A/N:

This is my first LotR fic, I am just trying to kind of get a grasp on Frodo. I don't own anything, and I would really like some constructive criticism. It is so much more beneficial than anything else. Please help me out, show me where I went wrong, help me do better next time. If this is a completely awful fic and everyone seems to be in consensus about that then I would like to know.

"Frodo? Frodo Baggins!"

Frodo cracked one eye, wincing at the sudden brightness. From the amount of sunlight pouring into the round window, it appeared to be about noon.

His first reaction was shock that he had slept so late. Yes; he had been ill as of late, but it felt odd to be asleep halfway through the day. His second reaction was that he had a terrible headache and perhaps he was better off being asleep anyway.

"Frodo Baggins!"

That voice, whoever's it was, wasn't exactly helping either. He pulled a pillow over his head with the intention of ridding himself of both light and sound.

The first part of the plan went well; the second did not. He heard the same voice, even more muffled than before, and then a hollow thud, and the thumping of footsteps, growing louder until whoever it was seemed to be right beside his bed.

Warily, Frodo peeked out from behind the pillows.

It was Gandalf. "You should have more courtesy," Gandalf grumbled, "When you did not answer me after ten minutes I had to force the door."

Frodo made the rather wise decision to ignore this comment. "Gandalf!" he cried, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, "How wonderful to see you, my old friend. What business brings you to the Shire?"

"You do," the old man said sternly, peering down at Frodo over his large nose, "Word has reached my ear that you are unwell."

"I was stuck by a temporary bout of illness," Frodo said, flushing slightly, "there is nothing to be concerned about. I am healing, and shall be well soon."

"I do not think so," Gandalf corrected gently, "if what I hear is true, then you are a sick hobbit indeed."

"What do you mean?" Frodo asked anxiously, sitting up with his back propped against the wall. "True; I have been ill more often than is normal, but I am recovering."

"Yes," the wizard said grimly, "but you will be ill again; and this is not the first time you have been struck by this same sickness. Frodo, I must tell you that your pattern of illness is similar to that of Smegol's as he was transforming into the creature Gollum. However, since the ring has been destroyed, I do not believe you shall be forced to endure this tortment."

"Then what will happen to me?"

Gandalf hesitated.

"Gandalf, what will happen to me?"

"In all likelihood, you will be dead within a year," Gandalf said quietly.

The hobbit froze, stunned. That couldn't be right…he wasn't dying, he wasn't! He hadn't gotten ill several times in the few years since the quest—he always recovered. It wasn't fair! He had destroyed the ring; he had done his job. All he wanted to do now was live out the rest of his life in peace, free from it's power.

"Frodo?"

He shook his head, and recovered his wits enough to ask, "Is there nothing to be done, then?"

"That's what I've come to speak to you about," the wizard said gruffly, "The Elves have offered you a place on a ship that is to go to the Grey Havens. The only chance you have is to accept their offer and leave Middle Earth."

"Leave Middle Earth? Forever?" Frodo's voice trembled as he spoke, and his hands shook. "I could not do that, Gandalf, not even to save my own life. I could not bear to be apart from all those I love for the rest of my life."

"You will not be entirely alone," Gandalf said consolingly, "I, too, have been offered a place on the ship, as has your cousin Bilbo. Both of us have accepted. You must as well."

"No…no…I cannot."

"You must at least consider it," Gandalf said keenly, "you are not yet old, Frodo. It is not your time to die."

---------------------

The wizard left soon after that, but it was more than an hour before Frodo forced himself out of bed. He slid his furry feet into a pair of slippers and wandered into the kitchen, stomach growling.

Sam, Rosie, and Elanor were gone for the day, visiting Rosie's parents. As much as he appreciated the presence of his friend, Frodo had to admit to himself that he was glad to be alone. It was much easier to brood without Sam's concern filling the room.

Frodo had never been much of a cook, but it was so difficult to ruminate on an empty stomach. With this in mind, he sliced three sizable potatoes and set them in a pot to boil.

Fifteen minutes later, he was seated at the kitchen table with a plate full of potatoes, sprinkling a minute amount of salt on them before, ever a hobbit, devoting himself whole-heartedly to the task of devouring them.

Frodo was not quite sure what to make of Gandalf's offer. He was reluctant to even believe that he was…Well.

But to leave Middle Earth forever? He did not know if he could do it, if he could tear the bonds tying him to this life, to this world. He did not know if he wanted to.

After all, the situation changed depending on how he looked at it. If he kept it as facts, pure and simple, then the solution was obvious. He should take the ship, as soon as possible. Leave before darkness overtook his body, captured him.

But of course when making a decision like this you couldn't keep it all facts. There was Bag End to think of, and his cousins. And Sam. He did not know if he could make himself leave his friend, even to prolong a life. His life.

If he stayed, according to Gandalf, there would be only a year's worth of suffering to endure. If he left, he would have to bear an entire lifetime of pain. Alone.

Even with Bilbo there…he would still be alone. As much as he loved Bilbo, he had always felt rather distant from him. They enjoyed each another's company, of course, but their experiences had molded them so differently that it was difficult to simply sit down and talk.

There were no such misgivings about Sam. Sam, who had been by his side throughout everything, who had seen his suffering. Who understood better than anyone, perhaps even Frodo, the changes the ring had wrought. This Sam had become his dearest friend.

In the end, the choice was clear.

--------------------

The realization that he had made up his mind hit Frodo like a wave, and had much the same effects. The wash of cold, the feeling he was being pulled under, the inability to breathe. And, ultimately, the feeling of warm, satisfied relief when it was gone.

He was going to die. He was not going to live to see Elanor grow up, or any of the lads and lasses to follow. He was going to die. He would cease to walk throughout the halls of Bag End, no longer wander throughout the town.

He was going to die.

It was the right decision. He would not live a thousand years if each day were spent in torment.

Calm, he relaxed into an armchair and reached for a book, determined to enjoy every word.

-------------------

"Hush!"

"Do you reckon we ought to wake him?"

"No, let him sleep."

"Why do you think he's gone and fallen asleep on a chair, anyway? Looks a mite uncomfortable, like. Maybe we ought to wake him, so he don't have a sore back come morning."

"And how'd you like to be woken in the middle of the night just so you could go sleep somewhere else?" Was that Rosie? "I thought not," said the Probably-Rosie voice in response to some unseen answer.

"Hello?" Frodo asked uncertainly.

A lamp flickered on. "Mister Frodo," Sam said anxiously, "I'm sorry we've woken you."

"Don't worry," Frodo said warmly, stifling a yawn. "It's probably for the best; I'll be better rested if I sleep in my own bed. If you don't mind my asking, though, why are you all out so late?"

"We were going to stay at my parent's house," Rosie explained, cradling Elanor gently in her arms, "but my brothers all ended up visiting, and there weren't room for all of us. Since we live the closest we decided to come home for the night."

Frodo nodded sleepily, bending forward to pick up the book that must have slid off his lap. He closed the cover gently and replaced it on the shelf.

"I'm going to put this lass to bed," Rosie said, "it's been a long day for her, poor thing, and she'll be needing her rest.

"Goodnight."

Frodo turned away from the shelf to see Rosie retreating down the hall, cooing softly to Elanor under her breath. Sam was lingering in front of the closed door, looking worried. "If you don't mind me asking, Mr. Frodo, why weren't you in bed? It ain't healthy, this, and with you being sick so much lately, you really can't afford to be doing things like this."

Frodo smiled inwardly at Sam's worry. He did get concerned so easily. Frodo wondered how he would take the news of Frodo's choice. Well, now was just as good as anytime to tell him, Frodo supposed. But first, to answer Sam's question, needless though it was.

"I was reading, and I fell asleep..." Frodo took a deep breath, bracing himself for his next statement. "Gandalf visited today," he began slowly, and once he began speaking, he found he could not stop. Unfortunately, this meant the news reached Sam's ears rather tactlessly. "He said I am not going to live much longer unless I take the ship with the elves, but I've decided not to do it, I don't care that I'll die…"

"Wait, slow down, I can't hardly hear what you're saying," Sam implored.

"Sam," Frodo said, looking over his friend's shoulder, "Gandalf says I must leave Middle Earth forever, or else die. I have chosen death."

Sam's first reaction was blind shock, stunned disbelief. Surely this was some cruel joke? A lie? "Mr. Frodo, you can't hardly mean it," he begged hoarsely.

"I do, Sam," Frodo said fiercely, "I would rather live one happy year than twenty lonely ones. I should miss you too terribly if I were to leave."

"I won't have you dying on my account," Sam pleaded, "if Gandalf says you must leave, than leave! No sense in staying if it'll get you killed, I say."

"I see no need to prolong my suffering," Frodo whispered with a bitter smile, "it is quality of life I am looking for, not quantity. My days will be better spent here."

A sob leaked out of Sam's throat, and tears rained from his eyes. "You can't," he said softly, shaking his head.

But Frodo's eyes shone in such a way that told Sam, quite clearly, that there was no more room for argument.

Another gasping sob crashed into Sam, and he felt himself quite unable to talk.

Frodo walked forward and wrapped his arms tightly around Sam. Frodo's own eyes were quite dry as he held his friend. When they parted, you would not have known that they were both reacting to the same news. Sam was the picture of abject misery, face red and streaked with tears. His head hung glumly on his neck, and his arms swung limply at his sides. Frodo appeared completely composed, though his eyes were still full of the haunted pain that had filled them so long ago.

Frodo looked solemnly at his friend. "I thought I had made the right choice, Sam, but I do not wish to hurt you so."

"Please, Mr. Frodo, get on the ship, if it'll save you. There's no sense in staying, like."

But…watching Sam, standing helpless in the middle of the room, made Frodo remember why he had chosen to stay in the first place. He shook his head. "I would do it, if it would allow me to bring my entire life…but as it is, I must stay."

-------------------

At Frodo's request, Sam told no one else of the impending death hovering in the background. As a result, he was able to fulfill his wish and live life as normally as possible.

He grew ill once, about six months after telling Sam his secret. It was summer, but he remembers nothing else of the ordeal except that Merry and Pippin were summoned and they and Sam had crowded around his bed, crying and speaking too him.

He woke up, despite the fact that no one had believed he would. But it was a bittersweet reunion, with Sam shedding many tears for what he knew was to come.

The next illness comes within a month, and Frodo immediately felt there was something different about it. It settled deep in his chest, so that breathing suddenly seemed as if it were not worth the effort. It was as if a blackness had settled upon him, pressing him down, deeper and deeper until only with utmost effort could he reach out.

He is able to request this time, quite clearly, that Merry and Pippin be sent for. He has stayed in Middle Earth for the reward of dying with his friends, and so he is able to wait for them.

Both of them arrive, looking terrified, three days after the message is sent.

Frodo smiles. His cousins join Sam, kneeling at his bedside. Sam grasps his hand, and each of his friends bend down and kiss his forehead.

Frodo's lids flicker closed for the last time.

"Goodbye."