Anywhoo...a sad mood inspired this little ficlet about Frodo feeling uprooted from the Shire. Review please. Book-verse, I suppose.


The last of the packs were strapped tight shut, Sam's post clanging gently with movement as the elves of Rivendell set them in the halls beside the bedrooms. The men were still awake, as was Gandalf, discussing matters of the Great Journey ahead, and the dangers. The hobbits were not encouraged to listen, for Pippin had been chased out an hour or so earlier.

Shafts of moonlight pierced the pale window curtains in Frodo's room. It gave the white floor a silvery glow, and with each breeze, the curtains ruffled.

Frodo could not rest.

His words, his sudden claim that he would be the one to deliver the accursed Ring to its final doom; he regretted them. But he knew it was his duty now, ere the end, to fufill that promise, that oath that he'd spoken.

That still did not calm his heart.

The wound of Morgul Knife felt numb on his shoulder, and he touched fingers to it through the soft shirt the elves had lent him. Quietly, he crept to the window, clambering into the small seat and gazing upon the clear sky, full of stars spread across the sky like diamond dust abandoned by the jeweler.

To Frodo, the stars seemed almost the same as they had when he would gaze at them from Bag End, or Brandybuck Hall, or even...even years back, when he was just a babe. Yet they were different; something alter his perception of them. What, though, he could not tell.

The tired half-ling rested his head on his folded arms, and looked over the small window seat towards the Shire. It seemed so very far away, and, now that he knew what danger lie ahead, so fragile. He feared for his friends, though he accepted their companionship for the road. They knew not of the danger. Frodo still did not understand fully the evil.

A slight jarring movement irritated the wound on his shoulder, and Frodo winced. He missed home, and the bright sunlight of the Shire. He missed looking out on Bag End and going on about life with no knowledge of rings and evil doings in the east.

All he knew lay there, in the Shire. Beyond its borders, and those of Buckland....it became a mystery. One he did not want to face.

He knew he must; but his heart betrayed him and tears welled in his eyes. Home was calling him, away from the worry of travel, destruction, battle. He wanted to answer; wished to return. But he could not. Only he could bear the burden. That could not be changed.

Frodo silently wept, tears leaving a slow trail and falling softly like a mournful rain.