Author's note: Characterization in this fic is kind of a mix of book/movie Frodo (and Sam). Same for the plot—kind of a mish-mash, so I apologize in advance if that annoys any fans! I was inspired by a redditor's comment about how Frodo might have used the Evenstar a bit like a replacement for the Ring. TW for kinda self-harm. Also, I don't own these characters/LOTR/the cover photo. :P

The Evenstar lay too lightly around his neck, too lightly by far. At first, he had been more than glad to be free of the great weight that had almost been as terrible to bear as the growing temptation that had preyed on his mind. But now he missed that weight in some strange way that he could not explain even to himself.

As he compiled Bilbo's notes and wrote down some details of his own doings, he grasped the glittering cord from which the Evenstar hung and tugged on it, making up the missing weight with the strength in his hands. He had no idea he was doing such a thing, so absorbed he was in the book. But it had become a near-constant habit, a nervous tic that followed him wherever he went like a child almost frantic with hunger.

The Evenstar's cord, though of elven-make and therefore more canny of possible harm to living creatures than another, lesser cord would have been, rubbed a raw patch on the back of his neck. And yet even then Frodo did not realize that he was making a new burden for himself, to match the weight of the Ring—and that this weight had become almost comforting to his mind.

He did not realize, might be said, until he reached up to rub the back of his neck and his hand came away, wet with smears of blood. He was startled for a moment, and had to think back to realize how the wound had come to be. For a little while after the discovery, he made a conscious effort to stop the tugging and wrenching. But it was an ill habit, long formed, and soon he gave up, for he did not see any point in stopping. Already, he had a vaguely shaped plan in his mind of what he would do once Bilbo's book was completed. There would be time for healing then.

And then too, the habit gave his mind some slight relief from the other, greater burden on it. This was a burden that almost matched what the Ring's temptation had been in strength and horror: guilt, preying on his mind in the day and his heart in the night. Like the Ring had, this guilt grew more and more difficult to carry—and conceal—day by day.

Gandalf suspected something. Of course he did. Frodo had faltered when Gandalf, after the first rush of joy in their reunion and the revels of the evening, had said "I knew I had not chosen the wrong hobbit for the task."

That was the first moment when guilt's burden had leaped up inside him, hot and sharp. Before, there with Sam at the end, his failure had not entered his mind. But with Gandalf's words...he remembered.

"Throw it in the fire, Mr. Frodo! What are you waitin' for?"

"The Ring is mine."

He would never forget the look on Sam's face, the triumph in his own heart as he slipped the Ring onto his finger, or the rage he felt when Gollum stole it back. Even now, in the peace and calm of Bag End, with sunshine filling his room, he shuddered and a sick feeling crept over him. Thinking of the Ring at all made his shoulder and his heart ache, and in some deep, secret corner of his mind, he still craved it. Craved the feeling of power and relief that came from slipping it on that last time.

And that craving only redoubled his guilt. The Ring was unspeakably evil. Why should he yet, in some small way, still desire it?

He had tried to speak to Sam of it, his failure. But though Sam listened ever so patiently as he sought to put words to the uneasy grief and shame inside him, he knew that Sam wanted to forget the horrors. What was more, he could forget them. Frodo was not jealous or bitter of the way the terror and hideousness of it all had seemed to slip Sam's mind—or, at least, had not affected him as much. But it made the bearing of the burden as lonely as it had ever been.

Better Sam than me, he thought. No, there was no bitterness, but instead relief that anyone of their company could return and live for the Shire and the simple things again. But not him. He had almost died for the Shire and now, he admitted to himself, he could but barely live in it.

And that realization sent a letter speeding along to Rivendell.

/

It was Sam who took it to post for him, little knowing the contents, and the ache in Frodo's heart redoubled at the thought of leaving the Shire—of leaving Sam—though he knew it was the best and only way. Sam and Rosie had a family now, and though there was still plenty of room in Bag End for yet a baker's dozen, he knew that there was no place for him there anymore. Sam and Rosie and their children were full of life and joy. They needed no old, faded things around the house, shadowing their brightness.

When Sam returned, he came and sat in Frodo's room, fingering some of the pages that Frodo had left scattered about the room as he tried to organize the last of Bilbo's notes.

He had delayed the completion of the project, knowing that once it was finished, there would be nothing left for which to wait. No reason to stay. And as much as he longed for the peace and healing which Elrond had promised awaited him, it was still the Shire and Sam and home.

"You're just about done, aren't you, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo nodded, his back to Sam and his mind elsewhere. He tugged at the Evenstar.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam exclaimed. "There's-there's blood. On your shirt collar!"

He sprang forward and pulled the collar down a little. Anger flashed up in Frodo for a moment, and he jerked away from Sam's gentle hand. "Leave it alone!" A rush of frustration and a desire for secrecy welled up inside him, but in the next moment, the feeling passed and he was more heartsick than before.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam let the collar alone, but his eyes searched Frodo's face before landing on the Evenstar still clutched in hands that now shook. "Your neck—" he said, haltingly. "It looked like-like how it did, back when we was going through...that place." He still hesitated to speak the name of the dark land. "You shouldn't let it get like that, not again, if you can help it. If you can help it," he repeated slowly, with a new understanding in his voice.

Frodo looked up, suddenly.

"You do understand it then, Sam. I thought you didn't. When I tried to tell you before, of the burden and the weight, you seemed to not want to hear."

"I'm sorry, I am, that you ever had that thought of me, sir." Tears quickened in Sam's eyes. "You spoke so halting, is all. I wasn't sure I knew what you were trying to say. But I do now. You tried to destroy it, but you couldn't, and now it's eatin' at you. But you can't let it, Mr. Frodo! You shouldn't wear that thing anymore, I'd say. It's gettin' almost as bad as the Ring was, to your body if not your spirit."

"You're right, Sam." With more ease and less regret than he had thought possible, Frodo slipped the cord from about his neck. It came away bloody. He swallowed at the sight, and then pressed the jewel into Sam's hand. "Will you keep it for me? I would not want to destroy it or bury it, a gift from the Queen. But I cannot trust myself with it either."

"Of course," Sam said. "Of course, Mr. Frodo. I'll take it and keep it safe. Whenever you want to-to look at it or wear it for a party or some such, just let me know. I'll bring it right back to you."

Frodo smiled, faintly. "Thank you, Sam."

/

It was but a few days from their talk when the summons came, the answer to his letter. He thought for a time of taking the Evenstar with him, to carry into the ever-new land. A bit of a memory, to keep by his side.

In the end, he did take the Evenstar-but not for himself. Once on the elf-ship that would carry him into the West, he took the Queen's gift from his pocket and gave it into Elrond's keeping. This token, Frodo thought, would forever mean more to the father of her who at one time possessed it, than as a memory of honors given to a hobbit who felt he had done little to deserve them.

/

When the ship had left the Havens and, all around, the old world shattered and fell away past the horizon, he told Gandalf all of his failure to destroy the Ring. He could not bear to look into the wizard's eyes as he told the tale, for fear of some deserved, and yet crushing disappointment on Gandalf's face.

"Do you think there can be forgiveness for that? Do you think there can be—" and his voice sunk to a whisper "—peace? Over there?" He nodded to the sea before them, where all was bright and clear and swift.

Gandfalf laid a hand on his shoulder. "Your failure, such as it was, needs no forgiveness, Frodo. You saved us all, though it may not have been in the way I first hoped that you would."

Despite the kindliness and sincerity running through Gandalf's voice, Frodo did not understand, nor believe it then. But later, when his body had been healed over the silver sea and his mind felt not so dark, he knew Gandalf had spoken rightly.