Mistress-Samwise: Me… Again… Yay

Wait! "Yay" because of me, or "yay" because there's some uber-cool angst coming up in this chapter?

That's right, kiddies! And, for added effect, read this chapter, and go back to chapter nine and read the part when Saradoc is complaining to Frodo about messing around with the penknife. I did not come up with that part after this one! That means I didn't even think of this chapter way back then. It's really freaky how it all fits together. Believe me, I was totally freaked when I realized that.
Anywho, read and have fun. I know Frodo did. *evil grin*

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        "Mister Frodo?" Sam asked wearily, trailing behind the tweenager. "Can we stop? We've been walking for ages…"

        "You're right," Frodo concurred. "I am getting a little tired."

        They had been walking for quite some time, adjacent to the Water.  Sam flopped himself underneath a tree.

        "I thought we were going to do something," Sam said.

        "We are," Frodo replied, sitting beside Sam.

        "Pardon me, sir, but I don't think walking is too much of something."

        "It's a nice day out."

        "It's also hot. Are you sure you didn't have anything else in mind instead of walking?"

        Frodo shook his head and fell over onto his back, pushing his sleeves up. He then closed his eyes. Sam sighed.

        "We went all the way out here so you could take a nap?"

        "Why not?" Frodo yawned and stretched his arms. Sam caught sight of several thin, pale lines on Frodo's left wrist before he put his arms behind his head. Sam blinked and furrowed his brow in confusion.

        "Sir?" Sam quietly asked after a few moments.

        "Hmm?"

        "Sir…? What were those marks on your wrist?"

        Frodo's eyes snapped open in astonishment. Swiftly he pulled his left hand from out behind his head and sat up. He stared at his wrist for a split second, his eyes wide with shock.

        "Damn it…"

        He tore his sleeve back over his wrist, quickly concealing it again. His face was slightly flushed as he breathed heavily. Sam was very surprised.

        "Mister Frodo…?"

        "It's nothing!" Frodo exclaimed hurriedly while hiding his arm behind his back. "Just ignore that, alright?"

        "I-I'm sorry, sir," Sam stammered nervously. "I-I didn't know…"

        Frodo looked into Sam's worried brown eyes and sighed.

        "I shouldn't have yelled at you like that," Frodo stated while pulling his nails out of his wrist. Reluctantly, he drew his arm from behind his back and massaged his wrist. "I was foolish back then, and I still am now."

        "Sir?"

        Slowly, Frodo pushed his sleeve cuff back.

        "These are scars," he said, tentatively tracing his fingers over them.

        "Scars?" Sam murmured, his eyes wide as saucers. "How did you get them?"

        "I did these to myself…" Frodo lowered his eyes shamefully. "… But not by accident."

        Both Sam and Frodo were silent for a moment.

        "I'll understand if you don't want to talk about it," Sam told the elderhobbit. Frodo shook his head.

        "I probably should talk about it," Frodo answered softly. "I never really told anyone about them, or how I got them. It's… not easy. I try to think I'm different than what I was so long ago, but no matter how hard I do try, there's always something left to remind me of what a fool I was."

***

        A seventeen year-old Frodo sat alone in his room at Brandy Hall. It was his cousin Merry's birthday, and Frodo had not decided to join the rest of his family for the evening celebration. Instead, he was moping alone in the dark.

        Lying facedown in his bed, he grumbled incoherently and turned to look at the ceiling.

        "Bah."

        He absent-mindedly fished around in his bed stand drawer for something to fiddle with. His hand grazed many familiar objects, including one of several penknives that he kept. Deciding there was nothing better, he pulled the knife out, slumped over onto his belly again and began scratching away at the bottom off the bedpost. Then a knock came to the door.

        "Frodo?" Saradoc called from behind the door. "Frodo? Are you even awake?"

        Frodo audibly grumbled. Saradoc stepped into the room. The light from the hallway weakly illuminated the dark room. Through the shadows, Saradoc could barely make out Frodo shaving at the bedpost with his penknife.

        "I'm not going to ask you again," Saradoc said sternly. "Will you stop messing around with that knife of yours? Something bad is bound to happen."

        No response.

        "It's your cousin's birthday, Frodo," Saradoc stated. "He's personally asked me to tell you that he wishes for you to come out and join the rest of your family."

        "I don't care," Frodo replied. It hadn't even been a year since his parents drowned.

        "Frodo," Saradoc continued. "I know this may not seem very important to you, but Merry really wants to see you—"

        "Leave me alone," Frodo muttered. He continued to carve away at the bedpost.

        "Please, Frodo…"

        "Leave me alone."

        Saradoc was silent. The only sound that could be heard was the scraping of the penknife against wood.

        "Frodo," Saradoc piped up again, trying not to sound too upset. "Will you stop doing that?"

        "Go away." Frodo dug the blade further into the bedpost, sending larger chips off it falling to the floor. "Leave me alone."

        "Frodo," Saradoc repeated, now clearly angry. "Don't make me take that thing away from you."

        Frodo said nothing, still shaving the wood away.

        "Frodo!" Saradoc exclaimed irately. "Will you put that bloody knife away?!"

        Frodo suddenly stopped picking at the bedpost and casually threw a very chilling glance at Saradoc. Pulling the blade out of the wood, he rolled over off his belly and sat up. While holding the knife in one hand, he held it by its handle while he pushed his left hand cuff down. Much to Saradoc's horror, he calmly pressed its sharp edge into his wrist until it drew forth a red stream of blood. Frodo then tossed the bloodied knife onto the floor into front of his uncle's feet.

        "Here's your bloody knife," Frodo mumbled darkly. Saradoc was stricken with overwhelming shock.

        "Goddamn it, Frodo!" he screamed. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

        Frodo made no reply. He could feel his warm blood flowing out over his skin.

        "Are you insane?!" Saradoc cried, picking up the penknife. "Just what in God's name are you trying to prove by hurting yourself like that—"

        "Saradoc?" Esmerelda asked, suddenly appearing in the doorway. "Will you help me finish making the cake?"

        Saradoc froze. He turned around, quickly concealing the knife behind his back.

        "Just a minute, dear," he said, trying extremely hard not to yell at his wife. Esmerelda leaned sideways to try to get a glimpse of Frodo.

        "In trouble again, eh?" she asked teasingly, not fully able to make out the hobbitlad through all the shadows. "And on your cousin's birthday? He's not going to be too keen about this."

        "Yes," Saradoc forced a chuckle. Stepping sideways, he blocked Frodo out of view from Esmerelda. "He always picks the worst days to be stubborn, doesn't he?" He let out another strained laugh. "Just like his father."

        Esmerelda smiled and laughed in agreement before turning to leave. Saradoc waited until he heard her footsteps diminish down the hallway. He then swiftly turned on his heels and stepped over to Frodo, his appearance looming as he stared coldly into the tweenager's eyes.

        "If it wasn't my son's birthday today," he growled menacingly through his teeth while leaning closer over Frodo, wagging the knife under his nose. "You would have a lot more than just a little cut to worry about."

        Saradoc tromped over to the door and flung it open.

        "And I'll let you deal with all the blood yourself. Don't come asking us for any bandages."

        Saradoc all but slammed the door, leaving Frodo alone in the cold dark again. For many minutes, Frodo laid on his back, grasping his wrist with his right hand. Blood seeped out from under his fingers onto the bed sheets to leave dark scarlet stains. Fearlessly and stoically he endured the biting pain. He could now prove he was stronger than his uncle thought he was. He could prove he was stronger than the rest of his family thought he was. He could prove he was stronger than what he thought he was less than a year ago, when he stood on the shore of the Brandywine, watching his parents drown in its waters.

        Suddenly, he felt his hand go weak and slowly slip off his bloody wrist. Tears, warm and wet, slowly rolled down his cheeks. He wept bitterly as he reached into the bed stand drawer again to retrieve the second penknife. While he held its blade deep into his left wrist, he struggled to keep his trembling hand from sending it in too far. The terrible scent of blood as it poured onto the bed sheets caused him to sob even harder. Hot, crimson rivulets ran down his soft, white skin, as did hate-filled tears. The knife gradually slipped out of his hand. Bunching the bed sheet up in his hand, he wrapped it around his wrist to stop the blood flow. His vision slowly hazed over and he passed out of his dizzying pain into empty, surrendering darkness. The following morning, he would scrub his hands clean until they were numb, and he would bury the bloodstained bed sheets in the backyard.

***

        "I had forgotten about all that until now," Frodo said after a few moments. He pulled his sleeve back over his wrist, back over his scars. "I tend to lose the true sense of those things over time."

        He looked over at Sam. He was silent the whole time he was listening to Frodo, but now his silence was even more intense with thought.

        "You're better now, right?" Sam asked softly with concern.

        "I hope so, Sam," Frodo answered. He slowly stood up. "Sometimes I just forget how hurt I really am."

        "Mister Frodo…"

        "You're a sweet boy, Sam. I hope you never hate yourself enough to do something like that."

        Frodo started walking away.

        "Come on," Frodo said, slightly weary. "It's getting late. Let's go home."

        Sam nodded silently and joined the elderhobbit. The whole time the two walked home, neither had said anything. It was close to dark when they returned to Bag Shot Row.

        "Here's your house," Frodo piped up, breaking the long quiet. "Good night, Sam."

        Sam stood beside the gate as he watched Frodo disappear back into Bag End. From behind, he heard the door to his own home open.

        "Sam-lad?" Hamfast asked, hobbling over to his son. "You better not stand out there all day. I'm not too happy about your up and leaving like that."

        "Sorry, Da," Sam replied. "I was out with Mister Frodo."

        Hamfast grumbled.

        "Just get inside, lad. It's almost time for supper."

        "Yes, Da."

        Sam followed behind his father as he stepped back into the smial. Before closing the door behind himself, Sam took one last look at Bag End.

        "Poor Mister Frodo," he murmured and then softly closed the large, round door.

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Mistress-Samwise: Be sure you read that one part in chapter nine! And let me tell you again, I did not even have a single thought about this chapter when I wrote chapter nine! So… Blah-blah-blah-visit-my-website-blah-blah. Okay. I love advertising.