Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note: Over the past year on Live Journal, I have participated in the writing of drabbles, double drabbles and "ficlets" for various purposes. Some were for people's birthdays, others were for spur-of-the-moment inspirations or requests, others for challenges. I have found that I have amassed quite a few of these things, and thought that it might be an idea to collect them together into some kind of anthology.

As is usual with me, almost all of these "ficlets" are about Frodo in one way or another. Unlike my longer stories, they are often non-canon/AU, movie-verse or highly interpretive. These ficlets have often been written to answer a request by someone else with their own ideas, favourite themes, and so on. They seem to gather in rough themes of, for example, "hurt/comfort", angst, or Sam's POV (regarding either Frodo, Elves, or both). My plan, therefore, is to put them together in "pages" or "chapters" depending on their themes.

Chapter 1: Ficlets of the Ring and Chain

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My first drabble... This was inspired by the ROTK trailer that was released in ?August 2003. The one-second-long clip of Frodo crawling up Mount Doom captivated me, and I wrote this first attempt at a drabble. I just hope that the title doesn't have to be in the 100-word count. Otherwise, I'm 3 words over...

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Ring of Fire

Sight, sound are gone. But touch is yet his. The foul dirt scrapes under him, welcomed, for it anchors him in the outside world: the blessed other, for it is not of him -- he who is lit within by the wheel of fire.

The Ring tugs between his chest and a stony outcrop on the ground. The chain pulls in turn at his neck: a thin line of fire. A circle of fire in front of him and a chain of fire around him -- complete.

But, touch is still his. Unseeing eyes look up. A small gasp.

A gentle hand.

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A Dose of Ailing Frodo: Quite a while ago, Febobe (Frodo Baggins of Bag End) wanted some Frodo-Healing. My attempt was amateurish, to be sure, and woefully short on actual healing details and all that, but I hoped that it would be something to brighten her day. I wrote it in one hour, so am making no claims to quality or inventiveness. This ficlet picks up on the theme from the drabble Ring of Fire which I had written a few months before.

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A Chain of Healing

It was happening again. Over and over, and it would never stop.

And just like in Mordor, Frodo could feel the fiery line of pain encircling his neck. The chain had bit in deeply, and the Ring's weight pulled until he could no longer bear to walk upright.

But he was no longer in Mordor. Why could he feel the chain so vividly then, yet not smell the stench of ash and smoke. Why were his feet resting on a soft mattress and not cut by cruel stones?

He moved his head and cried out in pain. Where was he? He could not understand.

And then a soft voice, well known to him, spoke gently, and he could feel his fingers being unwrapped from the delicate chain that he had clutched in his dilirium.

"Now look what you have done, Mr. Frodo. What a mess, and from such a beautiful necklace too."

Frodo frowned and tried to resist the prying fingers. But then another voice, that of dear Sam, came.

"It will be all right, Mr. Frodo. Just let go for a moment. Just let go."

A cool hand felt his forehead, and then a damp cloth was laid upon it. Fretful, Frodo squirmed, but Sam (or so the feel of those familiar hands told him) held him down, gently but firmly.

"Let Rosie clean your neck. It will take just a moment. Just a moment, and you can have the necklace back."

And to Frodo's horror, his head was being lifted and the chain slipped over it. "Please don't take it..." he begged. "Don't take it."

"Only for a moment," Rosie's voice soothed. "Just for a moment."

But it seemed that that was not to be, for Rosie's voice lowered and Frodo could hear her saying something. Sam answered, but Frodo could not hear the words.

So he was not in Mordor then. And if Rosie were there, then wouldn't that mean he was in Bag End? Or perhaps at Farmer Cotton's? But Sam hadn't been there when he was ill at the Cottons'. Bag End then, he decided vaguely.

The side of the bed suddenly dipped, just slightly, as someone sat down upon it. A pause, and then his head was being turned to the side.

"Just for a moment, dear." And a wet cloth was touched to the welts on his neck.

It stung, and Frodo recoiled. But another pair of hands (for the bed had dipped slightly on the other side of him too) cradled his head, palms against his cheeks.

"Just for a moment, Mr. Frodo. It will soon be over."

"Yes, Sam," Frodo murmured. Those cool hands were soothing. Cool hands on his face, and stinging touches of wet cloth dabbing at his neck.

"And the other side - just let me turn your head. No, no, don't shift, you will only make it bleed again. Just... that's it. Good."

"After you finish," Frodo whispered, "please put the chain back on."

Rosie's voice came then. "I don't think we should, my dear. You will only make it worse."

Panic rose within him. "I must have it!" he said desperately.

"Of course," Rosie soothed. "But perhaps you could just hold it in your hand. Wouldn't that be all right? Surely you don't need to be wearing it?"

"I... I want to wear it," Frodo said forlornly.

"He needs to wear it, Rosie-love." And Sam's arms burrowed between Frodo and the pillows under him. Frodo felt himself being lifted into sitting, held against Sam's chest. And as his cheek rested against Sam's collar bone, and sturdy hands pressed against his back, smaller fingers smeared something gently around his neck. And as those deft fingers traced the path of fire, the soothing cream banished the pain.

"Well," Rosie's voice said disapprovingly (but kindly for all that), "if you want that thing on again, you had better have some padding."

And a long folded cloth was wrapped around his neck. To his relief, Frodo could feel the chain pulled over his curls until it lay draped over the cloth. The familiar comforting gem once more lay cold and hard (yet beautiful and clear, Frodo knew) against his breast. With a contented sigh, he wrapped his hand around it.

And as Sam laid him back down, he knew. He was not in Mordor. And not all pain was eternal.

The End