A/N: Well I'm not exactly sure what made me continue this. But now that I have I have mapped out a decent ending so it should be finished and, if I'm given time, updated regularly. I doubt anyone is still following but I for one loved this story very much and could not bear to see it so undone.

Frodo watched as a spatter of ink marred his flowing script. He grumbled and tried to steady his shaking hand. Again a small splash of black rained upon the creamy pages. This time Frodo lifted his trembling hand and sighed wearily. He placed it down again slowly, attempting to finish the sentence at the least. "...and we..." His hand once again began a quivering, unsteady path of its own, trailing away from the words. Frodo narrowed his eyes.

"You underestimate me, oh disobedient hand," he gave a wry smile. "I am just as persistent as you!" Again, with more diligence and infinite patience, Frodo Baggins set his hand down and moved it slowly.

"...climbed... we climbed the jagged teeth of rock... our feet and hands shorn by..." Frodo grimaced as his hand began to tremble. His playful mood was wearing thin. "Emyn Muil... grey sheets of shale weaving a inordinate pathway of cold, wretched stone... Sam..."

Frodo's concentration was shattered as he heard thick, heavy boot steps beating a steady cadence in the hall. He felt his heart go cold and for a moment felt the ash and sulfur of Mordor close in on him, gagging the very life from him. He shook his head wearily, almost denying what his eyes thought they saw. Orcs marching... "No!" muttered Frodo in a shred of a voice. Still the boot steps neared and Frodo tried to convince himself that there was no such creature here but with his conviction came a new feeling of dread. "Sam!" he cried shrilly running to the door but too frantic to turn the knob. Instead he beat the wood frantically, his voice rising. "I think I've gone mad, Sam! I think I've finally..."

The door opened before him. Frodo stumbled but a large hand grasped his shoulder firmly. He looked up and stuttered for a moment. "Ara...?"

"No," whispered the concerned voice. "John," he expression changed from one of worry into a warm smile.

Frodo looked him up and down then narrowed his eyes. "You have certainly changed."

John then seemed to look worried again. "This is a uniform, Frodo, I've..." John straightened, suddenly wondering why he felt he needed to be apologetic. "There is a war in my land and I've got to defend my home and kin."

Anger smoldered in Frodo's eyes. "What have you done, you fool!" he cried. "You are a foolish foolish man! Heed you no word that I've said? Heed you none of it? You want to see war?" Frodo's voice descended into a fierce growl as he thrust his right hand into John's face. "That, old friend, is war."

"You must know me now," whispered John, strongly. "You must know me. I would not do it for the pride of it."

Frodo shook his head laughing cruelly. "You know it not. Boromir knew it." He raised his head and glared at John venomously. John thought he saw a look of hurt and betrayal in the bitter hobbit's eye. Lord Theoden knew it."

"That they did," John said again in a kind whisper. "But so has Peregrin and Meriadoc."

Frodo cocked his head, "And you think they are fine and well?"

John paused. The truth was that he did. He had seen them riding about the Shire in their gleaming armor, singing and telling tales. He had seen them demonstrate their sword play on the tables at the Green Dragon for the crowds. The silence told Frodo all he needed.

"I assure you that you will come to see that they still bear their wounds. As do I and as does Samwise."

John now looked into Frodo's eyes and saw a deep compassion there. "I've got to fight."

Frodo grew infuriated once more and stormed up to John. The man was sure he would have chuckled to be scolded by one the size of the child if he were not so used to it. Frodo did not seem daunted by John's towering height. "You foolish man. You know nothing! NOTHING!" Frodo heaved his arms forward and shoved John backwards in a fit of rage but before the man lost his footing and hit the ground, the smial and the infuriated hobbit were gone.

He looked about. He was somewhere else. The place was still small but he had no need to slouch. In fact he could stand rather comfortably, the stone ceiling a few feet above his head. A grand hallway flourished before him, with small doors and stairwells. The hall branched out and further down, John could see that it broadened into a center for hustle and bustle. Small, hobbit children here having a mock sword fight with brooms along the stairwell as a rather buxom nurse attempted to break up their play. A flock of squealing girls chased each other about, weaving through the slight crowd.

John felt he could move at ease as he traveled down the hall. Three maids were standing at a door chatting and blushing and a group of young minstrels played the pipes and flutes and lutes by another stairwell. An old couple was dancing with the vigor of a lad and lass and John felt himself smiling, his confusion wearing away with the mirth in the place.

"Brandy Hall," John murmured, grinning. He noted there were less hobbits moving about than he was lead to believe. The nurse had quelled the sword fight and led the complaining lads inside.

"But I wanted to be Master Meriadoc the Magnificent!" cried the older boy, swinging his sword haughtily.

"The Master and his tales," John thought he heard the nurse mutter as she ushered them in for bed.

The flock of squealing girls dwindled as they were swooped up and caught by their mothers. The old couple finished their dance and stood hand in hand before their door while the minstrels wrapped up their tune and John saw the three maid depart, waving their pocket handkerchiefs at each other. So it was night, thought John, and he should find his way around Brandy Hall with relative ease. He's always wanted to explore the place but he never dreamed to do it in peace and solitude.

It was not a difficult task. After some time wandering he was bound to stumble across it. The master bedroom, where the new Master of the Hall, resided. John, secure in his knowledge that he could remain unseen, entered quietly. It was dark and terribly cold inside. He had thought the master rooms would be more elegantly furnished and a pleasantly warm place, with large hearths and thick drapes along the windows. There were thick drapes though, drawn closed, but they sealed in no warmth. John saw a small form, his feet dangling from the edge of a bed too large for a lone hobbit. His curly head was bent and John approached cautiously.

The bed was untouched and as he neared John could hear soft whimpers. He saw the dark form tremble slightly then stop then continue to quiver. John could see nothing in the dark. He could barely make out Merry's figure. He saw that the hobbit's right forearm rested limply in his lap, the left hand supporting him on the bed. Fed up with the dark and gloom, John stepped toward the curtains and threw them open. Merry gasped and turned towards the window.

John stared in numb fright. The moonlight washed over the hobbit's pale face, glimmering tears staining his swollen cheeks. He squinted fearfully into the bright silver moonlight and raised his trembling hand to shield his eyes. John could see the hand shaking violently as it was held in the air. A soft, eerie glow seemed to curl soft tendrils of pale smoke about the flesh of that arm.

John could hear Merry's breaths harsh and ragged. The hobbit stood silently and walked heavily toward the window, letting his wounded arm drop and hang limply at his side. He looked out the window mournfully and then drew the drapes closed. "I do not understand," John heard him murmur harshly. The man wondered if he had frightened the hobbit too much when he threw open the drapes, now wishing more than ever he had not seen that ghostly sight. But it was not the insolent drapes that Merry had been speaking of.

"This black breath, cold as death, whispers death... death..."

John gasped at the cold, dazed look in Merry's grey eyes. He sat down heavily on the bed again and continued gazing at his arm. "Whispers death... death..." John felt his heart turn to ice at the sound of despair in that deadened voice.

Merry threw himself down, moaning and grasping the blankets. "How did you do it, Frodo?" he murmured into the counterpane. He turned around to lie on his back, his trembling, icy fingers moving away the fabric of his shirt. "It was so close to your heart." Merry's hand sought his own heart and then rested there, shaking violently. "If only Peregrin had buried me then, my soul would perhaps find peace now."

John shook his head slowly.

"No, not dead," Merry began shaking his head as well, and, seeing the insanity of it, John quickly stopped. "I was not dead... I am not dead... On the morrow I'll awake... I'll awake from this..."

"Only a dream," whispered John, tears in his eyes. "Only a dream!" Again he shouted it more strongly but it was thrown back from every wall in the place. Merry sat up quickly, his disheveled curls falling into his swollen, tear stained face.

"Who are you?" his voice was laced in fear but his expression did not change from that of anguish. "Who are you? Why have you come? What do you want of me?"

John looked about wildly. "You can see me?"

"Can't see it," Merry murmured with growing fear.

John could take no more. He ran to the bed and gathered the hobbit in his arms, pressing Merry's head against his breast. He rocked the hobbit in his arms like a child. "You are but dreaming, Merry, you will awake tomorrow. It will all be mist in you mind by then."

Expecting to feel the hobbit cry out and push him away, John was shocked when an icy grasp gripped him desperately and he felt Merry sob into his chest. "I'm so scared, Frodo," he whimpered.

John looked down almost shocked at what the hobbit in his arms said but as quickly as he did, the Hall and its wounded master were gone.

The man sighed. The room he was now in was smaller than Merry's but larger than the rooms of Bag-End. He looked around and saw a bed in the corner, dawn light filtering in through the round window and lighting a small form on the bed. He was laying, under the thin white sheet, his hands turned palm downwards to grasp at the mattress below, clawing at it desperately. John approached cautiously. The small legs were kicking slowly as if a great weight was pressing them down. "Help! Somebody help!" The small voice was rising, shrill and thin, as if he were fighting through a world of echoes to be heard. John looked down upon the contorted face of Peregrin, held in the terrible thrall of nightmarish memory.

The cries were quickly heard and a young lass, with wild red curls and a yellow flowered apron came flying in. She bent over her brother and grasped his clawing hands. "Hush, Pippin, hush, my dear," she whispered. One of her gentle hands smoothed his brow and cupped his cheek.

His eyes sprung open and for a while he stared unseeingly at her concerned face. "I'm dead," he whispered shrilly. "I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead. Have the eagles come? No, that's another's tale, that's another's."

"Oh hush, baby brother," sobbed the girl. "You are not dead. You are safe and warm at home."

Pippin blinked a few times and when his eyes finally focused they lit with a mad fear and disgust as he scrambled out from under his sister and fell to the ground crying, "Begone! Begone from me!" He scrambled to his feet and stopped dead. He brought his hands to his face and wept.

"It was only a dream," she began coming towards he brother. Pippin shrugged her aside and darted away.

John, entranced, followed quickly. He found Pippin In another room, pacing wildly and rubbing his arms. "I've dreamt it and now it's gone. I've dreamt it and now it's gone. Oh but the eye. No, it's gone." Pippin, almost satisfied with that thought sank to his knees, staring blankly into the corner until his sisters came into the room and helped him up. The lost despair in his eyes was beginning to recede as they led him from the room with promises of warm tea and blueberry tarts. As he was being led out his head turned slightly, his gaze resting on John for a moment before he shook his head and smiled wryly to his sisters. "I've gone mad." Some giggled and some told him not to joke about such things. And they were gone.

John brought his hands to his face to stay his weeping. He pressed his back against the wall and slid down, bowing his head.

"Forgive me, John!" came a cry and he knew the soft cultured voice to be Frodo's. John looked up wearily. He was back at Bag-End, leaning against a wall as Frodo looked down on him in horror. "I knew not what I did," he whispered fearfully.

"You knew what you did," muttered John as he rose only to bow to the low ceiling. Frodo shrank before him as he stood. John almost smiled slightly. "I suppose I should train better. If I'm no match for an old hobbit, who's nearly twice my age and half my size, I'd be no match for the Germans."

Frodo frowned indignantly but then furrowed his brows confused. "For what? I've never heard of such things."

"Yes," said John matter-of-factly. "And no one in my world's heard of orcs. Though they are hardly similar creatures. They are men like me and Aragorn."

Frodo scoffed indignantly, almost too shocked to speak. "Men? Men against men? Kin against kin! Your world is truly mad, John."

"We are different countries of men, with different rulers, there is strife sometimes, now more than ever."

Frodo just shook his head. "Fool..." he muttered bitterly.

"Frodo, why did you stand before the council and volunteer to take the Ring?"

"I was foolish. I knew not what it would do."

"Then why did you continue... once you began to understand?

"I had no choice. I could not turn back."

"Nothing was stopping you from throwing the Ring into the river and going home."

"I stopped me!" Frodo cried angrily. "Did you understand nothing that was said in the council, or was I positively vague? The danger of the Ring knew no bounds, if Sauron were to succeed then men, elves, and all the Shire would be but ash and my kin the lowest of slaves."

John nodded. "That is why I go to war." John stepped out into the hallway and towards the door to Bag-End. Frodo followed almost at a run.

"You go, John, and you will not come back! Do you hear me? You can never return from what you are going off to. Not I, nor Samwise, nor Peregrin, nor Meriadoc ever came back!"

John stopped abruptly, he turned around to speak but Frodo was gone. He looked around and saw he was lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He sighed, got out of bed, and put on his uniform.