A/N: YES, it's a songfic. Don't like songfics? Deal with it. Okay, now that I have that off my chest... This is using a song by Rascal Flatts called "I'm Movin' On" (ooh, big surprise:p). The first time I heard this song, I thought of Frodo, so I've been mentally stewing on this idea for about five months now and have finally done something about it. :) I may eventually also write a chapter for Sam using this song, but I haven't decided yet. This is rather dark and pessimistic (which is why it's PG), it just kinda turned out that way... I was rather peeved for various reasons when I wrote it, and it seems to fit well enough, so I left it. :p Oh, and I use all of the song, except for the first part of the third verse, because the words didn't exactly fit my purposes. ;)

NOTE (9 May 2005): this has been edited to remove the song lyrics, due to the recent change in tolerance by the ff.n admins. If you would like to see the fic in its unadulterated (with lyrics) form, try the Stories of Arda archive or my website.

And of course, the quote near the end is not mine... it's from RotK, "The Grey Havens."

I'm Movin' On

Frodo put down his quill and sighed. This chapter was proving most difficult to write, but he knew he must record what happened, regardless of the memories it brought back. He had already completed most of the tale of the War of the Ring, and was now attempting to relate the events on Mount Doom. Frodo had his notes of what Sam could tell him, but to just record those details would leave the story incomplete. Which left him to dig through his own memories and face what he'd done just over a year ago.

He accepted that it happened-his missing finger was undeniable proof of that-but he still hated himself for it. He was a failure, and deserved the punishment of continual pain he'd received. And yet . . . he'd been given the opportunity to seek healing in the West, a gamble he was going to take. But not for himself; he'd accepted the reality of his pain and suffering and likely early death a long time ago. If he'd had his way, he would've died along with the wretched Gollum . . .

A baby squealed happily and gurgled, while 'helping' her mother in the kitchen from her perch in a basket on the table. Elanor. Frodo smiled faintly, listening to the sounds carrying down the hall through his slightly-open study door. Apparently Sam had come in from the garden, causing Elanor to squeal with glee at seeing her daddy. Frodo would miss them when he sailed with the Elves, but they were the primary reason he would be leaving. He refused to overshadow their happiness with his illnesses, didn't want to taint them with his darkness. If he stayed, Sam's focus would be on him, futilely trying to make things better. It wouldn't ever be better; it was only going to get worse. The illnesses will become more severe, lengthen, until they consume him. Rose was already a little afraid of him when he was 'in one of his moods,' as she called it; she and the children (Elanor being just the beginning) deserved to live in peace, not in fear of what Frodo may do while in a mood.

Perhaps the trip would do him some good. Frodo longed to see Bilbo again, to talk with him over pipes and mugs of ale, like it used to be what seemed like an age ago. And maybe the change in location would give him a new perspective on things. At any rate, there would be no shortage of new people to talk to; maybe one of the elves, like Elrond, would try to convince him that it was not his fault, though he was confident they would fail just as Sam had. It would make for an interesting conversation, at least. Frodo wondered what the reaction would be when the elves found out what really happened at Mount Doom. After all, he and Sam were the only ones actually there, and though Gandalf at least had probably guessed what happened, no one ever spoke of it openly. Would the elves be tempted to send him back? The thought made him chuckle mirthlessly. No, they would just avoid him and whisper about him behind his back. Once they all knew, and he was sure they all would sooner or later, it would be just like being back in Hobbiton. While the other hobbits didn't know the details behind his trip, they also didn't want to know, shunning anything from outside the Shire, and preferred to keep a wary eye on him because he was 'different' when he returned.

With the elves he would still be 'different,' but at least they respected him a little, though only for the task he'd assumed. It was the Cormacolindo, Ringbearer, that they honored, and when they found out how miserably he'd failed in that all-important task . . . No. He shouldn't conjecture on that. For all he knew, the elves would go completely against his expectations and accept him in spite of what he'd done. He daren't think it possible, for while the elves could show great mercy and kindness, they could also be hard and unforgiving. But a small part of him began to hope the former would prove true. He would know soon enough; he'd already planned to meet Bilbo and Elrond on his and Bilbo's birthday, which left him a scant two months to finish his account in the Red Book.

Frodo picked up his quill with renewed determination. He would pen exactly what happened and let those who managed to wade through the lengthy account form their own opinions about him and his failure. After all, what did it matter what they thought of him when he was gone? No one besides Sam and his family would probably read it, anyway.

"Frodo and Sam halted and sat silent in the soft shadows, until they saw a shimmer as the travellers came towards them.

. . . Bilbo woke up and opened his eyes. 'Hullo, Frodo!' he said. 'Well, I have passed the Old Took today! So that's settled. And now I think I am quite ready to go on another journey. Are you coming?'

'Yes, I am coming,' said Frodo. 'The Ring-bearers should go together.'

. . . 'But,' said Sam, and tears started in his eyes, 'I thought you were going to enjoy the Shire, too, for years and years, after all you have done.'

'So I thought too, once. But I have been too deeply hurt, Sam. I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them. But you are my heir: all that I had and might have had I leave to you.' "