The bright light of morning came all too slowly for Frodo. He hadn't got any sleep, as his wound had alternately burned and frozen him in agonising twinges during the night. But, in the watery glow of the pale sunrise, he found that the pain in his shoulder lessened, and he was able to stand and walk a little in the clearing. Yet he found that he was exhausted easily, and so spent the next hour lying dozing against the soft flanks of Bill the pony.

Soon, the rest of his companions were up, and they began readying themselves for the day ahead and preparing a quick breakfast. Sam brought some of it over to him - a thick, lumpy porridge which he had no doubt filled your stomach. However, Frodo had no appetite.

"Come on" said Sam, with concern, "Eat up! It's only a bit a porridge, and we have a long day ahead of us. It'll do you good sir." He waved the dish temptingly around with a small smile.

Frodo smiled too, but could only force down a few stodgy bites, as he began to feel nauseous. Sam took away the half-full bowl with a disapproving frown, but he removed it nonetheless.

After they had broken their fast, Strider discovered Frodo's inability to walk far, and so they decided to put him on the pony. In doing so, they had to remove all of their bags and belongings, and the Ringbearer felt extremely guilty as he watched his friends labour under the extra weight. As the ranger showed Pippin how to put the saddle on, Frodo hauled himself up with effort and limped over. He leaned against a grey tree to rest, and to watch his youngest cousin struggling to fasten the straps.

Once it was accomplished, Pippin red-faced yet tremendously proud, Strider helped Frodo over to Bill. The pony gazed at him with liquid hazel eyes, and snorted softly. He put his foot in a stirrup and tried to mount it one-armed, but slipped off with a cry. Without the use of his left arm, he couldn't support himself. He looked helplessly at Strider, who nodded, and then put his arms around his waist and gently lifted him up. Frodo managed to get his legs in the right place, and he sat with his eyes squeezed shut, breathing heavily as his wound shrieked in protest.

They made excellent progress through the wilderness that day. As the dewy mists of morning dissipated, the day was revealed in all of its blue skies and splendour. This raised the spirits of everyone greatly, and soon they were merrily singing songs and telling stories. Apparently, Pippin had smuggled a large flask of liquor with him from the Prancing Pony, and soon the three hobbits were teaching Strider an alternate version of Bilbo's walking song. Suffice to say, it was not as it had been intended by Bilbo, who had written it. Frodo was surprised and a little shocked at the many imaginative and colourful words little Pippin knew.

But as nightfall approached and the violet shades of evening drew across Middle-Earth, he began to get a little apprehensive. Evil was most powerful in the dark, and his injury seemed to hurt more and more as the evening drew on. Presently, he couldn't concentrate on anything that his companions were saying, nor the silhouetted scenery against the orange skyline. His whole left side felt as if claws of ice were laid upon it, and he was shivering so violently that he could hardly sit upright.

As Merry was just rounding off a well-told yarn about a mischievous third cousin who had once kidnapped all of his grandfather's goats, he heard a small sound, and then a thump. He and Strider spun around, their senses alert and tense, and their hands upon their sword hilts. But instead of a Black Rider, or a fell beast sneaking up on them, it was Frodo, sprawled on the ground.

They rushed over to him in panic, merriment forgotten. While Sam ran off to rescue Bill, Merry and Pippin helped Strider to turn Frodo over. To their thankful relief, he was conscious and unharmed, though he was extraordinarily pale and a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow and upper lip.

"Oh Frodo…" whispered Pippin, hugging him tightly.