A/N: Dedicated to FrodoBaggins87. Go check out her stories after you're done reading this.
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 18, 1420 S.R.
Will the Cottons ever leave me alone? They thought I had died yesterday! I have not spoken to them since then, nor have they spoken to me. I think they are still shocked by my "resurrection." At least they are letting me come and go as I please today. No one has made mention of my injured back. I thought for sure they would have by now. Rose has been the only one who has looked at and spoken to me today.
That lass is something else, but she is no friend, nor does she want to be. I have no friends. I desperately need one. There is no joy without one, not even a glimpse of it. A friend could save me, or could he? Perhaps it's true that no one cares, that no one respects me. If anyone does, would he please let me know? I have feelings. I am alive. I am not a thing, nor am I somehow tainted other than by the Ring. But It is gone now. Gone forever! I shall never again see Its golden glimmer when the sun shines on It. I will never hear Its whispers, Its calls. I cannot declare It as my own. Friends would care. They would see my wounds and find who I truly am. They would dare to be seen with me in public despite how the rest of the Shire thinks of me. A friend would be loyal, faithful, caring, uplifting, helpful, joyful, unselfish…and so much more. I do not deserve one, but I need one – need one so badly I'll die if I don't get one. F.B.
Frodo stood and put the small book in his inner vest pocket. He walked out of the room to join the others for elevenses though he was not very hungry. The family welcomed him. He sat in his usual spot and served himself some biscuits, gravy, and mashed potatoes.
He watched the family talk happily. He felt like an outsider. Everyone was happier when he was not involved in their activity. He ate quietly and put his dishes by the sink and rinsed them. He left, announcing, "I am going out!" He received no response, so he headed sadly to his spot.
Upon reaching the clearing, Frodo climbed to the first limb of the tree despite the ache it caused his bruised back. He pulled out a small book he had found of gardening techniques and began to read. He had never understood why Sam had been so fond of gardening. It seemed to him as a boring activity, but now he decided he would have to learn to love it if he were to live.
Soon, he grew bored of reading and set the book down with a sigh. He closed his eyes to rest them for a moment, but he soon fell asleep unwillingly.
Frodo kneeled down in front of the vines, picking up the clippers, preparing to help Sam. He felt oddly out-of-place even though he was in the yard of his own home. The vine's branches moved threateningly as he prepared to cut back the overgrowth.
Sam's figure overshadowed him from behind. Frodo turned, smiling to greet his friend, but Sam stood spitefully looking down at his master, arms crossed. "Hullo, Sam!" he greeted, his smile fading as he saw Sam had no clippers and no intention of helping him.
"Frodo," Sam replied, still standing.
"Well, are you going to help?"
"No, I ain't."
"Why not, Sam?"
"It's Master Samwise to you."
"Master Samwise?" Frodo repeated, the words coming out unnaturally. "Why, Sam, what has gotten into you? I thought we were friends. Besides, you are the gaffer's son, and your family is in charge of the care taking of Bag End."
Sam tapped his foot. "Get to work now."
Frodo turned to work, but he was still horribly confused. "What do you mean by telling me to work?"
"Never mind that. Work," Sam replied sternly.
"Lotho's gotten to you, hasn't he? I thought you were against him and we were going to get him out of Bag End. My friend, tell me, I pray thee."
"Do not speak ill of Master Lotho," Sam paused and stared in disapproval. "Get to work." Frodo began to clip a vine. "You should be thankful he has allowed you to stay in Bag End in his service instead of killing you."
"I in his service? Oh no, Samwise –"
"Master Samwise."
"I am not in his service. He dares to oppress the people of the Shire. I would never serve that hobbit. Lotho is evil. We've got to overthrow him before the people die." With that he cut through a particularly tough vine.
"You should never have said that," Sam said through gritted teeth. He kicked Frodo in the back, causing him to fall from his kneeling position.
"Sam, no!" Frodo yelled as he awoke, looking around. His back was now throbbing in pain. He had fallen from the tree branch. He lay still, not sure what to do. How could he move when he was in such great pain? He would have to since no one ever came out there. That was why he had like the spot so much. He had never dreamed he would be injured in the secluded area.
Perhaps I could just get near enough to the roadway and hope some people riding by will see me, Frodo thought, tying to think of how to be found. He struggled to get to his feet, but it was too much weight for his back to bear. Slowly, as that of an old man, he got up on his elbows, his chest toward the ground. Slowly and painfully, he crawled to the roadway, and upon reaching it, he leaned against a tree, though it hurt to do so.
An hour had passed, yet nobody had traveled down the road. Frodo was beginning to worry that he would never be found. His back was still throbbing, his hands gripped tightly at the grass as he tried to keep from crying out. He had already bithis to the point where blood ran out and his tongue as well. Tears streamed down his pale face, but he uttered not a word nor made a sound.
He gritted his teeth tighter and tighter; the stress and pain his body was feeling amplified a hundred fold. "Ah!" he cried out, but it was barely audible even to himself. He screamed out as loud as he could, hoping beyond hope that someone would hear him and run to his help.
Hours upon hours passed, and Frodo could not even go to his haven of darkness for relief. How he longed for it! The sun began to lower. Barely above the hills could he see it. The sky was a pretty purple-orange color with pink hues throughout and white, fluffy clouds surrounding it, but Frodo could not enjoy it, for the pain blinded him still.
Finally, footsteps faintly approached, though Frodo could barely hear it. So great was the throbbing of his spine. For a moment he was able to concentrate on what was going on around him.
"Mr. Baggins, sir? Are you alright? Mr. Baggins?"
"No, lad, I'm not," he managed to say through gritted teeth. "My back…fell out of a tree…Doctor, please."
The lad, Sancho Proudfoot, struggled to make out the slurred words and phrases. He understood enough to know Frodo's back was hurt, though how Sancho could not tell, and that Frodo needed a doctor. Carefully, Sancho lifted Frodo, noting his unusually light weight, and silently wondered whether or not Frodo ate properly as he carried him slowly to the doctors. It was a rather uncomfortable task as Frodo was sweating quite profusely and kept grabbing his rescuer's shirt as the pain escalated.
After half an hour they made it to the office of Sandy Sackville-Baggins. The doctor opened the door, quite annoyed to see that it was Sancho Proudfoot, but upon seeing Frodo in his arms, he smirked. "Sancho, good evening. Come in," Sandy said. "Put him here on the bed."
"Thank you doctor," Sancho said, putting Frodo down.
"Now, what seems to be the matter that Frodo cannot walk himself?"
"Well, I found him near the road, and he was in deep pain, and he said his back was hurt…" Sancho continued to babble on, but the doctor cut in.
"Turn him over on his stomach." Sancho did so as gently as possible. Frodo cried out and grabbed the sheets beneath him, reeling in pain.
The doctor looked at Frodo's back as soon as the patient had calmed down a bit. His face was contorted deeply with pain, making him look older somehow no matter how "well-preserved" he was. "Dislocated again… this time more severely. A wonder he can move at all!" he noted.
Sancho's eyes darted from Frodo's back to the doctor's face. "You mean, sir, that Mr. Baggins has been injured before."
"Oh, yes."
"My good sir, would you tell me how?"
"An accident while he was working, though I cannot say more. Now, Sancho, would you please hold him down as I attempt to fix the disk's positions?"
"As you wish." Sancho managed to get Frodo to stop thrashing in pain though it meant knocking him out, and soon his vertebrae were realigned in their proper places. Some pain was relieved, though a vast majority was still there.
"I'm afraid he will have to stay overnight. On your way home, would you mind stopping by the Cotton's and tell them he is staying with a friend?"
"Yes," Sancho replied with a faint smile. "Who shall I say this friend is?"
"Why, me, of course."
"But then they will worry. Everyone knows that the Bagginses and Sackville-Bagginses don't get along too good," he protested.
The doctor nodded. "Just say I had a debt to repay."
"Aye, sir. Goodnight, then." Sancho walked out of the office, leaving an unconscious Frodo behind.
Rosie hurried to the door as soon as someone knocked on it. "Well, it's about time you showed up. We were –" Her face fell and she stopped in mid-sentence as she realized it was not Frodo. Where was he? "Oh, Mr. Proudfoot, come in. We were expecting Mr. Baggins."
Sancho entered quietly. "I am just stepping in on Frodo's behalf to let you know that he's staying at a friend's house tonight."
"Oh," Rosie said quietly. "May I ask whose house?"
"Yes, miss, you may. He is staying at the doctor's." At Rosie's confused look, he added, "A-a debt the doctor had to repay."
"Is he injured?" the young lass asked worriedly.
Sancho was caught off-guard. He had not thought to ask what to say to that. If he told the truth, the family would be glad he told the truth, but Frodo would be angry with him – or so he and some of the Shire would have thought. On the other hand, if he lied, Frodo would be happy, and the family might never find out. He decided he would rather not face the wrath of Frodo Baggins, for he heard that it was horrific and could be fatal.
All that thought was but one reaction to the horrible rumor that the Sackville-Bagginses had began. Others refused to go out on the rare occasions they heard Frodo was out, too. Yet others who knew Frodo well just ignored it and laughed about how funny it sounded in comparison to the real nature of Frodo. It had yet to reach Frodo's ears as he more often than not kept to himself in the Cotton's farm.
As to what the rumor was, everyone disagreed; the only ones who truly knew were the Sackville-Bagginses who had started it. Sancho had heard it about the third time it had circulated in which it had become: "Frodo Baggins is the most dangerous hobbit alive! He's gone mad during the time he went away. Just the other day he nearly killed Lily for preparing his food improperly! And he killed a baby for crying!" The claims were obviously false. Lily Cotton had not had a single hair harmed, and, as for the baby, no one had heard of her before the day it all started. Sancho, being gullible when it came to the things told to him by the S.B.'s, did not believe it false but true!
"No, he is not injured, but it may be a few days until the debt is repaid in full. Adieu, miss." He tipped his hat and left Rosie standing at the doorway flustered.
Sandy lay in bed that evening, plotting. How perfect it was! The situation would be prefect for Frodo to stay at least seven days – just long enough for his back to be well enough for him to walk. Oh, yes. Everything will work, Sandy told himself, smiling wickedly.
Don't forget to REVIEW, please. I would like to know what every single reader thinks of this. Is there anything I can do to improve my writing for the sequel I have planned or a future story?
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TBC…