Sorry this one took so long! Full time work has been taking everything out of me, and any night I'm not running off the theatre directly after work ends I'm getting home, having dinner, and falling asleep not long afterwards. I had an audition for another show a few weeks back (and I got the role I auditioned for, which is super exciting, a supporting lead) and the other show opened on Friday 26th – ran for seven shows over two weekends, and ended this past Saturday. Bittersweet to see it end, but now it's into the next one! And, I've developed the most terrific head cold: so I'm trying to kick that in the head.

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Warm sunlight spilled in the open window, easily illuminating the room built into the side of the hill. The light breeze ruffled parchment pages and the edges of feather quills as it wound its way through the room, around the edge of the desk and past the figure pouring over a leather-bound book.

Frodo had been deeply immersed in his work for the past few hours, pausing only when he needed to put his thoughts in order before committing them to paper. Within the last half of the hour, his pausing had become more frequent as the words he wrote became harder to organise. A dark night's work had allowed him to write all he was willing to on the subject of his own ordeal, but now his hand hesitated over the final scene that had unfolded within the audience chamber.

Frodo frowned to himself, quill tip motionless above the page. For a moment, perhaps I had been a hero worthy of remembrance – a figure from some mythical tale, killing a supernatural being? Alas, no – Frodo of the Nine Fingers – subconsciously he traced the fingers of his left hand over the stump on his right – is a story hero, immortalised in song, a character. He is not me; the songs did not tell of the wounds that never healed and the plague of nightmares. No, the character who will be remembered will not be the hobbit who endured – but is that not how it has always been? Those remembered are shadows of who they truly were.

He sighed, placing the quill gently back beside the book. This was a difficult story to write; and this part especially. How could he so boldly state what he had done without seeming to take unearned glory on himself? Perhaps it was time for a break.

Gently he stood, and stole quietly out of Bag End. The familiar path to the top of The Hill was well worn in the grass, and it did not take long before he was standing in the soft sunlight and sweet-smelling air, a grand view of the Shire before him. Here in the sun, it was occasionally almost possible to believe everything had been a dream. But alas, it had not been so, and now more than ever was Frodo Baggins, the former Ringbearer, discovering how real his experiences had been.

The differences felt small, to Frodo's mind. Whether the changes, such as they were, were for good or ill it was perhaps too early to tell: he didn't feel like a different hobbit or like a stranger in his own body. Frodo knew he was still very much himself, but as time wore on he began to realise how much his experiences had altered his view of the world. He had grown through his ordeals; but he was so weary now. Finding the simple joys in the simple life was difficult, as it never had been before.

The nightmares had returned. Although they no longer woke him with a sudden jolt like they once had, they were still so very draining. Waking quietly from the tormenting visions, Frodo would find himself silently staring into the darkness for hours, unable to return to sleep, teased by visions half-seen in the shadows of the night.

The strength of will that had come to him in the Tower had waned. Frodo knew he still possessed it – it wasn't exactly something that could be lost, so to speak – but as there was no longer an immediate need for it, he was left exhausted. It came to him in a time of need – now that time was passed, and it too was no longer so close to the surface.

If he was honest with himself, Frodo could feel himself fading. He had risen above the shadows, yes, but the effort had now left him sapped of strength – and now it was becoming apparent. The realisation came to Frodo one moonlight night as he stared out one of Bag End's windows, nightmares of Melkor fading from the forefront of his mind. To stay in the Shire, as much as his heart was here, would only drain him further.

The thought of leaving had been consuming his idle thoughts. It had been offered to him – Queen Arwen had offered him the chance to seek healing, in aprive conversation before they has left Gondor – but it was such a difficult decision to make. It would mean leaving everyone, and everything, behind to travel into the unknown, without the certainty that whatever healing he found would help him.

But the Shire was safe, he kept reminding himself. Twice now it had been saved, and this time more hobbits seemed to be taking interest in what went on outside their borders. The Nazgul's attack has not gone unnoticed – and as a result the Shire's Bounders wanted further training with a greater array of weapons, to better protect their own country. Ever so gently, the Shire was taking its first step in becoming a more active part of the larger world.

And it would be left in such capable hands. Three heroes, praised in distant lands, would be there to guide it. Frodo could ask nothing better for the land he loved, or for those he left behind.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Frodo's hands were clasped behind his back. Sam, standing at the top of the path, watched as the hobbit before him released his grip, and swung his arms in front of him, reaching out as far as he could, his palms facing the idyllic view. After a few moments he relaxed, his arms falling back to his sides. The movements had all been carefully executed with precise motions, as if nothing out of the ordinary.

Sam stepped towards him, careful not to startle his friend. "Frodo?"

"There's a tightness in my back now, Sam," Frodo replied without turning around, as Sam came to stand next to him. "Aragorn assures me that it will fade in time, as the healed skin stretches, but it does mean my back feels oddly stiff, and some of my movements are restricted." He sighed, his eyes fixed on some distant point. "Gentle stretches were advised to assist in my recovery."

Assist in my recovery. The words tasted stage in his mouth. It had been one not so remarkable evening that Frodo, as he changed into his nightshirt, had caught sight of his healing back in the looking glass of his bedroom. The red and purple scaring that cross-hatched his skin was so brutal, so out of place, within the Shire. Here it was peaceful, life was simple and good food and good company were the things that mattered – ugly scars, the evidence of torture and agony that they were, did not belong here.

Out of place: just like him. Frodo's ordeals, his nightmares, his injuries – these were not things associated with the Shire. His loss of love for the simple life made him restless and with each day the passed he felt like he was growing apart from the land and lifestyle he had once relished. "I am not who I once was," he said quietly to Sam, as they stood together above Bag End in the afternoon sunlight. "I am still myself, of that I have no doubt, but I am certainly not the same hobbit who left bearing a simple golden ring."

Sam knew as much, but sensed there was more to come. He remained silent, letting Frodo gather his thoughts as they both gazed out at the expanse of green hills before them. Somewhere, a bird chittered in song, and upon hearing the joyous noise, Frodo sighed quietly to himself.

"I need to rest, Sam. My actions have earned me pain and enlightenment, they have earned me nightmares and strength I did not know I had. They have been good and bad; but after all is said and done, I am left wearied and in need of rest and healing." He paused, unsure of himself. "I cannot rest here. This is not my life, I do not belong here."

Sam was taken aback. "Of course you do," he replied warmly. "Your place is here."

Frodo shook his head sadly. "No longer. I am tainted with evil and torment; they have no place in the Shire. You do not need me here."

Sam began to rebuke his dear friend gently, but something in Frodo's voice, a quiet edge, made him rethink his words. It was evident Frodo had been thinking of this for some time, and attempting to change his mind would not be wise at this point. Instead, Sam sighed, and glanced at the hobbit beside him. "What about Rivendell? You could go there, like Bilbo did."

Frodo considered this for a moment. "I could," he answered softly. "But I think my path lies far beyond that – to the west." He turned to face Sam, his blue eyes grave – once they had been so bright and full of life and now they were wearied. "The elves have offered me a chance to find rest. It was made long ago; and I have thought long about it. And I do not make this choice lightly, my friend. But I no longer belong here: the thought does not concern me, or cause me anguish. It simply is a truth I have come to accept."

Frodo smiled at Sam, sadly but warmly. In truth, the thought of leaving had at first scared him and broken his heart – but the longer he considered it, and what it would mean, the more the idea had settled with him, until now it was simply the course of action he was determined to take.

Sam cast his eyes down as the weight of Frodo's words fell upon him. "I can tell there's nothing I can say to change your mind. You're leaving, and that's that?"

Frodo nodded slowly. "I think it's best."

"But you can't," Sam replied softly.

"I must. This is no longer my home as it once was. Do not let your heart grow heavy, my dear Sam. We set out to save the Shire, the first time. Now we have done so twice."

"You have."

Frodo gave him a withering glance. "We have. We all played out roles. Regardless, the Shire has been saved but I am no longer a part of it. Do not look at me in that way, Sam. The Shire was not saved for me, but for you and Rosie, and Merry and Pippin and whomever they give their hearts to. It is not for me, and hasn't been since we returned that last time. And that, my dear Sam, is simply the way it is."

He smiled sadly, a sad but genuine smile. His face was thoughtful – peaceful, Sam realised. Frodo really believed that this path was the best for him – what more could Sam do but support him upon it, as he always had?

"And that's all right, Sam. It's all right."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The Grey Havens shone with an ethereal light in the late afternoon sun. Golden light fell among carven archways and paths, and lit the elven port with a rich warmth. Here Frodo would leave them, but there was nothing harsh or painful about this setting – at was almost like being in a dream.

Awaiting them at the dock was a most regal group – Elrond, clad in elegant fabrics as always; Galadriel in a pale glittering gown; and Gandalf, leaning upon his staff, the now familiar white cloak and robe about his shoulders. The three bearers of the Elven Rings wore them openly, proudly, and the gems set upon the bands glittered like stars of white, blue and red atop their hands.

Gandalf considered the small group of hobbits that approached him. These five had been through some extraordinary things – things their own countrymen would never believe, and things that not even the most battle-hardened warrior of old could have been prepared for. Bilbo, the old hobbit who found a pretty golden ring without ever knowing how it would alter his life; who always loved tea by the fire and a pipe of pipe weed.

And how his actions had pulled in the four who were now renowned in distant lands! Four small hobbits who had done what armies could not, turned the tables within battles and been so instrumental in a war they did not start and did not want any part of. And above it all, the one who had been cut through to his soul twice.

Gandalf looked closely at Frodo as he came forward with the others. The light that had once been so obvious was still there, in its own way. The light shone through, but the glass was opaque with wear and weariness; dulled with injury, Gandalf realised. Frodo will shine again, he was sure, as a star does in the night sky, but only when the hurt was removed from him. Middle Earth would not see him shine again, but he would see himself shine before he passed further onward.

Leaving broke Frodo's heart – to stand before his best friends and bid them farewell, to look in their weeping eyes and know he was causing them grief, almost made him change his mind. Bidding Sam farewell was the worst of it – knowing how much it was hurting Sam and would continue to do so, even as he passed on the Red Book and everything he owned to this one hobbit. Knowing that these last actions would help Sam in the long run, but for now would do nothing to ease the grief of his leaving.

Yet as the ship left Middle Earth behind, Frodo turned to the sun and smiled. The sea air blew gently, smoothing his hair from his face. This was the right thing to do, he was sure of it now. Standing here upon the water in the sun, yes, this was where he was meant to be. The sea was calling him West, to healing.

And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed on into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.

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(Final paragraph is, of course, from The Return of the King (book II, chapter IX The Grey Havens). Much love and respect to JRR Tolkien – without his amazing work and world, I wouldn't be who I am today.)

I can't believe it's over. After so many years, from my first thoughts about this story, through a very long hiatus and then a total rewrite – it's finished. Feels a bit odd.

I want to thank all of you for your kind words and encouragement. I wouldn't have kept writing if not for you. Both those who read the original Ring of Blood, and those who found this tale as Just One Drop, you've been an absolutely invaluable source of inspiration to me. Thank you so, so much, for taking the time to read my work and being so patient when time got away on me.

Valar bless!