Thank you everyone who reviewed my one-chapter stories.
Iorhael, thank you for betaing my stories, and reviewing. I'm glad you are finding them interesting.
Camellia Gamgee-Took, a new reviewer! Yeah! Glad you found the first chapter sad, but good. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.
Frodo's Sister, another new reviewer! Glad to hear from you. Enjoy!
FrodoBaggins87, glad you like this. Yes, there will be continuations. Runs from March 13, 1420- March 25, 1420. Each day. Hope you find this to your liking.
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings since Tolkien wrote the book, and I am not him; and PJ did the movies, and I'm not him either.
Alone
March 14th, 1420 S.R.
I nearly killed Farmer Cotton last night! Now, I can't live with myself knowing I am a danger to everyone. There goes another friend. What's worse? He was trying to help me! I had fainted. I was punching and yelling at an invisible Sam and then begging for help from orcs, according to Farmer Cotton. To think the Quest affected me to the point that I've become a lunatic in the sight of others! Cotton promised he would not tell anyone, so hopefully it will not be all over the Shire. The S.B.'s would be all over it, trying to make me seem worse – if it's even possible to make me feel worse about myself than I already do.
I hate myself. No, loathe myself. I am a worthless, maimed hobbit without any use to anyone. I am uncaring, unloving, mean. I am worthy of no respect or love of another – even friendship is too good for me. I am stained, my innocence lost on the Quest as the evil of the Ring of Power slowly seized me. Look at how weak I was at Mount Doom! The Ring was almost not destroyed because of Its hold on me! Because of me. Sam would have been stronger than me. He would not have been prone to becoming prey to the Ring. No wonder he does not like me. Perhaps he told Merry and Pippin what happened, and that is why they do not either. Even when they come over, I sense hostility in them. F.B.
Frodo set his journal down, once more falling into the depths of despair. He looked into the mirror. Bags were under his eyes, which looked dull, even though the darkness would have made them brighter had he been his old self. His smile lacked warmth. Frodo shook his head in sorrow. He was himself a shadow of what he once was, not just his senses of joy, relaxation, and peace. He was beginning to look more and more like the unfortunate Sméagol.
Even after the destruction of the Ring, he was still a victim of and a slave to Its power. When It had been destroyed, so had a part of himself.
Forcing on a smile and correcting his slumped posture, he walked briskly out of the room. Upon reaching the kitchen, he greeted, "Good morning, Mrs. Cotton! Rosie!" in an overly cheerful voice.
"Glad to see you're feeling happier this morning, Frodo," Mrs. Cotton replied.
"Thank you!"
"Good morning, Mr. Frodo!" Rosie greeted back.
"Rosie, do you know where Sam is this morning?" Frodo asked.
Rosie blushed ever so slightly at the mention of Sam's name. "No, I don't."
"Oh," Frodo replied, falling into silence. So he was for the rest of the morning.
Afternoon came, and with it came work. Frodo noted miserably that Farmer Cotton did not trust him with a rake, shovel, or hoe anymore, not allowing him to use them at times, and even when he did, he kept a watchful eye – two when he could spare them. Out of anger, hurt, and a strong desire of acceptance, Frodo worked all the harder, taking out all his fears and frustrations on the hard, tough soil until he could work no more.
He sat down onto a bench, and, wiping sweat off with the back of his hand, he took his water cup and drank. Rose Cotton came by with a pitcher of water. "Rose?" Frodo called. The young maiden stopped and turned back. "May I have some water?"
"Why, of course, Mr. Frodo." She poured some water into his cup and sat at the end of the bench, waiting for him to finish drinking. When he did, she offered, "Would you like some more?" She smiled cheerfully. She could tell something was seriously wrong with the older hobbit, but she dared not ask.
Frodo wiped the water off his mouth with the back of his hand before answering. "If you don't mind pouring some. I'm going to go back to working." Rosie nodded. Frodo smiled gratefully and stood. "Thank you, Rosie."
"You're welcome, sir." She curtsied slightly and walked off to the other workers.
Frodo walked to the patch of the garden that he was preparing for planting crops in. He picked up the hoe and began to till the ground. It was hard work, but he did not feel comfortable with a pony and plow. He swung the hoe at the ground with great force. Long ago Sam would have been there helping him – possibly not even letting him do anything – but he would have had a cheerful companion, talking with him. Now, without a soul in the world that seemed to care for him, he felt alone.
Farmer Cotton walked up cautiously. "How's it coming along, Mr. Frodo?" Rosie eyed her father's nervous movements, and watched him from the barn doorway, worriedly.
Frodo looked up from the ground and wiped the sweat and his clinging curly bangs away from his face. "Good afternoon!" he replied, cheerful smile on his face. "It's coming along pretty well, though it's pretty hard work when one is not used to it."
"That it is," Farmer Cotton agreed. "Why don't you take a plow and pony? It would be a great deal easier," he offered, waving toward the wooden contraption with the pony attached to its front.
"Thank you, Farmer Cotton, but I'm not good with that."
"Then, how do you plan to make rows for the seeds to be planted in, lad?"
"I – um – I will find some way," Frodo stuttered.
"Believe me, Frodo, if there was another way, some hobbit would have thought of it already," the farmer replied, patting the other on the back, forgetting the happenings of the previous night.
Frodo gave in with a loud sigh. "I will do so, if you think I will be able to do it."
"Believe me, Frodo. You can do it." Farmer Cotton walked off with a reassuring smile, leaving a nervous Frodo to deal with the pony. He had ridden one before, but the idea of walking behind one, grabbing onto the plow, submitting his will – or so he thought – to the animals, was quite overwhelming to Frodo.
So much overwhelmed his tortured mind. He was incoherent much of the time. He overlooked all signs of friendship or care, mistaking normally meaningless talk or actions for hints of lack of desire to be with him. Why, just the other day, he had taken Merry yawning while speaking with him as a manifestation of being bored and not simply a sign of being tired! He read too much into these things. He was very cynical. This was one of his better days.
Frodo nervously took hold of the plow's handles and told the pony to go. They slowly worked their way up and down in straight lines. Frodo grew more confident as he started down his fifth row. This isn't so bad, he decided.
The blazing sun was high in the sky, and the hobbit became more and more worn with dehydration. "Whoa," he said softly, and the pony halted. He walked limping to the bench and picked up his water cup. He drank longingly, his need being fulfilled with each swallow. How clean the water tasted and felt as it bathed his chapped lips, streamed down his parched throat. He sat, taking weight off his aching knee, and rubbing it tenderly. How good it felt to sit. He leaned against the barn close behind him. Noticing Rose Cotton in the corner of his eye, he spoke, "Have you and Sam spoken since we returned?"
Rose looked down at him, interrupted from her daydream. "Yes, Mr. Frodo, but I don't see –"
"Has he told you how he feels?" he asked before thinking.
"Feels?" the lass asked with a confused tone and expression, taking a seat with a reserved, cautious air.
"Then, he has not," Frodo said quietly. Quickly, he changed the subject. "It's a nice day, is it not?"
"Aye, but rather hot," Rosie replied, fanning herself with her hands.
"That it is indeed – even for mid-day," Frodo agreed with a nod. "Why don't you go inside the cool house, my lady?"
"I'd rather be out here to help you all with water."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. Tell me, what was Sam – I mean, Mr. Gamgee – like on your journey?"
Frodo took that as a blow to the face. Inwardly, he cringed. "He-he was brave, strong, loyal…valiant, kind…" he paused, as if in thought. No longer is he that friend, he thought sadly.
"Tell me more," Rosie begged in a soft voice.
Frodo did not like talking of his "friend," who had betrayed him. To stop it, he insisted, "But it's not proper for me to speak of Samwise to you, lass."
"Please, Mr. Frodo."
A year prior, Frodo would have chuckled from happiness for his friend, but now, he felt nothing but bitterness. No one cared what he had gone through, how he had suffered, what he had lost. How that angered him! "No. It would not be proper," he repeated to the anxious lass.
Rosie sighed. "Tell me one last thing, please!" Frodo looked at her, wearing a stressed smile. Rosie seemed not to notice. She continued, hope filling her voice, "Did he speak of me?"
Frodo looked away and rolled his eyes. How like a lass! Concerned only of the lad she was interested in and not the lad who she was speaking to! Well, he would show her for reminding him of his misery. He would deny her the information she longed for. "I must return to working," he replied as he rose.
The lass smiled. "Then, he did speak of me?"
Ah! Backfired! Frodo walked back to the plow without so much as a glance or head nod. He began to make more rows in the softened soil, muttering to himself. How he longed for a companion! Even a temporary companion. There was something about that lass…but, no! He could not allow his thoughts to dwell on her. He would not betray Samwise even though he had betrayed him.
Frodo walked slowly, squinting to keep out the dust being kicked by the plow and pony. He felt dirty, but not nearly as dirty as he had felt on the Quest. His thoughts dwelled on happier times unwillingly. Things reminding him of his friends. Coming to Bag End…meeting Samwise…gaining friends…befriending Sam. They all used to seem so clear when he dwelled on them before, but now they were clouded, tainted by his misery. Even in them, he managed to read un-friendlike actions and talk. His squinting eyelids started drooping more and more.
# # #
He was wandering through a field by Bag End. He laughed gaily at the butterflies dancing in the wind currents as he chased after them. He smiled at the passing hobbit children. One he knew to be the gaffer's son, the others he did not know except for Lotho, who was trailing behind grudgingly.
Frodo expected them to go on walking and talking and laughing like they usually did, but instead the gaffer's son stopped his group and huddled with them. Frodo tilted his head curiously, watching. His gut told him to run – that something was wrong.
The boys motioned for him to come over. This he did quickly, quite willingly. Suddenly, a steep hill appeared on the other side of the group. They welcomed him openly, and if any doubt had filled him, it fled from his body.
Many pats on the back, then, the gaffer's son gave a nod, and Frodo was tumbling, rolling down the hill, gaining speed as he rolled, pain filling his entire being.
# # #
Frodo awakened with a start. He was being dragged by the speeding pony; the reins were caught about his wrist. He jerked to get them loose, and gratefuly he made the pony slow down slightly.
"Mr. Frodo!" Rosie cried, gathering up her skirt so she could run more freely.
"Help me!" cried the terrified Frodo Baggins as he tried to turn himself upright.
"Frodo! Lads, drop your tools. Help him!" Farmer Cotton called as he looked away from the hobbit he was conversing with. "Whoa, Bill!" he yelled to the pony.
Almost immediately the pony stopped, tossing Frodo back on the ground with a thud. Farmer Cotton was at his side immediately, as was Rosie. The lass asked with concern, "Mr. Frodo, are you alright?"
Mere formality, he reminded himself as he grunted out, "Yes, thank you." He stood, ignoring Farmer Cotton's extended hand, and rubbed his sore back.
"Why don't you take a break?" Rose suggested.
"No, I'm fine. Just a bit winded, really," Frodo said as he took a few painful steps, hiding his pain with a reassuring smile.
"No, Mr. Frodo, you are not. You are limping. I insist you sit for a spell. You'll be of more use uninjured."
Frodo cringed miserably. See? Only to their benefit. No one really cares. he told himself. Aloud, he said, "No, I'll be fine," with a reassuring smile once again, though he still clutched his back and the well wall for support.
Rose shrugged sadly and left her father and Frodo alone.
Supper came, and the family, friend, and hired hands ate hungrily and happily. They had not eaten since luncheon, which was very unusual for hobbits, but the work had been completed. It was estimated that nearly half of the younger hobbits of Hobbiton had come to help.
Frodo sat alone in a corner eating slowly off his plate, hiding a round pillow between the arch of his back and the wall. His meager meal consisted of roasted potatoes, steamed carrots, and a salad – all from the small bit of crops Farmer Cotton grew beside his home. Frodo shifted in his seat, wincing as he did so.
Pain was his entire existence. Pain was his friend. Pain was the only emotion he felt. He found an odd sense of comfort in it.
Just as he was about to stand, Wilcome Cotton came up to him and sat. "How are you doing, Mr. Frodo?"
"Just fine," he replied sarcastically, but Wilcome failed to notice. "And you, Wilcome?"
"Same, thank you. I heard you were ill last night, sir?"
"No, just a bit tired, but thank you for asking."
"Just what I thought. When my father said you took ill, I says – when I seen you workin', rather, I says, 'Mr. Frodo wasn't ill. Just-a look at him working! And if he was, I sure ain't never heard of a hobbit recovering so quickly.' My father just laughed, patted me on my head, and returned to work."
"I see." Frodo became silent.
"Say, did you try some of that there ale?"
"No, I did not. Now, if you'd excuse me, I'd best get to bed." Frodo smiled somewhat and left when the younger hobbit returned to his friends.
He had nearly made it to the hall when Rosie stopped him. "Mr. Frodo?"
Frodo jumped and turned, slightly annoyed. "Yes, Miss Cotton?"
"I've remembered where Mr. Gamgee is. He's in Crickhollow tending to various gardens. Reckon it's too late for you to go see him about whatever it was that had you looking for him."
"Yes, I reckon it is too late for me to go have a chat with him. Thank you for letting me know," came the defensive, yet confused and paranoid reply.
"You're welcome, sir." Rosie watched him walk to his quarters. Was it her or had he in but one day lost the stately posture that was so rare at his age? She scratched her chin and returned to the kitchen to see to the guests.
Frodo opened the bedroom door and shut it behind him, blocking out what little noise drifted in from the kitchen. Sighing, he took out his clothes and pulled out bandages to wrap around his injured back from his drawer. Moaning in pain, he twisted, trying to see if he had any visible injuries. There was a bruise. He would have to be more careful the next time he worked, he resolved.
Slowly, he began to wrap the bandages around his lower back as tightly as he could bear. It was difficult to do by himself, but he refused to admit pain in front of others. They would only help out of charity, he had convinced himself.
After a long while, Frodo was prepared for bed. He lay down under the cold, soft blankets, his worn body welcoming the softness and warmth. Sleep, for once, was desired as he fell into a dreamless one.
TBC...