Disclaimers: I do not own The Lord of the Rings. The Lord of the Rings and other Middle-earth works belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, Peter Jackson, New Line Cinema, Warner Brothers, Turbine and Standing Stones Games. All other canon material belongs to their respected owners. All original material—original characters, original locations, etc.—belongs to me, the authoress of this fanfiction story.
Warning! This fanfic is Rated T for mild sensual content.
Frodo sat by his writing desk, jotting down his story, the history of the War of the Ring, in the Red Book of Westmarch. It was the very same red journal that Bilbo Baggins, Frodo's uncle and cousin, had given to him back in Rivendell, when they were in the care of Lord Elrond.
Now, as Frodo dipped his quill in the filled ink bottle, a terrible sensation breached his heart and his left shoulder, where the Morgul Blade wound stood. He set the quill down, moving his hand over his shoulder. He winced in pain.
The wound had never really healed. He knew this by now. Oh, where should he find rest? Was there no rest for him, after all he went through?
Memories flooded his mind. The Morgul Blade pierced his left shoulder, Shelob's stinger stabbed him on his right shoulder, his index finger bitten off by Smeagol/Gollum, when the gangly creature took the One Ring from him, his mind broken by Sauron's grip on him.
Frodo had no idea where he could find rest, to heal his wounds. That would be a start. But then, he remembered Gandalf, the white-robed wizards, stating the Undying Lands were open to him.
Frodo sighed in relief. Yes, he would take the ships and heal in the Undying Lands, where all would be well. The Shirefolk, even Samwise Gamgee, Frodo's most trusted friend and companion, wouldn't understand, but Frodo needed healing.
Frodo sighed; the moment Sam entered the room. Samwise Gamgee, the sandy, curly-haired hobbit with pale skin and donned in a brown jacket, a brown waistcoat, a white dress shirt, and brown breeches, stopped by to deliver the book he borrowed from him. This wasn't the only thing he carried. Frodo peered over his shoulder at the card in Sam's hand.
"What is it, Sam?" Frodo asked, weakly. He had been choked by Smeagol, so even his throat felt hoarse, as if some of his vocal cords broke, thanks to Smeagol choking him.
"What is it?" Sam asked in return.
Frodo felt his shoulder again, telling Sam in a worried voice, "It's been four years to the day since Weathertop, Sam. It's never really healed."
"Well, Gandalf wanted me to give you this," Sam said, setting the card down in front of Frodo. "He said it was important, before we go with Bilbo to the Undying Lands."
Frodo looked at the card, picking it up and staring at it. "I mean, this can't be… Rivendell? No! No, it can't be! Stop!"
His mind was screaming at him to stop. So did his voice. He didn't know if it was him talking, or if his voice was suspended in the air. A bright white light surrounded him. He observed the card, finding it said at the top in bold letters: The Characters Rehabilitation Center, and it was in Rivendell. Only, it was on a plane that resembled Rivendell. At least, it was cozy.
Frodo looked around. He was back in his bedroom in Rivendell. The room was open and airy, while his big bed stood out against the wall. It looked cozy, too. He observed himself. Yes, he felt sick with illness from his wounds, but would it mean that here he would be healed?
He hardly knew, even as Lord Elrond entered the room again.
"Ah yes, Frodo, you've made it!" Elrond, an elven man with black flowing hair and donned in red robes, approached him. "We'll get you healed. Here is a concoction I just brewed, specifically for you. It should heal your wounds, make you strong. I'm afraid your mind and heart are something that will take time."
Frodo drank the mixture, finding it tasted bitter, but stronger. To his surprise, he looked at himself in the mirror. Color had returned to his face. While he felt much better, surprising himself that this mixture tasted good, he still didn't feel the same.
He felt so strange, as if some part of him was attached to evil. Like he wanted to be evil. He observed Elrond, as the elven lord spoke to him again, "Your therapist, Lindsay Hardbottle, one of your own kin, will be observing you and coming to your room every day. So, you won't need to visit her."
Elrond added with a smirk, "I'm afraid I could only heal your physical wounds. To heal fully, you will need to work things out with your therapist. Talk to her. You'll need her before the end."
"Thank you," Frodo said, surprised his throat wounds were healing, too. His voice was getting stronger. That was important, at least.
Elrond smiled, as the door opened, revealing a hobbit woman with ginger hair, pale skin, and rosy cheeks. She was donned in a green dress, and carried with her a notebook, as well as a pen, which she carried precariously close to her chest.
"Here she is! Hullo Lindsay. I see your patient is here," Elrond said with a warm-hearted smile.
Lindsay smiled back. "Thank you, Lord Elrond. I will take it from here." She smirked at Frodo, who avoided eye contact.
"I'll leave you to it," Elrond said, facing Frodo, "Frodo, good luck! Welcome to the Character Rehabilitation Center."
"Thank you," Frodo said, grimly. Yes, he felt evil. Was that normal?
Elrond closed the door, leaving Lindsay alone with Frodo.
Thanks for reading. :)