Title: Intoxication

Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd/FBoBE/"Febobe")

E-mail: febobe at yahoo dot com

Characters: Frodo, Elrond, various others in cameos or secondary roles.

Rating: M for serious angst, alcohol abuse and addiction, painful and vivid PTSD and depressive symptoms as well as memories of violence and possibly some violent behaviour. Follows FrodoHealers standards - no sexual content, no slashiness, no profanity.

Warnings: Serious angst and some graphic medical detail, including vomiting, diarrhea, post-traumatic stress and depressive symptoms, and alcoholism. May be triggering for those easily squicked or for whom alcoholism is an emotionally distressing subject. No profanity or sexual content, slash or het. May include memories of violence or violent behaviour. No character death.

Summary: Following the Quest, Frodo's difficulty in adjusting drives him to excessive drinking and overindulgence. Is there hope that he can yet be helped, or is the pain of life after the Ring simply too great?

Feedback: Reviews are welcome, but (a) no flaming, please – flames will be used to warm Frodo's chilled body, and (b) I do this as a hobby, for pleasure, so before you take me to task about whether something "isn't canon" or "doesn't feel thematic" or how I left out a comma in paragraph 7 or made a typo in paragraph 3, please ask yourself whether that's really helpful. I'm not interested in being a canon purist or perfect – if I were, I wouldn't write this kind of thing; I'd just leave Frodo alone. In short – if you want to tell me you liked it, by all means, tell me, but if you just want to tell me how much better you would write Frodo, then go write your own stories with Frodo. (And if they're Frodo h/c, and suitable, by all means submit them to FrodoHealers. 😉 We could use some activity over there!)

Story Notes: Inspired in part by an RP (roleplay) session I did with Elwen circa 2014. If you haven't checked out her stories, you should - they're wonderful. :) I set up this scenario and threw myself into the angst full force, and she, as usual, rose to the challenge even more admirably than I had anticipated. :) Thanks, Elwen. 3 (You may interpret that as either a heart or a Frodo bottom. See in it what you will, but it's a compliment!)

For permission to reproduce any part of this fanfic, please contact Febobe.

DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters, such as (but not limited to) Lossmeril, are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions. Furthermore, please do NOT consider any treatments or remedies within this story safe or effective for use: these are included as fictitious hobbit care, not real human medical practice, and while some can indeed be traced to actual therapeutic practices, could be dangerous. Please consult your health care professional before treating yourself or others for any condition or symptom. No slash is intended or implied in this story.

INTOXICATION

Chapter 1: Trapped

Before the Quest, I had never believed that solace could be found in a wine-bottle, nor peace in brandy.

After the Quest, however, it was a different matter entirely. So long as I was kept in bed, and cared for round the clock, I fared well enough - when I had nightmares, there was always someone sitting with me, so I had comfort close at hand, and sometimes Aragorn would have left a little milk and brandy with sugar, or a white wine posset, to help me rest. It always seemed to ease me into dreamless slumber, and so that was, I suppose, how it began.

Things were different once I was deemed well enough to pass the nights in my own room, in a great wing of the citadel where the king lived. I appreciated Aragorn's desire to afford us the honour of our own chambers in his home, but I found it lonely, for I had had Sam to comfort me during the long nights of our later travels, when we had often slept huddled together for warmth and comfort. And earlier, I had had my cousins as well. It had not been uncommon for the four of us to sleep in a little knot, the others shielding me with their bodies from any threat which might approach, and of course there had always been someone, Big Folk or small, standing guard while the rest of us slept. But now I had a hollow hall all to myself, and Sam seemed to be settling in so well, difficult as it was for him to accept such honour, that I could not bear to think of burdening him with my cares. So I bore my nightmares alone, and in silence.

And then the memories came.

They were no more than flashes, momentary assaults on my senses, a feeling that suddenly I was not in Minas Tirith, safe in the citadel, but back in the Black Land, in the tower or the mountain, or wandering lost in the darkness without Sam or water or food or any relief from the horrible Eye. And then it would pass, and I would recognise my surroundings again.

But the only thing that eased my suffering was drink, and plenty of it.

Aragorn had strict instructions for Sam and myself, and all the kitchen staff and servants seemed to know them. Our dietary was limited to simple, plain food in small quantities, albeit at frequent and regular intervals, and only a little wine or brandy in a bedtime posset for a sleeping-aid. After a few failed attempts at wheedling more alcohol and food from servants, I did the only thing I could think of to help myself.

I resorted to stealing.

I would not have had to do it, of course, had I been allowed the wine I deserved. But no one understood, and so rather than rouse Aragorn's suspicions, I pretended at first that it was enough, and then snuck behind the servants' backs, slipping into the wine-cellar and absconding with a bottle of white or red every night, when most of the servants were too occupied or tired to notice. A hobbit's stealth came in handy, and all my long months of hiding and avoiding capture proved useful for something, at least.

But increasingly I had no patience for the feasts (where I could not feast), the crowds (which I could not bear), the public appearances (which distressed me no end). Being there seemed to fill me with dread, almost panic, and so I found that I felt better when I locked myself in my room, turning all visitors away, and hid with a book, something to eat, and plenty of drink. Water, always water, for to be without made my heart pound in my chest and my breath catch short in my throat. And of course the wine, or sometimes a fruit brandy. At night I would accept whatever spirit-laced milk Aragorn sent up for me, lace it liberally with more wine, and drink myself to sleep, taking more wine during the night as needed when nightmares woke me in drenching sweats.

I claimed illness to escape appearances, which was not altogether falsehood, for my stomach seemed to be upset much of the time. I threw up several times every day; sometimes I suffered from diarrhea as well, and my stomach hurt nearly all the time. I drank and ate only when nausea did not entirely stop me, though I found the need for drink to dampen the memories so strong that sometimes I would drink through the nausea, forcing the wine down, even though sometimes it would come right back up. I grew quite adept at washing out blankets and garments in the tub before piling them in a heap for the servants. Perhaps they spoke to Aragorn of it; he expressed his concern for my health many times, and tried to come and see myself when I reported illness. Sam, too, always came to see about me. But I could not bear the thought of facing either of them, and so I shut myself away, hiding as much as possible.

And so it was that I huddled beneath a blanket one afternoon, feeling chilled, as I had most of the time since my Morgul-wound, weary of all the people who insisted I was fine now, and well, and worthy of so much honour. *I would rather have wine than honour*, I thought darkly, refilling my glass between pages of a volume of Gondorian poetry I was reading. I set the bottle down beside my plate - in the after-luncheon commotion, I had managed to make off with a plate of cold roast beef, mashed potatoes with mushrooms and gravy, several strawberries, and three small fruit tarts - one blueberry, one raspberry, and one lemon. I had not felt up to attending the luncheon, and Aragorn had sent up only soup and plain mashed potatoes with a little rice pudding, and food seemed the only thing besides alcohol which helped to fill the hole inside me. I was on my third glass of the day, or perhaps my fourth, but who was counting? It was the only thing to dull the pounding of the Ring still inside my head, the pounding ….

Wait.

That wasn't the Ring's voice.

That was someone pounding at my door - or at least knocking. Perhaps it only felt like pounding.

"Go away!" I called, determined to rid myself quickly of the unwelcome visitor. "I'm resting!"

"If you are unwell, Frodo Baggins, you should allow help to come to you."

I gulped. That was Elrond's voice. I knew he had recently arrived from Rivendell - everyone had seen the arrival of Lady Arwen, her father, and their large party of elves, and of course we had all attended her wedding to Aragorn - but thus far I had managed to avoid him. He had not been able to heal my wound. He had not been able to protect me from the dangers of my journey. Yet part of me recalled fondly the comfort he *had* afforded me, how he had often sought me out when I complained of headaches in Rivendell and retreated to my room. He had always sought me out and offered medicines and herbal compresses to soothe me, or a kind and heedful ear when I simply needed to discuss my tangle of feelings about the journey which lay before me. When I had awoken after my injury, it had been he who, after days and nights of tending me, bathed and fed me, changed the dressings on my wound and the place he had had to cut to reach the fragment of blade, gave me medicines to ease the soreness, the lingering pain. If anyone could help me, it must be he. And yet I could not bring myself to seek him out, looking instead for continued comfort in a bottle.

I could not think of a way to send Elrond, of all people away, so I did the only thing I could think of to do. I rose, dropping my blanket carefully over the wine-bottle, glass, and plate, taking care not to overturn anything. Then I ran to bed with my book, laid the book on the cover beside me, and crawled beneath the blankets, pulling them up over my head.

"Very well," I called. "Come in if you must." Secretly I half hoped that he would. Not even Aragorn or Gandalf paid me much mind these days - true, Aragorn always asked to come see me when I said I was feeling ill, but he never seemed to press the matter. They both seemed so busy rebuilding Gondor.

But I suddenly realised that there would be no hiding the smell of alcohol from Lord Elrond.

What on earth was I to do?

-to be continued-