Summary of this: Poor Frodo. :(
Read on!
Frodo tried to keep from shivering. It was getting very late, but he found sleeping impossible. His arm was useless, unable to feel anything but the chill and the pain slowly creeping from the wound in his shoulder. It had rained the day before, and as he lay, Frodo felt the damp seep into his cold hurt, into him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying hard to ignore the rustles and bumps, the night-noises that were familiar by now, but still sent fear through him. When he was scared, the pain grew, as if feeding off his fear.
And he was always afraid now.
With his good hand he felt for the Ring. It was round his neck, as always, yet his mind urged him to put it on. The wound ached more sharply, and Frodo drew his hand away with a shudder. No. He couldn't. He tucked his cloak and blanket closer around him.
A shrill wind curled over his head, a foretaste of winter. Frodo shivered. With each new cold breath, he grew weaker. How long would it be until he died?
Unwillingly, his thoughts went back to the torches on Weathertop, the flickering ghosts of the Black Riders, his own little sword so weak, and the blade of Mordor too strong. His wound flared with a poisoned chill. He couldn't stop trembling. It was too risky to light a fire, he knew, but the idea of warmth seemed so far away. Shadows flickered on the edge of sight. He was weary, and cold, and worn with pain.
How long until morning came?