Frodo set aside his book, a collection of archaic poetry given to him by Lord Elrond, and rose, grimacing as he pushed himself up from the chair. He stretched his shoulder, rubbing at the scar to the Nazgul's wound. It was bothering him again. He could feel the cold seeping into him, into his bones and into his heart.
He caught sight of himself in the small mirror hanging over the mantle in his study. He didn't even recognize himself anymore, the dark, sunken eyes that showed only weariness. He had gained hope for Middle-Earth, but he had been lost.