving and being loved were now but distant memories and where the ability to do both had once resided was now a great black emptiness filling his heart.

Frodo grunted heavily as he rose from the bench with difficulty. He felt cold and his knees hardly supported his weight as he slowly went to his small bedroom at the far end of Bag End. As quietly as only Hobbits could walk, he passed through the many halls of his home. Hoping that he would not wake Sam or Rosie, he closed the door slowly from the inside. The squeaky noise it made when moved too quickly echoed through all of the smial and would certainly rouse at least Rosie. Her sleep was light and she was more often than not just as worried about Frodo as her beloved husband.

Remaining still behind the closed door, Frodo listened for any sounds coming from the hall. When he heard nothing, he sighed in relief. He approached his bed with steps that felt as heavy as his heart in his chest. Silver moonlight was the only thing that illuminated his steps towards his bed on which he eventually sank down heavily. From his neck the pain had started to spread to his head and held his shoulders in an iron grip. With each passing moment he found it more difficult to move his weary limbs. Panic rose in his heart as the pain slowly engulfed his entire body and ran through his veins as her poison had two years ago to the day.

Without a warning he fell back onto the soft mattress of his bed, no longer able to move or cry out in his agony. The walls around him were spinning and soon the soft brown wooden panels became darker and turned into stone. Unable to close his eyes to shut out the nightmare unfolding before him, the shadows on the walls turned into eight long legs and the smell of the fresh night air coming through the window was replaced by her foul stench.

The thirteenth day of March would dawn soon and with the sun old fears and terrors would rise and torment the one who had saved them all.