Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Oh…and by the way…these darling hobbits are not mine (dang!) and I’m not Tolkien (as if you couldn’t guess!) and I’m not making any money off of this story (unless someone is actually WILLING to pay me some money for this!) and all that other disclaimer stuff.

************************************************************

“Between There…And Back Again”

Chapter One - Rescue

Gandalf's heart was a mixture of emotions as he mounted the eagle. So much had happened in such a short time that it was hard for anyone to take in and process the enormity of it all – even a wizard. The battle was over, having been won by the side of the good and the right. The Ringbearer, he knew, had fulfilled his quest somehow and the ring had been destroyed. For those two things his heart was exceedingly grateful and glad. What troubled him now was the fate of the Ringbearer himself and of his companion...what had become of those two? One thing was for certain...if they were alive, they badly needed to be brought from that horrid place to which they had so doggedly trekked. Gandalf, with the help of the ever faithful eagle, Gwaihir, his brother Meneldor and a third eagle Landroval which would be used to carry supplies Gandalf thought they might need when he got there...blankets, bandages, medicines, water and a bit of food - intended to be the one to see them brought out.

As the eagles lifted off the ground, Gandalf thought back to the day of the council meeting in the House of Elrond. With his heart still a mixture of emotions, he remembered how he had felt when he heard above the din of raised, angry voices, the voice of the Ringbearer speak his fateful words, "I will take the ring to Mordor, though...I do not know the way." Gandalf had been both despairing, at knowing what the journey and task might mean for Frodo, whom he regarded as the best hobbit in the Shire, and proud of the courage of this little one all at the same time. Gandalf knew, even then, that it might be a journey that would lead to his death. He feared that, even now, with the ring destroyed that that might be true.

Far below, Gandalf surveyed the landscape and saw that though the shadow had lifted from the land, that Middle Earth had not escaped unmarred. It would take years to repair all of the damage done...if it could be repaired at all. He wondered further what he might find the land of Mordor to look like, that being after all, homeland of the destroyed Dark Lord. As he imagined what he might find he was filled with dread at knowing that both Frodo and Sam were there, stranded in that hateful land.

Coming out of his reverie, Gandalf discovered that there was no longer any need for him to try to imagine what he would find Mordor looking like, for they were now approaching it's boarders. Far beneath him, he could see the land...ruined and raped. Even from his distant view atop Gwaihir's back, Gandalf could easily tell that it was now, more than ever, a land that would be very inhospitable, very nearly uninhabitable to any gentle creature. He doubted very much if even orcs, with their foul and crude ways, could survive in it now - much less two small, gentle hobbits of the Shire. At the very least, there was no food or water available to them there and at the worst, Gandalf could now see, Mount Doom had erupted and was now spewing forth glowing, red hot lava. The resulting ash fell like corrupted snow.

Suddenly, far below, beneath the cloud of ash he was looking through, Gandalf spotted the precious cargo he had come for. "Left, Gwaihir...I see them." said Gandalf. "Yes, I know...I spotted them a way back." the bird replied. Again, he found himself not being able to identify just how he felt...hopeful, because at the very least, he had found them...yet, fear gripped his heart because the two small figures he saw below were not moving. Gwaihir did as Gandalf bid him and began to descend as he veered left. As the eagle came closer, Gandalf could see that the hobbits were laying together, side by side with Sam on the left and Frodo on the right, their hands clasped together between them.

Gandalf did not even wait for Gwaihir's feet to touch down as he landed, goose down soft upon the rocky ground. From his back he leapt as soon as he was near enough to the ground to escape injuring himself. A sob came into his throat as the full impact of the vision of Sam and Frodo came to him in his nearness to them. Scrambling over rocks, he ran to where they lay on the hard, unforgiving ground. He held his breath as he approached them, slower now, fearful of what he might find.

It was Sam he came nearest to first, and bending over him found that he was indeed still alive, though looking quite worn, exhausted, beaten and in need of food and water. A large gash was on his head, just beneath his sandy hairline, now stained and stiffened with the blood that had flowed there from the wound. Laying a hand on his chest, Gandalf found his heart to be beating strongly and regularly, his breathing relatively deep and even – given the circumstances. For all the dirt, grime, ash, blood, cuts, bruises and other markings, Sam's sleeping face had a look of deep peace about it.

Satisfied now that Sam was wounded but not mortally, Gandalf turned his attention to Frodo. As he stepped over Sam to get to Frodo's side, Gandalf saw with horror that Frodo's right hand, which lay now upon his chest, clinging to the orc garment he wore, was covered in blood. Whatever wound caused the bleeding seemed to still be seeping, turning the foul, dark garment he wore to a drab, indistinguishable color. As Gandalf lowered himself to his knees by Frodo's side, he saw all too clearly what wound it was that kept bleeding and bleeding - the third finger of Frodo's right hand was just, well - gone - in its place, a gaping wound. When he was finally able to remove his eyes from the shock that was now Frodo's right hand, Gandalf then took in the lean face of the hobbit that was so dear to him. The face Gandalf saw before him was lean, as it always had been, but much more so, making the cheekbones seem even more prominent. The thick, dark lashes of his closed eyes rested in a gentle crescent against his face. Dirt and ash, mixed with smears of blood covered most of his face, which was very pale and still. The full lips, slightly parted, had no color to them whatsoever, except for the slight bluish tinge around their edges. Frodo's hair, though covered in ash and singed on some of the edges looked very dark against the pale skin of his brow.

With hesitation, borne of the fear of what he might find, Gandalf closed his eyes and placed a trembling hand to the hobbits chest. Relief washed over him as, to his wonderful surprise, he found that a heart did still beat within the chest of Frodo Baggins. Gandalf sighed deeply, finally releasing the breath he had been holding. He was truly surprised to find a stir of life for Frodo had not appear to be still breathing as he had watched his small chest for its rising and falling. At length, Gandalf left his hand on Frodo's chest and waited to see what would be revealed. The heartbeat he felt was rapid and the breathing shallow. Still leaving his hand over Frodo's heart, Gandalf's other hand lifted to Frodo's face where with gentle fingers, he slowly pulled back the eyelid to find that the pupil of his eye was very large. Frodo was not just asleep; he was unconscious. Using both hands now, Gandalf felt of Frodo's face and found it to be very cold to the touch.

"He's slowly bleeding to death!" Gandalf said to himself. He knew he must move quickly or the hobbit would die.

Rising from his position on his knees, Gandalf ran back to where the eagles had landed. Quickly he took down from the Landroval’s back the items he felt he would need.

Gandalf barely felt the earth beneath his feet as he ran back to where his two small patients lay, still side by side with hands clasped tightly together, just as Gandalf had left them. He began with Sam because he felt there were a few things that COULD be done quickly to comfort him before they took flight. Opening the water skin he had slung over his shoulder, he poured a small amount into the cup of his hand and let the water slowly run over Sam's dry, cracked lips. He did this several times and when he was satisfied that a sufficient amount of the water had gotten into Sam to keep him until they could reach the relative sanctuary of the fields he recapped the canteen and began to fix a bandage for Sam's poor wounded head. With his head bandaged now, Gandalf unrolled one of the woolen blankets he had brought and spread it upon the ground. Sam cried out softly as his hand was pulled from Frodo's frozen grasp when Gandalf lifted him and placed him on the middle of the blanket.

"No...Frodo…" he cried weakly as a poor sick child, his hand outstretched toward Frodo.

"Shh now, Samwise. It’s all right. Gandalf is here and you both are going to be fine."

Gandalf told him gently.

But, having slipped away into the relief of sleep or unconsciousness (which it was, Gandalf could not say for sure), Sam did not hear his reply. Gandalf wrapped Sam tightly in the blanket, in preparation for the cold air he would soon experience high above the earth. It was not a very heavy burden that Gandalf lifted from the ground and his heart broke as he thought of the robust hobbit Sam had been when he left the Shire - the very picture of what a hobbit should be. The hobbit now in his arms was emaciated and thin.

"Don't worry, Samwise...we'll soon have you looking healthy and strong again." Gandalf said, though he knew Sam could not hear him.

Having reached the eagles landing once again, Gandalf placed Sam on between the 'shoulders' of Meneldor, with strict orders to hold him tight and not let him fall. Sam nestled his head a bit as he felt the warm soft feathers beneath his head. Quickly, Gandalf threw a length of rope over Sam and around to the breast of the great bird, securing him there. Satisfied that between the careful shoulder blades of the eagle and the securely fastened belt that Samwise would not be lost in the flight, Gandalf turned and head at a run back to the spot where Frodo still lay.

With urgency born of fear speeding his legs, Gandalf reached the hobbit in no time at all. Kneeling quickly at Frodo's side, he began to wrap the wounded hand tightly in a bandage in hopes of stemming the flow of the precious life-giving blood that was steadily seeping from the wound. Having completed the binding, Gandalf next spread the second blanket upon the ground and lifting Frodo onto the middle of it, wrapped him warmly in its folds. Once wrapped, Frodo, his body completely limp and lifeless, was lifted and held in Gandalf’s strong arms. Gandalf looked briefly down at the hobbit in his arms and failed to stifle a sob as he realized what a slight burden he bore.

"He weighs no more than a hobbit child now." thought Gandalf sadly.

Out loud, Gandalf spoke now, stroking Frodo's brow as he did, "No matter, Frodo Baggins...we are going to get you well and healthy again...I vow it!"

In a just a few strides, run with the small hobbit in his arms, Gandalf reached the eagle landing once again. Gently, Gandalf lifted Frodo to the back of the Gwaihir and then quickly climbed aboard himself. Not wanting to waste any time with binding Frodo to the bird, Gandalf decided instead to simply hold him for the duration of the flight. Sliding gentle hands beneath Frodo's neck and knees, Gandalf pulled him easily into his lap and held him securely.

"Fly!" Gandalf commanded the birds and instantly they were airborne.

Gandalf looked down at the unconscious hobbit in his arms and noted that his head lolled pitifully back over the crook of his elbow. Shifting Frodo's body slightly, Gandalf pulled Frodo's head to his chest, near the shoulder, and held it there. In an effort to further slow the bleeding of the wounded hand, Gandalf lifted it in his own and placed it gently on his other shoulder, placing it now above the level of Frodo's heart. With Frodo's head so near his ear now, Gandalf could hear how alarmingly shallow, rapid and labored the hobbit's breathing had become.

"He's nearly panting, now!" Gandalf's mind screamed in alarm. "He's lost too much blood. He’s going into shock."

In a loud voice, Gandalf urged the bird to fly faster and spoke gently into the delicately pointed ear of the small charge nestled in his lap, "Hold on, Frodo. Hold on. We'll be there soon. Aragorn will take good care of you. Just hold on a little bit longer. Please."

As though in deliberate defiance of Gandalf's request of him, Frodo immediately began to tremble uncontrollably. His entire body shook and shuddered and his teeth chattered as though he had suddenly fallen into a freezing winter. His breath came in great gasps now that were too shallow and rapid. With each breath, Frodo's back arched as if he were desperately trying to draw the breath down into his lungs, but just was not succeeding. Hearing and witnessing this, Gandalf watched in horror as Frodo's face went even whiter and the lips that had been tinged blue before became even bluer. While Gandalf was staring into the pale face he was suddenly confronted by two enormous eyes that were also shockingly, impossibly blue. Frodo's eyes were frantic and full of pain as he gazed up at Gandalf's face, which was as full of panic as it never had been before.

"What's happening to me?!? Please help me!" the frightened blue eyes pleaded with his rescuer.

As if he heard him audibly, Gandalf answered Frodo's plea in a voice that belied the terror he felt, "Easy, Frodo. You're safe now. Gandalf's here with you. You're going to be just fine. I'm so proud of you, my dear hobbit! Don't worry...shhh...don't worry,” Gandalf crooned to him.

Gandalf's voice and words were so convincing that even he had believed them as he spoke them. He was not comforted long, however as Frodo's eyes suddenly batted closed and his breathing became even more labored, rapid and shallow. As horrible as that was for Gandalf to witness, it was nothing compared to the horror he knew at what happened next. With no warning, Frodo's body went completely still. There was no more trembling, there was no more great arching of the back as he attempted to draw breath, no more gasping...he was still and silent. The wounded hand that had been placed on Gandalf's shoulder now fell limply away from Frodo's body. His head fell back once again, the dark curls blowing softly in the wind. His face was as quite as cotton.

Gandalf's mind took in the sight of the hobbit in his arms and cried out, "NO!!"

With a voice like thunder now, Gandalf yelled like an army commander to the small, still bundle before him, shaking him gently as he spoke, "FRODO BAGGINS!! Don't you give up on me! Please, Frodo! Keep fighting!! Don't give up now! We're almost there...almost there..." Gandalf wept this last into Frodo's dark, ash covered hair.

Weather it was the loud ringing voice or the sheer power of his words that did the job, Gandalf would never know, but to his joy and amazement, Frodo suddenly started in his embrace and began breathing again. The breath that he drew was still ragged, quick, shallow and accompanied by a loud wheezing sound as he drew each breath in. Once again Frodo's teeth began to chatter and he arched his back pitifully with each breath in an effort to get some of it into his starving lungs. As pitiful as all this was, it was like music to Gandalf's ears and the sight of the hobbit struggling to live, was to him, the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

Tenderly, Gandalf hugged Frodo to him, stroking his face and brow gently, and crooned softly to him now, as a father to his child, "That's it, my dear hobbit...keep fighting! You are so strong, Frodo...just keep on being strong. We're almost there! There's a soft bed with a lovely feather pillow waiting for you and plenty of good food and drink, for when you feel well enough. Yes, we are going to take good care of you and Samwise too. Samwise is going to be fine and so are you."

Just then, Gandalf looked over to the back of the eagle which bore Sam and was surprised to find Sam looking at the picture of him with Frodo nestled in his arms with tears both in his eyes and running down each cheek where they had been shed.

"Are we, Sir?" Sam asked weakly through his tears.

"Are we both truly going to be fine? Is Mr. Frodo still with us, Sir? He seems to be strugglin' so."

Gandalf smiled broadly at Sam and replied, "Why Samwise Gamgee, don't you know that a wizard only ever speaks the truth? Your Mr. Frodo is still with us and will remain with us if I have anything to say about it...and so will you. You must rest now, however."

Sam closed his teary eyes and nodded tiredly, "Yes, sir." He whispered. The deepest sleep he had ever known took him then, wiping everything away.

TBC

***********

Disclaimer - I am not a medical professional (but I play one on tv!…no, not even that! But I did love my ‘doctor’ kit when I was a kid!)…so, of course…none of this is to be taken as medical advise or should be tried at home, or work, or church, or the grocery story or the mall or on the subway…or ANYWHERE. This is FICTION people! Come on! Though, on second thought…if you every find yourself in the situation of rescuing a couple of buddies who just destroyed an evil ring of power from the fiery chasm of “MOUNT DOOM”, via “Eagle Air Lift Emergency Rescue Squad”…then (and only then)…go ahead…chances are, they will prolly appreciate anything and everything you might do for them.

******

Disclaimer 2 - Oh…and by the way…these darling hobbits are not mine (dang!) and I’m not Tolkien (as if you couldn’t guess!) and I’m not making any money off of this story (unless someone is actually WILLING to pay me some money for this!) and all that other disclaimer stuff.

*********

“Between There - And Back Again”

Chapter Two -

“At the Brink”

*********

Far below, Gandalf could now see the field that was their destination. Small and white from his vantage point, he could see the tents that had been erected. In an impossibly short amount of time, the eagles' feet were once again securely upon the firm ground flowing with soft, tall grass that swayed in the afternoon breeze. Aragorn who had seen the company as they flew in was standing ready to meet them, a mixture of emotions evident upon his handsome, kingly face. What was he about to learn, he wondered. Would he hear good news or bad? With the eagles now landed before him, he began to walk forward, taking long strides. Closer to the company now, he could see that Gandalf was not alone and his heart soared at that. Upon the back of one eagle was strapped a small bundle that Aragorn quickly recognized as Samwise Gamgee, though he looked much thinner than when he had last beheld him. At the eagle's side now, Aragorn could see that the face of Sam was drowned deep in what appeared to be a restful, peaceful slumber. He noted that, in spite of the bandaged head, he appeared to be all in one piece. As Aragorn appraised Sam’s condition, the hobbit suddenly turned his head slightly and began coughing weakly, his whole body tensing with each wrack.

“That’s it, Samwise.” Aragorn soothed. “Rid your lungs of that foul place. The sooner the better.” Aragorn patted the hobbit’s chest gently as he continued to cough.

The ranger continued to watch Sam to see if he would be awakened by his coughing, but he was not. Sam was unaware of Aragorn lifting him slightly to turn him onto his side in an effort to aid the process and to ensure he didn’t become choked on anything he might bring up. After several moments, Sam’s cough quieted a bit and he seemed to be resting a bit more peacefully for his efforts. Aragorn reached to stroke Sam’s cheek, which was much leaner than he would like to have seen. Sam relaxed even a bit more under the King’s gentle touch, nestling his head once again into the soft warmth of eagle feathers.

“Rest gently, Samwise. You have earned it.” Aragorn smiled proudly.

Next he turned to the other eagle, from whose back Gandalf was dismounting. Aragorn's heart broke anew as he took in the sight of the tiny, broken form nestled in Gandalf's embrace. Still wrapped in the blanket, Frodo was mostly hidden from Aragorn's eyes. All he could really see was the dark curls of his head and one edge of his white brow which were fallen limply back where they rested in the crook of Gandlalf's elbow.

“Gandalf…?” Aragorn breathed only the name, but the question in his heart had reflected in his eyes and had not been lost on the wizard.

“Frodo is still with us, Aragorn - though in a grave condition I fear.” Gandalf answered, pride mingled with despair evident in his ancient eyes. “But let us not give up hope while hope remains. Hobbits, I have found, fade very reluctantly. And if I know a Baggins hobbit, I believe there is still some fight left in this one.”

Hope and doubt warred across Aragorn’s face. At last, the hope won out and gave Aragorn the courage to move forward. Walking closer, Aragorn was now struck with the full horror of Frodo's condition. The face he took in was painted in vast and sundry hues. Dirt, ash and smears of blood made up the hideous palette. Where the skin could actually be seen, the hue was not just pale, but white. The slightly parted lips were blue over his teeth which chattered uncontrollably. The eyes of the hobbit in Gandalf's arm, which Aragorn remembered to be a striking, impossible blue were tightly closed - the dark lashes firmly pressed into the blue smudges that had formed beneath them. None of those horrible things prepared him, however for the ghastliness of Frodo's hand, laying clutched to his small, heaving chest. Even through it's wrapping, Aragorn could see that he was missing a finger.

"Oh, Frodo!" He groaned softly, his heart deeply grieved for all he was sure the hobbit had endured. But there was no time for grief just now. There was work to do if they were to keep this hobbit alive to tell, in his own words and his own voice, just how he had come to be parted with his finger.

Aragorn now stood directly in front of Gandalf who still held Frodo tenderly in his arms. With great care not to cause further pain to the wounded hobbit, Aragorn lifted Frodo's bandaged hand from his chest and laying his ear upon it waited, listening for what would be revealed. The heartbeat he heard was very weak and too fast. The breathing he heard was very shallow - almost like a pant. Frodo's back still arched, though only slightly now, as he drew in each breath, grown weaker from his terrible, determined efforts to live. His whole body trembled as he tried so hard to keep air flowing.

"He's lost a lot of blood, Aragorn." Gandalf's voice suddenly broke through his thoughts.

"Yes, I can tell. He seems to be slipping into shock." Aragorn answered him as he pulled back Frodo's eyelid to see the dilated pupil beneath.

“How long has he been panting like this?” Letting go of the eyelid, which slide immediately shut, Aragorn gently caressed Frodo's brow - noting the coolness of his skin as he did so.

“Since I found him, I’m afraid.” Gandalf answered, then continued, “But it’s weaker now. He stopped breathing while we were in the air - thankfully, I was able to rouse him again. Since then, his breath has been growing gradually fainter.” The wizard finished sadly.

“We saw the smoke from the erupting mountain from here…were Sam and Frodo very near the flow and flame?” Aragorn inquired.

“Completely surrounded when I found them. The rock they were on was no more than an island in a fiery sea when I reached them. I doubt it’s even visible now. I fear both hobbits took in quite a bit of the poisonous fumes. It‘s amazing they are even still…” Gandalf‘s voice trailed off at this last, not wanting to finish the thought.

Aragorn‘s voice broke in. “Let us hope no permanent damage has been done to their lungs. Sam was coughing just a few moments ago. That is a good thing.”

“But Frodo…Aragorn, will he…will he be…?”Gandalf’s question was cut off mid stream by Aragorn’s answer.

“I do not know, Gandalf. But rest assured, I shall do everything in my power to preserve this hobbit. He deserves more than this end for all that he’s done. Give him to me, Gandalf. You take care of Sam. I'll tend Frodo."

Aragorn, king that he was, now took charge of the situation. Reaching to take him from Gandalf's arms, Aragorn pulled Frodo into his own embrace and wondered at the lightness of what could hardly be called a burden. How long had it been since he had eaten an actual meal? Cradled gently in his arms, Frodo seemed so fragile to him now, that he was afraid to hug him close as he longed to do for fear he would break.

Looking down into Frodo’s face as he began to carry him toward the sanctuary of the tents, Aragorn whispered, “Hold on, Frodo. Give me a chance to at least try to repay you for all you’ve done - though, I know I never could…no one could. But please just hold on and give me a chance to try…please, Frodo.”

As Aragorn spoke, Frodo seemed to relax - that is, he went even more impossibly limp and lifeless in Aragorn’s arms. The little body which had been trembling violently when Aragorn first received it into his arms was now still. With alarm, Aragorn noted that not only had Frodo ceased trembling, but was also no longer rhythmically arching his back as he drew breath. Leaning his head forward slightly, Aragorn turned his ear to the hobbit’s mouth to listen for the faint breath. As pitiful as it was to be so, Aragorn was relieved to hear a very faint, wheezing, shallow breath issuing from the blue lips. As he continued forward, Aragorn counted the seconds between each shallow breath - about eight at a slow count. Aragorn resisted the urge to shake the hobbit back to fighting - instead, he took off at a fast run with the yet unconscious hobbit securely held in his embrace. Frodo's head, draped across the man’s elbow, bobbed as Aragorn ran, causing the wild, dark mane of his hair to bounce and sway.

“Aragorn?” Gandalf called. But to no avail…Aragorn had no time to answer.

Having reached the first tent in just a few strides, Aragorn entered and took a second to adjust his eyes to the dimness within. Quickly, he laid Frodo upon the bed which had been set up in anticipation of his arrival. With gentle hands, he began to unwrap Frodo from his blanket so that he could fully assess what was wrong with him. He was struck anew at the smallness of him as he viewed Frodo for the first time without the bulk of the wrapping to make him seem bigger. Also shocking to Aragorn's eyes were the clothing Frodo was dressed in. Though it hung limply on the body, which was too small for it, the garments were unmistakably orc! What kind of state had he had to be in, Aragorn wondered, to force him to put on such foul garments?

"No time for foolish questions now, Aragorn”, the king admonished himself. "You've more important things to do."

Aragorn’s hands worked quickly at unfastening the crude laths that formed the closures for the foul garment Frodo wore on his upper body. The last one was twisted into a knot and Aragorn was just about to reach for his knife as the stubborn fastener finally released. Aragorn opened the garment and peeled it away from Frodo’s chest. The fabric (if it could be called that) was effectively glued to Frodo’s chest from all the blood that had seeped through and dried there. As he pulled it away, the skin was pulled up with it in places and Aragorn watched as the peaks that formed did not immediately spring back to place, but slowly collapsed - evidence of severe dehydration. Quickly but gently, Aragorn removed Frodo’s arms from the sleeves and laid the filthy garment aside. With Frodo’s chest now exposed, alabaster white save the splotches of blood left from the discarded garment, was as cold as a stone and almost as still as Aragorn watched it for it’s rise and fall. A tiny hitch was barely perceptible as the hobbit drew the ineffective, shallow breaths. Frodo was fading.

Suddenly, the King grasped Frodo’s face in both hands and lowering his head, pressed his warm forehead to Frodo’s cold one. Aragorn’s eyes slid shut and he trembled with the effort as he sought to reach Frodo’s mind, soul and spirit.

“Frodo?” Aragorn’s spirit called out. No answer.

“Frodo, please…please answer me. Can you hear me, Frodo?” Aragorn waited.

“Strider?” the voice that answered was very small and weak.

“Frodo! Where are you? Come to me, Frodo.” The ranger pleaded.

Far ahead of him, Aragorn saw Frodo - or rather, his spirit. As he watched, Frodo had entered the mouth of a tunnel, dark inside, but with a brilliant light emanating from the other side. Aragorn followed, stopping only a few steps beyond the mouth of the tunnel. Frodo turned to look at Aragorn, the expression on his face a mixture of surprise and tired delight at seeing his old friend.

“Aragorn!” the hobbit exclaimed. “How good to see you again! Oh, but if you’re here, that must mean…you must be…Aragorn, are you…dead, too?” Frodo’s brows worked with emotion as he spoke in the manner Aragorn remembered (and loved) so well.

“No, Frodo - indeed! I am not dead - and neither are you…though, you are very close, on the brink, so to speak. But all hope is not lost for you, Frodo. Please come back with me.” Aragorn spoke to the weary hobbit and gestured toward the direction from which he had come.

“But, I’m so…so very tired, Strider. More tired than I’ve ever been. And it’s so cold back there.” Frodo nodded his head in the direction behind Aragorn’s back.

Turning slightly to look back, Aragorn was surprised to see a light also shining from the end of the tunnel he had entered, though it was not as brilliant or pure as the light at Frodo’s back - the light toward which the hobbit had been headed.

Frodo turned his head to gaze toward the brilliant light, then spoke softly again. “I know it will be so warm there. I’m so cold, Aragorn.”

As the ranger watched, he noticed something that he had been vaguely aware of in Frodo before…a gentle, clear light seemed to be coming from him, glowing faintly from the inside out. The light in Frodo seemed to be growing fainter and fainter and as he continued to look, Aragorn could see why. Slowly, as dew being evaporated by the warm rays of the mid-morning sun is reclaimed by the sky that provides it, Frodo’s light was being evaporated. Drop by precious drop, the hobbit’s light was being reclaimed. The tiny particles of light shimmered as they left Frodo and floated as on a gentle breeze toward the tunnel opening.

“Please, Frodo…come away with me. You are dearly loved and wanted and would be sorely missed were you to go. Please give us a chance to try to repay you for what you have done. Please, Frodo.” The ranger’s voice was gentle but pleading.

“I have done nothing that requires payment. I do not deserve anything. I failed, Stider. At the most important moment…I gave in. I let everyone down. If not for Gollum’s lust for the ring, it would not have been destroyed. Please do not make me out to be a hero, for I am not.” Frodo answered, self shame clear in his tone of voice as well as in the the huge, shadowed, downcast eyes.

“No, Frodo! You have NOT failed. Frodo, you did what no other could have done - you got that cursed ring to Mordor - and it IS destroyed. It would not be, were it not for you.” Aragorn was adament.

Frodo had no answer for Aragorn’s statement, but said instead, “Sam must be wondering about me…he must be waiting for me there. I must go to him. He was so faithful and kind to me - all the way. He was my strength when I had none of my own, Strider. I can not keep him waiting…you know how Sam worries about me.” Frodo managed to say this last with a tiny smile and a hint of a laugh. Frodo once again began to walk toward the brilliance of the pure light.

“Yes, indeed I do know how Sam worries about you, Frodo. That is why you must come back with me. Sam is not out There.” Aragorn said, pointing toward the light to which Frodo was headed.

Stopping in his tracks, Frodo turned back to the ranger. “What? What do you mean? Sam is not…then Sam didn’t - Sam’s…alive?” Frodo’s voice was full of surprise.

“Yes, Frodo…Samwise is very much alive and will be asking for you first thing, I suspect, as soon as he awakens. That gardener would be very much grieved if he should wake find his master has gone on to where he cannot follow. I don’t know if he would ever recover from it. Please come back with me, Frodo. Please.” Aragorn’s voice plead with the hobbit before him.

Aragorn’s words struck an odd cord of familiarity somewhere in the deepest part of Frodo’s memory…but he couldn’t quite place where or when he had heard the words before. But there was no time to think of it now. Sam was waiting. Waiting for him. Frodo’s will was set. He spoke then.

“Sam is back there. He’s waiting for me. He needs me.”

“Yes, Frodo…and Merry and Pippen as well - for they two have survived. Won‘t you come back with me?” Aragorn begged once more and stretched forth his hand toward Frodo.

“Yes.” Was Frodo’s simple answer as he stepped toward Aragorn and closing his eyes, slid his small hand into the ranger’s large one.

A blinding white light flashed in Aragorn’s eyes and jolted him like a lightening bolt. Instantly, he was no longer in the tunnel, but back in the tent in the field, Frodo’s cold face still in his hands. To anyone looking on, it would seem that Aragorn stopped to press his forehead to the hobbits for only a few seconds. Coming out of his reverie, Aragorn was vaguely aware that Gandalf had entered the tent with Sam in his arms and had laid him upon the second bed. Aragorn hoped that Sam would not awaken to see what he was about to do to his master, for he would surely be most alarmed.

“Keep Samwise asleep and resting as long as you can, Gandalf. I’m going to have to assist Frodo with his breathing for a bit.” Aragorn instructed.

“Very wise.” Gandalf understood immediately Aragorn’s concern and turned back to Sam and placed a large hand across the hobbit’s brow. Gandalf closed his eyes as he concentrated on sending Sam into a deep, peaceful, restful slumber.

A quick nod in the wizard’s direction was Aragorn’s only reply as he deftly slid his hand under Frodo’s head, supporting it while removing the pillow beneath it. Gently he lowed it back to the bed. Aragorn folded the pillow in half lengthwise, then slid it beneath Frodo’s neck, causing the neck to arch and the hobbit’s airway to be more effectively opened. Aragorn once again leaned his ear over the hobbit’s mouth and was glad to note that the effort of opening the airway had seemed to help…but as he had feared, not enough. Frodo’s breath was still alarmingly shallow and faint. The hobbit’s lips, now a dark blue, was testimony to the fact that he was simply not getting enough air. Frodo’s body was completely lifeless as Aragorn slid two fingers down the center of the hobbit’s chest to the base of his sternum.

“Don’t be frightened, Frodo.” Aragorn spoke as though Frodo could hear. “I’m just going to breath for you for a bit. Elrond taught me this - you remember Elrond, don’t you? Just relax.”

With those words spoken to the unconscious hobbit, Aragorn parted Frodo’s mouth and pinched his nostrils closed. Taking a breath, Aragorn leaned over Frodo and breathed into his mouth - though he stopped at what would have been about a half a breath for him. Aragorn was careful of this as he didn’t want to overfill and burst the small hobbit’s lungs. Feeling the cold chest rise beneath his fingers, and satisfied that the air had reached Frodo’s starving lungs, Aragorn pressed gently but firmly to release the breath. Again he pressed his mouth over Frodo’s and gave him more lifegiving air, then released it again. After repeating this process several times, Aragorn stopped to see if Frodo was breathing any better on his own. Noting minimal improvement, he continued.

Aragorn worked over Frodo in this way for almost half an hour before the hobbit finally began to make an effort that was similar to a cough. Actually, a cough is what it would have been if Frodo had had the strength to fully execute it. As it was, the sound that emitted from the hobbit was more akin to a loud, raspy exhale rather than a true cough. Still, Aragorn was pleased, for even this was progress. Aragorn also noted with pitiful joy that Frodo’s lips were no longer blue - at least not completely - they were still tinged blue at the edges to be sure, but they were mostly white now - not at all a healthy hue but an improvement all the same.

Stretching his back up strait for the first time in many minutes, Aragorn caressed Frodo’s brow with the thumb of one hand while the other slid behind the hobbit’s back, lifting him gently.

“That’s it, Frodo. Fight for me. Keep breathing. Now let’s see if we can get a proper cough out of you.” Aragorn panted, out of breath himself from his long effort.

Aragorn perched on the edge of the bed and lifted Frodo and placed him face down across his lap, the dark curly head dangling over the ends of the rangers knees. Aragorn raised his hand over the hobbit’s back with the heal of his palm pressed down in preparation to begin the blows that would hopefully coax Frodo to cough and rid his lungs of the poison they had taken in in Mordor. Just as he was about to strike the first blow, Aragorn looked down to aim and was halted mid air as he took in the gore of whip weals that laddered down Frodo’s back. Anger, surged through Aragorn and he vowed that if he ever found out who had done this to Frodo, they would pay.

With much compassion in his voice, Aragorn apologized for what he was about to do. “Frodo, this may hurt a bit…but I’m afraid I must do this. Your lungs must be cleared. I will try to get it over with quickly.”

Aragorn closed his eyes as he struck the first blow - but he needn’t have. Frodo was completely unresponsive. Again the hobbit’s back was struck, high between his shoulder blades. Rhythmically, the blows continued to fall until at last, Frodo began to cough…weakly, but a real cough. Aragorn stopped striking him and pulled Frodo slightly back onto the bed, laying him on his side with his cheek resting on Aragorn’s knees. The tiny cough gradually grew a bit stronger and Aragorn stoked back the curly hair from Frodo’s face, which now bore a cold sweat and gently patted the small chest.

Aragorn breathed a slight sigh of relief. “There we go. That’s it. The more poison you get rid of, the more good, clean air you’ll be able to take in.”

As if to reward him for his efforts, Frodo suddenly gagged slightly as he brought up some foul fluid from the depths of his lungs. He wretched weakly as Aragorn shifted him slightly, placing a cloth beneath his mouth as he rid himself of the poison. The small, battered body shuddered miserably, but then seemed to still and relax a bit as the coughing ceased. Once again, Aragorn lifted the hobbit in his arms and listened to his breathing as he watched the small chest rise and fall. The breath was still more shallow and much weaker than it needed to be, but there as a definite and decided improvement. There was less space between the breaths now and they seemed to be coming in a more regular pattern. Perhaps it was safe now, Aragorn thought, to pay attention to other matters which would not have mattered if Frodo had stopped breathing. Calling to his servant, Aragorn ordered two warm baths to be drawn and quickly. Aragorn was happy to hear that the forward thinking servant had already ordered water to be boiled and baths to be drawn. The tubs would be filled momentarily. Frodo and Sam were both so dirty, it was impossible to fully assess their conditions without bathing them.

While he waited, the King began to examine Frodo for other injuries. Applying gentle but firm pressure, Aragorn began feeling, one by one, each of Frodo's ribs. Several were found to indeed be broken. Examining Frodo's collarbones and neck next, Aragorn was relieved to find them also unharmed and unbroken. Frodo moaned softly as Aragorn continued his examination by pressing around his stomach and lower abdomen.

"The water is ready, Your Highness." The servant who had been sent to task said upon his return.

"Thank you." Aragorn answered. "And just in time, too." He thought to himself as he watched Frodo's body began to shake with the cold. Quickly but gently, Aragorn continued unclothing the hobbit before him, down to his skin, and then wrapping him about the hips in a towel to preserve his dignity, Aragorn lifted him once again in his embrace and carried him to one of the bathtubs which had been prepared with warm water. Gandalf had done the same with Sam.

Aragorn tested the water and found it to be warm, but not too hot. He certainly didn't want to send the cold hobbit in his arms into further shock. With great care, Aragorn slowly lowered Frodo's body into the water, inch by inch so as not to shock him with its warmth. With Frodo in now, up to his chest, his head resting against a towel draped over the interior wall of the tub, Aragorn still held aloft the bandaged, wounded hand. He ordered a small basin of warm water be brought over and his request was immediately fulfilled. Aragorn began unwrapping the wounded hand and was, as he expected to be, horrified at the full enormity of the wound. Through the tears in his eyes, Aragorn watched the water in the basin quickly turn red as he washed the blood from the hand. Gently he had to pull at Frodo's closed fingers as they had been in effect, glued to his palm by the sticky blood. The wound began to seep again as it was washed free of the blood. Taking the needle and tread that had been prepared, Aragorn began to suture up the wound, closing it so that it could leak no more of the precious blood. With the wound now closed and the hand made clean with soap and water, Aragorn again wrapped it in a clean bandage. Then, to keep it out of the water of the bathtub, he gently wrapped another bandage about Frodo's wrist and tied the other end to the back of the chair beside the bathtub. With the maimed hand now taken care of, Aragorn set about completing the rest of Frodo's bath.

Deciding to start with his poor, singed hair, he took Frodo's head in his hand and tilted it back over the water. With a quick dip into the bath water, Aragorn filled a cup to the brim and slowly began pouring it over the hobbit's hair. Then, with his hair thoroughly saturated, he applied soap and lathered gently, being mindful that further wounds could be hidden in his mass of dark curls. Satisfied that the hobbit's head was now clean, Aragorn began to rinse in the same way he had wet his head, running his fingers through the hair occasionally to work the lather out. With the weight of the water pulling it out strait, Aragorn was amused to note that Frodo’s hair was halfway between his shoulder blades in the back and nearly to his chin in the front. Apparently, there had been no time for haircuts on the way to Mordor. With Frodo's dark hair dripping in the tub, Aragorn still held his head in his hands as he took a cloth, dipped it in the water and began gently scrubbing away the grime on his face. As he had just finished applying the wet cloth to them, Aragorn saw Frodo's eyes flutter suddenly open, though only halfway. Through the half opened blue eyes, Frodo gazed at him confusedly. He looked at Aragorn with vague recollection...as though he thought he knew him, but was not sure.

"Hello, Mr. Baggins." Aragorn spoke to him cheerfully. "Surprised to see me?" He asked chuckling. "Well I suppose I look a bit different that I did at our parting. But I could say the same about you. But don't you worry...we are going to see you well. I'm just cleaning you up a bit now. Gandalf's doing the same for Samwise. You two will be up and about more adventures before you know it." A tiny, weak flicker of a smile between his labored breaths was the only response Frodo could manage before his eyes fluttered closed once again. Aragorn noted that the warm water seemed to have done the trick of warming the hobbit's body as he was no longer shaking nor had chattering teeth. Feeling a bit more hopeful now, Aragorn went back to work to finish the task before him. As he washed Frodo free of the dirt and grime, he realized that many places he had thought to be spots of dark ash were truly bruises, some even still forming. Both of Frodo’s knees and shins were practically one big bruise and abrasion. Bruises of varying shades colored the hobbit’s upper legs and hips. Once he was clean, Aragorn could also see that Frodo had suffered many burns, some of them blistered and very angry looking. He knew they had to hurt. Aragorn sighed as he realized that the area’s of Frodo’s body that did NOT have an injury would be a much shorter list than if he listed the parts that WERE injured. In fact, Aragorn thought, he would be very hard pressed to find one area that was truly injury free. Cuts, bruises, burns and punctures marred him from his head to his feet. Much of Frodo’s body, particularly his jointed areas, were beginning to swell. Aragorn wondered what he had so recently endured to cause these new injuries. Then he remembered. Gollum. Gandalf reported that Sam’s body was covered in cuts, bruises and burns as well.

With the bathing completed, Aragorn called to his servant to bring him the thickest towels and blankets he could find. The efficient servant had them in a matter of moments...one of each for Frodo and Sam. With the towels now at hand, he began untying Frodo's wrist where it was bound, being careful to continue keeping it from the water. The towel, he spread upon the small cot that had been placed directly next to the tub. Reaching down into the water once again, he lifted Frodo’s wet, slippery body gently from its warm depths into the comparatively chilly air. He was delighted to see chills raise on Frodo as that indicated to him that at least some of his body systems were still functioning. Laying his charge upon the towel draped across the cot, Aragorn quickly wrapped Frodo in it's softness, rubbing away the water as he did. With Frodo wrapped warmly in the towel, Aragorn took a second towel and began drying his still damp hair. The dark hair sprang to ringlets as Aragorn wielded the towel, ridding the hair of its wetness. His hair mostly dry now, Frodo was removed of the wet towel about his hips as Aragorn took care to keep his nakedness shielded by the outer towel and wrapped him in the blanket. Lifting the hobbit easily in his arms he carried him to the bed and began pulling a clean, white nightshirt, of the softest material over Frodo's head, removing the remaining towel inch by inch as he did. Finally the clean garment was covering the hobbit down to his ankles. Gandalf, Aragorn saw from across the room, had done the same for Sam.

The hobbits, now clean and clad in soft, warm, comfortable cloths were put quickly to bed. Quilts and blankets were heaped upon them as their heads rested against the soft pillows. Aragorn sat down in a chair beside the bed Frodo occupied and gently ran the back of his hand down Frodo's now clean, but bruised cheek.

"Thank you, Frodo. Thank you for coming back with me. Rest well, little one. Worry for nothing. We shall see you and Samwise well." As Aragorn set about administering the herbal concoctions and performing the medicine of the elves upon his patient, he hoped that his last words would indeed come true.

TBC

Huge apologies for the loooonnnng, looooonng delay in updating. I hope you all haven’t forgotten this story and given up on it. I’d offer excuses (you know, the normal stuff…real life, writers block and such like), but that wouldn’t get the story told any faster, now would it. Please forgive me!

Oh! And one more apology in advance to the all you Sam fans out there. I’m afraid he doesn’t make a very prominent appearance in this chapter…but I PROMISE, PROMISE, PROMISE that he is being taken VERY good care of by a certain wizard and you shall hear all about it in the next chapter. I tried to work it in, I really did, (that was part of the delay, really, trying to get Sam in there in a way that worked), but every time I did, I just didn’t like what it did to the action of the story. Well, there’s that and the fact that I am a confirmed and certified Frodo girl. I can’t help it. I just love that little hobbit and he’s my favorite and always will be. (ducks to miss the rotten tomatoes being hurled her way!)

A great big THANK YOU to all of you who reviewed (Chickloveslotr, LytaPadfoot, Esamen)! (I believe I wrote each of you a personal, proper, ‘thank you’ but if I missed someone, please forgive me and please know that it wasn’t intentional as I LOVE and appreciate any and all reviews! I can not tell you how excited I am to get such nice reviews! Ya’ll inspire me to want to write more and do my very best at it.

Disclaimer I am not a medical professional (but I play one on tv!…no, not even that! But I did love my ‘doctor’ kit when I was a kid!)…so, of course…none of this is to be taken as medical advise or should be tried at home, or work, or church, or the grocery story or the mall or on the subway…or ANYWHERE. This is FICTION people! Come on! Though, on second thought…if you every find yourself in the situation of rescuing a couple of buddies who just destroyed an evil ring of power from the fiery chasm of “MOUNT DOOM”, via “Eagle Air Lift Emergency Rescue Squad”…then (and only then)…go ahead…chances are, they will prolly appreciate anything and everything you might do for them.

Aragorn sighed wearily as he sat finally beside Frodo's bed. Gently he reached out and laid the back of his hand to Frodo's cheek, checking the hobbit's temperature. Finding the cheek to be still cool, but not as cold as before, he slipped his hand beneath the blankets covering Frodo and felt his way under the hobbit's shirt at his collar bone, testing the temperature there. Still somewhat cooler than he needed to be, but the hobbit did seem to be warming up a bit. The warm bath he had been given, along with spending the last hour buried under blankets was definitely going a long way to bring Frodo's body temperature back to a normal level.

With Frodo and Sam cleansed and made relatively comfortable for the moment, the king's last hour had been consumed mostly in the mixing of herbs and preparation of linens for bandages as well as planning out in his mind the best course of action to take with his small patients. Distinctly, Aragorn remembered his foster father's words to him during his training as a healer.

'Good advise for most any vocation.’ Had been Aragorn's thoughts on the matter.

Lord Elrond had been, of course, a most excellent teacher. There was no other known to Aragorn with more knowledge or skill in the healing arts than his foster father. Yet, despite having learned under this great master, Aragorn found himself, at the moment, feeling very ill prepared and unqualified for the task before him. In his heart, the new king knew that the problem lay, not in his lack of skill or knowledge, but in his closeness to his patients. Because of his deep love, admiration and gratitude to Samwise and, most especially to the Ringbearer, Aragorn was finding it difficult to reach the level of objectiveness he needed to perform his task, and he hesitated to move forward with it.

"Get a hold of yourself, Aragorn." The king admonished himself silently. "You are well trained for this task. Stop wasting time. You don't have the luxury of taking decades of time to talk yourself into this as you did claiming your birthright. These small ones need you to act. Now." Aragorn further chastised himself.

Pushing aside all doubts, Aragorn began to treat his patient. He hated to disturb Frodo, who had already been through so much, but his hurts must be tended. The ringbearer, Aragorn noted, was still lying just as he had placed him, prone and supine, his head slightly propped on a pillow, and did not appear to have moved so much as his little finger in all that time. Aragorn considered Frodo intently and was dismayed to find that his breath seemed to be coming once more in the weak, shallow gasps it had been before Aragorn had assisted the hobbit with his breathing. Beneath the mound of blankets, barely perceptible until Aragorn drew them back to expose the hobbit's upper torso, Frodo was weakly arching his back with each wheezing intake of air - and was becoming very fatigued from the effort.

"Still struggling, my friend?" Aragorn spoke soft compassion to Frodo as he bent over him and tenderly caressed the pale cheek with the back of his tough warrior's hand, noting as he did that Frodo's lips were slightly more blue than when he had first tucked him to bed. "Worry not. We'll soon have you resting more comfortably." He soothed.

The king's hands slid gently beneath the base of the hobbit's head and neck, supporting both slightly as he removed the pillow Frodo's head was resting upon. Once more, Aragorn folded the pillow in half lengthwise and slid it gently behind Frodo's neck, creating a slight arch in it to more efficiently open up the hobbit's air way. Going a step further this time, Aragorn procured an extra pillow from the stack in the corner of the tent and carried it back to Frodo's bed and rolled it in like fashion as the neck pillow. Aragorn placed his forearm beneath Frodo's hips in order to lift him enough to place the extra pillow under the small of his back, intending to save Frodo the effort of fatiguing himself with arching as he drew each breath. With the pillow in place, Aragorn drew the blankets back over the Ringbearer and sat simply watching him for a few moments, noting with relief that the new position had seemed to ease his breathing a bit. The breaths the hobbit now drew were slightly deeper and perhaps a tiny bit less labored. Aragorn placed two fingers to the pulse point at Frodo’s throat and waited to see what would be revealed there. The pulse Aragorn felt was weak and a little too fast, but steady. That was all he could hope for at the moment, he supposed.

Aragorn stood from his chair and turned toward the small table that had been set up behind him to hold the healing supplies he would need. As he did, he heard from a slight distance the sound of a treble voice calling a name.

It seemed to be getting closer. “Frodo!” The voice was very close now, just outside the tent. Suddenly, Merry burst through the tent flap that was serving as the door, clad still in his livery and helmet.

“Frodo!” He joyfully called once more as he attempted to look around the comparative dimness of the tent.

Finally, Merry's eyes adjusted and lit upon the one he sought. He stood stock still for a moment, unable to move as he took in the visage of his dear cousin, lying as he was, so broken before him. The fair berries-and-cream complexion he remembered, now a pallid gray-white, the merry cheeks so often dimpled with his infectious grin, now sunken and wan from long hardship and want, the bones so prominent they seemed ready to come through the skin. Merry's heart broke as he saw the many bruises, burns and cuts that marred his cousin's face. Frodo’s eyes, as wide and warm and bluer than any early autumn sky, eyes that occupied the very earliest of Merry's memories, and which Merry had expected to find in greeting, were closed firm, deeply shadowed, the dark lashes laying splayed across the pale cheeks like broken raven's wings. Frodo's lips, that gentle bow of a mouth, so often from which witty, ironic one-liners had come to send Merry into peals of mirthful (often naughty!) laughter, and just as often those lips had pressed into Merry's hair or brow or cheek in expression of comfort, love or simply, "good-night, cousin", were now a shade of pale blue as they lay slightly parted, cracked and chapped with dryness as his labored breathes passed between them.

In one fluid movement, Merry moved toward the still visage of his cousin as he swept the helmet from his head of honey colored curls, tossing it aside as he slowly and carefully lowered himself down from his newfound height to sit upon the edge of Frodo’s bed. “Oh, cousin.” Was all Merry’s whispering voice could manage. For long moments he simply leaned over Frodo, studying his face and listening to the sound of his struggling breaths. Merry slowly ungloved his hands and tossing the gloves aside, gently stroked back the dark curls gathered at his cousin’s temple with the back of his now exposed left hand. Silently, Merry sat caressing Frodo, saying nothing for what could have been hours or only a moment - Merry could not tell.

Finally, Merry found his voice. “Frodo? It’s your Merry. Can you hear me, dearest?” Merry waited for his cousin to answer. When no answer was forthcoming, he slowly raised his head to look at Aragorn. The deep blue of Merry’s eyes were smeary with tears that threatened to spill, a thousand questions mirrored there.

“Strider? Is he…will he be…? Strider, will he live?” Merry finally managed to ask, as the two tears finally spilled.

“He’s fighting, Merry.” Aragorn’s voice was little more than a whisper as he looked into the hobbit’s eyes. It was the only truthful answer that the king could give, for he himself truly did not know.

“Of course he is.” Said Merry with obvious pride as he turned back to study Frodo‘s face once more.. “What else would he do? He’s a Baggins - and a Brandybuck besides - not to mention part Took. It’s all he knows to do - keep fighting. I don’t think Frodo’s ever willingly given up on anything in his life. Legendarily stubborn those Bagginses are. And for once, I’m glad. I’m glad.” This last came out a whisper as Merry struggled to control his voice, stroking Frodo as he spoke, first his temple, then his cheek and finally gently laying the backs of his fingers against the pulse point of his arched and exposed neck.

“Keep fighting, cousin. Keep fighting. I’ll help you fight as long as you need me to. I’ll not leave you to fight alone. Not again. I promise.” Merry sealed his whispered vow by tenderly pressing a lingering kiss upon the very center of Frodo’s chilly brow. “I promise. Your Merry‘s here now and he‘ll not leave you.” Merry sat for another moment, just cupping Frodo’s face gently with both hands, his own face mere inches from his cousins.

At length, Merry finally mastered his emotions and spoke again. “What’s being done for him?” Merry asked, his natural practicality rising to the surface.

“I’ve just gotten him stabilized enough to begin tending to his hurts. He was very grave when he first arrived.” Aragorn answered.

“Was?” Merry queried. “This,” Merry gestured to his cousin, “This is an improvement?”

“Yes. He at least draws breaths that are his own now. That is more than he could do only a short while ago. Still, he isn’t doing it without some difficulty. He is suffering from the intake of the smoke and fumes and foulness of Mordor. His lungs are still filled with it’s poison.” Aragorn explained gazing down at his patient in deep concern.

“Yes, Merry. Of course. But Frodo can only take so much of this treatment at once. It is painful, I’m afraid - and his other injuries make it even more so. Still, it was somewhat helpful when I performed the procedure earlier.” Aragorn answered, his eyes distant and sad as he remembered pounding upon the already abused back in order to elicit a cough to clear Frodo’s lungs.

“Other injuries?” Merry asked. “What else is wrong with my cousin, Strider? Please, you must tell me.”

“I am just beginning to discover for myself the extent of Frodo’s injuries, Merry. I was just about to begin tending to his hurts, so perhaps it would be better to just show you rather than try to explain. I could actually use your help, if you would.” Aragorn, wise king that he was, saw Merry’s need to do something…anything.

“Well,” Aragorn began, “we’ll start by treating his injuries, then we need to try to get some nourishment into him. He’s lost a lot of blood and he can’t rebuild it without plenty of nourishment.”

“Yes. I’m afraid he lost a finger, Merry…somehow.” Merry’s face was a study in grief as he heard of Frodo’s injury. Aragorn, as wise as he was, knew no words to say that would be of comfort to Merry concerning this matter. He thought it best to simply move on and let the situation reveal itself naturally.

In as normal a voice as possible, Aragorn spoke again. “Now, I suppose we should just start at the bottom, that is, Frodo’s feet and work our way up. He’s covered in burns, cuts and bruises from head to toe, I’m afraid.” Aragorn mused almost to himself as he slowly drew back the blankets from Frodo’s feet and began unbuttoning the row of buttons that ran up the side of the garment Frodo was wearing to expose his legs.

Merry closed his eyes in grief for a moment as he took in the mangled mess that was now Frodo’s lower extremities. Frodo had always been so fastidious about his grooming and appearance - he would be just horrified if he could see the state the fur of his feet was now in. What little bit of it that hadn’t been singed completely off was a hopeless mess of knots, tangles and snarls. Beneath the mess of this fur, Frodo’s feet themselves had suffered many burns, red, angry and in many instances bearing blisters. Aragorn had tenderly lifted one of the hobbit’s feet and was examining it more closely.

“I need to cut the rest of this fur, I think. It’s the only way I’m going to be able to treat the burns.” Aragorn thought aloud.

“It’s just as well.” Merry answered him. “He’d never get those knots out anyway - not with out pulling it out, leastwise. And it’ll grow back, in time.” Merry finished sadly.

“Yes. Well then. Let us get started. Would you fetch the shears over on that table for me, Merry?” Aragorn put Merry to task.

While Merry was retrieving the shears, Aragorn folded a towel and placed it beneath Frodo’s left leg and foot. Then, with shears in hand, he began to carefully trim away the remaining fur, exposing the skin beneath it, perhaps for the first time since Frodo had been an infant. The now exposed skin, in the few places not red and blistered from burns was, Aragorn and Merry noted, even more fair than the rest of Frodo’s skin - evidence of it’s not having been exposed to the sun in many years.

With the foot now unclad, Aragorn began to gently bath the angry burns that covered Frodo’s foot and ankle in cool athelas tea to help draw the heat and pain from the burns. When the redness began to recede slightly, Merry, under Aragorn’s instruction, began to pat the foot dry with a soft towel, careful not to rub and further irritate the already inflamed skin. The drying complete, Merry watched as Aragorn dipped his finger tips into a small stone crock, withdrawing a white cream, which also smelled of athelas. With a feather light touch, Aragorn began smoothing the cream into the burns. A tiny sound emitted from the head of

“Mmmmhh…” he said. It might have come from a newborn infant it was so weak and small, but the sentiment behind it was more than obvious. Relief. The two at the foot of the bed exchanged an amused look. In Aragorn’s hand, Frodo’s toes curled very slightly in response to the touch.

“He’s always been terribly ticklish about his feet, Strider. Pip and I were always merciless when it came to tickling him. Of course, Frodo always gave us payback - tickle for tickle.” Merry laughed gently remembering, his face more than a bit wistful.

“Does that feel good, my friend? Is that helping?” Aragorn directed his grinning comment toward the head of the bed, though he did not expect a reply.

The healer-king said nothing, but continued working the cream into the burns in slow, small circles, being careful of the blisters as he knew it was best to let them drain on their own. A brief examination of the other foot revealed it to be in an almost identical state to the other. The process of washing, drying, trimming hair and applying cream was repeated. Having done all that could be done for Frodo’s feet for the moment, king and cousin moved their attention to the Ringbearer’s shins.

Merry simply shook his head in disbelief as he took in more closely the extent of the abrasions and bruises covering his cousin’s legs. Abrasions were on top of bruises, making it difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. Along the left shin bone there was almost no skin left - raw, pink, glistening flesh was all that covered bone and sinew for nearly the entire length of Frodo‘s shin. Merry’s breath drew in in a hiss when he saw it. He could almost feel it. And it hurt. When the healer-king examined it closer, he found that tiny gravel had embedded itself in the open wound. It would have to be removed if the wound was expected to heal without becoming infected…if it wasn’t too late already.

“Merry, would you fetch the tweezing instrument, please? Aragorn asked as he uncorked a bottle of spirits. “I believe it’s on the left end of the table.”

Quickly, Merry found the needed instrument and retrieved it to Aragorn’s hand. Aragorn took a deep breath and shut his eyes for a moment before beginning to poor the spirits over the open wound as an antiseptic. The response it elicited from Frodo was instantaneous and every bit as bad as Aragorn had anticipated. He was too weak to do more than jerk once involuntarily but the king knew, had he the strength to do so, Frodo would be taking himself and his leg as far from Aragorn’s reach as he possibly could. “Mmmmhh…” he said once more. And once more the meaning of the tiny sound was clear. Pain.

“I’m sorry, Frodo.” Aragorn soothed as he gently lifted his hand to stroke Frodo’s cheek. “I’m trying not to hurt you, but it must be done.”

“Merry, would you mind sitting on Frodo’s bed facing me and holding his leg in your lap as I work? I’m afraid this is going to be a bit painful for him and he may jerk and cause further injury.” Aragorn asked the Ringbearer’s cousin.

“Of course.” Was Merry’s answer as he gently lifted Frodo’s leg and slid his own beneath it. Carefully he lowered it to his lap and placed one hand behind his cousin’s ankle and the other just above where the wound began below the knee, securing the leg in place.

Aragorn bent to work again. Frodo cried out pitifully once more and tried to move away from the source of the pain, but was too weak to overcome even Merry’s light grip. The leg began to tremble as Aragorn continued to work, wielding the tweezers to remove the gravel that was deeply embedded in places. The king struggled to keep his concentration directed at the task as he listened to Frodo’s piteous moans and witnessed his body’s attempt to avoid the pain it was in.

Merry’s heart was breaking as he was forced to hold his cousin still. He tried to talk soothingly to him as Aragorn continued to work and Frodo continued to moan and writhe weakly.

“Mmhhh…” the moan that issued was a bit louder now, though Frodo’s voice trembled even more, his lips and teeth beginning to chatter slightly.

“Shhhh, dearest. I know. I know, it hurts. It’s all right. Everything’s going to be fine. It will be over soon, then you can rest, dearest cousin.” Merry soothed turning his head to face Frodo who‘s brows were drawn in deep pain.

“Ahhh…mmphhh…mmmph…” Frodo was almost in a pant now, his voice reduced to a mere squeak .

“Aragon! Aren’t you almost done? I don’t think he can take much more. Can’t you give him something for the pain?” Merry turned accusing eyes on the king.

“I’m afraid not, Merry. His breathing and pulse are still too weak and I couldn’t predict what would happen if I gave him something. I’m afraid it would relax him too much and his heart would stop. I’m sorry, Merry. You must know I’m not hurting him on purpose?” The king’s heart was in his eyes as he looked up briefly at his accuser.

“Yes. I know, Strider.” Merry said softly. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I can’t stand to see him in such pain.”

The king bent his head back down to his task and finished as quickly as he could. Rocking back on his heals and sighing in relief, he said, “There! Done.”

“Now, all we have to do is wrap it, so that I don’t have to repeat the picking process again.” He continued. “Hold his leg up slightly, Merry and I’ll wrap it.”

Merry complied, watching as the white linen was gently wrapped the length of the wound, secured in place with Aragorn’s practiced, perfect tie. With the shin taken care of, Aragorn performed a closer inspection of Frodo’s left knee and thigh and found them to be relatively unharmed but for a few minor scraps and bruises which would be all right to heal on their own. Examination of the right knee and thigh however revealed a different story. The whole of the upper part of Frodo’s leg was covered in one giant bruise, black mostly, mingled with dark reds and purples and mottled throughout with torn flesh. The tears were ragged and irregular - the kind of injury one might sustain if pulled carelessly across a rough surface - the kind the rough and jagged rock of the land of Mordor would be perfect for inflicting. The knee itself seemed to have sustained some injury of its own - perhaps from a hard or repeated fall - and was swollen now, almost twice the size of his other. Gently palpating the knee, Aragorn found the kneecap itself to be intact and he could find no break.

“Perhaps the swelling is just from deep bruising.” Aragorn mused aloud, but almost to himself.

Merry watched as the king put the cool athelas tea to service, bathing his cousin’s leg in the soothing mixture. Methodically Aragorn would dip his cloth into the water then hold it slightly above Frodo’s leg, letting the fragrant tea wash slowly over the damaged limb, into the torn flesh and finally onto the toweling waiting beneath. There was no response from Frodo and both Merry and Aragorn took that as a good sign. Once more, Merry wielded the towel with a gentle, patting, blotting motion and dried to remove the excess moisture from Frodo’s leg. While Merry was drying, Aragorn prepared a poultice for the swollen knee. With the poultice in place, Merry lifted his cousin’s leg while Aragorn applied a wrap, going half way down the shin and halfway up the thigh with it to provide more stability. Once wrapped, a pillow was placed beneath Frodo’s knee to elevate it just a bit to help relieve some of the swelling.

King and cousin were silent as the night shirt was lifted enough to reveal Frodo’s hips. The injuries they found there were minor, only bruises and more scrapes to add to the tally. What was heartbreaking, however was the prominence of the hipbones themselves. Seeing them made the truth so obvious – Frodo had starved – for months.

“Would he ever be the hobbit he once was?” Merry wondered, but did not speak the question aloud. He did not think he could bear the answer just now.

After only a brief sponging with the athealas water, the two moved on. Quickly Aragorn refastened the buttons he had opened to get at Frodo’s lower regions, and as he did, Merry was working on the buttons that ran the length of the night shirt from collar to waist. Frodo was redressed and covered by blankets once more from the waste down, that what warmth he had gained would not be lost. When Merry had opened all of the buttons, a dozen of them in all, Aragorn joined him at the head of the bed.

“When I raise him up, you slip his night shirt down, Merry.” Aragorn gave instruction as Merry responded with a nod.

With no further talk, the king once more slid one hand behind the hobbit’s neck and the base of his head, the other hand he slid behind Frodo’s back at his waist and began to gently lift him enough so that Merry could slid the garment off of his shoulders without chaffing his already abused skin. Frodo’s only response as he was lifted was a tiny, audible sigh, nothing more than a breath really. With as much ease as possible, Merry began to work the garment off of his cousin’s shoulders then gently remove Frodo’s arms from the sleeves. Merry had steeled himself for the sight of Frodo’s emaciated torso unclothed and he was glad that he had for the sight smote his heart even still. Frodo had never been heavy, especially by hobbit standards, but he had always been as sturdy and solid as he could be. The cousin’s had joked that there wasn’t much of him, but what was there was solid muscle and as tight as a drum. Merry well remembered the wrestle and tickle matches he and Frodo had engaged in in happier times. All of his life growing up, Merry had warned Frodo that one day, he would be bigger and therefore the victor against him. When the day came when, indeed, Merry had grown bigger, heavier anyway, Frodo had proven him wrong. Even with the element of surprise in his (completely unprovoked) tickle attack turned wrestle match and the advantage of his greater weight, Merry had still been the one who, in the end, was laying flat on his back, his older cousin on top tickling mercilessly.

‘Say it, Merry!’ Merry could still hear his cousin’s voice, full of laughter mocking him as he sat astride him, only stopping his tickle attack long enough for Merry to catch his breath enough to say the words that might free him from Frodo’s grip.

‘Never!’ The helpless Merry had cried in defiance. He was quickly sorry, for that was not the response Frodo was looking for and was instead, the word that launched another attack of merciless jabs and rubs that hit all the tickle spots that were well known to Frodo.

‘Come on, cousin! Just let me hear you say it and this torture will end.’ Frodo was crouched down so close to Merry’s face that his hair tickled Merry’s nose as he sat waiting to see what his cousin’s response would be. He sat up, hands poised at Merry’s ribs ready to begin again if the words he wanted to hear were not spoken. Beneath Frodo’s slight weight, Merry writhed and twisted, trying to get away - but it was all in vain. Once Frodo had you in his grip, there was no getting free until HE was ready to let go - a fact of which Merry was well and painfully aware. Yet, he just couldn’t give up. Not yet anyway. Frodo cocked his head to one side waiting for Merry’s answer. Merry decided to try a new tactic.

‘Please, Fro…just let me up. Your bony behind is digging into my stomach, you bag of bones - it‘s quite painful!’ Merry’s voice plead. Frodo’s face grew concerned - for a second…that is, until Merry continued. ‘Besides, I’m so much bigger than you now, I should hate to have to hurt you if you force me to let MYSELF up.’

Frodo’s bright blue eyes grew even larger as he listened to what his cousin had to say, and to Merry’s chagrin, they took on the twinkle of determination that Merry had seen often enough in his life to know would mean trouble for him. Frodo sat back a little as a slow smile began to grace his face, his flushed cheeks dimpling in reaction to it, the tiny space between his front teeth revealed in the process. Slowly he spoke.

‘Oooh, I see. Is that right then, cousin? Afraid you’ll hurt me, are you? Well, that’s very kind of you, Merry, I’m sure, but I wouldn’t worry about me right now, if I were you. No. What I would worry about, Merry…were I in your position…’ And here he began to laugh a sarcastic, sardonic giggle and continued, ’but, of course, I’m NOT. BUUUTTT…if I were…which I’m not…I would be more worried about…taking…the…biggest… deepest…breath…I possibly could. Because, cousin…’ Frodo stopped speaking long enough to lay his hand gently upon Merry’s flushed cheek and looking him strait in the eye, continued in a whisper. ’I promise you…you will need it.’

Briefly, a thought of , ’Oh dear, sweet Eru…what’ve I done? It is ON now!’ went fleetingly thorough Merry’s mind. But there was no more time to attend to that thought.

With that, Frodo had launched the most merciless attack he had ever given Merry, and enjoyed every bit of it. Merry writhed and tried to get away and tried to protect his most ticklish areas, but as soon as he had one area covered, his older cousin had found a new area to concentrate on. All throughout the attack Frodo had offered Merry a cease if he would but say the right words…but Merry was stubborn - almost as stubborn as Frodo himself - almost…but not quite. Finally after many minutes and every vulnerable spot on Merry’s body had been tickled, the helpless victim finally relented.

‘All right! All right! I’ll…say…it!’ He struggled to shout between laughing fits.

‘Say what, cousin?’ Frodo didn’t let up on his tickling even for a second. ‘What’ll you say?’

‘Pleasssse, Fro…I’ll…’ and Merry was laughing too hard to finish it. His voice had risen as high as a lass’. Frodo let up just enough for him to continue.

‘What, Merry…what was that? Did you say something?’ Frodo mocked. ‘I couldn’t quite hear you, cousin. Seems there’s a great deal of laughing going on in here…you’ll have to speak up.’

Merry panted to catch his breath. ‘I said,’ Merry started, then panted some more. ‘I said, I’ll say it.’

‘Oh? And, and what uhh, what was it you wanted to say, Merry?’ Frodo was loving every bit of this! ‘I don’t believe I’ve heard you say it yet. Do I need to prove my point a bit more?’ Frodo’s hands poised over Merry’s ribcage once more.

‘Merry. I still haven’t heard you say it, dearest.’ Frodo’s face was mock indignant. ‘I mean, if you wish, I can go a bit more. I’m not tired of this game at all. Why, I believe I could go on for ----…’ Frodo began.

But Merry didn’t dare wait for him to finish to find out just how long Frodo could keep this up. He already knew the answer to that - just a little bit longer than himself - that’s how long.

‘All right, all right!’ Merry’s voice interrupted, loud and high. ‘Here it is, then! You’re the king and reigning champion!’ Mock drama filled Merry’s voice.

‘Who was that, Mer…? Whoooo did you say was ‘the king and reigning champion’, dearest? Don’t think I quite caught that name…what was it, again?’ Buggers, but Frodo truly was merciless when it came to this!

‘YOU, are, Frodo!’ Merry yelled at the top of his lungs, even as he rolled his eyes. ‘Frodo is the KING and REIGNING CHAMPION!’ To anyone listening, Merry would have sounded like a town cryer.

Merry groaned his frustration. ‘And…you will ALWAYS be the KING and REIGNING CHAMPION of tickle matches, no matter how…’ here Merry stumbled, gritting his teeth at having to say the words.

‘Yes, Merry? Was there something else, dearest? Did you have something more? Because…if not, I could aaallways…’ Frodo started but was interrupted again.

‘Oh, for pity sake, Frodo! You are the stubbornest BAGGINS I have EVER seen and that is saying a LOT! Fine! No matter how FAT I grow, you will ALWAYS and FOREVER BE…the tickle match king and reigning champion! There! Are you satisfied, now, you stubborn, bony-bottomed Baggins?’ Merry huffed.

For a moment, Frodo sat silently smiling down at his cousin and terror went through Merry’s heart as he thought Frodo might begin again. But, to Merry’s surprise (and great relief), Frodo merely laughed and said, ‘Yes. Very. I’m very satisfied. Thank you, Merry for inquiring. You are most accommodating, cousin!’ And with that, leant forward and pressed three wet, sloppy kisses (the kind Merry had given him when he was just a wee bairn come to tell him goodnight) - one on each cheek in turn and the final one landing on the tip of Merry’s nose. Frodo rose (though still managing to dig his ’bony bottom’ into Merry’s stomach once more) and offered his hand to his pouting cousin. For a moment, Merry merely glared up at him. But Frodo had a talent for never allowing anyone to stay mad at him long. All who ever tried it found it simply impossible.

‘Aww…come on, Mer! It isn’t over yet. There’s still hope for you, dearest. I do have a good fourteen years or so of age on you.’ Frodo’s voice was philosophical now. ‘One of these days - if you’re lucky - I might just be old and broken down and feeble enough for you to best.’ Frodo’s grin at Merry was so infectious that he could resist no longer. Finally Merry took Frodo’s hand and allowed him to help him to his feet. Though, he was still muttering something about, ‘stubborn, wiry Baggins’ under his breath.

Merry was brought from his reverie by a voice calling his name. Aragorn’s voice. And from the sound of it, it wasn’t the first time he had called him.

“Merry?” Aragorn asked, finally getting a look from the hobbit he called. “Are you all right?”

“Oh. Yes. I’m sorry, Strider. I was just…remembering. He was so strong, you know? I mean, it surprised you how strong he was. No matter how many times he got the better of me in our wrestling, tickling, squirming matches…I was ALWAYS surprised. It’s like he had this hidden strength that was buried somewhere deep, so it didn’t always show on the surface, but whenever he called on it…well, there it was.” Merry’s face was distant as he spoke.

“Merry, you speak of this strength as if it all lay in the past, my friend.” Aragorn looked the hobbit squarely in the eyes and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t count him out, just yet. I KNOW how strong Frodo is. I saw him fight for seventeen days after Weathertop, remember - against the likes of which had taken down men twice his size, and even gotten the better of elves. Hobbits in general, in my experience, are made of stern stuff - and Frodo not the least of all…in fact, I’d say he may be even just a bit sterner. So, let’s give him some credit, shall we? As long as he draws breath, there is hope. All right?” Aragorn’s gaze was still locked with Merry’s.

Hope shone once more on Merry’s face and he nodded his assent emphatically, too overcome with emotion to give voice to his agreement.

“All right, then. Let’s see what we’re facing here.” Aragron set about examining his patient once more. Firmly but gently his hands pressed around on Frodo’s stomach, which was a sunken cavity now. Intently he watched Frodo’s face for any telling reaction he might show that would give away information about any internal injuries the hobbit may have suffered. A line of pain flickered briefly between Frodo’s brows as Aragorn’s hands neared his kidney and bladder area. The king had been afraid of that. He hoped desperately that the obvious dehydration had not done permanent damage to those organs. With any luck, any damage would be undone with a good supply of fresh clean water.

Frodo’s arms were checked next and together, Aragorn and Merry treated the abraded and bruised elbows that Aragorn had noted when he was bathing Frodo earlier. Again, the skin had been taken completely off in places, leaving the poor hobbit raw and terribly sore. Gently, after washing and applying ointment, both elbows were bound in linen bandages.

Finding nothing else, Aragorn moved on Frodo’s ribs, colored black and blue and every shade a bruise can be, indicating that these were not all from a single injury, but from several different ones, all in separate stages of the healing process - some old and almost healed, still others brand new and still forming even now. Again the king noted the cracked and broken ribs he had found earlier. He sat for a moment, thinking.

Aragorn looked up apologetically and said, “He has some broken ribs but I dare not bind them and risk making his breathing even more difficult. No, no. They will just have to remain loose for now, I’m afraid.” Aragorn spoke his thoughts aloud.

With nothing to be done for the ribs for the moment but a brief sponging, the examination was moved on. Aragorn and Merry’s eyes moved from Frodo’s ribcage and chest up to his neck and shoulders. The shoulders they found to be fully intact and well. The neck, however was another matter. Brushing back the overlong chestnut locks of hair that had gathered around Frodo’s neck and throat, both king and cousin were overcome with new understanding of the weight that Frodo had born across Middle Earth. The Ring, it seemed, was not only a weight on the mind and soul, but on the body itself as well. Frodo’s poor neck was testimony to it’s terrible, dragging weight, for etched into the delicate, fair skin was a reminder in the form of a scabbing welt. The chain the Ring had hung from had, in places, actually cut into Frodo’s neck. In the best of places, the least it had done was chaff until the poor hobbit’s flesh was all but rubbed away. This time, it was not only Merry’s eyes that filled with tears, but Aragorn’s as well.

“Oh, Frodo.” Aragorn whispered. “I and all of Middle Earth shall ever be in your debt. For you alone have born the burden which belonged to us all.” Taking a deep breath, the king pulled himself together again, retuning to his task. “Merry, the athelas tea, please.”

Aragorn’s touch was extra gentle as he sponged around Frodo’s neck as much as he could from the front. At the king’s instruction, Merry sat on the opposite side of the bed from Aragorn, facing Frodo. The Ringbearer was then tenderly lifted by the healer-king to rest against his cousin’s chest. Over Frodo’s shoulder, as Aragorn worked on his neck, lifting the hobbit’s hair to get at the wounds, Merry could see the mess his cousin’s back was in. He couldn’t even form words to express the sorrow he was feeling and so, instead turned and gently placed his lips against Frodo’s brow which was turned toward Merry’s neck as his head rested on his shoulder. A gentle kiss was placed as silent tears slid down Merry’s cheeks. Had Frodo’s mouth not been in so close proximity to Merry’s ear, the tiny sigh that issued forth from the Ringbearer would have probably never been heard. As it was, however, Merry did hear it and turned his eyes to look down at his cousin, just in time to see the dark eyelashes flutter. It took several attempts before Frodo was able to actually open his eyes, and when he did finally manage it, it was only a tiny sliver of an opening, but it was just enough for Merry to catch sight of the startling blue irises he remembered so well.

Frodo’s cheek pressed against Merry’s shoulder, causing his lips to pucker slightly open. Slowly, and with a look of great concentration furrowing his dark brows, Frodo tried to moisten his parched lips with his tongue, but it too was without moisture. Thickly, the hobbit tried to swallow, making tiny squeaking noises with the effort. Briefly and with terrible taxing effort, Frodo lifted his weary eyes to rest on his cousins face.

“Meeeahr…?” Frodo tried very hard to get his cousin’s name out but it came out as little more than a breath with a bit of inflection, but it smote Merry’s heart so that he sobbed out loud, a great wracking sob that tore through his chest.

“Yes, Frodo! It’s me…your Mer is here. I’m here.” Merry whispered through his tears and laying his hand against his cousin‘s cheek, holding him closer against his shoulder as he looked into the weary blue depths of his eyes.

Desperately, Frodo tried to form his mouth into a smile of reassurance, but in spite of his best efforts, all he could manage was a tiny grin around the gasping, shallow breaths.

“Don’…cry,…Mer. ‘S all…a’ righ’, now.” Frodo whispered in a squeaky slur, trying to bring his unmaimed hand up to touch Merry’s tears, but failing in the effort that was just too great for him in his current state. Merry understood what he was trying to do and with great tenderness, lifted Frodo’s hand and held it to rest against his own teary cheek. His cousin’s palm was cool and soothing upon his hot tears.

“Yes, you’re right, dearest. It is all right now. You’re back, and I’m here and everything is going to be fine. Just fine.” Merry punctuated this statement by turning his face into Frodo’s open hand and kissing it’s palm. Slowly, Merry lowered the hand but did not let it go, hanging on to the cold fingers that curled gently, almost imperceptibly into his larger, warmer hand. Merry raised the hand once more, this time kissing the back of it just behind the knuckles and having done so, caressed it with his thumb, his eyes never leaving Frodo’s face. Weakly Frodo struggled to grip Merry’s hand in return as his heavy eyes slid shut once more, a sigh accompanying the action.

“Rest now, dearest.” Merry whispered to his cousin, still sleeping gently in his arms.

All this while, Aragorn had continued working silently as the cousin’s took comfort in each other. By the time Frodo’s eyes had closed again, Aragorn had treated not only the neck wounds but also those of his back and was ready to lay Frodo back once more. Gently he took him from Merry’s embrace, though Merry never let go of his cousin’s hand. Slowly Frodo was lowered back down into the comfort of his soft nest once more, the pillow rolled under his neck and another under his lower back. Aragorn was still very concerned about his difficulty breathing. The dreaded treatment must be administered again. The hobbit’s lungs must be cleared - and soon. Frodo was strong, but even the strongest ran out of strength eventually.

Once more following his foster father’s advise, Aragorn sat thinking about his next move. Frodo was simply not strong enough to cough effectively on his own - that he knew. Perhaps, it would be best to let him rest for a bit, then, try to get some water and nourishment down him, then give him a bit of a chance to digest it (so that it wouldn’t all come right back up again) and then try to get him to cough. It was risky, he knew, because of the delay the hobbit would experience in having his lungs cleared…but it seemed to be his best chance for success.

As he thought, he had taken up the cloth and athelas tea once more, now using it to bath Frodo’s face and sooth some of the hurts written there. With slow and gently motions, he swiped the fragrant water across the hobbit’s brow, blotting at the cut above his left brow and the bruising at the opposite temple. The cheekbones bore bruises and cuts as well and these the healer king tended too also as Merry looked on. Across the cleft of the hobbit’s chin a particularly nasty cut lay. Aragorn used extra ease as he dabbed the cloth there. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Aragorn found himself hoping that Frodo’s face at least would not bear scars. What a shame it would be to permanently mar such beauty, ran the course of the kings idle thoughts as he continued to work. Coming at last to Frodo’s lips, Aragorn dipped the cloth in the athelas tea but did not wring it out as vigorously as he had before. Instead, he left it slightly dripping as he wiped Frodo’s lips, testing to see if the hobbit would accept water if offered it. As he had suspected, the hobbit in his care was so thirsty that he was apparently willing to drink even bitter athelas water. As the water dripped from the cloth to the parched lips, the hobbit’s mouth began to tremble and work, trying, even in his unconscious state to find the moisture his body so desperately needed. At seeing this, Aragorn decided to alter his plan just a bit. That was another thing Elrond had taught him - flexibility. Frodo needed water very badly, and he needed it now. That much was clear.

“Merry.” the king spoke finally as he laid down the cloth. “Would you please fetch the earthenware pitcher from the table, and the small wooden cup beside it?”

Merry complied immediately, though he was loath to let go of his cousin’s hand which was still nestled with in his own. Quickly, he returned with the requested items and looked at the king for further instruction.

“Thank you, Merry.” Said Aragorn, already beginning to fill the small cup with the cool, clear water contained in the pitcher, which he handed back to Merry when the cup was full. “Now” he continued, “there are several small, hollow, wooden reeds on the other end of the table. Please fetch me the shortest of them.”

Again, Aragorn found Merry to be a most efficient helper as he had the smallest reed in his hand in seconds. Curiously, Merry watched to see what it was that Aragorn intended to do with the reed. Was he going to stir the water, he wondered? As he watched, Aragorn sat the small cup on the low table beside the head of the bed. Next, he placed the reed as far into the cup as it would go, and placed his forefinger over the other end sticking out of the top of the cup. With his other hand, Aragorn gently turned Frodo’s face slightly to one side to face him and kept his hand on the hobbit’s chin, pulling very slightly to part Frodo’s lips and teeth enough to get the reed in. Once parted, Aragorn laid the reed barely inside Frodo’s mouth and slowly, with a small tapping motion, removed his finger from the other end of the reed, thereby releasing the small trickle of water in to Frodo’s mouth gradually. Aragorn’s hand then went to Frodo’s throat, stroking gently to encourage Frodo to swallow. Very little encouragement was needed, however, as not only did Frodo swallow, but he also sucked weakly at the moisture giving straw. As the empty reed was pulled away, he moaned, or rather, squeaked weakly in protest, the parched lips trying to follow it as they trembled pitifully.

“Easy, Frodo.” Aragorn soothed. “You can have as much water as you like…but you must take it slowly. It wouldn’t do to have it all come back up, now, would it? No, no it wouldn’t.” Aragorn answered his own question. “Mustn’t be greedy, Frodo. Here we go, now. Here’s a bit more.” Aragorn crooned at him as he once more brought the straw to the thirsty Ringbearers lips. If the king hadn’t had hold on the hobbit’s chin, he believed he might have bitten the reed in two in his eagerness to drink. He squeaked out a moan of pleasure and worked his lips looking for more as the water slowly trickled down his throat.

Seeing the relief and comfort this was giving his cousin, Merry was no longer content to simply watch. “May I, Aragorn?” Merry asked hesitantly.

Aragorn looked up surprised at the query. “Of course, of course, Merry.” The king answered in the affirmative handing the reed over to Merry who had come to take his place on Frodo’s bed. At length, Aragorn showed Merry how to draw the water into the straw, then how to release it slowly so that Frodo didn’t become strangled. Aragorn stood watching as Merry did just as he had been shown, much to Frodo’s obvious delight. The only error he made was in pulling the reed away just a tiny bit too quickly, causing a trickle of the cool liquid to trace slowly down Frodo’s chin. The face Frodo made of protest and outrage at being denied even one precious drop of the water was almost comical. Aragorn struggled not to chuckle as he quickly handed Merry a towel which he used to blot the small mess he made.

“Oh! I’m sorry Frodo! Hold on just a sec, dearest. Your Mer will have you cleaned up in a jiffy.” Merry apologized as he mopped. But Frodo was having none of it. His lips worked and his head moved, searching for the reed as another squeak escaped his lips.

“All right, all right, cousin. No need for all the dramatics. Here it is, here it is.” Merry was mock indignant even as he grinned at this new show of spunk from his cousin. ‘Oh, what Frodo wouldn’t say had he the strength!‘ Ran the thoughts of both king and cousin.

Seeing that Frodo was in very capable hands for the moment, Aragorn turned as he told Merry, “Just keep giving it too him as long as he’ll take it, Merry. I’m going to go see how Gandalf is faring with Samwise. I shall only be a few moments.”

“As if I could do otherwise but give Frodo exactly what he wants!” Merry jested, his heart lightened at seeing Frodo comforted.

With that, Aragorn turned and left the two in peace. Even as he walked away from the sweet sight, however, his heart was slightly heavy as he thought of all that Frodo still had to go through this day. They still had to get some food down him and digested, then more pounding upon his poor back to hopefully elicit a lung clearing cough. Of course, the hobbit’s finger would need more tending as well.

‘Would there be no end to his suffering?’ Aragorn wondered. But for the moment, his heart was glad as he looked back at Merry and Frodo once more. Merry bent over his cousin was still talking to him in mock scolding - Frodo still eagerly drinking. Still Aragorn found a small smile grace his face as he remembered the hopeful sight. Taking the long steps he had been nicknamed for, he crossed the length of the roomy tent, headed toward Gandalf and Samwise.

The king sat himself wearily in a chair beside Samwise as he listened to Gandalf describe all of his findings. Silently he prayed to Eru for strength, both for himself and these small ones who still had so much to endure.

Between There...And Back Again by cpsings4him