Camellia Gamgee-Took: Well, I'm glad you noticed this time! Don't want to get too far behind, right? Glad to hear from you again. Still sad? Can't promise it'll get much happier, though the chapters will be lighter for a while, I think, but then they'll get picked right back up to a climax in the last chapter, and, well, you'll see if it's a happy ending or an "angsty" ending.
FrodoBaggins87: "Too short! Why?" Because I like to torture my readers and keep them coming back. mwahaha…No, I'm just kidding. I wouldn't do that. As to why it really was so short? I don't know. Maybe that was the chapter I started writing the things I wanted to include in the last chapter without thinking and ended up deciding it needed to be moved to the last chapter, so, I rewrote it. I really can't remember.
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 17, 1420 S.R.
I am still feeling ill, but I refuse to stay in bed today. Farmer Cotton will surely not like it. Well, if he objects, the choice is mine. The one bonus to being sick is people will leave you alone if you close your eyes.
Whenever I wake, I feel lost and out of place. The surroundings are familiar, but they are not those of home. Home. Bag End. How I long for it! But, it seems as though whatever I long for is out of my grasp. The Ring, Bag End, companionship, friendship – all is gone, not for me (or anyone else) to claim again. There is nothing to even temporarily fill the void I have inside. I long, but I cannot have. I search, but I cannot find. Life. What is it? What does it mean? What is its purpose? It always comes back to those three questions of late. Gandalf and Elrond are not in the Shire to answer the questions that may save me. Couldn't they have seen this? Couldn't they have answered them for me? I was told my wounds would never truly heal, but are these the effects of them? Life would have been much simpler had the Quest not happened – if the Ring were truly mine as I claimed.
Why? Why did It betray me? It drew Gollum to me. I relive the painful memories every time I look at my maimed hand. Why do I go on? What have I to look forward to? Pain? Suffering?! Betrayal!? F.B.
Frodo sat up and looked around. He put his journal in the drawer of the nightstand by the bed and ran his hand quickly through his matted hair. Then, he dressed, dimmed the light, and left the room, glancing around the corner. Farmer Cotton and everyone else were asleep still. Wonderful! He thought, while tiptoeing through the front door.
The sight of something – or someone – moving quickly toward him made him jump in fear.
"Mr. Frodo, what are you doing up and about?"
Frodo turned abruptly and sighed, half-relieved and half-disappointed. Flatly, he said, "Rose, it's just you." He had partially hoped it was Sam when he had heard "Mr. Frodo."
"What are you doing up and about?" Rose repeated.
"I'm feeling much better. Thought a bit of fresh air might do me some good," he replied, shifting his feet.
"Oh. But really, if you insist on doing so, at least let me come with you. You still look like you are not feeling well."
He looked aside and rolled his eyes. Sighing, he agreed. He wanted to go to the clearing, but letting someone else know where it was could take away any hope of an hour's peace. He had only told one person where it was anyhow, but that was a long time ago when he thought he had friends. Samwise had respected his master's solitary time, coming only when invited, and, when he was not, he would stand guard as a "protector of the peace." Frodo had laughed at Sam's self-proclaimed title. Those were the days when Frodo could laugh and enjoy himself.
Frodo and Rosie walked, the cold air stinging their faces, making their cheeks and noses a crimson color. Rose occasionally would make comments like, "Look at that rose! Isn't it pretty with the dew on the petals?"
He was annoyed by such girlish comments, but he did not show it. He would just reply in agreement. He was in his own world as he walked the familiar paths, thinking of days past, finding even more suspicious actions in the activities of others. His anger and hurt grew with each one. Suddenly, he forced himself to stop thinking and began to listen to Rosie who had been speaking for a while.
"…think? Mr. Frodo?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Rosie halted and put her right hand on her hip. "Mr. Frodo! Where have you been this morning? Not with me, I should say!"
"I am sorry, lass. I just –"
"No, I am sorry. I had forgotten you still are not completely better. It should be expected."
Frodo smiled gratefully, and Rose smiled back. They took a few more steps before she announced with a smile, "One more step, and I'll be the farthest from home I've been," she paused to end, but added, "today," when she noted Frodo's pained expression. The memories were flooding back to his head of when he, Sam, and Pippin had set off for Crickhollow to his new house. The pain of selling Bag End to the Sackville-Bagginses. The beginning of the Fellowship. So many things were triggered by her innocent sentence. "What's the matter? You don't look so good."
"It's nothing; I assure you. I'm just a bit tired," he said, pasting on a weary smile. Why does everyone keep asking me that? he asked himself, rubbing his burning eyes.
"Then, I'll take you home."
"No need to go through the trouble; continue on your walk. I can make it on my own. Thank you for offering though." That said, he began to go towards the Cotton's home, his mind troubled once more.
------
Frodo managed to get inside the house and back to his room unnoticed. Judging by the sun's position in the sky, it was about six in the morning. What on earth had Rosie been doing up at that hour? He had heard that farmer's rose early, but the lasses?
He lay down in bed, not wanting to sleep but to escape as long as he could. Life outside of his mind was unbearable, and the more he escaped, the more he wished he could stay there, though he knew he could not. It was like his drug of choice. Instead of drinking pints or smoking pipeweed, he escaped from reality through sinking into nothingness.
It was dark. He saw nothing. He knew nothing. He heard nothing. All was void of feeling. He just existed without a care in the world, that is, until a ray of light would shine through his eyelids or some noise or hobbit would force him back to reality. Those interruptions happened all too soon each time for Frodo.
Though the time spent in his haven was peaceful and relaxing, it worsened his view of the outside world. He was more paranoid, more untrusting, more distant…more desirous of death.
------
Farmer Cotton awoke, stretching. He was startled by the sound of a bedroom door nearby closing. He silently went though a list of people. Rosie? No, she would still be out on her morning walk. Sam? No, he will not be back for yet eight more days. Frodo? No, unless – The farmer jumped out of his bed and put on a robe, rushing to the ill hobbit's room.
Frodo was found lying on his back, eyes open and unblinking. Farmer Cotton's face went pale with dread. Surely, if Frodo weres dead, Sam, his favorite of his daughter's beaus, would be angry. He had seen how loyal Sam was to his master. Why! If he were upset enough, Sam might turn his own daughter against him! He knew his daughter cared more for Sam than she ever had another hobbit though she denied it. The faint, sweet rose-color that rushed to her cheeks at the mention or thought of his name or the sight of him, the slight, faint traces of her primping when she saw him come up the lane or into the room were undeniable. His daughter had never been happier.
It was with such thoughts that he shook Frodo to rouse him, but he would not blink or move a muscle. Farmer Cotton sighed, and shook Frodo harder. "Frodo!" he yelled in a hushed voice, as to not wake anyone else in the smial. Still, the younger hobbit would not move. He continued in that manner for about five minutes, but Frodo refused to come out of his thoughts. The farmer walked head downward out of the room. How would he break the news to Sam? To anyone? The hobbit he had taken such careful care of had died in his charge.
He went to the sitting groom and used it for the set purpose. He was deeply troubled. How could Frodo have died? He had seemed to be on the mend the day before. He looked up as he heard his daughter enter.
Rosie bounced up to her father and threw her arms around his neck, smiling brightly. "Good morning! It's a beautiful day outside!" She looked down at her father who had not so much as nodded in recognition. She moved in front of him. "What is the matter?" she asked, eyes widening in alarm "Is it Mister Frodo?" she asked, eyes widening in alarm. "Has he gotten worse? Oh! I knew I shouldn't have let –"
"He's much worse, I'm afraid. He's passed away."
"Dead?" She placed her hand over her mouth and slowly sank down onto the chair behind her. "No!" she said in barely more than a whisper. "It's all my fault! I let him –"
"Rose Cotton! Don't you speak like that!" he commanded firmly but gently while putting his hands on his daughter's shoulders.
Rosie stood quickly, anger flashing in her eyes. "But it is! Don't you see? He was up when I was about to take my daily walk! I found him at the door. He insisted, and I allowed him to come with me…and then – he walked back alone!" She began to sob audibly, and her father drew her close.
"Shh! It's all right, Rose; it's all right. It is not your fault. He was a stubborn but kindly hobbit. You could not have kept him here against his will. You – a young lass. Shh-hh! Everything will be all right, my dear lass. I am here, and I will protect you…Shh!" He stroked his daughter's hair and patted her back comfortingly. His soul was deeply grieved, and he searched for something to make her happy in his mind, but to no avail. All at once he felt helpless, like he was fighting a foe he could not overcome.
He stood there with his daughter until his wife and other children entered, each responding in his own way with shock and sadness when told what happened. It was his son Wilcome who wanted to see for himself.
Wilcome stood and walked to the bedroom in which his role model was. He had taken the news the hardest, but he knew Frodo's servant Sam would be even more grieved. He opened the door and walked to the motionless form of Frodo, closing the hobbit's eyes with a shudder, but something was wrong. His body felt warm. Quickly, Wilcome checked for a sign of life – breathing…a pulse! Both, Frodo had. "He's alive!" he shouted, and the rest of the family ran into the room where Frodo sat looking around in confusion.
A/N: I have the chapters edited up through the twentieth, so, the more reviews I get, the faster I'll update.