FrodoBaggins87, Here is the next chapter for you. Hope it's just as good as the rest. Never thought someone would describe my writing as "yummy." LOL

DiedbySuicide, wow I sure am getting a lot of new reviewers. I'm very happy to hear from you and that you like it.

Nimrodel of Meneltarma, I'm glad you're reading it even though you speak French more often than English. I'm glad you can still understand and enjoy.

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 15, 1420 S.R.

I have never felt so alone or miserable in my life. No one trusts me anymore. Any "care" they show toward me is so they can have things to their benefit. I injured my back yesterday and they all faked concern. I felt so upset that I just ignored the pain and continued. I am in agony right now. I shan't work today. I'll go to my favorite spot and read – if I can't get up to the branch, I'll sit under the tree. I will more or less end up thinking.

I do not enjoy living anymore. I have no friends but pain and agony. Ha! Quite the opposite of what the old me would say. There is no one who loves me, not even myself. I fear the thought of ending my own life for fear of staining the Baggins' name for any future generations, for fear of what people will say of me. Ironically, what Sam and I were talking about on the Quest has already come true – wanting to hear more of "Samwise the Brave" rather than "Frodo the Ringbearer." Ha! My title sounds like a wedding person's title, and his sounds like that of a great champion from afar. Perhaps that is why they like him more.

I am feeling extremely bitter and in agony. Who I may have been before is no more. Now I am a miserable excuse for a hobbit. I am barely alive. I do not know to end this life of mine, but I will. I just hope someone comes before it is too late. F.B.

# # #

Frodo closed the weather- and use-worn book and hid it once more. A yellowed page fell out and caught his attention. Picking it up, he groaned. He had forgotten his back was injured.

It was a note from his Uncle Bilbo given to him with the journal before the Quest. He read over the note.

Frodo, my boy,

It is a perilous journey you set out on, full of many dangers and things beyond your imagination. Frodo lad, be careful. Wear the mithril and have Sting with you at all times.

Be careful not to be reckless with your life. The hope of the success of the Fellowship lies with you, I fear. Though it be a tough burden you bear and a tough journey ahead of you, be strong and do not give up. You can make it – you are a Baggins! Bring honor to the name again, boy, for me, at least.

I am afraid for you and your gardener, Samwise, for I fear most of the journey lies with you and him. He will never leave you. He is a true friend, one you can trust. Your cousins will need much looking after if they are to return the Shire alive.

Within this journal, record your daily thoughts, progress, and emotions. You will do this for me, lad, won't you? When you get back – not if – we shall have to sit and record your journey. Be careful, lad. Come back unharmed.

With love from your uncle,

Bilbo Baggins

Frodo placed the note back in the hidden journal. Uncle Bilbo was wrong in so many ways, he thought bitterly. Sam is no longer a true friend, and, thus, never was. Merry and Pip made it back without much looking after. Plus, even he does not care for me any longer. If he did, he would have returned with me to the Shire, and we would have had that talk.

Frodo's thoughts had incessantly been poisoned by the Ring during the Quest. Even now, though it was destroyed, the Ring continued the deadly poisoning. Frodo Baggins would never have considered ending his life, save his mind had been horribly twisted in its manner of thinking. Neither would he have thought his uncle no longer cared for him under normal thought patterns.

He sat down again and pulled out he book with the contents "There and Back Again" by Bilbo Baggins. Grabbing his quill pen, which he dipped in a bottle of ink, he began to write his own story after Bilbo's own. He recounted it all from the moment the Ring had come to him, but he stopped writing at the point where he reached Rivendell in pretense of taking a break.

He stood stiffly and walked out of the room, heading for the clearing in which his favorite tree was located. The sight of the familiar setting, the smell and gentle touch of the grass and wildflowers beneath his feet, and the soft breeze and gentle caressing of the waving leaves against his face sent chills up his spine as he sat, reliving memories of the days he remembered and longed for but could not have. His tortured soul silently hated the days, which were filled with the happiness he no longer felt or had.

Frodo pressed his back softly and carefully against the tree, breathing in the familiar scents slowly. He truly smiled, though it was barely noticeable, for the first time since he had returned to the Shire, though the happiness was short-lived as he remembered that this was where he was when Gandalf came to the Shire on his coming of age, the day Bilbo left the Shire, never to return, the day he had received the Ring, the day several years later he had left the Shire on the nearly hopeless journey that had cost him nearly his entire soul.

He shut his eyes abruptly, trying in vain to block out all the memories that were flooding quickly in. He began to sob, violently trembling despite the great pain it added to his already hurting back. He buried his head in his lap, crying out like a frightened child. How he longed for a comforting arm to wrap around his shaking shoulders! No relief came, however, as the tears released the anguish bottled in his hurting soul. Gone were the days of hope and joy, replaced with the bitter coldness and emptiness of the wells of sorrow contained within.

Stubbornly, he stopped the steady flow of tears and stood. He walked tot he pristine brook nearby and washed his face to hide the fact that he had cried with much effort as his throbbing back gave no relief. It seemed to get worse with every move.

Stubborn as he was, Frodo resolved to see a doctor, refusing to spend his last days in pain. Now to figure out how to keep the news from spreading through the entire Shire. The hobbit scratched his chin thoughtfully before foolishly taking off his vest and putting it over his head to cover his face. He would be the laughingstock of Hobbiton if it was discovered it was he who had roamed like that, but he did not are.

What is one more stain to the Baggins' name? he asked himself. He looked at his reflection in the water. Oh what's the use? The doctor's an S.B. after all. He removed the vest from its perch upon his head, put it in its rightful place, and headed off to Doctor Sandy Sackville-Baggins' office.

He made it there noticed by barely anyone, much to his delight and dismay. He knocked on the rounded door to announce his arrival before turning the perfectly centered doorknob and entering.

Sandy looked up. "Well, well, what have we here? Why, if it isn't Master Baggins himself!"

"Doctor," Frodo replied in a low voice.

"What ails ye?"

Reluctantly, Frodo replied, "I – err – injured my back while working yesterday." He cleared his throat.

"How so?"

Frodo's cheeks slightly reddened. "The pony took off while I was plowing, and I was dragged."

"Take off your shirt and let me take a look." Frodo obeyed with a grimace. "That's a nasty scar you have on your shoulder," the doctor noted as he began to remove the bandage.

"A wound from my Quest."

"I see. Now, where are you hurting?" Frodo motioned to the spot. "That's a bad bruise. I need you to lie down on this bed." Frodo lay down. The doctor pressed in various places, Frodo squinting in pain at each touch. Was he trying to hurt him?

"Well, Master Baggins, you seem to have popped a disk or two out of joint. With your permission, I can try to fix it." Frodo nodded, and a few minutes later the sharp pressure was relieved, though he was still sore from the bruise and the impact.

Frodo stood. "Thank you, doctor."

"You're welcome." The doctor turned. "I'd keep that bandage on for at least a week if I were you. No walking more than necessary. Have you a ride back to the Cotton's?"

"No," Frodo replied while putting back on the bandage and his garments.

"Then, you are to come with me in my wagon."

"That won't be necessary, sir."

"I insist."

"Frodo nodded and kept walked to the cart outside. He requested to be dropped off at his tree, but was silent the rest of the journey, hoping the doctor

would not mention the visit to anyone.

# # #

Frodo sat down beneath the shady tree once again, desiring to stay there forevermore and never to leave for a hobbit hole again. The tree grove was the only place he could find any semblance of solitude in the world around him. He listened to the birds chirping merrily and unrestrained from the trees about and above, though he himself was not merry and was himself restrained, keeping his every thought to himself. The bright, blazing sun declared its presence high in the noon sky, whereas he kept to himself, thinking no one noticed him. The white, billowy clouds with large patches of gray suspended gracefully, yet somehow threateningly in the blue sky above. Frodo was not so threatening, but instead felt threatened by everything about him. It was as though he need to be in a black, unseeing void to live without fear.

The clouds opened up and began to release a tumultuous flow of water as Frodo began to mope and withdraw more and more. The sun was covered as though it had a fluffy, gray blanket tucking it in for an afternoon nap. It was an odd sensation for the pained Frodo as he stood, looking toward Crickhollow, where there was still no rain. It was to the east, south, and north of him that was being drowned. Part of him longed to go to Crickhollow, but the other part wanted to stay in Hobbiton where the weather mirrored his emotions. Or was it that he wanted to be where the treacherous traitor, Samwise Gamgee, was not?

Frodo ran blindly, head downward and hands in pockets to avoid the onset of rain, unable to make out anything that was more than two feet ahead of him. True, the hard downpour of rain blinded him, but, mostly, it was the sharp pain that ran up his spine combined with the chill he felt that blinded him. Frodo felt safe in this world – the world of the blind – felt that no one could harm him again, and he longed to live in it – longed never to see the waking world again.

Harder and harder, the rain shot down from the darkened sky. More and more Frodo learned to like and enjoy the blindness, though he had no idea of where he was going, if he was heading in the right direction; however, he did not care. He wanted to die – to fall down a cliff and never be seen again. His mind was clouded with hatred towards the people he had once called friends – Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, Merry, Pippin, Sam. The longer he was out in the rain, the more his blood boiled with anger and fear.

Finally, Frodo reached the Cotton farm where he was being anxiously awaited by the entire family.

As he stumbled in, Rosie exclaimed, "Ma! It's Mr. Frodo! Ma!?"

Mrs. Cotton rounded the corner swiftly, "Why! He's soaked to the bone! Rosie, go set some water in the fireplace. Mr. Cotton, help Mr. Frodo out of his clothes, and I'll get him some warm clothes." The entire family began their appointed tasks.

Frodo struggled profusely as Farmer Cotton tried to help him out of his clothes. "No!" he protested. Rosie returned with a kettle of water and set it on the fire to boil. "No, Sam! Not in front of her!"

One glance from her father, and Rosie was out of the room to help her mother. Finally, Farmer Cotton succeeded in removing Frodo's vest form his body and hung it by the fire. His once puffy shirt clung tightly to his body, revealing the bandage around his lower back.

Farmer Cotton noticed it immediately. "Frodo, you're injured!"

"No, Sam…" Frodo replied, falling into a chair, asleep.

Mrs. Cotton came in right as he fell. Her look at her husband inquired as to why he had fallen and was still wearing most of his clothing.

"He's delirious,' the farmer told his wife.

Mrs. Cotton felt Frodo's forehead. "Well, it's no wonder. He's burning with fever! Hurry! Gently get him changed into his nightclothes – I brought them just in case – before he wakes up and starts a fuss. She bent down beside the fireplace and tended to the fire and took the pot out, dipping a rag into the warm water.

# # #

Frodo awoke an hour later covered in white. Where am I? Am I – dead? he asked himself, struggling to sit up.

"Whoa there, Frodo!" the farmer exclaimed, pushing him gently down. "You mustn't get up, and you shan't – not while I'm around. You are ill."

Frodo protested wordlessly, and once again the farmer pushed him down. "Please!" he begged, bright blue eyes sparkling with moisture. "I can't…be ill. I haven't the time."

"Frodo lad, none of us do," Farmer Cotton replied while taking a seat.

Frodo shot a quick glare at the farmer. His mind had taken the double meaning – that none had time for him to be ill because they had to have him work, instead of that no one has time to be sick, as Farmer Cotton had meant it. "How did I get here? And in my nightclothes?"

"Well, you stumbled in here soakin' wet, and me wife, daughter and I prepared you to come in here and tended to you all night. We want you to get better, you know." The farmer smiled. Frodo had fallen asleep. His face bore a frown, which the farmer passed off as just an external reaction to being ill.

Inside, Frodo was racing – racing from a danger yet unseen.