Rated PG-13 for angst and thoughts of suicide.

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 13th, 1420 S.R.

What is life when so much has been taken from me? My happiness, joy, friends, contentment? I am no longer the “innocent,” happy Frodo who left Bag End a year ago. Something’s missing inside that was there before. Something I need to go on. What is it? I wonder. I feel drained of it, whatever “it” is. Peace. That is what it is. There is no peace within.

I can hardly rest, though I try my best to hide it from Samwise whenever he is around. He’s too busy seeing how his gift from Galadriel is working to notice me, to sit me down and have a nice chat like we used to. Nightmares, horrible, wicked nightmares keep me from sleeping peacefully – from feeling peaceful even when I’m awake. I have no one to tell them to as I did on the Quest, no one to reassure me. No one cares what happens to me now. I am like a garment that has been worn and worn then tossed aside, or a child’s toy that has become boring and set aside. Even my own kin and country don’t respect or care for me.

What does living mean when you are neglected and unwanted? When you are unable to love or to be loved? Care or be cared for? No joy is found in such living. It’s just simply existing. Death seems to me like a comfort now. It is my desire to die. No one would care or notice. Maybe I should end it now. End this miserable existence I have. F.B.

# # #

Frodo set his journal under a few other books and wiped away a tear. He rose slowly and walked to the bed, lying down with his face buried in the clean pillow. Where was Sam now when he needed him the most? Did he not care anymore? Did anyone not care about him? Mesmerized, Frodo rolled over, unbuttoned his shirt a bit, pulled out a white gem, and clutched it tightly as though his life depended on it. He began to speak to himself,

“It’s gone forever, and now all is dark and empty.”

Little did he know that Farmer Cotton was watching him quietly from the open doorway, feeling sorry for the ill hobbit.

“I can’t go on without It. My precious.” Frodo unchained his necklace and began to stroke the gem as he used to stroke the Ring. “I need It. Everything is empty. I cannot feel anything anymore but pain and grief.” He began to drift off into a restless sleep.

# # #

Frodo was wandering through a dark maze. There was an eerie presence nearby, and he was feeling scared.

“Sam!” he called out. “Sam!?” He took a few steps further and whimpered, “Sam!?” Before him stood Sam and Saruman with an army of orcs. “Sam, help me! Why are you looking at me like that?”

“That’s him, the Ring-bearer, sir,” Sam told Saruman who handed over a bag. Sam greedily poured the chunks of solid gold into his hands, not caring about his friend.

“Orcs, attack!” Saruman ordered.

“Frodo backed up in fear. “Sam!? Why are you doing this?” he asked, bright blue eyes wide with fear and shock. Sam just looked on with an evil smirk. Frodo backed into a corner, covering his head protectively. “Sam!” he tried again. “Please, help me!” But he was alone, without a soul in the world that cared for him.

# # #

Frodo sat up drenched in sweat. Tears were flowing freely, and he was gasping for breath. He wiped the sweat from his brow and stood, supporting himself for a long time on a bedpost. After five minutes, he walked to the mirror and peered in. He looked horrible. Oily hair, sweat- and tear-drenched face, a sweat-soaked shirt and pants. He doused a washcloth into cold water in a basin and wrung it out. He put the cool rag against his hot face. The water was refreshing. After washing the sweat off his face, Frodo removed his garments and put on his nightclothes as it was evening. He dampened the cloth again after closing the door and returned to his bed. He laid on his back and placed the cloth over his face, moaning as he did.

The hobbit welcomed the cool feeling created by the evening breeze blowing against the smooth cloth. It was the most relaxed feeling he had had since returning to the Shire. He was afraid to sleep again, afraid that another nightmare of his friends betraying him might happen. He had already dreamed of Merry, Pippin, and Sam – Sam three times.

Frodo lay still, trying to think of nothing. Even when relaxing, his soul was tormented, his mind, his body. He had no true rest, only shadows of what they once were. Reading his old journals from before the Quest made him feel more miserable than anything else, so he had resorted to locking them in a chest and throwing away the key.

Frodo took a deep breath, his face still covered. It was going to be a long night. He began to toss and turn as memories of the Quest flooded into his mind against his will. “No!” he yelled on the top of his lungs. “No, no, no!” He clutched his head, crying out. “Leave me alone! Go away!”

Farmer Cotton ran to the door. ” Mr. Frodo!” The hobbit did not respond, only continued yelling, fighting the air. “Frodo Baggins, sir! Is everything all right?” he asked in alarm. When the hobbit still did not respond, he opened the door and rushed in. What he saw amazed him in a horrific way.

Frodo was screaming at an invisible Sam, punching the air wildly as if in a trance. “Sam! How could you!? You left me when I needed you most! You no longer care for me, you stupid, fat hobbit! Leave me! We are no longer friends! Ah!” Frodo backed up into a corner screaming in fear, protecting his head. “Orcs! Sam! SAMWISE! Help me! Help me…”

Frodo fainted, and Farmer Cotton ran to his side, placing his candlestick on the nightstand. He gently tapped Frodo’s face, “Mr. Frodo, wake up!” The younger hobbit did not wake. Desperately, the farmer grabbed a rag lying about on the side of the bed and wet it, placing it on Frodo’s face. Frodo stirred, reaching for the farmer’s neck, toppling him onto his back.

“Mr. Frodo!” the farmer begged. “Please, don’t. It’s me, Farmer Cotton!”

Frodo’s eyes widened in horror as he realized what he was doing. He slowly moved away, panting heavily. “Wha-what happened?” he asked, stuttering, yet not sure he wanted to know the answer.

“You-you were screaming, Frodo, sir, screaming. I came here to see if you needed help. You were yelling at Sam and punching, and then suddenly you were yelling for Sam to help you – something about orcs. Next thing I knew, you were lyin’ on the ground, fainted. So, I did what I thought best. I revived you. Then, you attacked me.”

“You should have left me,” Frodo murmured quietly.

“Come again, sir?”

“You should have left me,” he replied louder. At the Farmer’s confused look, he added, “Left me to die. I -” Frodo stopped suddenly, trembling fiercely.

“You know I couldn’t do that, Frodo.” Farmer Cotton was shocked. He had always thought Frodo to be a quiet lad, but the farmer had never thought he concealed such desires as ending his life. “But, i-if you think you’ll be alright alone, I’d best get back to bed.” He stood and picked up his candlestick.

“I’ll be fine,” Frodo answered, forcing a smile. As the farmer reached the door, he added, “Farmer Cotton?” The farmer looked at him. “I would appreciate it if you don’t say anything of this to anyone – especially Sam.”

“I-I won’t,” promised Farmer Cotton, before leaving the room.

Frodo returned to his bed, sitting down once the door closed. “How can all this be happening?” he asked himself quietly. He lay down, once more drifting into sleep, absolute misery filling his entire being.

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TBC…